The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (32 page)

 Carefully, he pushed himself outwards from the cliff,
allowing the rope to swing free, until he was poised directly above her. He
then lowered himself very gradually until his boots lightly touched the snow on
either side of her.

 She was lying face downwards with her pack still on her
back. Twisting a loop of rope around his wrist to steady himself, he bent
closer and drew back the strands of wet hair that had been concealing her face.
Her skin was deathly pale and he could not see her breathing. The knot of dread
wound tighter in his stomach as he leaned forward, and fearfully placed his
cold fingers against her neck. For one long and dreadful moment, he could feel
nothing, then faintly he detected a pulse. A wave of relief swept over him that
was so intense it made his head swim again. Shaking off the feeling, he tried
to revive her, gently shaking her by the shoulder and calling her name, but the
figure between his feet was utterly unresponsive.

 He tilted his head back once more and called up to the others,
his voice carrying clearly in the still, frozen air.

 “She’s alive.” He heard a whoop from Gorm. “But I can’t
wake her. I’m going to have to bring her up on the rope. I’ll send her pack up
first.”

 He untied himself from the rope and knelt astride her as he
gingerly undid the straps of the pack and despatched it up to the others. Still
he could get no response from her. Briefly, he ran his hands over her arms and
legs to see if there were any breaks but he could find nothing and when the
rope returned, he formed the end into a rough harness that he had seen the shepherds
of Westrin use to rescue stranded animals. Praying that his knots would hold,
he tied it around her and called up to the waiting rescue party.

 “I’m going to have to climb beside her as you pull her up,
to prevent her striking the cliff face….”

 “
What
! Without a rope!” squeaked Iska, looking in
horror at the drop.

 Ignoring her, he continued: “You must bring her up slowly,
and when I call ‘stop’ you must do so immediately. Are we clear on this?”

 Eimer leaned over. “Vesarion, your hands must be numb with
cold, you cannot risk yourself without a rope.”

 “We both know that the rope is too thin to take the weight
of two people. I’ll be all right. You forget that I am in my natural element in
mountains. Now, remember, if I say stop, then stop at once and hold steady.” He
gave his knots a last tug, then called: “Ready. Take up  the strain.”

 Eimer took his place on the rope behind Gorm, while Bethro,
well aware that his weight was key to the whole matter, got a surprisingly
determined look on his plump countenance and drawing on his gloves, clamped his
hands to the rope in a death-like grip. The rope tensioned and Bethro, who
could not see over the edge to the two figures below, concentrated
single-mindedly on each hand’s length of rope as it appeared over the edge, on
each heave that brought Sareth a little closer to safety.

 At the front, Gorm, eyes popping with effort, had a good
view of the limp figure at the end of the rope, the mist swirling around her.
He saw Sareth rise upwards in a series of little jerks and watched Vesarion
climbing beside her with no other safeguard than his own skill. Occasionally,
he would reach out a free hand and fend her off when the rope showed a tendency
to swing inwards. And even though the Turog was no admirer of the Lord of
Westrin, he was honest enough to admit that not for all the treasures in the
world would he have changed places with him.

 Twice Vesarion called a halt as the rope became snagged but
at last, just when Bethro thought he was going to burst, a head appeared above
the edge. Eimer, leaving the puce-coloured librarian to hold steady, let go of
the rope and leaning over the edge, grasped the harness. In a moment the cold,
seemingly lifeless body of his sister was in his arms.

 Gorm, not forgetting the debt of gratitude he owed Vesarion,
cut the harness loose with his knife, and fed the rope back down the cliff face
to help him.

 Iska had blankets ready and quickly wrapped them around the
icy-cold figure of Sareth. When Vesarion appeared, he was hardly any less cold
than the woman he had saved. Still out of breath from his climb, he lost no
time but gasped: “Has anyone any spirits?”

 The Keeper of Antiquities, like a child in a classroom
caught in some misdemeanour, sheepishly raised his hand.

