The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (8 page)

 However, as he watched, an empty hay cart trundled into the
stable yard and drew to a sedate halt. The carter jumped down and with the help
of a stable lad, began to unhitch the wagon and back it into a shed. The boy
looked at the enormous carthorse, from its long mane hanging sleepily over its
eyes, to its huge feathered fetlocks, and decided, with a touch of despair,
that it would have to do. It had no saddle but its long driving reins were
still hanging down on either side of it.

 He crept forward, keeping a watchful eye in the direction
of the shed. A few people crossed the yard but no one paid any heed to him.
When he got up close to the horse, he was somewhat daunted by the sheer size of
it. However, it docilely allowed itself to be lead to a mounting block. The lad
stood on the block and gently stroked its neck.

 “Your trouble, my friend, is that you are all pulling-power
and no speed. If only you had been a long-legged thoroughbred.” The horse put
its ears forward intelligently and gave an apologetic snort. “Never mind,”
murmured the boy in its ear. “Needs must.”

 A quick scramble onto its back and a couple of insistent
digs in its flanks with his heels and the ill-assorted pair headed at a lumbersome
trot out of the gateway.  One quick turn into a side street and they were out
of sight of the stable yard, and one of them at least, let out a pent-up breath
of relief.

 However, it was a little premature, for the boy soon
discovered that his mount, although formidable-looking, was in fact totally
indolent. Its favourite pace was a dead stop, occasionally interspersed with a
gentle amble. Not exactly, he reflected with a  touch of  black humour, the
ideal transport for someone wanting to make a  quick escape. The pair clopped
down the street, skidding a little on the worn cobbles, until they reached the
last corner before the straight section that descended to the city gate.

 Afraid to dismount in case he couldn’t get up again, the
boy eased his mount forward until they were both peering round the corner.

 To his dismay, it was evident that the guards were turning
away anyone trying to leave the city. As he watched, he saw several arguments
take place as busy merchants protested at having their trade disrupted, but
most were resigned, and with a shrug of the shoulders, went in search of the
nearest tavern to while away the time until normality resumed.

 Luck, however, was not entirely against him. The gates had
not been shut, as people were still being allowed into the city. As he looked
at the trickle of traffic coming through the gate from the surrounding countryside,
into the boy’s mind sprang a plan so bold the very thought of it made his heart
turn over with a thump.

 He leaned forward and with a hand that shook slightly, patted
the neck of his enormous steed.

 “Never did I think that choosing you could actually be to
my advantage,” he whispered. “Now, back up the hill a bit, there’s a good
fellow.”

 With one half of the partnership completely relaxed and the
other with nerves tightly strung, the pair retreated up the hill a little.

 “Now,” said the rider decisively, “you are going to have to
produce your best speed.”

 But the horse had other ideas. In response to some vigorous
kicking, it reluctantly heaved itself into a gentle walk. In desperation, the
boy unwound the long driving reins that he had gathered up and whacked the
animal sharply on the rump with the tail of them. Startled out of its usual
placidity, the horse managed to produce something just short of a slow canter.
But the gradient started to achieve what coercion could not. Like a stone
rolling down a mountainside, once the large animal had started down the steep,
slippery slope it began to take on a momentum of its own. It began to move
faster and faster, slithering on the cobbles, gathering speed, until stopping
became an impossibility.

 Down the street they careered, picking up speed with every
stride, the horse more astonished than the rider. Startled townsfolk flung themselves
out of the way as something resembling an equine battering ram hurtled past
them, steel-shod hooves thundering on the cobbles. They skidded precariously
into the last stretch before the gate. The guards, hearing the commotion, turned
just in time to see their fate bearing down upon them. At breakneck speed the
dray-horse came flying, the boy clinging like a limpet to its back.

 Two of the guards, with more presence of mind than their comrades
but considerably less common sense, leaped into the path, spears at the ready.

 Seeing their foolhardiness, the boy bawled at the top of
his voice: “Out of the way! Out of the way, you idiots!”

