The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (52 page)

 “It’s only a sword,” he told himself resolutely. “No matter
what Iska saw, it’s only a sword.”

Gathering all the will-power he possessed, he stretched
forth his hand for the third time, battling the will opposing him, and had
almost touched the hilt, when without warning, a fork of red lightning shot
from the hilt and connected with his hand. Intense pain shot up Eimer’s arm,
right up to his shoulder and into his head. He gave a cry of agony and
catapulted backwards.

 “Eimer!” cried Iska, darting towards him. She was too late
to prevent him falling, but Gorm was quicker and broke his fall.

 Eimer was writhing and twisting on the floor in torment,
his left hand clutching his arm. His eyes were rolling in his head with pain
and he had grasped his lower lip so tightly between his teeth that it had begun
to bleed. Iska couldn’t see a mark on him, but no matter what she tried to do
to help, he paid no heed to her.

 “Gorm!” cried Iska. “What do we do?”

 “Give him sword!” barked Gorm.

 “No! It’s hurt him enough already!”

 “
Other
sword!” Gorm explained impatiently, wondering
at her stupidity. “Give him
good
sword.”

Not knowing what else to do, Iska placed the hilt of the
sword of Erren-dar in Eimer’s injured hand and instantly the writhing ceased
and he lay still.

 Even Gorm had not expected such an instant result and he
and Iska looked at one another in amazement.

 “How did you know to do that?” she asked in an awed voice.

 “Good sword is
opposite
of bad sword,” was his
explanation, leaving her to make of that what she wished.

 Eimer’s eyes opened and he took a deep breath.

 “Are you all right?” Iska asked him urgently.

 “Yes – no. I don’t know. The pain has stopped but…but I
don’t think I can move my right arm.”

 “Evil black sword,” hissed Gorm, who was acquiring his
arch-rival’s habit of stating the obvious.

 “Vesarion was right,” said Iska, helping Eimer to his feet.
“The sword of Erren-dar still has power. It has countered the harm done to you
by its rival.”

 Gorm by this time was fairly dancing with impatience.
“Let’s go,” said he, with all his usual brevity. “Can’t touch evil sword. Must
stay here.”

 Eimer was swaying a little on his feet and Iska took his
cold, numb hand in hers. He looked down at his hand as if it belonged to
somebody else and with an immense effort of will, succeeded in getting his
thumb to twitch a little.

 “I think the effect is wearing off. It was literally like
being struck by lightning. The demon certainly put great power into the sword
and none of it good. Now, let’s get out of here.”

 “You and Gorm take the sword to the grille and wait for me
there,” replied Iska. “I’m going to see if the main door can be locked from the
inside. I have learned from recent experience that the longer one can create
confusion about what has actually occurred, the better the chance of escape.”

 “Iska…..!”

 “Don’t worry. I won’t be a moment. Now go!” To emphasise
her point, she gave him a little push in the direction of the grille.

 But as she turned towards the steps, her eye fell on the
black sword, still resting on the velvet, and unlike Eimer, who had been
repelled by it, she felt the faintest, seductive whisper of it calling to her. 
Her eyes fastened upon it, and she could not look away. So intensely was she enticed
by it, that she failed to notice the flames of the two oil lamps flicker
softly, as if touched by a slight draught.

 The sword drew her hypnotically, and was beginning to blank
out all other thoughts, one by one, when suddenly she thought of Eimer. Into
her mind flashed a picture of him writhing in pain on the floor, and the charm
was broken. It was like awakening from a dream. She had the impression she had
been standing there for quite a long while, and remembering that time was
pressing, she took a deep breath, and wrenched herself free of the influence of
the sword. Ascending the steps two at a time, she reached the main door, and
stood behind it, listening. She could hear the occasional clink of armour as
the guards shifted restlessly on duty, but otherwise all was quiet. The bolt on
the inside of the door was well oiled and slid home noiselessly.

 ‘That will slow them down,” she thought with satisfaction,
as she bounded down the stairs.

 But the sword had not given up. Once again, it caught her
in its net as she attempted to pass it. Like a pin to a magnet, it drew her
eyes to it and in a moment she was standing before it once more, her gaze riveted
to its sable blade. As insidiously as a morning mist drifting between autumn
trees, there crept into her mind the desire to touch it. One tiny part of her
thoughts, still under her own control, cried out a warning. She knew it was
evil. She knew it would harm her, but desperately she wanted to touch it.

