The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (68 page)

 Vesarion worked harder than them all. Travelling back and
forth to Westrin to supervise the raising of recruits and putting the
Ravenshold Brigands through their paces, in recognition that the elite cavalry
would be crucial in any fight.

 Eimer and Bethro proved an unlikely but effective
combination in gathering provisions for the army’s march into the Forsaken
Lands – if such was to be its fate. But all this desperate activity still
depended on the loyalty and stealth of one small Turog.

 Then abruptly one day, with the autumn rain pouring out of
the heavens, Seldro’s reliable young man presented himself, dripping water, at
the door of Sareth’s apartments. He spoke only three words to Vesarion: “It has
appeared.”

 Vesarion, accompanied by Eimer, left immediately and they
rode through the rainy night, stopping only to change horses at quiet country
inns, banging on doors in the small hours to arouse the landlords. By early morning
the following day, they were within sight of their goal. The Bridge of the
Twelve Arches was the biggest and most solid structure to cross the mighty
river Harnor. The river had been spanned by some sort of structure at this point
since the days of the Old Kingdom, but the present bridge was relatively
recent, its predecessor having been destroyed in a futile attempt to keep out
the invading Turog army in the days of Erren-dar. Now, once more, it was the
only means of entering the Kingdom from the north and beyond it lay land that
had once been part of the Golden Kingdom and had been abandoned so long it had
earned the name ‘forsaken’.

 However, on a pleasant autumn morning, with the silvery dew
beading the spider’s webs, and the trees, those timekeepers of the seasons,
just beginning to be tinged with gold, the world seemed strangely at peace. The
bridge pointed like a grey finger northwards towards the unknown, its sturdy
piers sunk in the dark waters. As their horses clattered over its cobbled
surface, the two riders could hear the swish of the powerful current, tugging
relentlessly at these obstructions.

They soon found that Seldro’s young man had not lied. There,
on one of the pillars at the northern end, sat a round, white stone.

 “Maybe you should wait here,” Vesarion suggested to Eimer.

 “If it’s all the same, I’d like to come. I want to make
sure the little fellow is all right.”

 “Very well. I think we should head for that dense patch of
trees. Knowing Gorm, that’s where he’ll be.”

 But all was quiet in the copse, except for the alarm-call
of a blackbird a little perturbed by their presence. The air was as still as if
it was anticipating something, and the trees were so silent that each leaf that
parted company from its branch could be heard gliding to the ground. Then a
familiarly gruff voice behind them said: “Vesarion and Eimer looking for
something?”

 Eimer swung round, leaping with impressive athleticism from
the saddle. “Gorm! Old Fellow! How are you?”

 Vesarion swung his leg over the pommel and slid to the
ground in more sedate fashion. The yellow eyes fixed on him. “Sareth well?
Sareth happy?”

 Vesarion smiled with something that might almost have been
affection. “Yes, Gorm, Sareth is well, and missing you, I think.”

 The Turog grinned delightedly. “Much to tell you,” he said,
becoming business-like. “Two armies travel through Forsaken Lands towards
Eskendria. Many wagons and carts, so they travel slowly. Mordrian leads the army
of men, but black soldiers march separate from the men.”

 “Have you discovered what they are, Gorm?” Eimer asked
curiously.

 “No. Don’t know. They never take off masks, even at night.
Gorm is a very good spy. Gets very close and no one sees him, but never sees
their faces.”

 “Where are they heading, Gorm?” Vesarion asked.

 “You know of big, big open place in Great Forest?”

 Vesarion shook his head. “No. None of us knows much about
the Forsaken Lands.”

 “Well, there is big open space, many leagues wide, in Great
Forest to east of here – maybe two day’s march from Harnor. That is where they
are heading.” He then added musingly: “Good place for a battle. Level land.
Lots of room.”

 “You make it sound more like a small plain than a
clearing,” Eimer suggested.

 “Yes, like a plain surrounded by trees.”

 “Are you sure of where they are heading, Gorm?” Vesarion
asked.

 Their spy nodded vigorously. “Crept close to Mordrian’s
tent one night. Heard him talk about route. Very nasty man,” he noted
critically. “Don’t like Mordrian.”

