by R. J. Grieve
“We could make Ravenshold a home again,” Elorin suggested, but he shook his head abruptly, and urged his horse forward, leaving her wishing that she had held her tongue.
By early afternoon, they emerged from the trees onto the banks of the river without having encountered a single Turog. The river drowsed in the autumn sunshine, flowing placidly between its broad banks. On the far side, golden meadows, dotted with copses of trees, rose in gentle undulations to a low line of hills which hid the view southwards towards Addania. To the west, the foothills of the mountains began to rise in a jumbled mass, like children trying to climb their mother’s skirts.
Not a soul was to be seen.
Triana looked at the wide, powerful river a little doubtfully. “How do we cross it?”
The Prince stood measuring the distance and flow with his eye. “If the horses were unloaded, they could probably swim it, with us holding on to the saddles. I have known men to swim it, but,” he said, glancing at Relisar, “I think that is not an option open to us.”
“Are there no bridges?”
“None. The only bridge that has ever spanned the Harnor was destroyed long ago. The river is not only the boundary with the Forsaken Lands but forms our first line of defence as well.”
Celedorn, who had dismounted and was exploring on foot further along the bank, returned in time to overhear the Prince’s remark.
“I hate to contradict you,” he said with all his customary dryness, “but at this moment there is in fact a bridge across the Harnor. Come, I will show you.”
They all dismounted and followed him to the point where the river bent sharply northwards again. Beyond the bend an astonishing sight met their eyes - a long, low wooden bridge stretched right across the width of the river from shore to shore, resting on dozens of rowing boats lashed together and floating on the water.
“A floating bridge!” exclaimed the Prince. “Ingenious! But where is everyone?” he asked, staring in puzzlement at the deserted bridge.
“The bridge has clearly been built by the Turog,” said Celedorn gravely. “You know what that means, cousin, - your suspicions were correct, they have crossed into Eskendria.”
The eyes of the two men met. “We are too late,” whispered Andarion. “All along I have dreaded finding this. What will we see when we cross into Eskendria? A smoking ruin? A slaughterhouse?”
“Do not prejudge the issue. If the line of defence at the Harnor could not be held, then the Eskendrian army would have retreated to the next defensive position, beyond those hills in the distance. All may not yet be lost.”
Andarion nodded, grateful for the kindness behind his cousin’s words, and a little reassured by them.
“We will at least make use of the creatures’ construction to cross the river,” he said tightly.
As usual, Triana’s horse refused to cross, regarding the floating structure with utmost suspicion. It minced and jibbed, dragging its frustrated rider along by the reins when she tried to lead it. Celedorn, who was in no mood for such antics, caught hold of the bridle in a ruthless grasp and hauled it forward with uncompromising strength. Recognising his mood, it wisely submitted.
When he reached the Eskendrian bank, the others were waiting for him. He restored her mount to Triana, and turned decisively to face the Prince.
“We are now on Eskendrian soil,” he said, in the tone of voice that left little doubt as to what was coming next. “This is where the company must break. This is where we must go our separate ways.” He held out his hand to Andarion. “I will always value your friendship, but I will not place you in an impossible situation by continuing to claim it, now that you are once again the Crown Prince. I know that your duty demands that you must hunt me down - and in all fairness, I cannot deny that I deserve such a fate. I want you to know that in performing your duty, I bear you no ill will, in fact, I would expect nothing less of you. So come, let us shake hands and take our separate paths.”
But the Prince did not take the outstretched hand. Instead a slight smile crept into his eyes.
“I once told you that I had decided that you must become respectable. Westrin needs a strong lord in control of it once more and there is only one man I know who is equal to the task.”
“My friend, you set yourself a task that you know is impossible.”
They stood facing each other, much of a height, one so dark, the other so fair, a strange confrontation taking place. The smile faded from the Prince’s blue eyes and they became deadly serious. “Do you trust me, Celedorn?” he asked quietly.
The reply came without hesitation. “You know that I do - more than any other man.”
“Do you trust me enough to place your life in my hands?”
“What do you have in mind?”
“You must answer me - do you trust me enough to place your life in my hands?”
The grey and the blue eyes met once again in a level glance from which neither looked away.
“I do,” said Celedorn simply.
“Then you and Elorin must not leave us now. You must come with us to Addania.”
“No!” cried Elorin. “What are you thinking of, Andarion? They will hang him!”
The Prince swung round to face her. “I do not know if what I have in mind can be achieved, but I give you my word as Crown Prince, that he will have my protection. He will be permitted to visit Addania this once without any harm coming to him - I give you my word.”
“You promise what perhaps is not in your power to keep! What if the King overrules you?”
“If my word does not bind my father, then he had best leave his kingdom to Sarrick.”
“But........” Elorin began but Celedorn checked her.
“Enough, Elorin. I have told Andarion that I trust him - and I do. That is an end to the matter.”
She recognised by the implacable tone of his voice that his mind was made up, and turned sharply away from him so that he could not see the tears spring into her eyes.
