The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (72 page)

 A murmur of shock came from the onlookers and Vesarion’s
eyes widened in dismay, for he knew that by speaking its name, Mordrian had
just invoked its demonic powers, succeeding with the evil sword, where he had
failed with the sword of Erren-dar.

 This time, when the assault came and the two swords sliced
together once more, there was a difference. The moment the black blade made
contact with his, Vesarion felt a terrible force dart from it, shooting up the
shining metal of his own sword and into his arm. It pierced every muscle and
sinew with an intense jolt of pain that made him cry out and disengage.  His
reaction gave Mordrian the chance he had been looking for. With the speed of a
striking snake, his blade shot forward in a powerful lunge and drove deep into
Vesarion’s shoulder. The sword passed through his chainmail, the finest that
the most skilled armourers in Eskendria could produce, as if it was made of nothing
more substantial than paper. With a malevolent roar of triumph, Mordrian jerked
his blade free. Vesarion staggered back and sank on one knee, clutching his
left shoulder. The pain of the wound inflicted by the black blade was intense
and inside his mail, he felt the slick, warm flow of blood as it began to pour
down his chest and side. Amber eyes glowing fiercely in exultation, Mordrian
brought his blade sweeping downwards, intending to finish his opponent, but to
his astonishment, the blow was struck aside and Vesarion, through sheer force
of will, struggled to his feet again.

 Sareth by this stage could barely stand, her terror almost
overcoming her, but in some corner of her heart she was intensely proud of him,
of his courage and determination, and desperately she did the only thing she
could –  as in the cave of Sirindria Eleth, with all her heart, she began to
plead for him.

 By now, Vesarion was no longer attacking. He was conducting
a perilous defence with strength that visibly was beginning to fail. Yet all
the time, while he was desperately parrying blow after blow, something was
nagging at his mind and at last, in a moment of revelation, he realised what it
was. Mordrian had said that the black sword bore the name of its creator. What
if the same were true of the sword of Erren-dar? He remembered Iska telling him
about the old manuscript she had found that described how, at the time of its
making, when it was still glowing from the furnace, the Master of the Order of
the Flower had blessed it in a language long forgotten. And when the sword had
cooled, and the steel hardened, the chalice flowers had appeared by enchantment
on the blade. But what was the Master’s name? As he recklessly fought on,
striking aside each blow, sometimes within an inch of defeat, he ransacked his
memory. He recalled Bethro saying that the old sage, Relisar, had been
convinced that the White Monastery was not occupied by the descendants of the
original Brotherhood of the Flower, but was instead host to those very same brothers
who had seen the fall of the Old Kingdom, shielded against the passage of time.
Was it possible that their master was the very same one who had blessed the
sword?  But what was his name? Surely Bethro or Triana must have mentioned it?

 Finally, in his weakened state, his last defensive parry
was not quite strong enough and Mordrian succeeded in forcing his blade to the
ground. Even then, when his life hung by a thread, Vesarion refused to give in,
for never had he more reason to live. Resorting to the only option left to him,
he threw an unexpected punch with his left hand that caught his adversary under
the chin and snapped his head back, forcing him to give ground.

 Alas, it was only a momentary respite. The swords crossed
again and the blades slid down one another until the hilts locked. Vesarion was
no longer up to this contest of strength – as Mordrian well knew. The sweat was
pouring off him and the loss of blood was taking its inevitable toll, making
him a little light-headed. He was thrown violently backwards and stumbled and
fell. In an instant Mordrian was upon him, determined to put an end to his
hated opponent once and for all, but in that very moment the name of the Master
of the Order flashed into Vesarion’s head.

 Holding out the sword before him, in a loud voice he cried:
“
Galendar! I command you to serve me, Galendar!”

 Instantly, a beautiful blue flame began to flicker along
the edges of the blade for the briefest of moments before vanishing. Mordrian
fixed his eyes upon it, as if he could not believe what he had just seen. The
sight put new strength into Vesarion and he grabbed the opportunity to roll
clear and regained his feet. This time, when the swords crossed again, there
was a sudden blue flash and the onlookers collectively gasped - for the black
sword was seen to come away damaged. Where the blades had met, there, in the
inky-black steel, was a deep, incisive notch.

