The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (46 page)

 He looked at her dirty face and shabby clothes in distaste.
“Very well, you can go on. There is no tax on hay.”

 Sareth nodded and started to heave the wheelbarrow forward,
only for the wheel to get stuck in a crack in the cobbles.

 One of the other guards, not so supercilious as his comrade,
came forward with the kind intention of helping her.

 “Here,” he said pleasantly, “let me give you a hand.”

 Sareth knew that the moment he felt the weight of the
wheelbarrow, the game was up.

 “No need,” she panted, and gave the barrow such a heave
that it came free with a violent lurch that caused it to jolt forwards.

 “Ouch!” exclaimed the pile of hay.

 “Ouch!” cried Sareth in gruff tones. “
Ouch
!”

 Avoiding the guard’s astonished stare, she struggled
onwards with all the speed she could manage.

It was almost fully dark by the time Iska returned to the
bell tower. The first few stars were beginning to pierce a velvety evening sky,
as slowly the moon began to rise over the walls of the city. She found her two
accomplices anxiously awaiting her in the gloom under the silent bell. Sareth
had already noticed that their packs had vanished, leaving only her sword and
one of Vesarion’s shirts. She wondered what Iska’s plan was, and was intrigued
when her co-conspirator arrived carrying a basket full of bottles of wine.

 “Hello Gorm,” Iska greeted him, setting down the basket.

 By way of reply, he sneezed.

 Sareth rolled her eyes. “As you can see,” said she long-sufferingly,
“I’ve done my bit. Now you need to tell me what the plan is.”

 “Very well,” replied Iska. “I’ve had a lot of arrangements
to make but now everything is done.”

 “What are the bottles of wine for?”

 “They have been drugged. I took them to Callis and he mixed
a strong sleeping draught with the wine. Whoever drinks it will go out like a
light. Now, Vesarion is being held in the old armoury. It lies within an outer
wall that is guarded day and night. He will be held in a cell on the first
floor, and to get to it, one must pass the guardroom, which will have about a
dozen off-duty guards in it. The next obstacle is an anteroom used by those guarding
the prisoner – there will probably only be one or two gaolers present, for as
far as I know, Vesarion is the only prisoner. When the soldiers come off duty,
they have a standing arrangement with a nearby inn to provide them with supper.
A serving maid from the inn delivers baskets of food and wine to the guardroom
at a set time each evening.”

 At this point, Iska paused in her recital and faced Sareth,
who had been listening to her intently, with a slight look of trouble on her
face. “Before I go any further, I feel it only fair to tell you that my plan
will involve theft, assault, kidnapping and, at least on my part, treason – are
you prepared for this?”

 Sareth never flinched. Looking Iska determinedly in the
eye, she said: “I am prepared for anything, up to and including murder. You do
not need to ask this question of me, Iska, for you know perfectly well I will
do whatever it takes to save Vesarion.”

 “I thought you would say that, but I had to be sure,
because my plan is dangerous and there is a lot that could go wrong.”

 “Fine. Tell me the rest of it. I am guessing that you are
going to replace the maid and drug the guards, am I right?”

 “Yes, except that we will both have to accompany the food
into the armoury disguised as maids because I can’t manage this on my own.”

 “Are there normally two?”

 “No. I can only hope that they will be so interested in
their food that they won’t think it suspicious. I fear that Vesarion has been
so badly injured that he will barely be able to walk. He is certainly going to
need more help than I can give him on my own. Also, if we are surprised, then
you stand a better chance of dealing with it than me.”

 Gorm, who had been listening to all this with a puzzled
look on his blunt features, suddenly enquired: “What do I do?”

