The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (69 page)

 He looked a little surprised by the words, but acknowledged
them with a slight inclination of the head.

 She repeated the ceremony with Eimer, who had unfortunately
chosen a helmet with a visor that showed a tendency to come down at
inappropriate moments. Shoving it back up, he almost upset matters by looking
at his sister with such roguish merriment in his eyes that he nearly overset
her gravity. As he grasped his shield and turned to join Enrick, he caught
sight of Iska in the crowd and gave her a smile that he had never given any
woman before.

 Lastly, Vesarion approached her. Sareth lifted a plain,
visorless helmet with long nose and cheek guards, and placing it on his bowed
head,  insisted on buckling the chin-strap with her own hands.

 Looking up intensely into his eyes, she said: “You must
promise me that in battle you will never remove this helmet.”

 He returned her look a little quizzically. “But why.…?”

 Anticipating his question, she cut in: “Just promise me.”

 He looked down at her, not entirely understanding, but
willing to oblige her. “I promise.”

 A little comforted, she lifted his shield, bearing the arms
of Westrin, now quartered with the royal crest in reference to their marriage,
and watched as he slid his arm into the grips.

 For a final brief moment their eyes met again, then with a
slight nod, he joined the King and Eimer. Together they mounted their horses and
accompanied by the cheers of the crowds, proceeded out of the city gates.

 At the very last moment, just before the bastion cut off
his view of her, Vesarion looked over his shoulder at the woman he loved, and
for some reason, a slight chill gripped his heart.

 When they had crossed the bridge, Sareth, accompanied by
Iska, hurriedly ascended the steps to the top of the bastion to watch the army
depart. The Ravenshold Brigands fell neatly into line behind the three horsemen
emerging from the city and as they rode past every division, the barons saluted
the King by dipping their standards. Then regiment by regiment, they, too, fell
into line behind him.

 The two watchers were joined at this moment by Bethro,
slightly puffing from ascending the steep steps.

 Iska looked at him in surprise. “I thought you had gone
with them!”

 “No, my dear Iska, I am no warrior and my recent
experiences have shown me that great exploits and battles are not for me. I am the
King’s Librarian and am proud to be such. The only adventures I will have from
now on, are the ones in the Kingdom inside my head, where I can be all I can
never be in this world.”

 “That sounds a little sad, Bethro.”

 He smiled, creating a double chin in the process. “No, I am
not sad. I have learned to accept myself for who I am. I love my books and my
study and the occasional glass of mead in convivial company, and I am content
to leave great deeds to those more fitted for them. Contentment is the greatest
reward that my travels have brought me, along with the friendship of five such wonderful
people.”

 Sareth could not resist teasing him. “I note you say
five
.”

“Indeed. I little thought I that I would ever call a Turog
my friend, but now it is so. These are strange days that we live in.” He gazed
out wistfully across the plain at the departing army.

 “
Chalcoria Ferrenore
, heir of Erren-dar,” he said
softly. He heaved a deep sigh, then brightening a little, descended the steps
to repair to his favourite tavern for a much-needed glass of something
fortifying.

 After he had gone, Sareth and Iska remained leaning on the
rough stone of the battlements. They stood for a very long time, the breeze
lifting their hair back from their faces, watching the slow process of an army
setting off for war. They watched until the head of the column was out of
sight. They watched until each baronial division had fallen into place and
marched away. They watched while all the carts and wagons bearing provisions,
trundled off behind them. By the time there was nothing left on the plain below
them but a cloud of drifting dust, the sun was setting in an orgy of colour.
Its orange light turned the grey stone of the battlements to a gentle peach and
gave colour to the two rather sombre faces still looking northwards.

 Finally, Iska, elbows sore from leaning on the stone, said;
“So, that’s it then.”

 “Yes.”

 “Nothing more we can do.”

 “No.”

 After a moment’s silence, Sareth said: “I don’t know about
you, but I’ve packed already.”

 Iska grinned impishly. “So have I - shall we go?”

 Sareth was in less of a hurry. “We should let them get far
enough ahead so that when we catch up with them, it will be too late for them
to do anything about it.”

 “An excellent idea,” Iska approved.

 “I thought you’d like it.”

