The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  The Crystal Chalice

  Book One of The Legend of Erren-dar

  By R.J.Grieve

  Copyright © R.J.Grieve 2013. All rights reserved.

  The right of R.J.Grieve to be identified as the Author of this Work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE

  Ravenshold

  CHAPTER TWO

  Elorin

  CHAPTER THREE

  The Ivy Tower

  CHAPTER FOUR

  The lynching Party

  CHAPTER FIVE

  The Master of Ravenshold

  CHAPTER SIX

  An Unexpected Friend

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The Challenge

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An Act of Cruelty

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Escape

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Riddle of the Names

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  The Ambush

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  The Serpent’s Throat

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The Forsaken Lands

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  The City by the Shore

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  A Devious Game

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Skerris-morl

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  The Storm

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  The Island of Sirkris

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  An Unexpected reunion

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  A Difficult Decision

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  The Domain of the Destroyer

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  The Glass Queen

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  The Battle of the Cleft

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  The Hidden Valley

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  The Serpent’s Lair

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  The Kingdom of Adamant

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The House of Parth

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The Kiss

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  The Monastery of the White Brotherhood

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  An Unconventional Proposal

  CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

  The Demon of Darkness

  CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

  The Hill of the Seven Crowns

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  The Home-coming

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  The Oath of Loyalty

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  The Battle of Addania

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  The Debt

  Chapter One

  Ravenshold

  The snow fell in huge feathery flakes that drifted lazily downwards from the leaden sky. Gently they settled on every branch, every winter-black twig of every tree. In their millions they joined their brethren on the ground, softening and disguising every feature. The whole world was stark black and white. Even the ice-rimmed river was the colour of pewter; its waters reflecting and darkening the metallic sky. The peaks above the valley reared cold heads against the clouds. Here and there the hard whiteness that armoured their flanks was broken by dark patches representing some precipice too steep for snow to lie. In the centre of the broad valley below, encircled by the metal band of the river, rose a solitary hill like a fist thrust up suddenly from beneath the white quilt. Its sides were steep, and in places jagged rocks like fangs were exposed, iron-bare. On its summit reared the sheer, forbidding walls of a fortress built by some primeval hand of the same dark-grey stone as the crag on which it stood. Tall towers arose in a ring above its battlements, as if the hill wore a cruel, dark diadem. There was something about the castle’s silence, its blackness against the dazzling blue-white backdrop of snow, the dizzying heights to which its walls rose, that inspired a sense of dread. Its silence had not the passivity of stone; it was malevolent, watchful, sentient.

  All at once, the muffled silence of the shrouded valley was shattered by the sound of horses. The thudding of galloping hooves echoed around the valley, seeming to bounce off the silent walls. Harsh, yet oddly deadened by the snow. The source of the sound, a group of about thirty horsemen, emerged from the concealment of the dark forest and halted at the edge of the snow-laden trees, as if intimidated by the fortress brooding in the distance before them.

  Yet these men would have given even the most casual observer the impression that they feared nothing. They were all powerful men, armed with long, heavy swords hanging in leather scabbards against their thighs. Some had bows or heavy war-axes slung over their shoulders. Some carried round shields. All wore steel-studded leather cuirasses under their dark cloaks and leather gauntlets against the cold. Most wore helmets with long nose and cheek-guards which left little of their faces visible except hard, watchful eyes and unshaven chins.

  The horses stamped and snorted. Their hot flanks steamed in the cold air and the snowflakes vanished as soon as they touched their hides; evidence that they had been ridden hard.

  The men’s breath misted in the still air, but despite the all-pervading chill, they sat on their horses regarding the scene before them as if awed into immobility.

  Yet amongst all the sombre grey and black cloaks one stood out. One cloak was of deep royal red. The slight figure in the crimson cloak stiffened and stared at the castle through the veil of softly falling flakes. Finally, as if it enabled her to see better, she put back her hood to reveal a mass of red-gold hair, its fiery colour at curious odds with the cloak. Her face was as pale as the snowflakes that settled all around her. A shiver that might have been cold, or might have been apprehension, involuntarily shook her.

  Although, unlike the men, she had never seen the castle before, she knew it by repute. Sadris-karn, it was called in the old language, the Fortress of the Ravens. The men now called it Ravenshold. The name was chillingly appropriate, she thought, for ravens feast on the dead and the master of Sadris-karn rarely let them go hungry. Even from this distance, she could see the tiny, jet-black dots of the birds circling the tallest tower. Even through the gently falling curtain of snow, the brooding presence of their destination struck dread into her.

  As if sensing her apprehension, the leader of the horsemen turned and stared chillingly at her for a moment, before signalling to the others to continue the descent into the valley. Little of his face was visible beneath his helmet except a pair of hard blue eyes and the bristle of copper beard on his chin. She thought he was not going to speak but suddenly he remarked with heavy irony: “No doubt you are as keen to arrive at Ravenshold as Celedorn is to receive you.”