 At this, Eimer threw back his head and laughed. “I’ve
missed you, do you know that?”

 Gorm merely grinned his toad-like grin.

 But Vesarion alone did not smile, for the time had come to
ask the question he dreaded asking. “How far away are they from this open
area?”

 “Seven, maybe eight, days.”

 The two men looked at one another. “Is it enough time?”
Eimer asked.

 “It will be tight, but I think we just might be able to get
to this open area ahead of them.”

 “I doubt the troops from Serendar will be here in time,”
Eimer sighed. “It seems that, once again, we are on our own.”

 Gorm, not quite following, recalled their attention with
all his usual directness. “What now?”

 “Could you lead us to this open area from here?” Vesarion
asked.

 “Yes,” was the simple reply. “Gorm knows the way.”

 “Then, once more, you must be our guide. You must lead the
Eskendrian army to this open plain and it is there that we will confront
Mordrian. Eimer and I must return to Addania to give this news to the King and
prepare the army to move out. In the meantime, wait here until our army arrives
at this bridge, by then I will have gained safe conduct for you from our King.”

 Eimer rolled his eyes. “Good luck with that.”

 But Vesarion rounded on him. “Do I have to explain it to
you as well? We must trust Gorm to guide us otherwise it is possible that we will
miss Mordrian and end up in total disarray. This bridge cannot be destroyed
with the Eskendrian army on the northward side of it and Mordrian would then
have the perfect opportunity to outflank us.”

 For once there was not even the hint of a smile on Eimer’s
face and he said grimly: “We take a terrible risk, Vesarion.”

 “I know. Every decision we make from now on will be a risk,
for there are never any certainties in war.”

  The sun, rising over the city of Addania on a clear autumn
morning, shed its light on an impressive scene. There, spread out across the
plain that lay before the city, was the entire Eskendrian army drawn up,
division by division, in marching formation. Each division was arranged in neat
ranks, every man fully armed and accoutred. At the head of the contingents were
their respective barons, mounted on their finest steeds, and escorted by squires
bearing banners carrying the symbol of their barony. Iska, looking out at the
stirring sight from the top of the massive bastion beside the gate, could
distinguish the burly figure of Lord Veldor, rendered even more burly by an
impressive suit of plate armour. His squire, looking diminutive in comparison,
carried a tall standard bearing his master’s blood-red flag emblazoned with a black
boar. At the head of the next division, my lord of Gorlind’s long,
swallow-tailed banner snaked out in the light breeze, and so it went on, with
banners of every colour and device imaginable. The breeze caught them all,
fluttering them gaily, rendering the plain an inspiring sight. The Ravenshold
Brigands were drawn up in two neat lines on the far side of the bridge, their
blue cloaks bright in the diamond-clear air. Behind them, a regiment of archers,
comparatively drab in dark green, bore their deadly crossbows on their
shoulders with the steely-eyed look of men who would not hesitate to use them.

 Iska, looking down at the thousands of assembled men, thought
they looked so magnificent that they seemed invincible, and had to remind
herself that the army they marched to meet was even more formidable,
outnumbering them by almost two to one. The invading forces also brought
amongst their company more than just men, for they harboured beings that might
not even be human, the extent of whose powers were unknown.

 Crossing to the inner side of the bastion, she looked down
into the narrow city street that wound its way up the hill to the palace on its
crown. The mighty gates of the city just below her were standing open, winched
back on their chains, and beside them waited Sareth, escorted by a bevy of
squires in royal livery. She was waiting to fulfil her role in the ancient
ceremony of leave-taking. A ceremony that had not been enacted in over a
century – for it took place only when the King left the city to lead his army
to war.  But now, briefly, before the black clouds of conflict descended,
Eskendria was to celebrate the glory of its finest young men marching off to
defend their country. In what state they returned, if they ever did, fate alone
would decide.

