by R. J. Grieve
Had she but known it, her hopes of Celedorn being delayed were not to be realised. He and his men made unexpectedly good time on their return journey to Ravenshold and arrived in the early afternoon. But even as they swept under the archway into the courtyard, Celedorn knew something was amiss. A knot of men stood in the square surrounding Dorgan. When they heard the horses, their earnest discussion ceased and they turned towards the sound, looking the epitome of collective guilt. The fact that Dorgan was in the courtyard at all, spoke of something unusual as he was indolent and disliked the cold, seldom leaving his cosy lair.
Dorgan crossed to Celedorn before he had even time to dismount. The others hung back, anxious to remain out of range.
Before Dorgan could speak, Celedorn pre-empted him. “What has happened?” he demanded tersely.
With the benefit of long years of experience, Dorgan knew better than to prevaricate or offer excuses.
“Elorin has escaped!”
“What!”
“When I arrived at her room this morning, I found it locked. When we broke down the door we discovered the room was empty. I don’t know how she got out.”
Celedorn’s lip curled. “You did not, I trust, leave the key in the door?”
“I...er...I...”
“I thought so,” was the caustic reply, but he wasted no time in useless recriminations. “We must assume that she left yesterday evening, so she will have had quite a head start. “
“We searched the castle just in case she was hiding somewhere, but she’s not here.”
“Of course she’s not, you fool. She will be heading in the most direct line back to her Prince. Get the men ready and fetch me a fresh horse. I’ll soon put an end to this nonsense.”
Celedorn began to issue orders, organising search parties, directing them to all the most likely locations. He had just time to snatch a bite to eat as he stood in the courtyard, before a fresh horse was led up to him. He swung determinedly into the saddle but his departure was checked by Dorgan.
“Celedorn!”
The black brows drew down angrily. “What?”
Dorgan looked up at him earnestly. “Don’t hurt her,” he pleaded. But all he received in reply was a scowl.
The day proved frustrating and fruitless for the search parties. They searched every valley, every path, every rock, but Elorin appeared to have vanished into thin air. The search party under Celedorn’s direction stayed out the longest, scouring the forest near the eastern pass. While his men searched amongst the trees, Celedorn separated from them and ascended above the tree line where the snow spilled off the mountainside in icy blue-white patches. He skirted each frozen patch looking for footprints, but found none. He glanced at the peaks towering above him, scanning their pristine skirts for a glimpse of a crimson cloak - but all in vain.
The day was fading fast and he saw the men below him begin to leave the forest and head back towards Ravenshold. He waited, sitting astride his horse, his sharp vision focused on the edge of the forest. If she was to attempt to ascend to the pass, she must leave the concealment of the trees. His horse stamped and shook its mane restlessly, but still he waited.
Elorin had heard the men approaching long before she had seen them. Her senses, already acutely attuned to the sounds of the forest, had no difficulty in determining that this time the pursuit was not imagined. She did all she could do in the circumstances and took cover amongst a stand of dense young holly bushes. Their glossy leaves were prickly but gave better cover than the bare trunks of the deciduous trees. Feeling that her cloak was by far too conspicuous, she rolled it into a ball and stuffed it into her cloth bag. Her tunic, thankfully, was dark green and blended well with the holly trees. Silently she crouched amongst the jagged leaves, hardly daring to breathe. Twice a mounted man passed close to her. Twice she was certain that she had been discovered, but gradually as the light faded, the sounds of the search party began to diminish. Still she remained where she was, her senses strained to the utmost. The birds were singing their evening chorus now, apparently undisturbed by the presence of man. The beautiful, fluted trill of a blackbird rang out quite close to her. Another answered from some distance off, its song echoing through the forest. Stiffly and cautiously she crept out of her hiding place.
“I will reach the edge of the trees before darkness falls,” she murmured to herself, “then I must find somewhere to rest before I drop with tiredness.” She shivered. “It’s going to be a long and bitterly cold night.”
Still he waited. Then just as the light had almost gone, he detected a movement amongst the trees. He straightened in the saddle, his gaze intensifying.
At the same moment, as if alerted by some sixth sense, Elorin turned and saw the mounted figure silhouetted against the snow on the slopes above her. Although the rider was some distance away, she knew he had seen her by the way he stiffened to attention. She also, without the shadow of a doubt, knew who it was.
Blindly she began to run. She could hear the crunch of the horse’s hooves on the brittle, shallow patches of snow as the rider descended the hillside. She flew with all the speed she could summon towards the forest, hoping to lose him amongst the trees, but he had anticipated that and directed his descent to intercept her. She was forced higher, above the tree line and out onto the bare mountainside with its alternating patches of white snow and grey shale. The horse leapt up the gradient after her, closing with every second. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him spring from the saddle before his horse had even stopped moving. As she was tall and lightly built, normally her speed was considerable but she was tired and he gained on her. Finally he brought her down in a patch of snow. She rolled over, half free of his weight and with more courage than wisdom, flung back her arm to strike him. But he caught her wrist in a grip that made her cry out in pain. Suddenly the fight went out of her. He jerked her to her feet and shook her, his eyes fierce.