Triana moved close to her and whispered. “We all owe our lives to Celedorn. Not one of us would have come safely through the Forsaken Lands if it had not been for him. Do you think that we would let any harm befall him?”
But Elorin would not be comforted and merely dashed her tears away without replying.
“We must keep your identity hidden until we are actually in the presence of my father,” Andarion informed Celedorn. “You must wear your cloak and keep the hood pulled up to cover your scars - they are, alas, all too recognisable.”
Celedorn nodded. “I will do so, once we are within sight of the Eskendrian army.”
“That assumes that there still is an Eskendrian army,” qualified Andarion gloomily. “Let us hope that all our discussions about the future are not in vain.”
As they continued southwards, a strange sense of unreality gripped them. It was difficult to realise that they were in Eskendria and not still in the Forsaken Lands, for the countryside was completely deserted. Not a human being, not a Turog was to be seen.
The parkland of rolling grass, dotted with copses, continued empty and unbroken right up towards the line of hills that was their goal.
“I don’t like this silence,” said Andarion, who was riding beside Celedorn. “It is unnatural. I know this region is a little sparsely populated because of its proximity to the Forsaken Lands and the - er - depredations of your own men, but it shouldn’t be this empty. It feels like the aftermath of a massacre - except that there are no bodies.”
“I agree. It’s too quiet. However, there is a small village beyond those trees to our left and hopefully we shall see some sign of life there.”
But their hopes were dashed. Upon rounding a large stand of trees, they came face to face with a blackened ruin that had once been the village. Two dozen houses had once stood in a circle around a neat green with a pond and a smithy. Now all that remained were heaps of burnt timbers, black and forlorn.
Celedorn dismounted and crossing to a charred beam, rubbed
his finger along it.
“This destruction took place many weeks ago. Whoever burnt this village has long gone.”
“They torched the houses,” said Andarion numbly.
“Are you surprised? They are the Destroyer’s spawn after all.”
“There are no bodies,” observed Triana, morbidly. “They say the Turog eat those they kill.”
“The bodies could be underneath the ruins,” suggested Elorin sadly. “If they took shelter in their houses they would have been trapped by the flames.”
“We must go on,” Andarion insisted in an agonised voice, his eyes travelling over the ruins. “We must go on. It is better to know the worst than continue with all this uncertainty.”
Celedorn nodded and swung into the saddle. By late afternoon, they began to ascend the flanks of the low hills. Andarion, goaded on by fear, was a little ahead of the others and reached the summit of the hill before them. He halted, an acutely arrested expression on his face and shaded his eyes against the low sun.
Beyond the hills lay a rolling plain, skirted by the foothills of the Westrin Mountains to the west and a dense forest to the east. On the southern extremity of the plain, another low line of hills hid Addania from sight. What had brought the Prince to so sudden a halt was the fact that on the plain below, two armies were encamped. The one nearest them was a huge, unwieldy dark mass. Many tents were pitched in disordered rows. Over the largest tents, the ominous black banner of the Destroyer flew. Thousands of Turog swarmed around the encampment, all wearing an assortment of barbaric black armour and carrying wickedly- sharp, curved swords and battle-axes. Here and there a Great-turog could be distinguished by its height and the way the common species gave way before it. There were so many of them that the entire plain seemed to crawl with activity like a disturbed anthill. Legion upon legion blackened the pleasant, green plain like a horrible, disfiguring growth.
But the Prince’s gaze was not upon the Turog. He had lifted his gaze to the south, to a mile or so beyond the Turog, where in the distance he saw rows of orderly tents neatly pitched with military precision. That army was too distant to make out details, but now and then the sun flashed on armour, or a mounted patrol could be distinguished beyond the main body of the camp.
“Your eyes are better than mine,” said Andarion tensely to Celedorn. “Can you distinguish the pennants flying above the camp?”
Celedorn’s eyes narrowed in concentration. “Not in detail, no, but I can tell you that their colour is sky-blue - the colour of Eskendria.”
Andarion let out a long pent-up breath. “I had thought so, but I didn’t trust myself.”
Celedorn was studying the forces intently. “They may have been driven back from the Harnor, but they are not in disarray. Their retreat, if it was one, was at least orderly. However, it will be nightfall before we reach them, because we are going to have to make a wide detour to avoid the Turog.”
“Are they preparing for battle?” asked Relisar.
“No. I don’t know what’s going on, but they are not in battle formation.”
“Look!” cried Triana. “I see Red Turog as well. Just like the ones who pursued us into the cleft.”
“I have never seen their kind across the Harnor before,” said the Prince. “The Destroyer is throwing everything he has at us. My brother will be in command of the army. We must reach him as soon as we can.”
“Our detour will take us into the foothills of the Westrin Mountains,” Celedorn advised. “A region I know well. Provided we do not fall foul of the Turog, we should arrive just after dark.”