 “I…er…have some. I happened to see a little bottle in the
Rose Tower and ….er…well, here you are.”

 He lifted a small triangular bottle from his pack and
handed it to Vesarion.

 Carefully, Vesarion placed the neck of the bottle against
Sareth’s blue lips and managed to pour a little into her mouth. At first
nothing happened but then, suddenly, she choked, took a retching gasp and began
to cough.

 Vesarion, almost light-headed with relief, sat down
abruptly as if his legs would no longer support him, and did not notice the
keen glance that Iska cast him as she wrapped his cloak around his shoulders.

 Sareth was still in a paroxysm of coughing, caught hard
against Eimer’s shoulder, so Vesarion, weariness and cold now setting in, held
out his hand to Bethro, who had slyly retrieved his bottle.

 “If you don’t mind,” he said, “I could do with something to
warm me up.”

 But upon taking a small sip, he too choked. “Good God!” he
spluttered. “What is this stuff? It’s enough to bring the dead back to life!”

 Bethro bridled a little. “It’s Sirkrisian spirit,” he
explained defensively. “It’s not meant to be taken neat, you know!”

 When Sareth’s coughing subsided, Eimer transferred her to
Iska’s care and walked along the ledge to where Vesarion was sitting, his head
leaning back wearily. Without speaking, he sat down beside him and after a
moment’s hesitation, held out his hand. The hand that took his was still icy
cold and raw with grazes.

 “There are no words, Vesarion,” he said brokenly.

 He got a tired smile in response. “Then say nothing.”

 Eimer nodded. “We’ve got to get down from this accursed
ledge, even though it means heading back towards the wolves, but I think we
must take our chances. Once we get down to the treeline the first thing we must
do is light a fire and get you and Sareth warm again.”

 “And then?”

 Eimer sighed. “And then we must either abandon our quest,
or take the left-hand valley that we were warned not to take.”

 “Well,” said Eimer, thumbs thrust through his belt, viewing
the scene before him with a jaundiced eye. “Here we are again, back where we
started. Sometimes I think that this accursed mountain is deliberately trying
to stop us crossing it. The only difference this time, is that the choice is
not whether to take the right or the left fork, but whether we take the way we
were warned against, or turn back and abandon our quest altogether.”

 He turned to his companions who were watching him intently
and took stock of what he saw. They were all worn and weary and not a little despondent.
Gorm, in particular, had not spoken a word to anyone since the avalanche.
Vesarion’s hands were still covered in grazes and Sareth was only beginning to
recover a little of her colour, now that they were down in the warmth of the
valley once more. The only one, unexpectedly, who looked none the worse for
wear after the debacle, was Bethro.

 Eimer sat down on a warm, grassy bank in the sunshine and
looked up at the mountains towering ominously above him. The peaks were still
shrouded in shifting veils of mist. The thundery clouds, dark and bruised,
still churned restlessly above them like tormented spirits. Somehow, the
contrast between their present location and where they must go, seemed to Eimer
to make the decision even harder. Yet, for all of it, he knew in his heart that
his decision had been made weeks ago and despite their hardships, he had not
wavered since. He thought about all that the wooden head had said to him, about
all that depended on the recovery of the sword, and knew that as far as he was
concerned, there was no decision to make.

 His gaze descended from the mountains, to return to his
companions once more. They were following his example and one by one were
shedding packs and sinking onto the flower-studded grass.

 “Well?” the Prince prodded, upon receiving no response.
“The decision must be made. Do we go on, or turn back?”

 A soft snore issued from Bethro, causing a tired smile to
cross Vesarion’s features.

 “One of us, at least, appears to be unconcerned. I think
you already know the answer to your question, Eimer. We have come too far to
turn back now, and besides, it has become like some kind of personal challenge for
me to get across these damned mountains. Like you, I feel it is almost as if
some sentient will is directed against us.”