Mordrian stared at it, stunned, and in that instant, when
his adversary’s attention was distracted, Vesarion seized his chance. With the
very last of his strength, he gripped his hilt with both hands and plunged the
point of his sword deep beneath the Prince’s ribs.

 The amber eyes looked into his in astonishment for a
moment, then slowly the light went out of them and the Prince of Adamant fell without
a sound to the trampled grass.

 A shocked silence encompassed both watching armies.
Vesarion stood swaying on his feet, looking down at the body of his conquered
foe, before he, too, sank to his knees on the grass.

 Sareth twisted free of her brother’s grasp and diving
forwards, caught him in her arms as he fell, knowing that all her greatest
fears had been brought to pass. She knelt on the grass, cradling him in her
arms, looking down at his face, now deathly pale. The sword of Erren-dar lay in
his hand and from his armour, great drops of ruby blood fell to the ground.
Every detail was as exactly as she had foreseen.

 “Vesarion!” she called urgently.

 His eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at her as if a
little puzzled as to how she came to be there.

 “I didn’t fail,” he said faintly.

 “No, you didn’t – you never have,” she replied brokenly.

 “It seems I keep my promise after all.”

 “Your promise?”

 “I swore I would love you to my very last breath,” he
whispered.

 And with the words, his eyes closed and his head fell back.

 Sareth let out a wail of despair that would have rent
asunder the stoniest heart.

 “
No! Vesarion! NO!”

Eimer and Iska stood beside her, unable to offer comfort.
Tears were pouring down Iska’s face and Eimer was ashen with grief.

 “Help me!” begged Sareth in utter desperation. “His
heartbeat is so faint! He is barely breathing!
Someone, help me!”

 But something else was happening. Mordrian’s corpse, lying
a short distance away, began to twitch. Every eye swung from Sareth to fasten
upon it. How could he have possibly survived such a brutal blow? Then suddenly
his eyes flew open, but no longer were they amber, like Iska’s. The open lids
revealed only black, bottomless voids, like the eyes of the  black warriors. They
were no longer human but were instead two deep wells of unending darkness.

 A gasp went up from the assembled onlookers and the more
timorous amongst them began to edge away.

 “What is this devilry?” demanded the King in a shaken
voice.

But no one replied, for Mordrian’s body had begun to arch
upwards. Convulsively twisting and writhing, it began to rise as if tormented.
Just when it seemed that his spine must break under the strain, a thin stream
of black vapour began to pour from his open mouth. Jet black smoke began to
well up in a dense and ever-growing cloud from between his lips, gathering and
accumulating above him into a shapeless body of darkness.

 Only Iska seemed to know what was happening. “The demon of
darkness had possessed him!” cried she in a terrified voice. “Now that he is
dead, it is leaving him!”

 Upwards rose the black cloud, growing and expanding,
rearing up like a wave. It was more than black, it was more than the darkness
of the deepest night without moon or stars. It was the concentrated absence of
light that is the source of evil.

 As high as the tallest tree it grew and still it continued
to rise until it towered over the two armies. Men began to scatter across the
plain, crying out, desperately trying to escape from it. Then in the black depths,
two burning red eyes, like embers plucked from a furnace began to glow with
malevolence. As the eyes began to search across the battlefield, men in their
hundreds were brought to their knees, cut down by a terrible fear as easily as
corn falls before a reaper’s scythe. Strong men, who would willingly have faced
any enemy, found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer power of its will. Only
the black warriors were immune, standing frozen, awaiting its command.

 At last, its gaze turned towards Sareth, still kneeling on
the grass with the motionless figure of Vesarion in her arms.