 Running her eye over the colourful crowds chattering
excitedly, that lined both sides of the cobbled street, she found herself
wishing bitterly that her brother had never been born. As she watched children
running in and out between the solemn guards marking the route, laughing and
chasing each other, and mothers calling unavailingly to them, holding petals in
their hands ready to cast at the feet of the King, she experienced an emotion
she had never known before. For the first time, Iska knew a deep, intense anger
at the thought that all these people might suffer destruction and death in the
name of her brother’s greed, and lust for power. The anger welled up in her,
flushing her cheeks, surprising her with its intensity. Almost glad to be
distracted by a buzz of excitement coming from further up the street, she
leaned out further over the wall, taking care not to spoil her borrowed dress,
trying to see what was happening. Guessing that the King must be approaching, she
hurriedly made her way down to Sareth.

 “I couldn’t see anything, but I think they are coming,” she
whispered, but Sareth, looking a little pale, merely nodded in reply.

 At the top of the hill, within the throne room and well
away from the curious crowds, three men were preparing for the ceremony. Two
were dressed in cloaks of royal red over their chainmail but the third,
although he had royal blood in his veins and was entitled to wear the red
cloak, had elected instead to wear the deep, sapphire blue of his beloved
Westrin. Vesarion’s cloak was emblazoned in sliver thread on the right shoulder
with the symbol of his barony – a sword inside a circle of chalice flowers.
Over his chainmail hauberk he wore the scabbard bearing the sword of Erren-dar.
Deliberately, he folded the left side of his cloak back over his shoulder, so that
the sword could be seen by the awaiting crowds. As he drew on his gauntlets, he
glanced across at Eimer, now wearing the plain gold band of a Prince’s coronet,
his new-found dignity a little belied by the irrepressible twinkle in his eyes.

 When the King was ready, the ancient crown of Eskendria,
not worn since his coronation, was brought from the treasury and he sat briefly
on the throne for it to be placed on his fair hair. When he arose, the sun,
slanting in through the open doors, flashed on the large ruby in the front of
the crown. He bore an expression in his eyes that Vesarion had never seen there
before – the look of a man prepared to give all he has in a desperate cause.

Approaching his two escorts, he enquired: “Are you ready?”

 Both bowed respectfully. “Yes, sire,” they replied together,
and took up their positions on either side of him, but one respectful pace
behind.

 “It begins here,” said Enrick so softly that only they
could hear. “Only fate can determine where it ends.”

 With the words, he stepped out into the sunshine.
Immediately the trumpeters, keeping an eagle eye for his emergence, proclaimed
his presence to the awaiting townspeople. A clear fanfare rang out over the mighty
walls of the city and over the narrow, twisting streets. Faintly, it was carried
by the breeze to the motionless army on the plain below.

With their steps synchronised with military precision, the
three men began to descend the cobbled streets, their cloaks fanning out behind
them, barely touching the ground. A tremendous cheer broke from the crowd
outside the palace gates and swept like a wave right down the steep street to
Sareth and Iska waiting at the gate. Women threw the flowers they had gathered
in the path of the King and many raised voices called out the two words of the
Old Language that everyone knew –
chalcoria ferrenore
– may the chalice
flower protect you. The sight of the sword by Vesarion’s side also created a
stir, and the occasional voice cried out over the cheers: “The chalice flower
guard you, heir of Erren-dar.” And to Enrick’s  chagrin, he realised that even
though Vesarion wore no crown,  he drew every eye.

 When they rounded the last bend before the city gates,
Vesarion’s eyes fell on the one face he had been searching for. Sareth was
dressed in a gown of deep-blue velvet that fell in rich folds to the ground.
Around her slender waist was a golden sash, and on her hair she wore the
delicate diadem of a royal princess. Never had she looked so regal, and he
found his heart swelling with pride that she was his. She smiled at him with
such radiance that it hid from him the fear that was gripping her heart.

 The King halted before her and the crowd quietened to hear
his words.

 Carefully, he removed the golden crown from his head and
placed it in her hands.

 “To you I give the crown of Eskendria for safekeeping against
my return. Guard it well.”

 Gracefully, she curtsied to him and setting the crown on a
cushion held by a squire, she lifted a battle helmet, ringed with a replica of
the crown in steel and placed it on his head. She then gave him a kite-shaped
shield painted with the royal crest. As she did so, she whispered: “Defeat our
enemies, Enrick, and come home safely once more.”