The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (67 page)

 “I, Vesarion of Westrin, swear to you my loyalty and pledge
to you my sword. To you, I bind in faithfulness the Barony of Westrin and all
her people. Your enemies from this day are henceforth mine. Before all those
assembled here, I give my sacred oath. Accept, I beg you, this my bond.”

 He looked up and the eyes of the two rivals met in
something that might almost have been understanding. The King leaned forwards
and touched the hilt of the sword to signify that he had accepted the oath and
Vesarion sheathed his sword and arose to his feet.

 Under his breath, Enrick said: “You have your faults,
Vesarion, but you were never a liar, I’ll grant you that.”  Then raising his
voice to address the barons, at his most gracious, he declared: “My lord of
Westrin has brought with him grave news. It seems that after so many years at
peace, Eskendria is once more to know war. To make ready for this, much needs
to be done in a very short time, and in acknowledgement of your loyal support
in defending this country, I hereby suspend, for the duration of the war, the
land tax.”

 An immense cheer went up from all those present, and the
barons, all powerful men, ready for a confrontation, almost visibly relaxed.
Smiling benignly and raising his hand to acknowledge the applause, Enrick
continued: “We have much to discuss, my lords, so for the first time in a
generation, I call on all my barons to attend a council of war. We will meet in
the council hall in the palace as soon as you have all entered the city. Those
who would do harm to Eskendria will find us both united and prepared for them.”

 As they entered the city, Eimer edged his horse alongside
Vesarion’s. “That was quite a performance! What on earth have you done to him?
Never have I seen a more poised or gracious king, completely in control of the
situation.”

 “Perhaps in the past we concentrated so much on his bad
qualities, we never realised that he has some good ones. If he can be brought
to realise that the exercise of power does not mean always throwing one’s
weight about, he has definite potential.”

 Eimer was more cynical. “More likely he is a pragmatist who
is not about to maintain his feud with you at the risk of losing his throne.”

 “You are, of course, quite right. Probably, he likes me not
one jot better than he did yesterday, but he has realised that I have certain
qualities that are useful to him. The important thing is that he is now
convinced of the imminence of the threat and will do all in his power to defeat
Mordrian.”

 “Will it be enough?” Eimer asked quietly. “We stand at the
eleventh hour, Vesarion, when perhaps it is too late for unity and courage to
prevail.”

 “Perhaps,” replied Vesarion, a little subdued, “but nonetheless
we must try, for it is all that we can do.”

The throne room in the palace at Addania had changed little
over the years. Amongst the barons, only Veldor remembered that the entrance from
the formal gardens had once been draped with a rampant rose, so exuberant that
one almost had to stoop to get under it. It had gone now, like everything,
falling victim to the passage of time. The pillared entrance of silver-grey
stone now stood bare and unadorned. However, inside, everything was just as it
had always been. The polished wooden floor still cast its golden light upwards,
illuminating the many carved pillars that supported the distant roof. The
throne still sat upon its dais under its canopy dotted with silver stars. It
stood empty just now, and to one side of it the double doors leading to the
council chamber stood open to reveal two lines of tall-backed chairs, each
ornately carved with its owner’s coat of arms. They faced each other across an
avenue set with polished black and white tiles that led to a chair that was
greater than any. It’s tall back was topped with a carved crown gilded with
gold and on its seat was a cushion of royal red.  Many years of peace had meant
that the chamber has been little used of late, each chair being filled only
once a year at the customary oath-taking. Now the chamber buzzed with
conversation as the barons stood in groups, earnestly discussing recent events
whilst awaiting the arrival of the King. Vesarion was one of the last to
arrive. He had received a warm smile from Sareth as she had passed him on her
way to show Iska her apartments, but her brother seemed less sure what to do with
himself. He loitered around outside the door, clearly at a loose end.  His difficulty
was that he wanted to be part of the inevitable discussion but knew that no one,
other than the barons, was permitted in the chamber without the express
authorisation of the King. When Enrick arrived, Vesarion, well aware of his
young friend’s dilemma, caught the King’s eye and significantly gave a tiny
jerk of his head towards the  Prince.

 Enrick paused in the doorway as the barons took up their
positions before their respective chairs and looking over his shoulder, said:
“Eimer, you may observe proceedings if you wish.”

 The Prince, looking quite stunned by this uncharacteristically
generous act, hastened to enter in his wake and the great double doors closed
resolutely behind him.

 Iska, meanwhile, was being shown the charms of the palace
by someone, who having once announced that she never wanted to see it again,
seemed surprisingly delighted to be back. Compared to the grandeur of the
palace at Adamant, it was a much more homely affair, consisting of a disordered
jumble of buildings liberally sprinkled with many illogical nooks and crannies.
Quaint staircases disappeared up into slender towers. Doors, set at odd angles
into pointed archways, were curiously carved with leaves and flowers, and tiny,
latticed windows tunnelled through stone walls to reveal glimpses of ivy-clad
courtyards or sheltered gardens. Sareth’s apartments were unaltered, having
merely been locked since her presumed demise. Her windows overlooked an area of
lawn, in the centre of which stood an old fountain, gently dribbling water into
a stone basin, green with lichen. Sareth opened the window and leaned out,
listening to the familiar sound of the fountain and the sleepy call of a family
of doves inhabiting the thick ivy covering the encircling wall. Iska, approving
of the comfortable rooms, flopped onto the bed contentedly.