  The prisoner, realising that a reply was not expected, merely pulled her hood into place again and followed the troop of horses down the snow-covered slope to the valley floor.

  “You need not look so afraid,” he added. “You are a valuable hostage. No doubt he will allow you to survive until he has no further use for you.”

  With those comforting words, he urged his horse to a canter, forcing her to follow suit. He left her prey to unease. Clearly he had no idea of the deception, but for how long would she be able to deceive Celedorn? Time was of the essence. Every minute he believed in the charade was a vital minute gained. Celedorn was said to be cruel, ruthless, arrogant, capable of the most vicious acts of violence, but no one had ever yet called him a fool - and a fool was exactly what she was proposing to make of him.

  The moment that he discovered that he had been deceived, scarcely bore thinking about, yet it was as inevitable as it was terrifying. Another spasm of apprehension shook her, but it was now too late to turn back.
She had known the risks all along. Ignorance could not be pleaded as an excuse. She had chosen to carry out the task before her, knowing full well that discovery meant almost certain death. If only she could gain enough time. If only she could deceive him for just long enough to fulfil her purpose.

  As they came closer to the castle, it became evident that its scale had been dwarfed by the mighty pinnacles of snow which surrounded the valley. The sides of the hill now rose sheer above them, ascending almost vertically from the valley floor. On top of the vertiginous cliffs, the castle walls rose yet higher, their lofty heights rendering minuscule the approaching band of riders. On one side of the crag, a narrow road, cut into the living rock, snaked its way upwards to a tall, forbidding archway guarded by a heavy steel portcullis.

  As they began to ascend this roadway, fear, pure undiluted terror such as she had never known, dug icy talons into her. The portcullis rose, apparently of its own volition, its chains groaning and rumbling as they took the strain. Passing beneath it felt like passing into the jaws of some malicious demon, its teeth poised to bite.

  The horsemen entered a large courtyard surrounded on three sides by crenellated walls and on the fourth, by one of the tall, bleak towers visible from the valley.

  Still the snow softly fell, but this time with the silence of secrecy, as if it knew it was an intruder.

  The courtyard had been swept bare of drifts and the horses’ hooves clattered noisily on the cobbles. The men dismounted and began to lead the horses through another archway leading into the recesses of the castle, to what, the captive assumed, must be living quarters or stables - if such grim surroundings could boast anything so mundane.

  The leader gave his horse to one of his men and gestured to her to dismount.

  A heavy wooden door, iron bound, was set into the base of the tower. He grasped the handle and heaved it open, leading the way into a cavernous, stone-flagged hall. The main feature of the hall was a broad, ornately-carved staircase which rose in one graceful sweep before branching right and left. A fireplace, designed to hold half a tree trunk, stood forlorn and empty. The only item of furniture in the hall was a large oak table much scored and battered by virtue of the fact that it was used as a repository for weapons. Their footsteps echoed gloomily on the flags as they crossed the hall and began to ascend the staircase. The man took the right-hand branch which led to a long, vaulted corridor as bare and comfortless as the hall below. A torch caused flickering shadows to dance in the gloom beside a smaller doorway. Without hesitation, he pushed open the door and gestured her inside.

  “Celedorn has been delayed but he should arrive shortly,” he remarked curtly. “Wait in here.”

  Without giving her the opportunity to reply, he slammed the door shut and turned the key.

  The room she found herself in had once, long ago, been a handsome apartment. Its high ceiling was criss-crossed by great curved beams of oak. The fireplace was carved out of once-beautiful cream stone, now blackened by use. Its surround was decorated with intricate hunting scenes in raised relief. In its depths, a log fire burnt with incongruous cheerfulness, apparently immune to its surroundings. A long table took up the centre of the room, flanked by tall-backed wooden chairs. A mighty carver, with its arms fashioned like snarling wolves, stood at the head of the table. Some battered leather armchairs sat by the fire and the tall, mullioned windows were flanked by shabby crimson curtains that might once have been velvet.

  Acting instinctively, she crossed to the windows to discover that they overlooked the courtyard that she had just left. The day was nearly over. The light was gradually retreating before the advance of darkness. The departure of the daylight left her feeling as if she was being deprived of her last friend.

  She wondered if the Prince had time to get his army out of the trap; out through the passes that Celedorn has so cleverly used to pin it down. As agreed, she had been handed over as hostage early that morning, but had Celedorn kept his part of the bargain? Had he withdrawn his men from the passes? It disturbed her that she had seen nothing of him that day. It was not inconceivable that he was planning treachery. The Prince had not trusted him, but in the circumstances, he had little choice.

  At that moment, as if in response to her thoughts, a large party of armed riders clattered into the courtyard. She saw her guard cross the cobbles to greet their leader. A tall man in a black cloak and helmet dismounted, listened briefly to what the guard had to say, and then strode purposefully towards the door in the tower.

