The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (45 page)

 “Please let it not be him,” she murmured as she paced the
floor. “Please let it not be him.”

 When Iska returned, she found herself pounced upon for
news. Yet her expression had already told Sareth that whatever she had found
out, it was not good.

 “I have scoured the city for our friends,” said Iska,
“avoiding search-parties by taking back alleyways and going over the roof tops.
They have found Eimer and Bethro’s belongings at the inn, but thankfully,
neither of them had returned there. I confess, I am totally at a loss to work
out where they have gone. They seem to have disappeared, as if by magic, into
thin air, but….” She halted, then said with a rush: “But I know where Vesarion
is.”

 Somehow Sareth already knew. Somehow, despite her plea, she
had known all along. “He is the one who has been captured, isn’t he?”

 “Yes. They are holding him in the old armoury. My brother
has already questioned him and unfortunately…I…I don’t know how to tell you
this but…but…”

 “But what?” Sareth demanded tensely, her heart picking up
its pace in fear.

 “That animal Ursor was with him.”

 “Who is Ursor?”

 “My brother uses him to do his dirty work. He is a vicious
beast, and it seems that….that he has already given Vesarion a bad beating.”

 Sareth was paper-white and shaking. “How do you know this?”

 “Callis told me.”

 Iska found herself gripped peremptorily by the shoulder.
“We must do something, Iska! You know this city better than anyone. We must
save him! We cannot leave him in the hands of your brother!”

 “I know, but….”

 “I knew it was him,” cried Sareth distractedly. “From the
moment you said one of us had been taken, I knew. I haven’t told you, but only
yesterday I awoke to find him sitting beside me on the bed, with a look in his
eyes I have never seen before. Only once before, when we were practicing the
sword, did I think for a brief instant that I saw something, but the moment was
gone before I could be sure. But this time….. this time I was almost certain.
There was just something different about him, an intensity I had not seen
before and I knew there was something he wanted to say. I lay there afraid to
move, afraid to breathe, in case I spoilt the moment but in the end, for
reasons that are not clear to me, he stopped himself from speaking. For the
first time, Iska, I dared to hope. I dared to think that there might be
something between us, and now? Now he is the hands of your sadistic brother.”
She tightened her grip on Iska’s shoulder. “We cannot let this be. If you do
not help me, I will attempt to rescue him myself. I don’t care what the
consequences are.”

 At that moment, their attention was distracted by the
dolorous sound of a bell tolling. It was coming from the tower on the far side
of the square.

 They both crossed to the slatted shutters and peered out. A
crowd was beginning to form in the large square, curious as to why the bell was
tolling. From their vantage point, Iska could even see the bell swinging back
and forth within the tower, its note summoning people from across the city. She
wondered what the emergency was.

 When the crowd had assembled, a detachment of guards
marched into the square in military formation. Executing a neat manoeuvre, they
split into two lines facing one another to form an avenue that cut a swathe
through the crowd from a side-street to the foot of the stone dais upon which
the snake pillar stood.

 Iska, overcome by premonition, felt an icy hand close on
her heart.

 “What is happening?” Sareth asked. “What are they doing?”

 Iska did not reply, but in a moment their purpose became
evident. Along the avenue of soldiers, escorted by two of their number, stumbled
Vesarion. His hands were chained behind his back and his shirt and face were
covered in drying blood. His face was so bruised and cut, that Sareth, watching
in horror from the top of the tower, could barely recognise him. When he saw
the dais ahead of him, Vesarion, with a supreme effort of will, straightened
his back, lifted his chin and managed to walk the last stretch unaided by the
guards.

 Sareth spun towards Iska, her eyes wild.

 “What are they going to do to him?” When she saw Iska
hesitate, she grabbed her again by the shoulders and shook her. “Tell me, damn
you!”

 “They are treating him as a traitor,” Iska stammered. “They
are going to bind him to the post and publicly beat him with a rod they call
the Scorpion’s Sting.  It is a punishment reserved only for traitors and is
said to be immensely painful. The rod is not supposed to break the skin - but
it has a steel tip and it
does
. I have only seen it used once before
and….and think it would be better if you didn’t look.”