 “The problem is how to get Vesarion out of there once he is
released from his cell. The gates are guarded and there may well be other
soldiers in the parade ground.  I mean, we can hardly disguise someone of his
height as a maid, so we have to leave by a different route. You’ve heard me say
many times that I know every tunnel and secret passage in this city. I also
know every inch of the network of storm drains under the streets. One such
drain passes directly under the armoury building. The armoury itself is on the
ground floor and is always kept securely locked, but the guards upstairs have
the key, so if all goes to plan, we should be able to get it. At the back of
the armoury is a metal inspection hatch that leads directly into the drains.”
Interpreting Sareth’s sudden change of expression, she added quickly: “Don’t
worry, the drains are quite large, a man could easily crawl along them,
although admittedly they are better suited for someone of Gorm’s size. The only
problem is that a kind of key is needed to open the hatch and I don’t know
where it is. However, the hatch can be opened without the key from underneath –
and that is where you come in, Gorm. You must enter the network of drains at
another location and crawl along until you are beneath the armoury. Once there,
you must wait patiently for our signal before opening the hatch. Is that
clear?”

 He nodded vigorously. “Yes. Can do that.”

 “Good. Then the only thing we are missing is a disguise for
you, Sareth.”

 Sareth smiled triumphantly. “I already have one,” she
declared, holding up the shabby dress. “As you said, I am resourceful.”

 “Excellent.”

 “What do we do once we are out of the drain?”

 “I have hired horses from a livery stable and have already
taken your packs there. You and Vesarion will leave from the south gate and
ride to a place I know where you can hide until he is recovered. I will give
you directions before you leave.”

 “You are not coming?” It was more of a statement than a
question, for Sareth already knew the answer.

 “I must find Eimer and Bethro. You know that, Sareth.”

 She nodded, unsurprised. “What do we do about the guards at
the gate?”

  “They have been heavily bribed to let you pass. They are
used to taking bribes from people not too keen to pay their taxes, so they are
totally venal, even at the best of times. Admittedly, this is a bit unusual, so
it took a truly
staggering
amount of money to persuade them.”

 “You have that sort of money?” Sareth asked doubtfully.

 Iska smiled, enjoying some inward joke. “No, but my dear
brother does. I know he would be utterly delighted to discover that he was the
means of enabling you to escape from the city. I mean, really! What does he
expect if he leaves his strongbox sitting on the table in his room and doesn’t
take the trouble to close his window properly? Such carelessness! There are thieves
about, you know!”

 For the first time since the incident in the square, Sareth
laughed. “Iska, you are a
devil
!”

 Iska laughed, delighted with the compliment. “Now, you and
I, Sareth, have a maid to kidnap.”

 Vesarion knew he was going to die in the morning. No one
had directly told him, but he had heard the guards talking and knew that a
noose awaited him at sunrise. Now he sat in darkness on the cold floor of his
prison, his wrists chained to the wall. Despite being utterly exhausted, he was
in such pain that he could not lie down. His back was on fire, like acid eating
into his flesh, so that he could not even lean back against the wall. Every
inch of his body was either bruised or wounded, tormenting him with pain. His
lips felt swollen and one eye had almost completely closed. Despite the fact
that he had eaten nothing since breakfast early that morning, he was not
hungry. Instead, he sat on the stone floor battling wave after wave of nausea,
until at long last they finally subsided.

 An indifferent silver moon rose with cool serenity over the
armoury, peeping in at the small barred window of his cell. It cast long,
argent stripes on the stone floor, creating deep shadows that were almost blue.
Vesarion looked at them, knowing that the next time the moon cast its light in
at the little window,  he would no longer be alive to see it.

 At least in his heart he had the comfort of knowing that he
had held out to the end. He had done all he could to protect his friends, and
knew that he had passed the test that he had been far from certain he would
pass. Now his mind was strangely at peace. His only regret was that he had
never told Sareth that he loved her. Common sense told him that is was better
for her not to know, but he found reason a poor advisor, and instead sat
looking at the moonlight, trying to ignore his pain, summoning up a picture of
Sareth that day at the inn which was so clear it was almost as if she was right
before him. He remembered sitting beside her, looking into her eyes, wondering
if he was imagining the feeling that she was willing him to say something.
Wishful thinking, he supposed, but now he regretted not speaking anyway.

 The saddest words in the world echoed through his head –
too
late
.

Another spasm of pain gripped him and he clenched his fists
and held his breath until it eased.

 Tomorrow, at sunrise, the ancient line of Westrin would
come to an end. It would pass into history and thence into legend, as was, perhaps,
only fitting. He found himself accepting the thought with a certain fatalism.
The sword of Erren-dar would pass to someone else now.