 Inside her head, she heard a voice whispering:

 “
You are of the House of Parth. Ever has your kindred
served my master. Join with me. Be one with me,  for you cannot deny who you
are, though long you have tried. The Prince of the Lightless Void calls to you.
Reach out and join
with me.”

 Slowly her hand began to edge towards it. Part of her mind
still struggled against it, but the power it exerted against her was strong and
relentlessly, irresistibly, it drew her closer.

 At that moment, a powerful masculine hand clamped hard
around her wrist in a vice-like grip and wrenched her away from the sword,
spinning her round in the process. The spell was shattered with an abruptness
that left her reeling. She was on the point of opening her mouth to thank Eimer
for saving her, when with a horrible lurch in her stomach, she realised that it
was not Eimer.

 Mordrian still held her wrist imprisoned in a grip that was
so strong, it had stopped the flow of blood to her hand. His dark eyes were
boring into hers with undiluted fury.

 “So it was you! I should have guessed! The thief who steals
horses and money, who even steals from my own apartments! And now you crown
your sordid career with an act of treachery. Did you think that the black sword
could be so easily taken? If you did, you are a fool! It contains power far
beyond your feeble comprehension.” Impossibly, he tightened his grip even more,
jerking her closer with such force that he nearly pulled her off her feet. “I
gave you one week to leave this city and you have defied me. No one defies me,
do you understand? No one. And believe me, my bastard sister, it will be the
last thing you ever do. I should have rid myself of you a long time ago, and I
will now make good that omission.”

 With that, he drew a knife from his belt and held it before
her face.

“I know that you have been helping the Eskendrians. Did you
think I was still in ignorance of that fact? It was you who brought them here.
Somehow you got them through the curtain of Adamant, didn’t you?” he demanded.
When she didn’t reply, he shook her violently. “Do you take me for a fool?” he
hissed. “It was you who helped them elude capture. It was you who assisted
Westrin to escape. The guards said it was two young women who drugged them, and
one of them fitted your description exactly. I have been searching for you for
over a week now, and yet here I find you attempting to steal my sword, no less!
You claim that you are of the House of Parth, but you are not. You are a
cross-breed that sullies the purity of a noble line and you have no loyalty to
it, or to anyone but yourself. You would betray not only your  country, but
your own father, and if you now think that I am going to let you away lightly
by slitting your throat, think again. Not for you, the mercy of a quick death.
You may have disposed of Ursor, but I have many like him, willing to place
their talents at my disposal and believe me, sister dear, I give you my word
that it will take a very long time for you to die, and I will be present for
every satisfying moment of it.”

 Eyes still blazing, the Prince released her wrist, and
quickly grabbing a fistful of her hair, yanked her head back, exposing her
throat to his knife, and for a moment Iska thought his temper had overcome his
desire to inflict pain on her, and he was going to slit her throat after all.
But at that moment, the Prince’s hand froze, his knife poised against the pulse
throbbing just under her skin - for he had felt the icy-cold tip of a blade touch
the back of his own neck.

 An irritatingly cool voice said: “Release her, or you are a
dead man.”

Iska, looking directly into her brother’s eyes, still read
the wrath in them and for a moment thought that he was not going to obey, but
gradually he gained mastery over his temper and lowering the knife, released
his grip on his prisoner’s hair.

“Now drop the knife and turn around,” ordered the same calm
voice.

 The Prince turned to be confronted with a young man now
holding the tip of his sword about an inch from his heart. In the other hand,
he held the sword of Erren-dar, neatly encased in its scabbard.

 “I see,” said Mordrian dryly, quickly recovering his poise.
“You are one of her Eskendrian accomplices, sent to steal the sword.”

 Eimer smiled slightly. “Permit me to correct you. The sword
is not being stolen but is merely being returned to its rightful owner, the
heir of Erren-dar. And secondly, I would inform you that I am Eimer, Prince of
Eskendria and son of King Meldorin whose kingdom you threaten. Give me one good
reason why I should not kill you where you stand?”