 Iska propped herself up on her elbow. “Did the Keeper tell
anyone
why
he didn’t want us to take the left valley?”

 “No,” responded Sareth. “He just said it was dangerous but
was not any more specific than that.”

 Eimer stood up decisively and dusted the grass off his
breeches. “Right,” he declared, “I suppose we had better get going then. Up you
get.”

 But all he got in response was a groan from his sister, who
flopped back on the grass again.

 “Has anyone ever told you that you are very annoying,
Eimer?” she asked sweetly.

 He grinned. “Well, yes, actually – but I assumed they
didn’t mean it.”

 Vesarion lay back and tucked his injured hands contentedly
behind his head. “For the first time in days, I am warm and comfortable and for
the next hour not even an entire army of Turog could shift me from this bank –
so sit down, you eager young pup.”

 Vesarion’s hour mysteriously, but not surprisingly, expanded
into two, so that it was quite late in the day before they resumed their
journey.

 The left-hand valley looked no more inviting than the last
time they had inspected it. A narrow maze of dark, stony defiles pierced like
stab-wounds into the side of the mountain. It seemed as if many rivers,
descending from the snow-covered heights, had deeply incised their courses into
the rock before drying up, leaving the floor of the maze filled with deposits
of grey pebbles and coarse gravel. A barren place it was, where nothing grew; where
the rocks bared their teeth, drawing the unwary into roofless tunnels of
uniform grey. Far above them amongst the mountain peaks, could still be heard
the occasional soft rumble, now distant, for storms rarely forsook the Cloud
Mountains entirely. The sound seemed to echo along the defile, bouncing and
reverberating off the twists and turns of the passage, unmuffled by the
presence of trees or any other growing thing. Faded, sun-bleached branches,
white as bones, lay in tangled heaps here and there, evidence that in periods
of heavy rain, the arid valleys quickly reverted to rushing torrents of water,
sweeping all before them.

 Ignoring all side avenues, they followed what appeared from
its size to be the major course. The defile was ominously silent. The only
sounds were their footsteps crunching on the gravel, and the soft rattle of pebbles
as their passage disturbed them. Apart from this, there was no evidence of life
at all. Iska, who had paused to look at a distant stab of lightning far above
them, was so affected by the brooding atmosphere that when she saw that she had
fallen behind, she positively ran to catch up. Gorm, too, was not immune. He
began to resume his old habit of checking behind him, sometimes walking
backwards, his sharp eyes scanning the rocks.

 Eimer, upon noting this performance, gave vent to a groan
of annoyance.

 “Now what?” he asked rhetorically of Vesarion. “The Turog
is at it again. I thought we had left that kind of behaviour behind us.”

 But Vesarion was  not so dismissive. He halted and waited
for Gorm to catch up.

 “What is it?” he asked quietly.

 The Turog shook his head. “Not sure,” he replied curtly.
“Got a feeling.”

 “The same as before? You think we are being followed?”

 “Maybe.”

At that moment a small pebble rattled and bounded its way
down from the rocks above. Gorm swirled round, shooting out his claws with a
snarl, but as before, after a tense moment of waiting, nothing happened.

 “This is driving me mad!” exclaimed Eimer, his sword
half-drawn. But Vesarion and Gorm silently exchanged glances, apparently for
once, of one mind.

 “Perhaps you should fall a little behind,” Vesarion
suggested softly.

 Gorm nodded and sloped off unobtrusively, his grey hide
blending so well with his surroundings that very soon he disappeared from
sight.

 He didn’t turn up again until they were preparing to camp
for the night. Iska, who was a little separated from the others collecting
firewood, gave a start and dropped her burden as one of the grey rocks on the
riverbed appeared to rise up before her.

 “Don’t squeak,” said the rock indulgently. “Only Gorm.”

 When he arrived at the camp, he merely shook his head in
response to the questioning look directed at him by Vesarion, however, whatever
rapprochement the Lord of Westrin and the Turog might have achieved soon fell
victim to their time-honoured bone of contention.

