The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  After longing so much for company, Elorin did not in fact enjoy her meal with Celedorn. He was in one of his provoking moods, sometimes humorous, sometimes mocking, constantly needling her and throwing her off balance. The strain of trying to defend herself against such tactics left her tired and glad to escape to the solitude she had before found so oppressive.

  In the quiet of her room that night, her eyes wide open in the darkness, she reviewed her conversation with him. His anger at her attempted escape had been all the more daunting for being restrained. His ruthless extraction from her of a promise not to attempt to escape again, unexpectedly brutal. She wondered if a promise given under duress was binding, and ignoring a slight pricking of conscience, decided that it wasn’t. Out in the open forest and glens surely some opportunity would present itself. Surely even Celedorn must turn his attention elsewhere. It was rumoured that he was human after all, although personally there were times she doubted it. On that promising thought she fell asleep.

  The next morning the courtyard was a hive of activity as the men prepared for departure. Her guard thrust her breakfast at her with all his usual charm and tossed some clothes onto the bed.

  “Celedorn sent those for you to wear.”

  She looked at them. They were finely made, breeches and tunic of dark blue in just the right size.

  “Where did he get those from?” she asked suspiciously. “Are they stolen? Did he take them from some merchant’s caravan foolish enough to try its luck through the mountains?” When he didn’t reply, she declared: “I’m not wearing something that has been stolen!”

  “Celedorn thought you would say that and told me to inform you that if you didn’t wear them he would come and put them on you himself.”

  The man laughed at her crestfallen look and slammed the door shut. She had scarcely eaten her breakfast and changed into the clothes when the door opened again. She whirled around, wondering if it was Celedorn come to carry out his threat, but to her surprise and joy it was Dorgan. She hadn’t seen him since her escape attempt. She took an impulsive step towards him and found herself enveloped in a bear-hug. She hugged him back, surprised to find just how much she had missed him.

  “I’m sorry, Dorgan” she murmured, squashed against his ample bulk. “Please forgive me.”

  He leaned back from her, smiling. “What heinous crime have you committed lately?”

  “I deceived you and I got you into trouble with Celedorn.”

  “Never mind, my dear. I’m only sorry that your attempt to return to your Prince, failed. The worst part was not being allowed to see you any more. I so much missed your company. My kitchen has seemed strangely empty without you. And now you are off on your travels again - this time with authorisation. I’m afraid our reunion will be brief, for I do not ride with the men. I’m getting too old and too fat for such jaunts.”

  “I’ll miss you, Dorgan.”

  “And I you, my dear. I almost wish I was coming with you, but I’m no use in a fight and fighting there may well be on this trip. The Turog are coming into this area in alarming numbers. Celedorn thinks they have bridged the Serpent’s Throat and is determined to put a stop to their incursions, but you may well run into a large party of them before you even reach the gorge. If there is any fighting, stay close to Celedorn. You will be safest with him. He is the only man the Turog fear and only the boldest of them dare to tackle him in a fight.”

  “They know him by sight?”

  Dorgan looked a little sad. “You forget, my dear, that he carries his identity stamped on his face. One glimpse of those scars and every Turog knows he is faced with the Executioner.”

  “It’s strange to hear someone say I will be safe with Celedorn.”

  “Perhaps, but it is the case. He can protect you better than anyone. He never loses what he regards as his.”

  She looked at the floor. “His prisoner. His property. Is that all I am?”

  He gently gripped her shoulders. “Listen to me, Elorin, you must not give in to such thoughts, you must not despair. You are young and in good health and there is always hope. Enjoy your time in the open air. You will not always be a prisoner, I feel it in my heart.”

  She smiled at him gratefully.

  “Come,” he said, “that’s better. You have a lovely smile and should use it more often.” He bowed with a flourish to her, and still grinning, held out his hand towards the door. “My lady, your escort awaits your pleasure.”

