The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (23 page)

Long arms, gritty but strong, began to shoot up all over the
beach, groping the air for their prey, like a living, waving forest of fungus.

 “Vesarion!” Sareth screamed.

 He spun on his heel at her cry and taking in her plight in
an instant, drew his sword and sped towards her. He had almost reached her,
when a hand caught the heel of his boot and tripped him. He fell heavily on his
side, but swiftly rolling over, slashed at it with his sword and sliced clean
through the dun-coloured arm. The hand dropped to the ground, but the moment
the severed wrist touched the beach, all the grains around it began to be drawn
towards it as if towards the centre of a whirlpool, eddying around it, until
they coalesced into the shape of an arm to which the hand seamlessly attached
itself. It all happened in a heartbeat, before Vesarion, hardly crediting what
his eyes were telling him, could react.

 Eimer and Gorm were discovering the same thing – the hands
could only temporarily be severed before they re-formed. Eimer, struggling
madly, had already been pulled into the sand up to his thighs. His sword arm was
pinned to his side and half a dozen hands were grasping at his clothes,
dragging him downwards. Gorm had him by the shoulders, desperately trying to
pull him back, at the same time dancing a nimble jig to avoid being caught by
the ankles.

 Iska almost made it to the sand-dunes before she was
tripped. She fell on her back and was instantly caught in a eye-watering grip
by her short dark hair, her head painfully pulled backwards. But it was she who
first saw the dunes begin to move.

 Slowly, the curved, grass-fringed back of a low dune began
to lift. Gradually it arose until a huge man-like figure made of the same
element as the dune began to emerge. Legs and arms rose clear of the
surrounding soft sand, which flowed off it like water. A head turned towards
the terrified girl and she saw that the features were rough and unformed. A
crude nose and hollows for eyes were all it possessed. Nevertheless, by some
sense unknown, it knew where she was and it turned towards her, its back
bristling with stiff grass like spines.

 Iska, unable to move, screamed with fear, but the others
were equally trapped and could not help her.

The only member of the company who had not crossed onto the
beach was Bethro, who, frightened out of the capacity for rational thought,
obeyed some instinct deep within him, and taking a lungful of air, bellowed at
the top of his powerful voice for help. Why he did so, he could never later
explain, for he was convinced they were far from any help, but some hidden
instinct for survival rose to the surface and he roared for help again and
again.

 Eimer and Sareth had now both nearly disappeared into the
sand except for their heads. Sareth was struggling to keep her face above the
suffocating grains. Vesarion, imprisoned by dozens of hands, was still straining
unavailingly to reach her with his one free arm. Even Gorm was now pinned by
the legs, still fiercely slicing through everything within reach with his short
sword, scattering sprays of glittering grains everywhere.

 When the sand creature reached Iska and bent over her, she
almost fainted with fear. Fine specks of sand rained down on her from it,
getting into her eyes and mouth, almost choking her, its blunt features now
terrifyingly close.

 Amongst the desperate companions, Bethro was the only one
still in a position to see across the lake, and despite his distracted state, a
glimmer of light out on the surface of the water caught his attention. At first
he thought that a gap in the clouds had opened, casting a beam of light onto
the water but, to his astonishment, the light began to move rapidly across the
surface of the water in their direction.

 Unsure of why he was doing so, Bethro began to yell anew,
leaping up and down and waving. The light, as if in response, increased its
speed and headed undeviatingly towards him. When it drew closer, he
distinguished what appeared to be a pillar of water, glowing with a pale light
from within. Softly it emitted an ethereal glow that had a wintry beauty all of
its own.

 The sand creature saw it too and straightened up,
abandoning Iska.

 The pillar divided into three just as it touched the shore,
and before Bethro’s astonished gaze, it began to evolve into three female forms.
They were beautiful beyond anything he could have imagined. Their flowing
dresses were made of some soft, silken fabric that was not shining grey, nor
yet clear like glass but a combination of the two, that flowed around their
slender forms like living water. Their waist-length tresses were silver,
lifting off their shoulders in the breeze, bright and radiant as moonlight. The
only colour about them was their eyes, which were the same shade as spring
violets.