“Why did you run away? Why? You were not ill-treated. What were you thinking of? Do you not know that if the cold did not finish you out here, the wolves would?”
She looked at him sullenly. “There is only one wolf in these parts.”
“The Turog have infiltrated this region too, you headstrong, foolish girl,” he continued as if he had not heard her. “Why did you run from me?”
She sank down on the snow as if she no longer had the strength to stand. “Because I no longer wanted to live as your prisoner, my life hanging every day by a thread to be snapped at your whim. Not to live in fear that some day that unpredictable temper of yours would go too far and make an end of me. When I volunteered to come here, I thought my life meant nothing to me. I thought I had no past and no future and could willingly give it up, but I was wrong. Life is hard to let go of. I found I wanted to live after all, but not under these conditions. I wanted to be free. Free of fear - free of you. I would rather you killed me now, than live like that, than go back to that bastion of cruelty you call Ravenshold.”
He didn’t reply to her speech, and as the silence dragged on, she risked looking up at him. The fire had all gone from his eyes and they were grey and cold as the shale on the mountainside.
He looked at her strangely for a moment, still without speaking. Finally he fetched his cloak from his horse and put it around her.
“Come,” he said quietly. “Darkness is falling and it will soon be bitterly cold.”
He obliged her to mount before him and guided his horse down into the trees just as the night began to close around them. Normally she would have disliked this proximity to him. His powerful arm around her waist, his scarred cheek close to hers, but she was too exhausted to care. The realisation that they were returning to Ravenshold, took all feeling away - except fatigue. Occasionally on that long ride back, despite herself, she dozed against his shoulder, but her dreams were no refuge to her, for they were haunted by fear.
Chapter Ten
The Riddle of the Names
Prince Andarion stood on a knoll overlo
oking the river Harnor and the dense forest beyond. The pale spring sun glinted off the broad expanse of the river as it slid by on its inevitable way to the sea. The river was so broad and deep at this point that its passage made little sound, enabling the Prince to hear clearly the noises issuing from the forest on the far side: the sharp ringing of hammers on steel and the steady thump of bellows. Yet the forest gave no other indication of this activity. Its dark ranks remained impenetrable, its canopy of leaves closed tightly in rebuff. But he knew they were there and he knew what they were doing. The sound of the forging of weapons was unmistakable. Still he stood, as if staring at the trees might bring him wisdom. The soft spring breeze stirred his fair hair and ruffled his cloak but he was unaware of its presence. Aware only of the turmoil within him. Tomorrow he would lead his army across the river; and he feared a trap. Would he fail as he had failed with Celedorn? Perhaps the last mistake he would ever make?
The sound of a footstep behind him finally broke into his thoughts. He turned to see his brother ascending the hill.
“Well, Sarrick?” he greeted him. “Do we proceed as planned tomorrow?”
His brother appeared to share few of his doubts. “Of course we do. We can wait no longer, for every day that passes enables them to become better prepared.” He cocked his head, listening for a moment. “I hear they are still at it. Day after day this goes on. I wonder just how many weapons they need?”
“Too many for comfort.”
“That sound gets on my nerves after a while.”
“Did it ever occur to you that it is designed to make us think that they are still there? Still busy, when in fact they could be massing for an attack at some other point across the Harnor?”
“They are there, all right.” Sarrick confirmed grimly. “My best scout has just returned. He nearly drowned crossing the Harnor in full spring flood but fortunately he is a powerful swimmer.”
“Did the Turog know he was there?”
“They saw him in the river and fired arrows at him from the trees but they couldn’t pursue him once he was in the water because, as you know, not one of them can swim. Mind you, there were some near misses with those arrows. He has reported that about five thousand of them are hidden amongst the trees. Even more worryingly, he says that they are forging weapons for a much greater number. The Destroyer must be planning to send considerable reinforcements. I would say, brother, that an attack tomorrow is not a day too soon.”
“Are the rafts well hidden?”
“Yes, the last one was completed this morning and they are behind some trees covered with branches.” He pointed to a dense copse of trees standing in the meadows on the Eskendrian side of the river.
Andarion nodded and turned to face the Harnor again. “I don’t like it, Sarrick. Those rafts make us too vulnerable. We rely too heavily on the element of surprise. When our army is crossing the river on those contraptions, it is completely vulnerable.”
“I have stationed archers on the highest point of the riverbank to provide a covering fire if we are discovered. They’ll keep them back amongst the trees long enough for our forces to land.”
“Perhaps a bridge would have been better after all.”