 And in a voice so powerful that it reverberated across the
plain like thunder, it roared: “Fools! You think you can defeat me? Pitiful
creatures whose span is so short, know this - all those who oppose me shall
die. This vile remnant of the Old Kingdom, this festering wound,  shall be
destroyed for ever, and my master’s rule will be complete. Darkness will fall
upon this land and there will be no dawn for the Children of Light. Their
accursed race shall be annihilated for ever.” Its eyes descended to Vesarion.
“And this, the last of a rebellious line, this heir of Erren-dar, shall trouble
my master no more, for I shall crush him and all those who stand with him.”

 Every man present quailed with horror at the words,
covering their ears unavailingly to cut our that terrible voice.

 Working itself up into a fearsome rage, the black cloud
continued to tower ever higher, curling over a little at its crest like an
immense wave about to break. Still those burning eyes continued to blaze
downwards with utter malice upon the two figures before it, rendering them tiny
and fragile in comparison with its magnitude. Around the edges of the cloud
began to play jagged darts of red lightning, and Sareth, tightly holding
Vesarion, knew that the whole kingdom, and every soul within it, lay defenceless
before such a creature. She buried her head against Vesarion’s neck and waited
helplessly for the blow to fall.

 But she had not taken into account two things – the love of
her brother and one small, but devoted Turog.

 Eimer, seeing the demon was bent on destroying the two
defenceless people before it, did the bravest thing of his life. Exerting every
grain of will-power he possessed, he broke free of the crippling fear that held
them all in thrall and struggling to his feet, placed himself between his kneeling
sister and the demon, holding up his shield to protect her. He knew that
against such power it was likely to be a futile gesture, but he did not flinch
– and he was not alone.

 In an instant, the little Turog was at his side, his round
shield with its heavy central boss, held protectively over Sareth. However, his
presence unfortunately seemed to enrage the demon even more.

 “Traitor!” it shrieked when it saw him. “You betray your
master!”

 But Gorm stood firm, his sturdy legs planted apart, his short
sword levelled aggressively.

 “Gorm has no master,” he growled. “Gorm is free.”

 Incensed by his temerity, little flashes of red light began
to pulse within the cloud, then out of the depths of the darkness, the demon
launched a screeching spear of red lightning at him. It screamed through the
air, faster than the human eye could follow and struck Gorm right in the centre
of his shield. The shield burst apart, shattered into a thousand pieces and its
owner was picked up bodily and hurled across the plain. He fell with a sickening
thud on the grass and his small form lay still. The demon did not waste another
glance on him, but returned its attention to Eimer, still defiantly guarding
his dying friend.

 Up it rose, its black emptiness expanding until it seemed
to fill the dull sky. Its red eyes blazed down on the group of three, with
concentrated hatred. Ominously, in its depths, the little forks of red
lightning began to pulse once more.

 Iska, watching in terror, knowing that her friends had but
moments to live, began to experience an odd feeling. She began to feel
strangely light, as if she were less solid than she should be. The sensation
only increased as her fear began to turn to anger. The three people she most
cared for in all the world, who had befriended her and stood by her through all
her trials, were about to have their lives snuffed out as easily as she would
extinguish a candle. When that happened, evil would indeed have triumphed - and
the thought enraged her. This was not how it was meant to be. In the Chronicles
of the Old Kingdom, evil was not stronger than love. It did not prevail over
goodness. She saw Eimer’s arm tense, as he braced himself for the final attack,
and she knew with utter certainty that the shield would not save him. His courage
would be swept aside as a thing of little value, and that also was not as it
should be. And as her emotions changed and her anger grew,  the odd sensation
increased. She began to experience an increasing feeling of lightness, as if
her feet had left the ground and she was floating. When she looked down, she
discovered, with a stab of fear, that her feet did indeed appear to have left
the ground. The grass was now a hand’s breadth below her. She panicked and
began to fight the sensation, but just as she felt herself begin to sink
downwards, she heard the Keeper’s kindly voice inside her head.

 “Trust your instincts, Iska. Do not be daunted by what you
see before you. Trust yourself, and do not hold back.”

 Instantly, a whole medley of voices began to clamour in her
mind.