 Sareth abruptly released Iska and striding across the room
to her belongings, caught up her sword and swept it from its scabbard. Then,
her face wild with fear and grief, she made for the stairs. Iska flew to
intercept her and blocked the top of the stairwell.

 “No! Sareth! Not this way!”

 “Get out of my way, Iska!”

 “No! You cannot save him this way! Listen to me, Sareth,
they will not kill him now. A traitor’s death follows a strict ritual. After
beating him at the post, he will spend the night in prison and then….”

 “And then?”

 “They will hang him in the morning at sunrise.”

 “Move aside!” ordered Sareth.

 Iska caught her arm and began to struggle with her. “No!
Sareth! You are stronger than me and I can’t stop you, but if you want to save
his life, do not do this! Not this way! There are too many guards out there!
They would only capture you and you could do nothing to save him. You cannot
take them all on! You know this! You would be throwing away our one chance to
save him, in what can only be a futile gesture!”

 Her words seemed to get through, for Sareth stopped
struggling with her and her gaze fastened on the amber eyes looking up so
anxiously into hers.

 “We must act tonight,” said Iska quickly. “But we must plan
what we are going to do carefully and we haven’t much time. I will do all I can
to help you, Sareth, I swear it – but not like this.”

 At that moment, the bell ceased tolling. Sareth dropped her
sword and ran to the shutters.

 Vesarion was standing on the dais facing the crowd and the
Prince was beside him.

 “This man is  traitor,” announced the Prince in a loud
voice to the silent crowd. “He would betray our country to its enemies and
deserves the pain of a traitor’s death. However,” he paused for effect, knowing
that he held the attention of every soul present, “however, I am prepared to be
merciful and will allow the prisoner to forgo the pain of the Scorpion’s Sting
if he reveals to me the names and whereabouts of his accomplices.” Turning to
Vesarion, he said audibly: “The choice is yours. Tell me what I want to know
and this need not happen.” He indicated Ursor eagerly holding a long, thin rod
with the cruel steel tip that gave it its name.

 “
Tell me!”
demanded the Prince menacingly.

 Vesarion turned to face him squarely, and drawing himself
up to his full height, looked him in the eyes and said clearly: “Go to hell.”

 Once more, a look of molten wrath crossed Mordrian’s
features at being defied in such a public manner and he sharply nodded to the
guards to proceed.

 They released one of the manacles, then chained the
captive’s arms around the pillar, so that his face was pressed against the
stone. Then Ursor, flexing the rod appreciatively between his hands, came
forward. Reaching up, he caught Vesarion’s shirt by the collar and in one swift
movement, ripped it away from his back.

 Sareth gave a cry of distress and turned so white Iska
thought she was going to faint.

 Ursor stood back a pace and flexing the Scorpion once more,
brought it forward with dreadful force against the prisoner’s exposed back. The
terrible sound of the blow carried right across the square, across the silently
watching crowd, to the two watchers in the tower.

 Again and again, the blows fell. The prisoner’s entire body
flinched in response but he did not utter a sound.

 By now, Sareth was on her knees sobbing, her hands pressed
over her ears to cut out the sound that pierced her to the heart.

 “No!” she wept disjointedly. “
No
!
For pity’s
sake, someone make it stop!”

 Iska, too, had tears streaming down her face and was
holding onto the edge of the shutter to prevent herself sinking to the floor.

 Yet still it went on. Vesarion was sagging against the post
by now, his back running with blood. But still he said nothing, and Iska,
despite her distress, knew that she was witnessing a degree of courage that she
could barely comprehend.

At last, the Prince intervened, realising that the victim’s
bravery was making the sympathy of the crowd begin to shift to him.

 “Enough,” he said sharply, his voice tight with anger.
Abruptly, he turned on his heel, dissatisfaction etched deeply on his face, and
strode away, carrying hatred for Vesarion in his heart.

 “It’s stopped, Sareth” Iska gasped in relief. “It’s
stopped.”

 Sareth struggled to her feet in time to see the guards
release Vesarion from the pillar. Deprived of the support, he instantly
collapsed to his knees. Not unkindly, the guards helped him to stand and
propped by a guard on either side, he managed to stumble from the dais. The
people of Adamant were utterly silent as he passed, all hostility towards him
gone. As Ursor came along behind, carrying the bloodied rod, a few hisses were
sent in his direction.