 Vesarion, hunting in his pack for his box, discovered that
it was missing. He gave a growl of annoyance and marching over to Gorm,
peremptorily held out his hand.

 “If you please.”

 Gorm put his hands behind his back. “Haven’t got it,” he declared
mendaciously.

 Vesarion’s response to that, was to thrust out his hand
even further. Gorm’s innocent expression dissolved into a scowl and grumbling
to himself in his own barbaric language, he rooted around in his leather pouch
until he produced the coveted item and placed it reluctantly on Vesarion’s
outstretched palm.

 Bethro, observing the ritual, muttered: “Rotten little
thief,” but made sure he did so in a tone not loud enough to reach the ears of
a certain sharp-clawed Turog.

 But Gorm seemed to be in the grip of an overwrought
emotional state that manifested itself again that evening. Since the avalanche,
he had hardly spoken a word to Sareth. Usually, he hung around her, making
off-handed remarks that had her laughing but recently it appeared almost as if
he was trying to avoid her. As they sat round the fire that evening, he came to
her and slumped down in a miserable heap at her feet. His head was bowed to
such a degree that he had almost curled himself into a ball. After a moment,
his frame began to quiver and a harsh sobbing sound began to issue from him.
All conversation around the fire stopped as everyone looked on in astonishment.

 Sareth, utterly taken aback, collected herself enough to
speak to him in a kind voice. “Gorm?” she asked in some concern. “Why are you
crying?”

 His unprepossessing countenance raised up to hers, twisted
with grief, and she found herself looking directly into his yellow eyes.

 “Turog can’t cry,” he sobbed. Indicating the corners of his
eyes, he explained: “No place for tears. Turog only cry inside.”

 “But, Gorm, what’s wrong?”

 He started to sob anew, an odd, discordant noise. “Promised
Sareth would not fall, but Sareth
did
fall and Gorm failed. Broke
promise and Sareth nearly died,” he lamented. “All Gorm’s fault.”

 Sareth gaped at him, completely nonplussed. All the tales
she had been told about the Turog since she had been a child, all the legends
from the Chronicles of the Old kingdom, were circling round in her head. She
remembered how all her life she had been taught to consider them as beasts
without souls, the undiluted product of evil with nothing in their hearts but
wickedness and cruelty. Yet here was one sitting before her, apparently
breaking his heart because he thought he had failed her. And gradually as he
wept, she found that pity and compassion began to displace all she thought she
knew of his kind. She remembered the Keeper’s words that goodness could be
found anywhere, that it was not excluded from any race or clan, and to her
astonishment, she found herself beginning to believe that his words might even
apply to a Turog.

 Slowly, she reached out and placed her hand on his shaking
shoulder. “Gorm, don’t be sad. You have not failed me. There was nothing you
could have done.”

But he refused to be comforted. “Ran away – should have
waited. Sareth hate Gorm now.”

 The sobbing had stopped now and he sat miserably staring at
the ground.

 “Gorm, look at me.”

 When he obeyed and she found herself once more looking down
into the ugly grey countenance with it sulphurous eyes, she said: “You are my
friend, Gorm. I do not hate you.”

 The slanted eyes widened. “Not hate?” he repeated disbelievingly.

 She laughed. “No, not hate - promise.”

 With a change of mood that was so sudden it left her
reeling, his usual toad-like grin shot across his face, stretching his wide
mouth from ear to ear.

 “Never had a friend before,” he declared with considerable
fluency, suddenly restored to his old cockiness.

 There was not a face around the fire that had not a smile
on it, even Bethro’s, but one person in particular was unaware that he was regarding
Sareth with a greatly softened expression in his eyes, which only observant
Iska noticed.

 Eimer, not as sensitive as she was, leaned towards
Vesarion: “It’s quite remarkable how attached to Sareth the little rodent has
become.”