 “I like your home much better than mine,” she declared,
rolling onto her back and looking up at the fan-vaulting on the ceiling. “It
feels older, yet friendlier than Adamant – and that’s not just because it does
not contain my horrible brother.”

 Sareth smiled, turning from the window to observe her
collapsed friend in some amusement. “Comfortable, Iska?”

 “Yes, thank you,” she replied, oblivious to irony. “I
suppose they’ll talk for hours about the war?”

 “Probably. They have, after all, a lot to arrange in a very
short space of time. The curse of it is that we do not know exactly how much
time we have, and must therefore proceed with the greatest speed possible. It’s
a pity that we have been forced to waste almost a week because of Enrick, but
at least he now seems motivated to act. I’ll hear all about it from Vesarion
when he emerges.” Noting that Iska was still lying on the bed staring
thoughtfully upwards, Sareth intuitively guessed her thoughts. “I’ll organise
some rooms for you and you’ll be surprised how quickly Addania will start to
feel like home. When this is all over, I want you to come and stay at
Ravenshold – and be prepared for a long visit, as it regularly gets snowed- in
every winter.”

 But Iska’s spirits were not lifted. “We can’t really make
any plans, can we? Everything depends on stopping Mordrian. I don’t know why,
Sareth, but sometimes I get a bad feeling about all this. I try to be
optimistic, but there is more coming our way than just my evil brother. I just
know it.”

 Sareth didn’t reply but turned once more to view the
garden, her frame tense. Sensing that something was troubling her deeply, Iska
rose from the bed and put her arm around her shoulders.

 “What is it?” she asked gently. “You are so happy these
days and yet sometimes underneath it all, I think I can glimpse some sort of
sorrow that you are hiding from everyone, even Vesarion.”

 “Especially Vesarion,” Sareth agreed in a subdued voice.

 “Why can you not tell him?”

 “Because it concerns him and because…..because it is
foolish. In the Storm Fortress and again in Engorin, I had a dream about him, and….and
it terrifies me.” Haltingly, giving into the sudden urge to unburden herself,
she told Iska of her dream.

 “Do you think me mad?” she asked. “Is it all nonsense?”

 “I don’t know,” replied Iska honestly. “Most dreams mean
nothing, but the fact that you have had it twice troubles me a little. You say
that in both dreams the only piece of armour he was missing was his helmet?”

 “Yes.”

 “Then the circumstances of the dream cannot come true as
long as he does not take off his helmet. I know that might seem like clutching
at straws, but it’s all I can offer, because there is no way that you can
prevent him taking part in this battle.”

 Sareth nodded, but at the same time a tear ran down her
cheek and she said brokenly: “I have never been one to do things by halves,
Iska. I do not hold back in my love for him and this leaves me exposed to the
greatest of all hurts, one from which I could never recover. After so many
years waiting for him, I don’t think I could survive if anything were to happen
to him. That’s what makes me so afraid.” 

 If Vesarion had been achieving some success with the King,
Bethro was also about to achieve his own small victory. Although he had immensely
enjoyed composing the letter to the barons and re-organising Pevorion’s papers
until the distracted baron was unable to find a thing, he was overjoyed to be
back in his familiar haunts again. Indeed, he could hardly wait to take up once
more the slightly frayed threads of his position as King’s Librarian. As soon
as he reached the palace, he made his way busily along the back corridors until
he reached his own beloved little cubbyhole. But once there, he was in for a
surprise –  for the room was meticulously tidy. Bethro, adept at keeping the
King’s documents in pristine order, did not extend the same courtesy to himself
and consequently lived in a state of perpetual chaos. But now, all the heaps of
scrolls and manuscripts had been tidied off the floor and placed neatly in the
pigeonholes designed for the purpose. The large wooden table by the window was
bare of its usual debris and was primly set with inkpots and quills, ready for
use. Bethro blinked, staring around him suspiciously as if the room was under
an evil spell. He soon, however, discovered the reason for its unusual state of
order – his post had been taken over by someone else during his absence, and as
far as he was concerned, the choice could not have fallen on a less worthy
specimen.

 The door opened behind him and Bethro turned to confront a
thin scribe he had detested ever since the man actually had the nerve to say
that his verses in honour of Queen Triana were trite. Moreover, to add insult
to injury, he had entered the room as if he had every right to be there.

 “What are you doing in my room?” demanded Bethro, outraged.

 “
My
room, I think you’ll find,” was the infuriating
response.

 Bethro cast a choleric eye over him and decided that the
conclusion he had come to long ago about the man was entirely justified – he
had a face like a ferret with its tail caught in a trap. Buoyed up by his
analogy, he drew himself up to his full height and announced grandiloquently:
“I did not risk danger and death in the Forsaken Lands just to bandy words
about with a miserable specimen like you. Now, get out!”