 When they had gone, Iska turned to look at Sareth and saw a
transformation in her that frightened her. The tears still lay on her cheeks
but the grief in her eyes had been replaced with a cold, intense fury, so
powerful that it caused her friend to involuntarily take a step backwards.

 “Those who did this to Vesarion shall pay for it,” she said
in a tight, hard voice between clenched teeth. “By all that is holy, I
swear
they shall pay.”

 Eimer and Bethro had not, in fact, disappeared into thin
air as Iska supposed, but they were both completely oblivious to events taking
place in the city for two very different reasons. Bethro was lying unconscious
in a cellar, and Eimer was in the arms of a beautiful woman.

 Bethro was the only one of the companions who had escaped
the notice of the guards and had managed to slip down a side street unseen.
Nevertheless, that did not prevent him from imagining, with lurid conviction, that
he was being pursued. He hurried along the street, at a pace that was somewhere
between a fast trot and a slow canter, until he came to an entry that ran along
the back of a tavern, that in happier circumstances he would have been only too
delighted to patronise. The entry was partly blocked by a brewer’s wagon drawn
by a patient dray-horse, just now with its attention fixed contentedly upon a
nosebag full of oats. The brewer had been unloading barrels and trundling them
along the cobbles until he reached a trapdoor from which descended a wooden
chute. He then bowled them skilfully down this apparatus, dropping the kegs easily
into their new home. Having delivered the last barrel, he had gone into the
tavern to collect payment and have a glass of something pleasant with the
landlord.

 Normally, the keg-rolling process would have fascinated
Bethro, but it said much for his agitation that he paid not the slightest heed
to it. He stopped at the corner and carefully peering around it, scanned the
street for sign of pursuit. His heart was just beginning to steady its erratic
beat, comforted by the normality of what he saw, when a detachment of guards
came into view at the far end of the street and set it racing again. Bethro,
doubtful of his ability to out-run them, and at a loss to know what to do,
began to back nervously into the shadows of the entry.

Where were the others? Could he find his way to the library?
Surely Callis would help, if he could only reach him? All these thoughts
jostled around in his mind, like leaves caught in a whirlpool, as he backed
into the alley. His heart was drumming, his palms sweating, his eyes were fixed
on the corner, expecting the guards to burst round it at any moment. But it was
travelling in reverse that proved his undoing. Bethro took one too many steps
backwards, and with a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach, found that
instead of solid cobbles under his feet, there was only thin air. He hadn’t
even time to cry out. With no more than a terrified gulp, he shot downwards
into the dark void, struck his head sharply on a barrel and landed in an unconscious
heap on the floor.

 The brewer, returning sometime later, completely unaware of
this unusual addition to the stock, slammed shut the trapdoor and securely
locked it.

 While Bethro lay out cold on the cellar floor, his more
enterprising young companion was having a much more enjoyable time. Eimer, demonstrating
the skill attributed to him by his sister, did indeed run like a hare. Even as
a boy, he had been light on his feet, easily eluding a frustrated Enrick intent
on giving him a hiding, and was thus perfectly able to out-distance the
heavy-footed guards. Laughing a little at their ineffectual attempts to keep up
with him, he soon left them behind. Springing nimbly up onto a garden wall, he
walked along its narrow ridge with all the poise of a cat, his arms held out to
keep his balance, before neatly dropping down into a pleasant garden at the
back of one of the grander mansions. The sound of many running footsteps in the
street outside signalled the fact that the guards were at least managing to keep
to the right direction. He expected the search party to stampede on past, but
to his annoyance, they stopped just outside and he heard the order being given
to search the adjoining houses.

 Eimer, deciding that it was time to depart, was in the act
of crossing the garden, when he suddenly came face to face with a young woman
carrying a basket of washing. Her pretty mouth formed a perfect ‘o’ of
astonishment. Eimer, his eyes dancing with mischief, placed his finger
conspiratorially against his lips, in the age-old gesture for silence. The maid
saw that the young man before her was handsome, in an engagingly rakish way,
moreover he had a warm, attractive smile with just a hint of a devil-may-care
attitude about it that was irresistibly appealing. Distracted, she could think
of nothing else to say but a rather feeble: “Who are you?”

