by R. J. Grieve
However, the peace was not to last. As darkness fell, a clatter of hooves on the cobbles outside signalled the return of one of the mounted patrols that seemed to come and go constantly. After a moment, the door to the kitchen was flung back with such force that it slammed back against the wall. Hydar strode in, scattering snowflakes from his cloak.
“Where are you, old man?” he roared. “I want bread and mulled wine, it’s damned cold work out there.”
He stopped abruptly when he saw Elorin.
“What’s she doing here?” he demanded of Dorgan.
“She is here with Celedorn’s permission, that’s all you need to know.”
Hydar did not reply. He walked round Elorin one way, then back the other way, eyeing her up and down in a manner that made her flesh crawl.
“Not languishing in some dank dungeon, my sweetheart?” he asked. “Why waste your time with old Dorgan here, when you could enjoy the delights of the guardroom, or perhaps you prefer something more private.”
She shot a frightened glance at Dorgan, unsure what to reply.
“Don’t interfere, Hydar. What happens to her is Celedorn’s decision.”
Hydar’s eyes narrowed. “Is it? Is it now? After what she did to us, I expected her to be food for the ravens by now, but here she is, perfectly at home in your kitchen. You know what I think, old man? Celedorn’s getting soft. He’s losing his grip. I expected to have the hide flogged off me, but nothing has happened. There is no room at Ravenshold for weakness. If he is not strong enough, then perhaps it is time for someone else to lead us.”
“Don’t be a fool,” Dorgan snapped. “Celedorn has some plan you are not privy to. He does not let fools, who can be so easily deceived, into his confidence.”
Hydar snarled with anger. “Be careful what you say. Remember that if Celedorn falls, you fall with him. You will soon learn that I do as I please.” He spun towards Elorin. “And as for you....” Without finishing his sentence, he grabbed her by the arm and started to drag her towards the door.
Before Dorgan could react, a voice cut across the room like a steel blade.
“You will do nothing without my orders, Hydar. You will not even presume to breathe without my express permission.”
Hydar released his grip on Elorin as if he had been burned and all three spun round. Celedorn had entered silently from the door to the stairs.
“What were you proposing to do?” he continued silkily. “You may be impressive when it comes to intimidating old men and girls, but why do you not tell me what you were proposing to do?”
Everyone in the room instantly wondered just how long he had been standing there, how much of Hydar’s remarks he had overheard. As the two men faced each other, the contrast between them was marked - the one so heated, the other so cool.
Elorin and Dorgan stepped back against the wall, aware that they were superfluous to what was happening.
Hydar was in the grip of rage as fiery as his hair. His face was red with anger, his powerful shoulders hunched aggressively, but Celedorn was as cold as the snow still falling outside, his face disdainful, his eyes as icy and remote as a mountain glacier. Elorin suddenly noticed that he was armed. A sword hung in a black scabbard by his side. He had not touched the sword or given any indication that he knew that it was there, but all at once everyone in the room was aware of it.
Hydar flung his hand in Elorin’s direction. “You have not punished her,” he growled. “She made fools out of all of us and yet she lives.”
“She made more of a fool of some than others, is that not so? Your concern about her fate would have nothing to do with the fact that your pride was injured, I presume? Be sure of this, whatever happens to her will be my decision, and mine alone. Is that clear?”
Hydar bristled. “Perhaps we are all a little tired of your decisions.”
“Oh dear,” Dorgan muttered under his breath. “There will be no going back now.”
But to Elorin’s surprise, Celedorn smiled slightly, a chill smile that did not touch his eyes.
“You are no match for me, Hydar, and you know it. Your weakness is your temper, for you have never learnt to control it. However, what has been said cannot now be withdrawn. If you wish to challenge me, you must do so with more than words.”
For the first time, Elorin thought she saw just the tiniest flicker of fear in Hydar’s eyes and guessed that his temper had driven him further than he had really intended to go.
However, he was aware that two witnesses were watching his behaviour and that if he retreated, word of his cowardice would spread like wildfire around the fortress. If that happened, the other men would tear him apart like a pack of wolves. Pride mingled with fear to reinforce his anger. With a semblance of nonchalance, he bowed ironically.
“Any time you wish.”
The distant, grey eyes did not even blink. “Now,” was the devastatingly simple reply. “In the great hall.”
Hydar stared, nonplussed, then shrugged and pushing his way past Celedorn, mounted the stairs to the great hall.
Elorin followed with Dorgan. “Does this often happen?”
“Now and again. There is always some fool who wants to try his luck. I knew Hydar’s temper would lead him to this some day. I just didn’t expect it so soon.”
“I hope they kill each other.”
“Nonsense,” Dorgan snapped, but refused to say any more.
“Why should I care? What difference does it make whether I am killed by Hydar or Celedorn?”
He looked strangely at her for a moment, but merely said: “We will get a better view from the half-landing.”
She followed him, a little disappointed that he found the proposed contest merely a form of entertainment.
In some mysterious fashion word had got around that something was happening in the great hall. They had scarcely taken up their position on the stairs, when men began to arrive in twos and threes until a jostling crowd of tough-looking characters lined the walls. The long table was lifted back against the wall and the torches were lit, forcing the shadows back into the corners. More men arrived, lining the bare, echoing hall, leaving a large area of stone flags clear in the middle.