 But the ferret proved stubborn. “This is my room and I am the
King’s Librarian,” replied he, in an insufferably self-satisfied voice. “
You
get out!”

 Bethro had borne enough. Descending from the heights of
outraged dignity, he grabbed a large scroll and without warning smartly clipped
the man across the head with it.

 “Get your horrible face out of my sight!” he bellowed,
going red in the face and emphasising each word with a vigorous whack. “Now, GET
OUT, before I lose my temper!”

 The ferret, to his dismay, realised that he wasn’t up to
Bethro’s weight and was forced to exit the room with ignominious speed.

 Bethro, left in sole possession of the battlefield,
smoothed the crumpled scroll and sat down at the table well pleased with
himself.

 “It really is good to be home again,” he announced to the
empty room.

 As Iska had predicted, the council of war went on late into
the evening, long after the shadows had fallen and the candles in their tall
holders had been lit. When he finally emerged, Vesarion made his way to
Sareth’s apartments and found her seated on a long settle by the fire, staring
into its golden depths. She was dressed in a wine-coloured silk gown that would
have won Enrick’s approval, but Vesarion could not decide whether he preferred
her in breeches with her hair flying wild, ready for any adventure, or as a
graceful princess, poised and elegant. In the end, he decided he liked both. He
sat down beside her with a sigh and leaned his head back against the settle.
She drew close to him and slid her hand into his.

 “A long session,” she commented.

 “Yes, a very long session but there was surprisingly little
disagreement. All that can possibly be done, is now in train. The barons will
return to their lands in the morning with the King’s fiat to raise troops.
Messengers are being dispatched as we speak to Serendar and the Isles of
Kelendore to ask for aid in pursuance of their treaty obligations. Every forge
in the Kingdom will soon be busily making weapons. I have persuaded Enrick that
we should consider meeting Mordrian in battle beyond our borders, in the Forsaken
Lands. I think it unwise to let him cross the Harnor, as there is simply not
enough time to prepare properly for that eventuality. Addania is not equipped
to stand siege and it is not possible to get enough provisions into the city in
time to feed its population. No, this time, I think we should cross the Bridge
of the Twelve Arches and meet our enemies outside Eskendrian territory. So much
faith is being placed on the power of the sword, and in the old myth that a
hostile army can never invade Eskendria while it is in our possession, that I
feel it would not be wise to put matters to the test.  The state of morale
amongst the troops is a thing not to be underestimated. This is especially true
if reinforcements from Serendar do not reach us in time, because we will then be
on our own - and we will be outnumbered. Confidence is crucial to our chances
of success.”

“Will we be ready in time?”

 “Who knows? All I can tell you is that it takes more to make
an army than gathering men together, and we have little time to do anything
more.”

 “There will be many who will point out that the Harnor was
always the first line of defence in the past,” Sareth reminded him, “for there
is nowhere it can be forded. It is a formidable barrier in Mordrian’s way.”

 “It is. Enrick has ordered all the bridges except the
Twelve Arches to be destroyed, but what concerns me is that Mordrian may have
access to powers that we know nothing about. Powers that mean that the river is
no longer the defence that it should be.”

 “The demon?”

 “Yes, and also the black warriors. I am depending on Gorm
to give me sufficient warning of their approach and what he tells me will
largely determine how and where we meet the threat. Needless to say, there was
uproar amongst the barons when they heard that we are depending on information
supplied by a Turog. To say that it did not go down well, would be an
understatement, but we have little choice, and for all their bluster, they know
it.”

 “I hope nothing has happened to him,” Sareth said
anxiously.

 “I hope so, too. It is strange how after centuries of
fighting the Turog, the fate of Eskendria now lies in the hands of one of their
number.”

 Alas, they did not have long to wait. Three weeks of the
most frantic activity followed the war council, with the entire kingdom
galvanised into action. Orders and proclamations flew from the pens of the King’s
scribes, but rumour by far outran them. Word spread from mouth to mouth, and
town to town until the whole land was aflame with the news that the armies of
Adamant were on their way. Men began to stream into Addania and the baronial
capitals from every village and farm. Sturdy lads, more used to wielding a
pitchfork than a sword arrived to offer their services. Older, more experienced
men from every trade and profession, from carpenters to candle makers, rallied
to the call to arms. Stores of armour and weapons, kept under lock and key for
years, saw the light of day once more. The wheels of the grindstones flew,
sharpening weapons, grinding rust off every sword until it was bright and every
spear until it was sharp. Messengers arrived from the King of Serendar
promising support as soon as it could be arranged. Those who had settled across
the Harnor in the margins of the Great Forest, fled from their homes to safety
south of the river and every bridge, except one, in obedience to the King’s
orders, was demolished. In anticipation of the worst, every castle and fortress
in the land prepared for siege, knowing well that the neglect of over half a century
could not be made good in a day.