  Celedorn and his men were already mounted by the time she emerged with Dorgan from the great door. They were all armed to the teeth and many, including Celedorn, wore the helmets with the long nose and cheek guards. Celedorn twisted in the saddle when he saw her, clearly impatient to be gone. He held by the reins a magnificent grey horse which swished its long tail and pricked its ears, obviously keen for a gallop. She ducked under its head and took the reins from his black-gloved hand.

  “He’s beautiful,” she looked up at him. “Thank you.”

  He merely nodded in reply. Dorgan cupped his hands for her and threw her up into the saddle.

  “Remember what I told you, my child” he said, glancing significantly at Celedorn. “These mountains are more dangerous than ever at the moment and I want to see you back safe and sound.”

  She smiled at him, secretly hoping that she would never have to cross beneath the portcullis of Ravenshold ever again.

  Celedorn wheeled his horse towards the gateway and she fell into line behind him. The men, without any order being given, formed into a long column four abreast and followed them. She caught some curious glances cast in her direction but no one spoke to her. Each hard face exhibited no more emotion than a certain ruthless determination.

  They journeyed long and fast that day, passing rapidly along the Ravenshold valley bathed in spring sunshine. The snow had retreated on the peaks above, but the uppermost tips were still virgin white, sailing serenely amongst fine white clouds. They skirted the forest that she had entered on her escape attempt and turned west towards the Kelgor pass. The trees were now clothed in new leaves. The chestnuts spread yellow-green fingers and the beech trees were decked in so many tiny, fluttering leaves that they looked like shimmering clouds of green lace. The sun-warmed grassy banks of the valley revealed primroses turning up their creamy faces to the sky and in the edges of the woods, anemones scattered the dark ground like lingering drifts of snow.

  Elorin missed nothing, breathing in the scented air, her eye delighting in each new scene. As they began to ascend towards the pass, the air became colder and crisper but the sky seemed an even more impossibly beautiful shade of blue. Eagles and falcons glided on stiff wings, wheeling around the snowy pinnacles, sharp eyes noting the passage of the men far below them. Here, tiny white and yellow saxifrages and stonecrops hugged the bare hillside and a stream bounced and tumbled down the gradient to the valley below, its waters a deep, peaty bronze.

  The men rode largely in silence, like their leader, every sense alert. She noticed that Celedorn’s keen grey eyes never ceased scanning the hillside, never failed in their alertness. He scarcely spoke to her, but it was not the silence of awkwardness. Although he sometimes used silence as a weapon, when he chose he had a peculiar way of withdrawing into himself which was solitary without being either aloof or haughty. It was a quietness not full of tension and discomfort but was in a strange way companionable.

  She was grateful for this, as conversation would have taken her attention away from her surroundings and she was determined, after such close confinement, to extract every drop of pleasure from them. As the morning advanced they climbed higher and higher up the pass, following the cheerful chatter of the stream. The grass became short and sparse and soon failed altogether, surrendering to grey stone and crumbling patches of shale. The wind keened softly over the rocks and the lonely cry of a bird of prey could be heard echoing between the peaks. Yet high as they climbed, the majestic peaks rose still higher, more and more appearing as the perspective changed.
They peered and clambered over each other’s shoulders until the snowy towers filled the blue sky.

  “This is so beautiful,” Elorin breathed. She was speaking to herself but Celedorn heard her and turned his head sharply.

  “Beautiful? Undoubtedly, but cold and harsh, home to only wolves and other predators. You would not wish to spend a night alone on the open mountainside - as you were once proposing to do. One cannot live on beauty, after all.”

  “No,” she agreed, but looking up at the nearest peak, the knife-edge of its summit slicing the intensely blue sky, she said: “Beauty is a feast only for the soul.”

  “That is a quotation from The Lays of Tissro,” he observed. “You may not remember your past but it appears that you are well-read.”

  “So, it seems, are you,” she riposted.

  He gave a wolfish smile and said nothing.

  By early afternoon they had reached the saddle of the pass and halted briefly to rest the horses and get something to eat. Elorin took her bread towards a mighty fallen rock that gave a spectacular view of the land beyond. Celedorn was instantly at her side.

  “I do have your word, do I not?”

  She looked at him in some irritation, for escape had not for the moment been her intention.