  The captive backed hastily away from the window, her heart thumping. She swung round, her eyes riveted to the door. Footsteps could be heard in the corridor, low voices, the clink of weapons. The key turned in the lock and the door was flung open.

  The tall man strode into the room, followed by her guard. He was dressed in black from head to foot. His cloak was flung back from one shoulder to reveal a heavy sword in a long scabbard that swung by his side. Without speaking, he removed his helmet and stared at her.

  His appearance was such that she had barely sufficient self-control to repress a gasp. The man before her was broad-shouldered and powerful. His hair was as jet-black as his cloak, yet the eyes studying her were of the palest, coldest grey she had ever seen. But what had caused her reaction was his face. Three disfiguring parallel scars ran diagonally across his cheek, from the outer edge of his cheekbone almost to the edge of his mouth. The scars were raised and puckered, like ploughed furrows. Their appearance became even more pronounced where they passed through the black stubble of his beard, for no hair grew on them, rendering them as conspicuous as tracks through a forest The middle scar was the longest and reached almost to his lip, drawing its outer edge slightly upwards in a perpetual mocking sneer.

  Slowly he set his helmet down on the table and his cold eyes resumed their silent, intimidating appraisal of her. Finally he said:

  “You are Princess Illiana?”

  She inclined her head in acknowledgement, not trusting herself to speak.

  He said nothing for a moment, then turned to the guard. “You’re a fool, Hydar,” he remarked softly.

  Then without warning, he spun on his heel and struck the prisoner such a powerful, backhanded blow that it sent her flying across the room to crash into the wall. She fell, half-stunned, to the floor. Before she could rise, he strode over to her and catching hold of her red hair, wrenched hard. The wig came away in his hand and her own brown hair, freed from restraint, tumbled down onto her shoulders. She stared at him stricken, almost forgetting the pain of the blow in her distress that her disguise had not deceived him for an instant. He held the wig in his fist and thrust it at Hydar, his countenance pale with anger, the scars standing out more lividly than ever.

  “Were you really taken in by this pitiful trick?” he snarled. “Are you really such a fool? Prince Andarion will have his forces through the passes by now, and in return, instead of holding his sister hostage, we are left with a worthless nobody.”

  Hydar stared at him appalled, not daring to answer.

  Celedorn glanced sharply towards the window. “It’s nearly dark now but perhaps the snow will have slowed them down. There is a remote possibility that we may yet catch them. For your sake, you had better pray it is so.” He turned to cast an icy glance at the prisoner, still sitting on the ground holding her injured cheek. “As for you,” he hissed, “I’ll deal with you when I get back.”

  With that, he caught up his helmet and strode from the room.

  Hydar crossed to her and jerked her roughly to her feet.

  “You played me false and I will shortly be made to pay for that, but believe me, it is nothing to what you will pay. Not for all the gold in the kingdom would I stand in your shoes.”

  As he spoke, he dragged her out of the room and up several flights of stairs until they arrived at a dusty, forsaken corridor. He pushed a door open and shoved her through it with such force that he sent her sprawling on the floor again. Before she could raise her head, the door
was slammed shut and locked. She could hear his retreating footsteps diminishing into the distance, leaving her utterly alone.

  There was only the faintest gleam of daylight left to enable her to see her surroundings. Dimly she could perceive a large bed in the centre of the room. Once it had been an ostentatious piece of furniture, but now it was reduced to a sad frame and several slatted boards. There was no mattress or blankets. The only other item she could distinguish in the gloom was a damaged wooden chair. Some of the little diamond panes of the window were broken, letting in gusts of freezing air, but her heart leapt a little when she saw that the window had no bars. She struggled to her feet, and trying to ignore the thumping pain in her cheek and in the wrist that had been injured in her collision with the wall, crossed to the window. But only disappointment awaited. The window might as well have had bars for all the possibility of escape that it offered. The room was set high in the tower overlooking the courtyard. Its walls were glassy smooth, offering not the slightest possibility of a handhold. Far below her, too far for any hope, the square was a hive of activity. Torches flared, orders were shouted, horses saddled and led out, weapons clashed as they were slung into place. Men were pouring from side doors and through the archway she had seen earlier - far more men than she knew the fortress contained. In their hundreds they streamed into the square, and still they came. She saw Celedorn mount his horse. The torchlight flickered briefly on the cruel scars before he donned his helmet. The mounted men appeared to be milling around in chaos, but when Celedorn guided his horse out under the portcullis at a brisk trot, rank after rank of riders fell into place behind him, four abreast, with military precision.

  She watched them until they had all left, until the square was empty and silent again. The portcullis rumbled down into position. Then slowly she slid down the wall in despair, feeling that she no longer had the strength to stand.

  She tried to gather her thoughts, to consider her future, but her mind refused to contemplate so bleak a picture and instead began to drift back in time, back to an autumn day a few months previously that would remain graven for ever on her memory.