 But it was too late, the force approaching them had already
reached maximum velocity and now would stop for nothing short of a brick wall.
It crashed through them, knocking them to either side like dolls. It rocketed
through the gate and out onto the bridge, brushing aside like flies any others
who tried to intervene.

 Bruised and dishevelled, the guards picked themselves up
just in time to see the horse hammering up the white road to Sorne in a cloud
of dust.

 It fell to Eimer to have the pleasure of breaking this news
to Vesarion.

 “I know you gave the guards orders not to let anyone leave,
Vesarion, but really it wasn’t their fault. They were just simply ridden down.
They tried to stop him – but have you ever tried to stop a dray-horse going at
full gallop? It just thundered down the last stretch of street and out onto the
bridge. Any of the guards who tried to stop it were simply mown down. One has a
dislocated shoulder, another broke his wrist and…..” amusement suspended his
voice for a moment. “…..and apparently the other was knocked clean off the bridge
into the river.” He shook his head at the unfairness of fate. “I’d have given
anything to have seen it.”

 “No doubt,” was the dry response. “Which road did he take?
Or were they too knocked about to notice?”

 Disregarding the sarcasm, Eimer replied: “He took the
north-east road to Sorne. But, of course, he could leave the road at any time.”

 “I am aware of that, but a least he is not going to achieve
any great speed on that animal. It also renders him highly noticeable. I’ll
have a brief word with your father and then I must be after him.”

 “Yours truly is coming too,” announced the irrepressible
prince.

 “”Why?”

  “
Why?
What a stupid question! For the fun of it,
what else?”

 “So you consider the theft of the sword fun, do you?”

 “No, of course not. I’m just fascinated to find out whether
the boy has the sword or not. The guards said he was not carrying anything.
What could he have done with it?”

 “We’ll soon find out. Meet me outside the Ivy Tower in a
few minutes. Bring Seldro and no more than half a dozen of the Brigands. If we
have to go as far as Sorne, I don’t want my lord Pevorion mistaking it for an
invasion.”

 Sareth was sitting alone in her apartments, supposedly
reading, but in actual fact staring out the window at the spring sunshine
bathing the garden, wondering for the hundredth time if what she was doing was
right. She reflected, yet again, that seldom had there been a betrothal so
coolly and logically made. Vesarion’s reasons were all too obvious – the line
of Westrin must not be allowed to die out and her lineage suited his notions of
what was due to his dignity. As for her reasons? Everyone seemed to have their
own theory. Vesarion thought it suited her pride. Eimer thought she was
ambitious. Her little brother’s opinion of her motives hurt her most of all,
because the two of them had been close when they had been children. Only a year
apart in age, they had always formed a defensive alliance against the
much-older Enrick. It fact, it was only Enrick who knew at least some of the
truth concerning her motives, mainly because he was the catalyst behind the odd
engagement. He cared little what her feelings were on the subject, just as long
as she was compliant in helping him to achieve his ends. But he thought she had
obeyed out of fear alone, and in this he was mistaken. Only Grandmother
suspected that there might be more to her motives than met the eye. It was as
well the old queen was unaware of the lengths to which Enrick had been prepared
to go get his own way. Sareth recalled, with a little stab of anger, the day Enrick
had cornered her about the subject. He had been not at all reticent about
airing his opinions and had made the choice he was presenting her quite starkly
clear.

 “Westrin is an unknown quantity in this struggle between
the royal house and the barons,” he had declared smoothly, “but he is
nevertheless the weight that could tip the balance either way. If he sides with
the rebel barons, we are lost. If he sides with the royal house, I think they
dare not revolt openly.”

 She remembered how she had poured scorn on his talk of
rebellion, for Enrick saw conspiracy everywhere and those who tried to say
otherwise themselves became suspect.