 The vanguard of the Eskendrian army arrived at the clearing
in the Great Forest two days after crossing the Harnor. It was just as Gorm had
described it – an immense open area of over two leagues in diameter, densely
surrounded by the ancient ranks of trees. Vesarion, who had set out to
reconnoitre the area on horseback the moment they had arrived, thought it
strange that the trees did not thin and then gradually peter out, as might have
been expected. Instead, they stopped with almost shocking suddenness as if they
had encountered an invisible boundary which they dared not cross. The plain was
therefore open and bare of concealment. From a military point of view it could
not have been better, for it gave excellent room to manoeuvre, together with
another important advantage for an army facing a more numerous foe – the dense border
of trees made it difficult for it to be outflanked.

 Enrick, whose privilege it was to deploy the army in battle
formation, had accompanied his cousin, at last convinced that their unusual spy
had not led them astray. His change in attitude had begun two days previously,
when their forces had halted their march at the Bridge of the Twelve Arches and
he had accompanied Eimer and Vesarion onto the bridge to meet their informant.
Every expression, every line of his body proclaimed distrust, for the inherited
hatred of the Turog was deeply ingrained. Had he but known it, the Turog he had
come to meet was equally distrustful. He wisely placed no reliance on any
humans other that his five companions – and he still had reservations about
Bethro. In response to Vesarion’s call, the small Turog emerged cautiously from
the concealment of the trees and began to sidle towards the three riders on the
bridge, whilst keeping a wary eye on the host of men assembled on the far side
of the river. Murmurs of surprise began to rustle through the ranks like wind
through dry grasses as soon as the men saw him. Enrick’s brows came down over
his cold blue eyes in a frown, but he said nothing and following his companions’
example, dismounted. Together they walked towards the north end of the bridge
until they were only a few paces from Gorm, who had halted as if unwilling to
go any further. The King was silent, eyeing the Turog with a mixture of
suspicion and disdain.

 Vesarion and Eimer crossed to their old travelling
companion.

 “Well, old fellow?” Eimer greeted him in his usual jocular
fashion. “Punctual as usual, I see?”.

 But Gorm was uneasy in the presence of so many humans and
paid no heed to him. He merely fingered his treasure pouch possessively, as he
always did when unsettled. His yellow eyes had fastened on the person of the
King, and ever quick to read human expression, he easily interpreted the harsh
look being directed at him. However, it soon appeared that he was a little
over-awed by his company. He tugged urgently at Eimer’s sleeve and whispered urgently:
“How do I speak to king? Gorm has never met a king before.”

 Eimer, inwardly amused, replied with commendable gravity:
“You bow and call him ‘sire’.”

 Vesarion, ignoring this interchange, proceeded to business.

“Gorm,” he began reassuringly, “our king has guaranteed your
safety. Every man in his army has been given strict instructions that you are
not to be harmed. In return, we ask you to guide us to the clearing in the
forest towards which our enemies are heading.”

 Gorm, still a little overcome to be in the presence of a
sovereign, merely gulped and nodded.

 Enrick stepped closer and looking more than a little
uncomfortable to be addressing the spawn of the Destroyer, said: “I give you
safe conduct in return for your services as a guide. Are you prepared to fulfil
your part of this bargain, Turog?”

 Gorm stared at him transfixed, then belatedly recollecting
his instructions, executed so quick a bow that it looked like he was bobbing
for apples. “Yes…er...sire,” was all he managed to produce.

 Despite himself, the merest hint of a smile crept across
Enrick’s stern features and speaking in an aside to Vesarion, he said: “At
least he has some manners, if not exactly charm.”

 But Gorm’s eyes had once again strayed past him to the host
gathered on the far bank.

 “Many men,” he commented. “Many carts. Two, maybe three
days to clearing. Carts slow us down.”

 “They will come last, Gorm,” Vesarion explained. “The
cavalry and infantry will go on ahead. Do you know how far Mordrian is from the
clearing by now?”

 Gorm gave him his famous slit-eyed look indicating
exasperation. “No. Vesarion told Gorm to stay here. Can’t be in two places at
once. Not a magician, you know!”

 Eimer gave a choke of laughter and even Enrick’s lips were
seen to twitch at the sight of his dignified cousin being berated by the little
Turog.

 Now, with their goal finally reached by a series of forced
marches, the tired soldiers began to make camp at the edge of the trees. The
small humourist was dispatched to resume his duties as spy-in-chief, along with
two scouts foisted on him by Enrick - which he diligently tried to ditch.