 “Eimer should have it,” he murmured to himself. “It is only
right that it should fall to him to save Eskendria, for he has more greatness
of heart than his brother.”

 He realised, that despite knowing Eimer all his life, he
had only come to understand him during the course of their journey. So much
that he had not understood before, had become clear to him recently. So much
about others. So much about himself.

 Images of the events of the last few weeks that had changed
his life, flashed with crystal clarity onto his inner eye.

  He saw Eimer, ever courageous, standing in the snow, his
bow at the ready, waiting steadily for the wolves to attack. He remembered his
astonishment when he had seen Gorm weeping before Sareth because he thought he
had failed her. He lived again the sun glancing off the river at the foot of
the ravine, the day Bethro had caught the fish and he remembered Iska, when
they had caught up with her in the Great Forest, telling with ill-concealed
sadness, of how her father had rejected her.

 But most of all he thought of Sareth. He let his mind dwell
on her, and his prison cell faded far away. He saw her again as he had seen her
that evening in the Rose Tower, with the candlelight shining on her hair. He remembered
her grey eyes looking directly into his the day their swords had crossed. But
again and again he saw her looking up at him that fateful day at the inn,
waiting for him to say the words that never came. He had let the precious
moment slip through his fingers, in ignorance of the fact that there would
never be another one. And for Vesarion, the knowledge was almost worse than the
physical hurts he had to bear.

 The moon, now looking directly onto the man kneeling on the
floor of the prison, saw him bow his head into his hands with unbearable grief.
When finally he raised his head he looked up at the sky.

 “I wish I had told her,” he whispered, “and now I never will.”
Gazing up  at the serene face sailing above, he said, “If you happen to see
her, tell her I love her.”

 The moon kept its own counsel, but it was looking down with
a certain degree of curiosity on events taking place a short distance away at
the rear of an inn called the White Hart.

 Sareth and Iska were lying in ambush at the back of the inn,
awaiting the emergence of the serving maid. The door to a seldom-used storeroom
lay ajar behind them and within it lay Sareth’s disguise and her sword. The
basket containing the drugged bottles of wine was put out of harm’s way in a
corner, with Vesarion’s shirt tucked into it.

 Gorm had already been stuffed down a hatch into the storm
drain a short distance from the armoury, with strict instructions of how to get
to his destination ringing in his ears. He had rapidly crawled away, feeling
strangely in his element.

 Now the minutes dragged past and there was no sign of the
maid. Sareth, in a highly keyed-up state, was fidgeting restlessly, aware that
the whole plan hinged on the maid’s capture. Iska, whose job was to distract
the servant while Sareth attacked her, was on the far side of the street. Glancing
towards her co-conspirator standing in the shadow of the doorway, she turned up
her hands and shrugged in a manner intended to convey that she had no idea what
the delay was.

 However, a short time later, they heard a feminine voice
reassure someone at the inn that she wouldn’t be long and the sound of light
footsteps approaching on the cobbles. Iska tensed. Into view came a young woman
of about her own height and age, carrying two heavy baskets. She clearly had no
qualms about entering the dark street, but when Iska suddenly emerged from the
gloom, she started.

 “I’m sorry,” began Iska politely, “but could you give me
directions to the White Hart Inn, please?”

 The girl turned to reply and at the same moment, Sareth
sprang forward, caught the victim’s throat in the crook of her arm and dragged
her backwards into the doorway. At the same instant, she clapped her other hand
tightly over her mouth.

 Iska deftly relieved the girl of her two baskets and in a
trice they were all in the storeroom, lit only by the stub of a small candle.

 But the girl, seeing that her attackers were just two
women, had no notion of surrendering quietly. She began to struggle with
Sareth, clawing at her arm, trying to scratch her face, until Iska caught her
hands and bound them tightly together. However, she was still giving Sareth
trouble, wriggling and kicking, attempting to get her mouth free to scream for
help. Iska stuffed a large handkerchief into her mouth and between them, they
managed to wrestle her to the ground and tied her ankles. They stood back to
observe their handiwork, both dishevelled and panting.