  “And just where would I be going to up here?” she demanded, not answering the question. She cast her hand expressively towards the starkly bare hillside.

  His lips twitched in amusement. “I see. Lack of cover rather than virtue is keeping you here.”

  She turned away to hide her smile. “Where do we go from here? Can our destination be seen from this vantage point?” she asked, standing on the boulder.

  “No,” he tilted his head to look up at her and the sun caught the ridges on his cheek with uncompromising clarity. “We have several more passes to cross before we enter the forest that leads to the Serpent’s Throat. The Kelgor pass takes us a little too far to the west and we must turn to the north-east in order to examine the section of the gorge I have in mind.”

  “You know where they are crossing?”

  “Let’s just say I have my suspicions. If they have got a bridge across, it will be at one of the narrowest points. There are two or three places where the gorge resembles nothing so much as a great crack in the earth, plunging terrifyingly deep but narrow. We will check these places first.”

  “What lies on the far side of the gorge?”

  “The Forsaken Lands. A dense forest stretches for miles. I have crossed a few times but my forays have been brief and I have virtually no knowledge of the other side. It is under the dominion of the Destroyer and even what can appear like deserted stretches of forest are rarely empty. There is a strange atmosphere of watchfulness that they say can drive a man insane. Legend has it that remnants of the Old Kingdom still survive here and there but I have never seen anything of it. If one does not encounter the Turog, all there is in that forest is a brooding, overpowering silence. Not a place, given a choice, where one would wish to linger.”

  “What will you do if you find a bridge?”

  “Destroy it,” he replied peremptorily.

  He watched her jump down from the rock and after a moment’s consideration appeared to embark on a new subject.

  “By the way, you might be interested to know that your Prince got himself ambushed by the Turog.”

  She gasped. “Andarion? Is he all right?”

  “Your concern for his well-being is admirable.”

  “Tell me!” she demanded. “Is he safe?”

  “Your anxiety makes it almost irresistible to keep you on tenterhooks, but yes, if you must know, he is safe. He and Prince Sarrick crossed the Harnor with a large force to attack the Turog but it appears that they were expected. The creatures pulled an old trick of theirs and hid in the branches of the trees and dropped on them from behind. I have seen them do this many times. Sarrick should have known better. However, your Prince fought himself out of his difficulties. He now heads for Serendar by a rather.....ah.....circuitous route.”

  “Circuitous?”

  “He does not choose to come through these mountains.”

  “He’s not afraid of you!” Elorin foolishly retorted, stung by the implication. Then realising what she had just said she caught her breath awaiting the explosion.

  But he merely laughed. “Your loyalty to him is touching. I wonder if he fully appreciates it?”

  She turned away from him, aware that he was just using the opportunity to tease her, and retraced her steps back to the horses.

  By the time Elorin finally dismounted from her horse that evening, she was stiff and sore from the unaccustomed exercise. They had ridden without a break until dusk and now she sat on the ground a little apart from the men, trying to look as if she was not suffering. Celedorn would not allow any fires to be lit as he did not chose to advertise his presence to the Turog, so a cold, rather frugal meal was her lot before rolling herself up in her blankets. She lay listening to the sounds around her, tired but still wide awake. The horses, including her grey, were picketed together a short distance away and a guard placed upon them. Apart from those on watch, all the other men were huddled in their blankets on the ground, reduced by the darkness to shapeless masses. Celedorn was lying a short distance from her, his helmet and sword placed by his side. Gradually the camp became quieter as the men fell asleep. She waited patiently. She heard the soft murmur of conversation of the guards on duty, the stamp and occasional snort of the horses, the soft breathing of those asleep. The moon silently rose above the shoulder of the mountain. A yellow half-moon, waxing stronger, that sent its gelid light drifting over the sleeping men and over one girl wide awake. She glanced towards Celedorn. He was lying facing her, his head pillowed on his arm, his eyes closed, his breathing appeared to be deep and even. Cautiously she raised herself on her elbow. The guards were out of sight, positioned on the far side of the horses. Quietly she drew her legs free of the blankets and sat up.