 Vesarion, his eyes still on Sareth, without thinking,
replied: “I do not find it so remarkable.”

 Even Eimer was left in some doubt as to what that ambiguous
comment might mean.

 However, later that evening, the Prince, although still unclear
as to Vesarion’s meaning, was left in no such doubt about the Turog’s opinions.
Eimer, taking up position at a slight distance from the camp to assume the
first watch of the evening, suddenly discovered Gorm at his side.

 “I wish you wouldn’t creep about so much,” complained the
Prince, hoping his nervous start had gone unnoticed.

 “Watch well tonight,” was Gorm’s response.

 “Not this again!” exclaimed the irritated Prince.

 “Something out there,” said Gorm, consistent on that point
at least. He peered suspiciously into the enveloping darkness. “Feel it,” he
added as a clincher.

 A distant howl of a wolf echoed across the mountains.

 “Well, there are certainly wolves out there, my small
friend.”

 “Not wolfs,” snapped Gorm, detecting mockery. “Something
else.”

 Then, having worked Eimer into a highly unsettled state,
Gorm rolled himself in his blankets and fell into the dreamless sleep of a
Turog with an unusually clear conscience.

 The Prince paced restlessly to and fro around his sleeping
companions, orienting himself on the last red embers of the dying fire, every
sense alert for sign of danger, but as hour after hour passed uneventfully, he
reverted to his former opinion - that Gorm was imagining things.

 “Idiot Turog,” he muttered to himself in the darkness.

 How little he thought, that within a very short space of
time, he would be eating his words.

 The next day drew them deeper into the shadow of the
mountains. The clouds over the peaks thickened and the day closed around them
in gloom. A dismal wind keened across the steely rocks, as if banished from
rest. The granite maze became narrower and steeper until they were confronted
with a series of stair-like steps cut into the living rock. These were so
regular in places that they seemed almost to have been shaped, not by natural
forces, but by the contrivance of man. The staircase zigzagged up the bare
incline, until it finally emerged into another gravel-filled valley just as the
first few specks of snow began to be whisked past them by the freshening
breeze. The temperature had been dropping alarmingly with every upward step and
they knew they were drawing near to the snowfields once more.

 Bethro, who kept careful count of the passage of time by
the state of emptiness of his stomach, looked around him at the bleak
surroundings and suggested that a bite to eat would  not go amiss. As the
others divested themselves of their burdens, in his eagerness, Bethro had already
dumped his pack on the ground and was kneeling before it rummaging amongst his
belongings for something edible. His search was, however, suspended when a
small pebble tumbled down from above, bounced off a projection, and rolled to a
halt just beside his knee. He stared at it, more puzzled than alarmed, until
the feeling began to grow upon him that he was being watched by unfriendly
eyes. That old sensation that he had experienced in the Ivy Tower, returned 
and all at once he knew with terrible certainty that something that meant him no
good was nearby. He remained frozen over his pack, one hand still deep amongst
his possessions, while the hair began to lift on the back of his neck.
Summoning all the courage he possessed, slowly he lifted his head and looked upwards.
There, perched on a ledge a short distance above him, was a creature he had
never seen before. Its yellow eyes were fixed upon him in an unblinking, malevolent
glare and even though Bethro had not encountered a Red Turog before, his
readings of the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom told him all he needed to know. It
was as big as a man, its species evidenced by the dull, brick-red colour of its
skin. It wore a leather cuirass set with steel rings and a helmet bristling
with sharp spikes. In its hand it carried its traditional curved sword -  and there
was little doubt that it knew what to do with it. Bethro, still immobile with
sheer fright, gazed into those cruel eyes for a long moment, then suddenly
recovered his wits. He let out a yell of such volume that it could easily have
been heard in Addania. Everyone spun round in time to see the Red Turog leap
down from its prominence directly onto the terrified librarian, knocking him
flat on his back.