An older man, that Elorin had not seen before, stepped into the arena and addressed those assembled.
“The challenge will be carried out in the established fashion. No weapons other than swords. No armour or protection. No interference from the onlookers. No quarter to be given.”
The two combatants were standing facing each other at opposite ends of the hall. Both were in their shirtsleeves and carried naked swords in their hands. The long blades gleamed, wickedly sharp, in the torchlight. Celedorn looked sinister in his customary black, like a projection of the haunted shadows around him. The torchlight flicked over his scarred face, giving him an evil, almost demonic, look. He stood silently waiting, his sword point resting lightly on the stone flags. Hydar, by contrast, was ebullient, calling to comrades in the audience, making swift passes through the air with his sword.
The older man addressed Hydar.
“Do you challenge?”
Hydar grinned wolfishly. Watching from the height of the staircase, Elorin was not sure whether it was real confidence or mere bravado. He certainly looked formidable. He replied in a strong voice: “I challenge.”
The man turned to Celedorn. “Do you accept?”
In contrast, the reply was quiet, almost casual. “I accept.”
“Then begin,” the man said and retreated to the wall.
Chapter Seven
The Challenge
For a moment nothing happened. The brigands around the walls were silent, watching intently for the first move. The uncertain light flickered over the two men facing each other. Hydar moved forward, cat-like, his sword poised. He began to circle to Celedorn’s left, judging it to be the weakest side of a right-handed man. Celedorn’s expression did not alter. He slowly raised the point of his sword from the flags and pivoted to keep his enemy
in front of him. Hydar’s eyes were fierce, his lips drawn back in what was intended to be a mocking smile but had instead become a grimace. Compared to him, Celedorn looked almost bored, certainly a trifle disinterested, but closer inspection would have revealed granite-hard eyes sharp with concentration.
Hydar’s sword flashed like lightning. With impressive speed it sliced through the air, too fast, it seemed to Elorin, for any response to be made. But a heavy, metallic clash resounded through the hall as his blade collided with Celedorn’s. She had not even seen Celedorn move, yet the two swords had met with stunning force. The heavy blades slid down each other, rasping cruelly until they locked at the hilt. Such a position meant a struggle of brute strength rather than skill and Celedorn surprised her by refusing the contest. Deftly, he disengaged his sword and in the same fluid movement, flashed his blade above Hydar’s. If his opponent had not leapt back with almost instantaneous reflexes, he would have lost his life. As it was, the point of Celedorn’s sword ripped across the shoulder of his shirt and blood began visibly to seep from the wound.
Hydar gave a cry and looked startled, but he was no coward, and soon shrugged it off.
“It’s just superficial,” murmured Dorgan, “it won’t slow him down, not yet.”
They began to circle each other again. Both were tall, powerful men but as she watched each attack and counter attack, each blow received and parried, Elorin realised that Celedorn was the faster and more cunning swordsman. Sometimes he feinted to left or right, throwing Hydar off balance before delivering his real attack. Hydar was strong and swung the heavy weapon at Celedorn with terrifying force, but his technique was rather like a farmer felling a tree. Celedorn took the blows on the edge of his sword, angling his own blade to deflect them, depriving them of much of their power. His movements were swift and poised, but he expended no unnecessary energy and still contrived to look provokingly calm. His opponent, on the other hand, was sweating. The torchlight glittered on the beads of perspiration standing on his forehead and his red-gold hair and beard were darkened with sweat.
No one in the hall said anything. Elorin had expected the men to call encouragement to whoever they supported, but all that went on was watched in morbid silence. She scanned the hard faces of the men below and saw no emotion, other than a vulture-like interest in who should win.
Celedorn’s greater experience soon proved its worth, for he wounded his opponent again, this time on the thigh.
Everyone in the hall knew at that moment that Hydar would not win. Indeed, there were times when it looked as if Celedorn was only toying with him. Suddenly, as if deciding that it was time to finish the matter, Celedorn gripped the heavy sword with both hands and struck such a blow against his opponent’s blade that Hydar staggered back under the force of it. Another and another swept down. Hydar retreated before them, struggling to put up a defence. Finally, a blow fell with such shattering force, that it knocked Hydar’s weapon clean out of his hands. His chest was heaving, his face dripping with perspiration and his shirt stained with blood. For a moment he looked wonderingly at his empty hands, then slowly he sank on one knee.
Celedorn stood before him, his feet planted apart, his sword poised, the torchlight highlighting his disfigured face. Hydar looked up at him.
“I submit, Celedorn.” he said.
“It is too late for that,” was the harsh reply. The blade glittered as it rose. Elorin swiftly closed her eyes, but she could not stop her sense of hearing. The heavy, sickening sound of the blow, told her the blade had found its mark. Against her will, she looked downwards in time to see Celedorn withdraw his sword from his opponent’s neck and wipe it casually on the clothes of his fallen enemy. Hydar’s head was almost severed from his body and a dark tide of blood was flooding across the stone flags. Elorin turned away, sickened to her soul, quite certain for the first time that she hated him.