 He was unsuccessful in this, however, and all three
returned just as dusk was falling as softly as gossamer amongst the still
trees. The carts had caught up with the main army during Gorm’s absence and a large
pavilion had been erected for the King. Gorm, deriving a certain perverse
pleasure from the fact that all conversation stopped when he passed, marched
sturdily through the bivouacking army until he reached the King’s quarters.

 “Want to see King,” he barked at the guard on duty outside
the tent. Seeing the man’s jaw drop, he added wickedly: “And hurry up!”

 What he had to tell them made it plain that they had not
arrived a moment too soon.

 “Army of Adamant and black soldiers camped in forest about
two leagues north of clearing. Will reach here tomorrow morning,” he announced,
with the type of confidence that makes doubt irrelevant.

 “Do they know we are here, Gorm?” Vesarion asked.

 “Not sure. Don’t think so. Saw no scouts. Very silly not to
have scouts,” he noted, unimpressed by Mordrian’s campaigning skills.

The King turned to the scouts who had accompanied him. “Do
you agree with this?”

 “Yes, sire,” replied the elder of the two men. “We think
they are as yet unaware of our presence.” Then reading Enrick’s mind, he
hastened to add: “But the chances of taking them by surprise in a night raid
are slim because…” the man hesitated and looked anxiously at his companion for
support.

 “Well?” prompted the King. “Because of what?”

 “Because the black warriors do not seem to sleep. We
watched them for some time from a hiding place that the Turog found amongst the
trees, and we saw the army of Adamant begin to make camp, just as we have. But
when the order to halt came, the black warriors just stopped where they were.
They did not lie down, or prepare a meal, they….they just stood there in their
ranks, not moving or speaking. Whatever they are, sire, they are certainly not
human.”

 The King’s eyes met Vesarion’s. “It appears you have not
misled me.”

 “Did you really believe I had?”

 Enrick did not reply, but instead turned to his younger
brother.

 “Eimer, see that you post sentries far enough in advance
that we will get plenty of notice should they try to attack us during the hours
of darkness.”

 Eimer bowed in acknowledgement and left with Gorm in tow.
When everyone had gone except Vesarion, the King relaxed his commanding posture
and sank wearily into a chair, as if his crown weighed heavily upon him.

“We will meet them in battle tomorrow, Vesarion, and it is
then that the fate of Eskendria will be decided. We have kept nothing in
reserve and have gambled all on one throw of the dice. If Mordrian gets past
us, nothing will save Addania, not even its great walls, for it is not
provisioned for siege.” He looked up at his grim-faced cousin standing before
him. “It makes our past squabbles seem a trifle foolish now, does it not?”

 “It does,”  Vesarion admitted. “Perhaps, if we survive
this, we will be wiser in future. May I suggest that in our deployment
tomorrow, we scatter the seasoned troops amongst the new recruits to stiffen
them. These young lads have never even seen a battle and must be made to hold
fast.”

 “My dear cousin,” replied Enrick lightly, “none of us, not
even Veldor, has seen a battle on this scale. We are all likely to be tested to
our limits. However, if it were not for the information you brought back with
you, we would be sitting smugly in our homes in Eskendria without the least
idea of what is about to descend on us. You, at least, have given us a chance.
The time for regret is now past. We have done all we can in the short space of
time available to us and can only hope that courage and a just cause will see
us through.”

 Vesarion stared strangely at him for a moment, as if seeing
him for the first time. “I never thought to hear myself saying this,” he said
slowly. “But I am glad you are our king, Enrick. Your father, kind man that he
was, would not have handled things so well. It will be my honour to go into battle
at your side tomorrow.”

 Enrick’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Let’s just hope
we can both celebrate our new-found accord when next the sun sets. Now, get
some sleep, Vesarion, for I fear you will need it.”

 But as Vesarion turned to leave the pavilion, he
encountered Seldro hurriedly coming in. The Captain glanced a little warily at the
King, for he had not been officially pardoned, although Enrick seemed inclined
to let the matter go by default.

 “What is it, Captain?” Vesarion asked, as clearly the
Ravensholder was bursting with news.

 “A man has approached one of the sentries on the perimeter
and appears to be asking for you, my lord.”

 “Appears?”

 “He does not speak our language. From what I can make out,
it seems to be the Old Language he is speaking. The only word I recognised for
certain was your name.”

 Suddenly Vesarion had a premonition as to who it might be.
“With your permission, sire, I think this man should be brought to us
immediately.