Sarrick, who was the better soldier, although he had difficulty in getting his father to recognise that fact, said: “We have been over this before. The rafts give us the element of surprise, which a bridge would not. Also, a bridge commits our forces to crossing at one point in narrow file, whereas the rafts enable us to land along a broader front. If we cross just before dawn as planned, we will have cover of darkness.” Seeing that Andarion still looked doubtful, he added: “Besides, we are committed now for better or worse. The time for planning is past, we must now act. My scout’s information confirms what we feared - that this is merely an advance force of Turog sent to prepare the way. We must attack before they become too strong and we must achieve a victory that will enable you to convince Serendar and the Isles of Kelendore to re-create the old alliance of the three kingdoms. It is the only way. We must unite or fall.”
Andarion sighed. “I know that you are right, brother, it’s just that the debacle with Celedorn has unsettled me.”
“You were not outfought, Andarion, you were outwitted,” he said, intending to be comforting and failing signally. “No Turog can match that fox for cunning. If you wish to look for someone to blame, then blame our father who forced you to take Illiana with you against your will.”
Andarion, who was much more dutiful than Sarrick, looked uneasy with that suggestion but Sarrick knew his brother well. “Besides,” he continued, “what troubles you most is the certainty of losing some of our men tomorrow. The inevitable casualties of war. You think because you give the order to advance that it is your fault that they die, but it isn’t. You are not the aggressor - they are,” he said, jerking his head towards the Harnor. “We only defend what is rightfully ours. Our men would cross the river to fight them whether you ordered them to or not.”
Andarion did not seem comforted but Sarrick was not concerned, for he knew from past experience that once the fighting began, his brother would leave all his doubt behind him in the single-minded determination to win. It was only the waiting that frayed his nerves. Sarrick had seen him in battle with the Turog before, slaying to right and left with as little compunction as a reaper in a cornfield, aware of no doubt and no fear. But afterwards, when the heat of battle had faded, depression and self-blame would descend. Sarrick sometimes wondered if his brother’s sensitivity of conscience would not be a burden to him when he became king, when he must hold a country against a determined and vicious enemy. He respected him for his courage and fighting qualities, but it took a streak of ruthlessness to rule a kingdom and he wondered if Andarion had it.
Although the brothers looked alike and got along surprisingly well for two siblings so close in age, they were very different in character. Sarrick was the more practical of the two, less afflicted by sentiment. He tended to see everything in life as a job to be done, with efficiency being the measure of success. He also saw people in a practical light, pawns to be moved across the board in the great game. He was not deliberately unkind, but he lacked the humanity of his brother that expressed itself in the acts of kindness which so endeared him to his people. The Eskendrians respected Sarrick, but they did not love him as they did his elder brother. In some ways Sarrick too much resembled his father who was a cold-hearted man, distant, aloof, not overly acquainted with love except in the matter of his daughter. Andarion favoured his mother, a lady whose early demise was still mourned in Eskendria.
Something of these thoughts drifted across Sarrick’s mind as he watched his brother resume his study of the Harnor. Somewhere, in an obscure, unexplored corner of his mind, lurked the thought that he would make a better king than Andarion, a thought that hid in the dark recesses of his soul unacknowledged and unexamined. Dimly he felt it rise to the surface as gently as a bubble in a pond but he wasn’t ready to acknowledge its existence, not yet. To distract himself he said: “What are you thinking now?”
“I was thinking about Elorin. I cannot hear Celedorn’s name mentioned without wondering if she is safe. I would give half the kingdom to know it.”
Sarrick, who cared little one way or the other about Elorin’s existence, shrugged behind his brother’s back. “That reminds me why I came up here. The old fool wants to speak to you.”
Andarion turned. “Relisar?”
“Who else? He’s had his long nose stuck in a book all morning, but has he found a spell that will be of any use to us? Oh no! He is still obsessed about the Champion. Why could he not raise a curtain of adamant as his predecessors did? Now that would be something useful.”
Sarrick’s irritation with Relisar never failed to amuse his brother. “You know very well, Sarrick, that it takes three of the brotherhood to raise a curtain of adamant. It is a great pity that Relisar is the last of his kind. So many spells of power need at least three. When Tarlingdor d
ied a few years ago, I hoped that another with the gift would be found, but like all else these days, fortune went against us. Relisar has no young apprentice in training, no future generation of seers. He is the last and when he dies, the old arts will be gone. They will fade into history like the legends we so often read about as children in the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom.”
Sarrick snorted derisively. “It’s just a pity that the last of the brotherhood should be such an incompetent old idiot.”
Andarion laughed and clapped him on the shoulder. “You are too hard, my friend, anyone else would think you meant it.”
Sarrick, who meant every word of it, merely remarked: “You had better go and see him. I left him hopping around like a frog on a hot brick.”
“Where is he?”
“At last count, in your tent, where he had managed to spill some revolting yellow potion all over your cloak. If you intend ever to wear it again, I must be careful to stand up-wind of you.” Then he added with a grin. “Or perhaps we should stand you upwind of the Turog, believe me, they would drop like flies.”