Over the next few days she saw little of Celedorn. Most of her time was spent with Dorgan in the warm kitchen, watching him bustling about, preparing meals, lending what help she could.
The fight had been mentioned only once between them and had been the sole source of discord in their otherwise blossoming friendship. Dorgan had asked her if she condemned Celedorn for what he had done. She suspected the question was asked in order to give Dorgan the opportunity to defend him, nevertheless, her reply was swift and unequivocal.
“I hate him,” she replied in a low, intense voice. “I hate his cruelty. Hydar acknowledged he was beaten and Celedorn showed him no mercy. He’s nothing but a ruthless killer.”
Dorgan raised his brows. “I didn’t know you were so fond of Hydar.”
“I wasn’t, but he was a human being. He admitted his defeat and all he got was the edge of Celedorn’s sword.”
But Dorgan was not impressed. “Don’t be foolish,” he reprimanded her. “If their positions had been reversed, Celedorn would have received no mercy and expected none. He must show no weakness in front of the men. Do you not realise that the challenge arose directly as a result of the fact that Celedorn has let you live?”
“And why is that, do you think?” she asked sarcastically. “Has he suddenly been overcome with kindness? No, he keeps me alive because he thinks he might have a use for me. He once made some remark to the effect that Prince Andarion’s conscience could be used against him.”
Dorgan didn’t argue with her but merely shook his head and remarked enigmatically: “I have known Celedorn a very long time.”
She was silent for a moment, not quite sure what the remark was intended to convey. Dorgan went on peeling vegetables as if the conversation was over, but finally she said: “How did he get those scars, Dorgan?”
He looked up, momentarily surprised. “If Celedorn wants you to know then.......”
“........then no doubt he will tell me himself. Yes, I know how the formula runs, but tell me one thing, was he born with them?”
He hesitated before replying. “No, he wasn’t born with them but he’s had them a long time.”
The topic of their conversation gratified Elorin by continuing to stay remote from her, but a few days after the conversation had taken place, when she was passing his apartments on her way to be locked up in her cold prison for the night, the door opened and the ruthless killer himself appeared before her. If he was surprised by the encounter, he gave no sign of it but merely dismissed Dorgan and signalled to her to come into the room. She obeyed, her heart already thumping, her legs annoyingly wobbly.
The corridor outside had been dark but when he turned to face her in the candlelight of the room, she realised that something had changed. His ragged, jet-black beard had gone and he was clean-shaven.
As usual, when surprised, she said the first thing that came into her head.
“Your beard has gone!”
She saw a flicker of amusement cross his face but he answered sardonically: “Your powers of observation do you credit. No doubt you were going to tell me that I am now quite as handsome as your prince.”
She gasped in surprise, unsure whether it was safe to laugh or not, and decided to err on the side of caution. On receiving no response, he gestured to her to sit in one of the battered leather chairs by the fire and took the one facing her. She sat on the extreme edge, every muscle tense, not at all reassured by being thrown off balance so easily. Subjected yet again to one of his intimidating silences, she remarked: “You shouldn’t let your beard grow again, it only.....” she halted abruptly, almost falling victim once more to her most prevalent trait. But with his usual uncanny knack, he knew exactly what she had been going to say.
“......it only makes matters worse,” he finished for her. “Looking in a mirror is not such a pleasure for me that I would do it every day.”
The bitterness in his tone was patent, even to someone who did not know him well. Despite herself, she felt a twinge of sympathy. However, this was instantly dispelled when the vision of him standing over Hydar’s body with bloodied sword, arose unb
idden to her mind. The conversation had dwindled again into silence, but not an awkward one this time. He was staring into the fire, his booted legs stretched out before him, negligently crossed at the ankles, his gaze on some distant place far beyond the tendrils of flame that danced along the edges of the logs.
Free, for once, of his intimidating gaze, she observed him, wondering if his unpredictability would always disconcert her. She had come into the room expecting threats, mockery, even violence but instead he was sitting relaxed in his chair, the firelight reflected in his pupils, in a not uncompanionable silence.
Seduced by the warmth of the fire and the relatively benign atmosphere, little by little her tension eased. She leaned back in her chair. The slight movement appeared to interrupt his reverie, for without lifting his gaze from the fire, he addressed her:
“The King of Eskendria will today have received a message about you. He now knows you are still alive and if he wishes that state of affairs to continue, he will not attack me again.”
“Do you think I am so valuable to him that your message will have any effect?”
He looked up. “You had better hope so. In actual fact, I rely on the Prince to plead my cause for me. You risked your life for him, the least he can do is try to preserve it. He is, after all, a man of honour.”
“The Prince owes me nothing. As I told you before, I owed him a great debt. I was only repaying it.”
He raised his brows incredulously. “You mean, the fact that he saved you from a lynching party?”
She cast an exasperated look at him. “Is there anything that goes on that you don’t know about?”
He smiled suddenly, showing even, white teeth, but his scars rendered the smile a little lopsided. “Ravenshold survives by more than mere military might. Some of my men were in that crowd. They observed your gallant Prince’s rescue bid. Is that the reason he brought you with him?”