 The sand creature, clumsy in comparison, began to back away
from them, clearly afraid. Without speaking, they cast towards it what appeared
to be long, gleaming scarves of the same material as their dresses. But the
moment the scarves touched the sand, they burst into plumes of crystal-clear water.
The sand-being threw up its arms to protect itself, but to no avail. Plume
after plume of water was cast towards the shore and  began to cascade down upon
the creature, diluting the substance from which it was made, loosening the
bonds that held the grains of sand together, making them grow wet and liquefied,
incapable of holding their form. The hands, still pinning their prey, grew
loose and wet. Dollops of sand began to drop to the ground to form gloopy
pools. Bit by bit, finger by finger, the forms diminished until finally they
lost their grip, enabling the captives to struggle free. Vesarion broke loose
first, and crawling over to Sareth, began to dig her out with his hands.

 Soon all that was left of their attackers were wet pools on
the beach, as if left by a retreating tide. Gorm, compelled to give vent to his
annoyance, stamped furiously in the pools, soaking himself in the process but
deriving great satisfaction from it.

 Bethro at last ventured down onto the strand to help
excavate Eimer, who, once he was free, lifted Iska to her feet and turned to
thank their rescuers, standing patiently by the water’s edge.

 “I don’t know who you are,” he said, “but I wish to thank
you with all my heart. You have undoubtedly saved our lives.”

 The three women, their silver hair drifting across their
pale faces, bowed slightly in acknowledgement.

 “We are the spirits of the Lonely Lake. We were awoken from
our long rest by your companion’s distress. The creatures who attacked you were
once part of the lower order of spirits, the essence of the earth, creatures of
stone and soil, loyal to Yervenar, the Creator. But even our kind, who are not
bound by this corporeal world, can be corrupted by evil. The Destroyer deceived
some of  them into changing their allegiance and serving him, and although,
like many of the spirits, they have been sleeping for centuries, they have now
been awoken and are being called upon to redeem their pledge to him. Many
things has he disturbed through the services of his minion, the Demon of
Darkness. Many things that left the world in peace while they remained
quiescent, have now been roused, and you must beware of them for they do not
wish you well, Prince Eimer”

 “You know my name, my lady?”

 “Yes, Prince of Eskendria, we know your name and the names
of all your companions. Nothing in this world is the result of mere chance. To
those who look deep into such things, the quest you have embarked upon has been
foreshadowed. However, if we know this, so too does the enemy and he will do
all he can to stop you. If at times in your journey all seems lost, remember that
each of you has a role to play that can be fulfilled by none other.” She looked
down at Gorm who was standing a shade dejectedly in a puddle. “Yes, even this
creature, strange though it may seem, had his part to play. If evil can be
found anywhere, then so, too, can good.”

 Iska, feeling a bit presumptuous in such exalted company,
spoke up. “I don’t mean to bring things down to the level of the purely
practical but we are in desperate need of food.”

 “We have no use for such things ourselves but there is one
who may be able to help you. You must go to the Rose Tower. The Keeper of the
Tower is aware of your approach and is sure to give you aid. Follow the shores
of the lake eastwards, then turn north into the Wood of Ammerith, known in the days
of the Old Kingdom as the Golden Wood. There you will find the tower and the help
that you need.”

 Iska opened her mouth to ask another question but the
spirits turned their violet eyes on Vesarion, who had remained silent.

 “Farewell, heir of Erren-dar, may that which is rightfully
yours, return to your hand once more.”

 And with that, they stepped backwards into the water, their
gleaming dresses blending so well with the shining lake that in an instant they
had vanished.

 For a long moment everyone remained staring at the empty
grey lake as if under a spell. Eimer was the first to descend to earth. Rubbing
his shoulder tenderly, he addressed the shortest member of the company: “It’s
not that I don’t appreciate your efforts to pull me out of the sand, Gorm,” he
observed ruefully, “but next time, would you mind keeping your claws in?”