 Vesarion’s instincts had not led him astray, for when
Seldro returned, he was accompanied by a slender young man, whose long, dark
hair lay on the fur cape around his shoulders.

 “Demeron!” cried Vesarion and strode forward to grip him
warmly by the hand. “How did you find us?”

 Demeron smiled. “Well met, Lord of Westrin. You perhaps
forget that you are talking to the best tracker of the Perith-arn – or in other
words, we followed Mordrian’s army. We knew he would lead us to you eventually.
Have no fear, he had no idea we were there. His army makes its way through the
forest with all the subtlety of an autumn gale.”

 Vesarion turned to the King, who was looking at Demeron in
fascination. “Sire, may I present to you Demeron of the Perith-arn, who kindly
gave us aid on our return journey.”

 Demeron did not bow to the King, as it was not his custom,
but addressed him respectfully. “King of Eskendria, our patriarch, the Khaldor,
sends greetings on behalf of the three tribes of the Perith-arn. We are an
isolated people, few in number, surviving by secrecy in the wastes of the
Morass of Engorin, but we are a free people who acknowledge no man our
over-lord, least of all the Prince of Adamant. Until Vesarion of Westrin
arrived on our shores, we were in ignorance of the fact that a fragment of the Golden
Kingdom lives on in Eskendria. We thus claim a common ancestry with you, and
consequently have come to offer to you the services of six hundred of our best
bowmen in your fight against those who would destroy the last of the Children
of Light. The Prince of the Hidden Kingdom has made himself our enemy ever
since he devoted himself to the service of the Dark One - whom you call the
Destroyer. Greed and the desire for domination control him and he must not
prevail. I am therefore authorised by the Khaldor to place the services of our
longbows at your disposal.”

 The speech had been conducted entirely in the Old Language,
but Enrick had not been so remiss in his application to its study as his
younger brother and followed it with ease.

 “Welcome, Demeron of the Perith-arn,” he replied
graciously. “Your aid is most timely, for although help is on its way from our
allies in Serendar, it will not arrive in time for the battle that is sure to
take place tomorrow. The Lord of Westrin tells me that your people are skilled
with the bow.”

 “They are, sire. Moreover, we use only the longbow, which
has greater power and distance than the crossbow. I assure you, we will thin
the ranks of our enemies tomorrow, before the battle lines even meet.”

 He said this with such relish that Enrick smiled. “I can
see, Demeron, that you are a man after my own heart. Where are your men at the
moment?”

 “They are concealed in the forest, as we did not wish our
presence to be misconstrued.”

 “Then bring them to join us, Demeron, and reassure them
that they could not be more welcome.”

 By the time Vesarion had overseen the arrival of the
Perith-arn and attended to a myriad of other matters, it was pitch dark when he
wended his way to his own tent. The cool, velvety night was softly punctuated
by the orange glow of  many small camp fires. Some of the men were already
asleep, rolled up in their blankets; some were sitting by the fires putting the
final edge to their blades, and others talked quietly together. They all knew
what the morning would bring and each man dealt with it in his own way.
Occasionally, a soldier would respectfully approach him and ask to see the
famous sword that legend decreed would protect them – and Vesarion never
refused.

 Upon entering his tent, he reflected that this time, compared
with his previous foray into the Forsaken Lands, he travelled in luxury. Not
only did he have a roof over his head – albeit a canvas one – he had a small
folding chair, a table with a lighted candle upon it and a padded bedroll to
intervene between his bones and the unforgiving ground. He sat down at the
table and began, rather desultorily, looking through some papers left for his
attention. But his mind would not concentrate. It kept wandering in the
direction of Addania, wondering what Sareth was doing, what she was thinking.
He sensed of late that she was hiding something that troubled her, and guessed
it was what troubled them all – the impending battle. He wondered if he should
write her a letter, but realised that it was probably futile. The night before
he had left Addania, he had told her all that was in his heart without reserve,
knowing that this time there must be no regrets. Indeed, his only cause of
self-reproach was that due to his own foolishness, their time together had been
so short. Pushing the thought aside, he tried to drag his mind back to his
papers and was succeeding tolerably well, when the flap of his tent was drawn
back and he saw out of the tail of his eye, a young subaltern enter. Not best
pleased at being interrupted, Vesarion did not take his attention from what he
was reading, but as the young soldier did not speak, he finally said tetchily:
“Well? What is it?”