 Mordrian was  evidently not intimidated. “Ah, yes,” he
responded amiably. “The idiot younger son of a weak king who cannot control his
own family, never mind rule a kingdom. You would have been better to have kept
your identity a secret.”

 Iska, anxiously watching this confrontation, saw that Mordrian
had touched her rescuer on the raw, for the good humour, normally never far
from his eyes, had been completely extinguished and his expression grew hard.

 “Taunt me if you will,” he replied grittily. “Prepare your
army and your grandiose plans, if you will. Even consort with demons, if you
will, but you shall never conquer my country because you will never leave this
place. You can join your ancestors here as a permanent addition.”

 Mordrian shrugged. “Big words for so young a man.”

He eyed him speculatively and Eimer uncomfortably felt the
odd sensation that his thoughts were being read.

 “I do not think you have it in you to kill a man in cold
blood,” the Prince continued smoothly. “In the heat of battle, perhaps, but not
like this, where your victim stands before you unarmed. I do not think you are
capable of assuming the role of executioner. Am I not correct?”

 And Iska, watching them both, knew that her brother was
right. Eimer did not lack for courage but he was no cold-blooded killer.

 Her heart began to pound again, realising that they were at
an impasse. Mordrian, seeing Eimer hesitate, began to smile.

 “Something of a dilemma, I see,” he observed suavely.

 Iska intervened, cutting him short. “We’ll just tie him up
and leave him here,” she said harshly to Eimer. “Don’t stain your conscience
with his blood.” Then directing a look of contempt at her brother, she added:
“He’s not worth it.”

 Mordrian’s fury flared again at the provocation, breaching
his rigid self-control and the look he directed at her was pure hatred, but in
the end it was Gorm who resolved their problem.

 Bounding forward out of the darkness, sword drawn, he
announced bluntly: “Gorm will kill him.”

 Mordrian’s eyes widened in astonishment, as if he could not
believe what he was seeing.

 “You have a
Turog
in tow!” he exclaimed. “In my
city! In
Adamant
!”

 But Gorm’s unexpected arrival distracted Eimer, and
Mordrian, seizing his chance, swept the black sword off the altar and slashed
it hard against his captor’s blade. The two swords met with a ferocious clash,
and Eimer, caught by surprise, found that his weapon was dashed easily to one
side. At the same moment, Mordrian roared for the guards at the top of his
voice, alerting them to the presence of the intruders.

 Eimer staggered back from the blow and stared at his sword
in astonishment. Iska had provided him with a very fine weapon indeed, but when
his eye fell on the blade, there was a deep notch in it where it had met its
opponent. The damage was so pronounced that he knew his sword could withstand
very little more of such treatment. Nevertheless, recovering swiftly, Eimer waded
in for the attack. Yet again, when the two swords crossed, his blade came away
damaged. He also began to realise with every blow exchanged, that the man he
was challenging was an exceptionally powerful and cunning fighter.

 The guards at the entrance had obviously heard their
master’s call for help and were pounding on the door, frustrated by Iska’s
providential bolt.

 Eimer was by now no longer attacking, but fighting for his
life. Never had he faced an opponent of such speed and skill. Desperately he
parried, again and again, within a hair’s breadth of his guard failing, aware
that he was utterly out of his depth. His sword was taking so much damage that
he wondered how long the blade could hold out against such an assault. His face
was soon running with sweat and he knew he was close to defeat, but his determination
never waivered and not for one moment did it ever cross his mind to give up.
Grimly, he battled on, as the crashes echoing down the stairwell from the door
above, signalled the fact that the guards would very soon be upon them.

 Once more, Gorm came to his aid. He began to attack the
Prince from behind, employing the age-old Turog technique, forcing him to fight
on two fronts at once. But even under these circumstances, Mordrian’s skill was
such that he held his own against them both. Deftly parrying Eimer, he flicked
the black blade backwards towards Gorm, with such speed that the small Turog
nearly lost one of his ears.

 Another almighty crash from above and the sound of
splintering wood alerted Iska to the fact that the doors were about to give way
and then all would be truly lost. It was essential that the fight be finished
quickly. Looking round for something to help, her gaze fell upon the oil lamps
still burning on the empty altar. Quickly, she grabbed one of them and awaited
her chance.