 Once more the smile flashed. “Eimer,” said the Prince, as
bold as brass. “You couldn’t help me out, could you?” he asked winningly. “I
was...er...visiting a friend, when her husband unexpectedly came home early and
totally
misconstrued what he saw, and now he’s after my blood. What with
the guards searching for these strangers, I’m highly likely to be caught and
that might mean the end of a promising career. Now you wouldn’t want that on
your conscience, would you?”

 Encouragingly, from Eimer’s point of view, this recital
made her giggle, but then she said: “You speak sort of funny?”

 “Er…well, that’s because I come from a remote village. We
hardly ever come to the big city, you know,” he extemporised, desperately
trying to remember the name of the region Iska had mentioned. “Oh! I’m from
Lysar,” he brought out, with a great sense of achievement. “Ever heard of it?”

 She laughed again. “Of course I’ve heard of it. They say
people from there are a bit odd.”

 He bowed to her. “Who am I to break with tradition? I think
they just say that about us because we fall in love so easily.” He gave her a
bold wink, then not losing sight of his priorities, said: “You wouldn’t, by any
chance, have somewhere I could stay till the dust settles?”

 The maid frowned. “Was she pretty?”

 “Who?” asked the absent-minded Prince.

 “The woman whose husband came back early.”

 “Not as pretty as you,” declared the Prince truthfully.
Wise beyond his years in the ways of women, he sensed that she was wavering.
Stepping closer, he crooked his finger under her chin, turned up her face and
promptly kissed her.

 The basket of washing dropped to the ground. “You are a
bold, insolent young man!” she announced, in unconvincing tones of disapproval.

 “Yes, I am,” agreed Eimer and kissed her again.

 The serving girl, abandoning pretence, caught his hand.
“Come with me,” she commanded.

 Sareth found herself walking down a street in the eastern
section of the city, not at all certain about what she was supposed to be
doing.

 Once the guards had gone from the square beneath the bell
tower, and the crowds dispersed, Iska seemed to be seized by a fever of
urgency.

 “I have the beginnings of an idea of how we might save Vesarion,”
she had rapidly told Sareth, “but it must be carried out this evening and I
have so much to arrange before then, that I have no idea how I am going to get
it all done in time. Unfortunately, for my plan to work, we need one other
person, and as we have no idea where Eimer and Bethro have gone, we must obtain
the help of the one member of our company whose location we
do
know.”

 With a slightly sinking heart, Sareth was ahead of her.
“Gorm,” she supplied. “But he’s outside the city.”

 “Yes, and you are going to have to get him in – and what’s
more, you are going to have to do it on your own because I have no time to
spare,” declared Iska, already heading for the stairs. “The eastern quarter has
already been searched, so it should be safe enough now. Good luck.”

 “But….but how am I going to do this?” Sareth protested.
“The gates will still be guarded!”

 Iska had already disappeared down the stairs before Sareth
had finished her sentence, but her voice echoed back up the stairwell. “You’re
resourceful, Sareth. You’ll think of something.”

 So now Sareth roamed the streets, desperately trying to
think of a way to not only smuggle a Turog into the city but not be recognised
in the process.

 It didn’t help that her emotions had been in turmoil since
she had witnessed what had happened to Vesarion. Alternating waves of grief,
fear and rage swept over her, until at one point she was forced to sit down on
a low wall and collect herself.

 “If you are going to save him, you must think clearly,” she
told herself fiercely. “So pull yourself together. Iska has a plan to rescue
him and although I don’t know what it is, she needs Gorm – and that means she’s
going to get Gorm, even if it kills me.”

 As she sat there, gradually gaining mastery of herself, her
eyes fell on two things that gave her the seeds of an idea as to how her task
might be accomplished. The first prerequisite was to get a disguise, and there,
facing her through the open gates of a courtyard, was a washing line from which
hung several dresses of the type that a serving girl might wear.