  Out of the darkness a voice spoke to her softly. “Going somewhere?”

  The grey eyes were open, staring directly at her.

  “I....I thought I’d just stretch my legs.”

  “Stretch them in the morning,” he advised.

  She slid back into her blankets, wondering with a certain chagrin, if he was going to stay awake all night. She would wait a while to see if he fell asleep and in the meantime she would give vent to her feelings by mentally calling him some of the more interesting adjectives she had recently acquired from the men. But while engaged in this fruitful and entertaining occupation she fell asleep.

  For another day they journeyed through the mountains, either climbing some barren pass or traversing the springy grass of some high valley, but on the morning of the third day, they began to travel steadily downwards, leaving the bare mountains behind and encountering for the first time small copses of wind-bent trees. Soon the trees began to thicken and grow taller until they found themselves in a mighty forest of oaks, beeches and chestnuts. Celedorn became even more watchful when they entered the forest and the men were noticeably uneasy, glancing frequently above and behind them. The Turog were in their element in densely forested territory, their woodcraft almost unequalled, their ability to appear and disappear amongst the trees bordering on the supernatural. As the forest was sheltered from the westerly winds by the mountains, spring was more advanced here than in the Ravenshold valley. The canopy of the leaves was dense and secretive. The woods were very beautiful to Elorin, however, who looked at them in a less practical light than her companions. She observed how shafts of sunlight filtered through gaps in the canopy, lighting little glades where wood anemones turned curious faces to its touch. It illuminated the new leaves from behind, turning them a glorious spring gold.

  Every so often Celedorn held up his hand and halted the entire convoy. In the silence that followed he appeared to be listening intently. After observing this phenomenon a couple of times, Elorin could contain herself no longer.
>
  “What are you listening for?” she asked.

  “The sounds of the forest,” he replied softly. “Birds and animals always know if the Turog are around. Birds particularly are disturbed by them and send out their alarm calls. This is prime ambush territory, as we are now very close to the Forsaken Lands. It pays not to underestimate one’s enemy, that is how I have stayed alive.”

  She glanced uneasily around her, picking up the atmosphere. Suddenly the forest did not seem so beautiful.

  “What do I do if it comes to a fight?” she asked.

  “Stay close to me,” he replied, unaware that he was echoing Dorgan’s advice.

  As the morning passed, Elorin, who had been listening intently, detected a new sound in addition to those of the forest and the convoy. A constant low thunder that increased in volume as they travelled.

  “What is that?” she asked

  “The Serpent’s Throat. We have arrived.”

  She stared around her in confusion, seeing only trees. He halted his horse and dismounted. The men stayed where they were but Elorin slid out of her saddle and followed him on foot through the trees. The sound increased in volume, filling the air, obliterating all other noises. To its thunder was added a steady hissing sound. Yet still she could see nothing. Then all at once he abruptly stopped, so abruptly that she almost collided with him. Astonishment wrenched a gasp from her when she saw why he had halted. Almost directly at their feet a gulf yawned, a wound in the earth’s surface that stretched to right and left until it disappeared amongst the trees. The sides of the chasm dropped sheer from the forest floor, plummeting without warning into oblivion. The trees grew right to the very edge of the abyss, hiding its presence until the last moment. Gingerly she peered over the edge. He grasped her arm warningly.

  “Be careful,” he advised, raising his voice over the noise, “the edges can give way.”

  Far, far below the mighty Harnor was trammelled and confined between the towering black walls of stone. The curves and twists of the passage threw it into angry tumult as if it resented its restraint. Just below where they stood, it hurled itself over a fall in a thundering torrent that sent mist floating upwards on a cold draft of air. She felt the chill touch of the tiny droplets, astonished that they could reach such a height. The far wall of the precipice was so close at this point, that a strong man could have cast a stone on to it. She stared at the opposite wall. The black stone gleamed damply. A few tiny ferns and lichens had courageously made their home in the crevices; but largely the rocks were bare, shining and slick with spray. She looked down at the Harnor, drawn to it by a kind of frightening fascination. His grip on her arm tightened.