 The Turog responded with something perilously close to a
sheepish grin.

 “The tower that the spirits mentioned,” continued Eimer
still holding his shoulder, “do you know where it is? Their directions were a
bit vague.”

 “Yes. Saw tower once. Know the way to Golden Wood. Take two
days to get there, maybe three if weather is bad.”

 “I’ve heard of it,” interjected Bethro. “In the Chronicles
of the Old Kingdom, it is referred to as the wood where it is always autumn.
There is a romantic legend associated with the Rose Tower. It is said that long
ago a spirit of the woods assumed corporeal form and lived in the tower for
many years. Then one day when he was walking in the woods, he met a mortal girl
and fell in love with her. For a time they were happy together, but the ending
to their tale could only be a sad one because he was immortal and she was not.
When she died, it is said that he was so distraught that he turned the leaves of
the trees to the golden colour of her hair to keep her memory alive, and so they
remain to this day. When he could bear his loneliness no longer, he abandoned
the tower and passed into the Lost Realm, where spirits who have tired of this
world seek rest.” He sighed sentimentally. “I have always thought the tower was
just a myth, but now it seems we shall actually see it!”

 “Not without a soaking, I think,” said Sareth prosaically,
glancing at the pale, nacreous sky, its cool, high clouds drifting before a
strengthening breeze.

 Gorm looked upwards, too, his head to one side.

 “Going to rain,” he confirmed. “Know place to shelter but
must hurry.”

 His assessment of the weather proved all too accurate.
Within an hour, the heavens opened and rain began to fall as straight and hard
as steel spears. Soon everyone was soaked and miserable. The horses plodded on,
their flanks streaming, occasionally snorting water out of their nostrils.

 Skirting the lake to the east, they followed Gorm’s lead
and entered a dismal, marshy region that appeared to be caused by the outflow
from the lower end of the lake. It was a land of tall reeds and bulrushes,
interspersed with copses of sparse willows and birches too stubborn to stop
struggling against the unpromising terrain. Its main inhabitant appeared to be
a persistent swarm of midges that whined around the horses’ ears and bit any
exposed flesh they could find, causing the riders to button their shirts up to
the neck. The only one unmolested by them was Gorm, who stumped along
apparently indifferent to them.  Eimer whispered in his sister’s ear, that the
midges were probably as much put off by the smell of hot, wet Turog as he was.

 Soon not a single member of the company possessed a dry stitch.
Bethro, who loathed physical discomfort and concluded that he was getting far
too much of it lately, slumped in the saddle, much the same shape and demeanour
as a wet suet pudding, and with about the same amount of conversation.

 Vesarion, water streaming down his face, with an equally
wet Iska stuck behind him, urged his horse to a trot and caught up with their
guide.

 “How much further?” he asked, wiping rain out of his eyes.

 “Get there before dark,” Gorm reassured him. “See rocks
ahead?” He pointed to steeply rising ground ahead, through which the occasional
grey limestone outcrop thrust up precipitously. The outcrops were bewigged in
dense green vegetation but even from a distance, Vesarion could see that they
were much pitted and riven.

 “A cave?” he asked.

 Gorm merely nodded and continued squelching through the
mud, as immune to the vagaries of nature as he was to the local fauna.

 The cave, when they finally reached it, did not initially
look promising. But a narrow, sloping entrance, like a slit, just wide enough
for an unladen horse to squeeze through, widened suddenly after a few paces
into a dark chamber with a hard, earthen floor.

 “I can’t see a thing,” complained Iska, holding Vesarion’s
horse.

 “That’s because Bethro is blocking the entrance,” said
Sareth acidly.

 Once the obstruction was removed and their eyes became
accustomed to the dim light filtering in from the dreary day outside, it could
be seen that the cave, though green with damp, did possess one homely feature –
a stack of firewood.

 “I wonder who left that there?” mused Eimer.

 “Told you,” said Gorm impatiently. “Been here before. Does
no one listen to Gorm?”

 Vesarion crossed to the wood and placed his hand upon it.
“The top pieces are damp but the rest seem useable.”