 Carefully, she waited her opportunity, casting discrete
glances up and down the street until the coast was clear. Then, quick as a
flash, she nipped into the deserted courtyard and whipped a dress and a
headscarf off the line. Just as she was leaving, she spotted a battered straw
hat sitting on a chair and brazenly helped herself to that as well. Finding a
secluded spot, she swiftly donned the dress over her shirt and breeches. The
dress was not ideal, for it was too wide and a little too short, revealing a
pair of riding boots not in keeping with the peasant woman she proposed to pass
for. Sareth, looking disapprovingly at her boots, decided that she would have
to chance it. Her luxuriant brown hair, she hid under the scarf and just for
good measure, rammed the broad-brimmed hat on top of it all. Then, taking a
handful of dust, she rubbed it on her face.

 The other prop needed for her plan was still sitting in its
original position outside a livery stable when she returned to it. The large,
wooden wheelbarrow full of hay stood just inside the gate and a moment later,
the peasant girl in the straw hat was in possession of it and was trundling it over
the cobbles towards the east gate.

 It was getting late in the day, and there was a fair amount
of traffic heading for the gate. Sareth, head bowed and shoulders stooped,
joined the steady stream. She was pleased to note that she was not the only one
pushing a barrow, and carefully she assumed the gait of someone weary and a
little careworn.

 The guards were still at their old task of extracting the
correct amount of tax from the few people still coming into the city, and
surprisingly, didn’t seem overly interested in those leaving. However, their
air of disinterest was deceptive, because just as she drew level with them,
they detained a slim young man in his twenties that might well have fitted
Eimer’s description. Sareth passed them, more stooped than ever, the brim of
her hat pulled well down, just as they embarked on a spirited altercation with
their captive.

 Once clear of the gate, she briskly rolled the barrow along
the road until she came to the dense wood where they had deposited Gorm.
Checking to make sure she was unobserved, she abruptly veered into the wood and
was soon amongst the concealment of the trees.

 The wood was peaceful and seemingly deserted. She stood for
a moment listening to the birds singing their evening song, apparently undisturbed,
before setting down her burden.

 “Gorm?” she called softly. “Gorm? Are you still here?”

 “Yes,” said a gruff voice so close behind her that she
jumped.

 “I wish you wouldn’t do that! You scared the wits out of
me!”

 “Sareth want Gorm?” was all he replied.

 “Yes. I need you to come into the city. Our presence has
been discovered. Eimer and Bethro are missing and Vesarion has been captured.
I…I need you to help me rescue him.”

 The Turog seemed unmoved by this plea. “Don’t like places
of stone,” he said stubbornly.

 “Please, Gorm, you must come. They’ve beaten him terribly
and they’re….they’re going to hang him in the morning. Iska has a plan, but she
says she needs you for it to work, so you must help us –
please
!”

 With the last word, she sank to her knees before him.
Unable to hold back her emotions any longer, hot, desperate tears began to
stream unchecked down her face.

 “Please, Gorm, I’m begging you,” she pleaded brokenly.

 He stood for a moment looking at her, his expression
difficult to read. Then slowly he reached out one stubby finger and gently
wiped a tear from her cheek.

 “Sareth love Vesarion?” he asked quietly.

 “Yes,” she replied, finding relief in confessing it. “I
love him.”

 “Then Gorm will help,” he announced decisively. “Not cry
any more. Gorm will save Vesarion.”

 “Thank you,” she responded fervently, and dried her eyes on
her sleeve in a manner that created dirty streaks all over her face.

 The return journey was considerably more difficult for Sareth
than the outward one, because she had not anticipated that one small Turog
could weigh so much. This time, she didn’t need to pretend to struggle with the
wheelbarrow because it was taking every ounce of her strength just to keep it
moving forward – and it didn’t help, that every now and then, a violent sneeze
issued from the pile of hay.

 “Gorm,” she hissed, as they approached the gate, “for
goodness’ sake keep quiet!”

 “Don’t like hay,” complained the wheelbarrow.

 Sareth was left to reflect on the unfairness of life, that
of all the vicious, murderous Turog in the world, she had to get stuck with the
only one who suffered from hay fever.

 As she struggled towards the gate, to her alarm, one of the
guards began to exhibit some interest in her. He left his post and started to
saunter towards her.

 “What have you got in there?” he asked imperiously.

 Trusting herself to speak only one word, she said
laconically: “Hay.”