 Eimer’s sword crossed with Mordrian’s and the blades slid raspingly
down one another to the hilt, locked in an unloving embrace. For a moment the
two men struggled against one another for supremacy, each exerting every ounce
of strength to overthrow the other. Inevitably, Mordrian, being taller and more
powerfully built than his opponent, flung Eimer back. He staggered, struggling
to recover his balance, and collided with Gorm, bringing them both down in a
crashing fall.

 Iska seized her chance. Taking aim, she hurled the oil lamp
at her brother with all the strength she possessed. With deadly accuracy, it
struck him on the side of the head and burst, showering him with oil that
instantly ignited. He released a powerful roar of pain, and began desperately
trying to beat out the flames with his hands.

 Darting forward, Iska snatched up the sword of Erren-dar
and catching Eimer’s hand, dragged him after her. Together, they sped down the
crypt, dodging between the tombs, until they reached the grille.

 Mordrian’s bellows of pain could still be heard echoing between
the silent effigies of the dead kings, but added to that was the thunderous
sound of many guards descending the stairs at the double.

 Eimer wrenched the grille aside and fairly tossed Iska and
Gorm out before him.

 Together, they fled across the darkened parkland, heading
for the boundary wall. As they reached it, Eimer glanced back, and saw in the
distance behind them, torch after flaming torch appear in the night, bobbing
about in the darkness as guards responded by the dozen to the Prince’s orders
to pursue them.

 Eimer remembered that when they had been hatching their
plan to take the sword, he had indulged in the sanguine hope that they might be
able to retrieve it undetected, but Iska had been less optimistic. She had
insisted that they prepare an escape plan that took into account the fact that
they might very well stir up a hornet’s nest. As they hurriedly scaled the
wall, using the old ivy, Eimer, hearing the commotion behind them, was
intensely grateful that he had listened to her. However, when they jumped down
on the other side, he couldn’t resist grinning at her.

“Accept my compliments on a magnificent shot,” he offered
teasingly.

 “You have no idea, Eimer,” she replied feelingly. “Usually
I couldn’t hit the side of a barn at ten paces. That was a sheer fluke.”

 “No less effective because of it,” he commended, pulling
their packs out from behind the bushes where they had concealed them.

 A few short paces took them onto the cobbled surface of the
darkened street, into which was set one of the ubiquitous metal hatches giving
access to the storm drains. In an instant they had dropped down it and
disappeared from sight.

 During their sojourn in the tower, Gorm had gone out every
evening as soon as darkness fell and disappeared down the hatch nearest the
tower. He then spent an interesting, if slightly messy time crawling about the
tunnels, familiarising himself with their layout until he knew them better than
Iska. It was he who discovered the drain which led outside the city wall
through which Bethro had been ejected. Now he was leading them to it once more,
crawling along rapidly, occasionally having to stop to wait for his slower
companions to catch up.

 They had by now left the sounds of pursuit behind, and
Eimer and Iska crawled along in the musty dampness, trying not to think about
what they might be putting their hands in, and keeping in sight the tiny candle
that Gorm carried, wavering along erratically in the darkness like a will-o’-the-wisp
ahead of them.

 As they approached the outlet, Gorm doused the light and
crept forward cautiously, sniffing the air. The drain emerged through the city
wall several feet above a channel, just now devoid of water. The Turog,
satisfied that they were alone, jumped down with all the grace of a sack of
onions and held up his hands to receive their packs. The eastern gate was only
a short distance away, set behind the angle of the wall. Just as they were
ready to depart, they heard the sound of much shouting and several indistinct
orders being issued. The effect of the orders was, however, in no doubt. With a
groan of ancient hinges, followed by a reverberating thud, they heard the heavy
gate being slammed shut and the bar dropped into place.

 Eimer grinned in the darkness, the significance not lost
upon him. “They think we’re still in the city,” he whispered gleefully.
“They’re going to waste hours searching the streets for us.”

 His boyish delight was infectious and Iska couldn’t resist
smiling back, but she entered a word of caution.

 “We must get going, because it is essential that we put as
much distance between us and the city as we can before daylight. I want to get
to less populated regions because of Gorm. You and I might pass unnoticed, but
it’s not every day that one sees a Turog walking though Adamant.”