 “You know nothing of such matters,” he had cut her short
with such smug certainty that her hand had itched to slap him. “Had you proved
your worth by securing Serendar as our ally, this conversation would not be
taking place. But you have failed, sister dear, in this, as you fail in
everything. So now you must prove yourself of use in binding Westrin to our
cause. He has an inflated opinion of his worth and the bait of a royal princess
as his bride is something I think he will not be able to resist. Once he is
secured to our house, father can rest a little more easily.”

 “Father would rest more easily if you would stop filling
his ears with poison,” she had snapped.

 Enrick’s eyes had flashed with anger and he had grasped her
arm in a deliberately painful grip. His handsome face, now close to hers, was
twisted with anger. “Let me remind you, sister, of exactly who rules Eskendria.
Run to father if you wish, but it will avail you nothing. My word is law here
and you can either stand with me or join my enemies and set yourself against
me. If you choose the latter, sister or not, I will throw you out on the street
like a beggar. Remember that your high and mighty position in this land depends
on me.” He suddenly released her, and assuming the cool tone that she loathed,
he added: “Besides, you might like to consider the fact that if Westrin does
not join with our cause, he is of no further use to me – indeed, he is a
positive danger and such a danger cannot be allowed to exist. Do I make myself
clear, sister? He may command two thousand Ravenshold Brigands but one knife in
the darkness is all that is required.”

 So Sareth kept her own counsel and found it something of a
burden.

 Certainly the one person who must never find out the truth
was Vesarion. Unwittingly, he was playing along with Enrick and while he did so
he was safe. It did not sit easily with her normally open nature to deceive him
but if he ever discovered he had been manipulated, she feared that in order to
thwart Enrick, he might plunge the Kingdom into strife.

 These rather bleak reflections were interrupted by Queen
Triana’s saucy little maid. The door fairly burst open, precipitating her into
the room.

 “Forgive me, Your Highness, but you must come quickly.
Queen Triana needs you straight away.”

 Sareth paled. “Is grandmother ill?”

 “No, no,” she replied hurriedly. “At least, I don’t think
so, but she’s in a regular taking, fretting and fussing and saying that there’s
no time and that she must see you at once. So please come –
please
!”

 Sareth needed no further bidding. She picked up her skirts
and fairly flew along the corridor, leaving the slower maid some distance in
her wake. Down the grand staircase she ran, her silk skirts billowing behind
her. She took a shortcut past the old Ivy Tower and arrived at Queen Triana’s
apartments a little out of breath, her cheeks flushed. Standing on no ceremony,
she threw the door open and ran into the room, flinging herself on her knees
beside her grandmother’s chair.

 The Queen was seated in her customary spot by the fire, her
feet on the velvet footstool, but her usual serenity had deserted her and the
eyes that met Sareth’s were brimming with urgency and a strange light that
Sareth had never seen in them before. Sareth caught the Queen’s hands in both her
own.

 “What is it, grandmother? Are you ill? Your maid has
alarmed me with her urgency. Is all well with you?”

 The cool fingers returned the clasp affectionately. “I am
well, Sareth,” she reassured her. “It is not myself I am concerned with, but
you. At my age, shall we say, the veil grows thin and sometimes we are
permitted to see things with a clarity that comes with a certain detachment
from this world. Do you understand?”

 Sareth clearly did not. “No grandmother. You had me so
worried.”

 One hand left hers and gently smoothed her cheek. “My
favourite grandchild,” she said affectionately. “If only Andarion had lived to
see you grow up. If only he could see you as you are now. You are the only one
of my descendants in whom I see his likeness – and that is why I must speak to
you at once. You have heard that the sword has been stolen, have you not?”

 “Yes, Eimer told me – even though he had been warned to
keep it secret. If it were not for Eimer’s indiscretions, I would know nothing
of what goes on.”

 “Apparently they suspect some boy from Kelendore of having
stolen it but he escaped from the city and is heading to Sorne. Vesarion and
Eimer are meeting in a few minutes to lead the pursuit. You must accompany
them.”

 Sareth sat back on her heels, clearly at a loss. “
That
was what all the fuss was about? You want me to go with them to Sorne?
Grandmother, I thought you were dying. You scared me half to death!”