But the Turog proved to be as frustrating as ever. They had many small scouting parties scouring the hills and it took all Celedorn’s skill and knowledge of the region to avoid them. Even so, one of the wretched creatures, isolated from its fellows, who happened upon them unexpectedly, found its throat ruthlessly and silently slit by the Executioner.
Darkness had therefore fallen for several hours before the weary and tense travellers saw the watch fires of the Eskendrian army glimmering in the blackness. While still some distance from the camp, they were challenged by the sentries. A party of bowmen emerged from the darkness as if by magic and surrounded them.
Andarion replied calmly to their challenge. “I am Andarion, Crown Prince of Eskendria.”
The reaction was not entirely what he had expected. The sentry gave a guffaw of rude laughter. “And I am the King of Serendar! Don’t play the fool! Prince Andarion drowned at sea several months ago. Prince Sarrick is now the Crown Prince.”
Triana gasped but the darkness concealed Andarion’s surprise. “Where is Prince Sarrick?”
“He is not here. He is in Addania.”
“Who commands the army in his absence?”
“My Lord Veldor.”
“Veldor will know me. Take me to him.”
The man, misliking the stranger’s assumption of authority, looked set to argue the issue but the Prince forestalled him. “Don’t be a fool, man!” he snapped, losing patience. “As you can see, we are not Turog.”
“Perhaps not, but I’m taking no chances. I can spare no more than a handful of men to escort you, for those damned creatures are always trying to outflank us in the darkness.”
Despite the lateness of the hour, the lamp still burned in my Lord Veldor’s tent. The guard left them outside while he went in to speak to his commander. As they dismounted, they could hear an urgent, but low-voiced, discussion going on in the tent. Celedorn had his hood drawn up in order to conceal his face, and the two women had done likewise to render him less conspicuous. A strong voice, raised in irritation, suddenly rang forth from the tent.
“Don’t be foolish! He must be an impostor! The Prince died on his way to Kelendore.”
Andarion grinned suddenly and called out: “This is a fine welcome, Veldor! Do you not know me?”
There was a moment’s stunned silence, followed by the sound of an upheaval in the tent. There was a crash, as if something had been knocked over and a burly, middle-aged man fairly burst through the flap. The lamplight flooding over his shoulder from the tent, caught Andarion full in the face and the man stared as if he could not believe what his eyes were telling him.
“It cannot be! You were given up for lost!” he gasped, clearly quite overcome. “My lord Prince, what miracle is it that brings you back to us?”
“Veldor, my old friend,” began the Prince but he got no further because he found himself caught in a ruthless embrace.
“By all that is holy, I thought I should never see you again. Yet now, just when our hour is darkest, you are restored to us. How can this be?”
“I will tell you, Veldor, but first you must provide beds for my companions. We have ridden hard since dawn and have had a difficult time avoiding the Turog in order to get here. They need somewhere to rest.”
Veldor finally paid some attention to the four people standing at the edge of the lamplight.
“Relisar, is that you? Tonight is a night for miracles indeed. You too were given up for lost. I am heartily glad to see you safe and sound.”
“Thank you, my lord,” replied the old man, unusually subdued.
“And these two ladies? How come you to......?”
Andarion intervened to head off any questions about Celedorn. “Later, my friend, later. Somewhere for my companions to rest and then you and I have much to discuss.”
Veldor cast a curious glance at the tall, black-cloaked figure who remained so silent, but he passed no comment and directed a soldier to escort the two women to one tent and Relisar and Celedorn to another. Elorin acquiesced in the arrangement, fearing that to do otherwise would be to draw attention to Celedorn. She cast a look brim-full of meaning at him but he merely gave a faint jerk of his head in acknowledgement, before disappearing into the tent with Relisar.
Veldor escorted Andarion into his tent with his hand still on his shoulder, as if afraid that if he let go of him, he would disappear like an apparition. He poured t
wo glasses of wine and handed one to the Prince.
“Your father’s grief was great, Your Highness. Never have I seen a man age so much in so short a period of time. When he heard the news that the ship that had been carrying you had foundered off the coast of Sirkris, it was as if the light went out of his eyes. Normally he would be in command of the army himself, but he does not come. All our efforts to repel the Turog have been carried out under your brother’s orders.”
“My brother is not here?”
“No, he was summoned back to Addania only this morning to report to the King. I must send a message to your father informing him of your safe return.”
“No,” Andarion quickly interjected. “I will leave for Addania myself in the morning. My father must see for himself that the report is true. Anything less would be cruel.”
“But......but, his grief was such, that I would fear that the shock would be too much for him. He is no longer a young man.”
“My father has surprising strength. Oblige me in this matter, if you please, Veldor.”
The older man bowed his head in assent. “Very well. Now tell me, how has this miracle happened? How is it that you have returned to us?”
“It is a long, involved story but suffice it to say, that Relisar and I survived the shipwreck and managed to reach Sirkris where we met our other companions. As Sirkris itself was in danger of being besieged by the Turog, and as all its ships had been destroyed in the storm, we decided that the only method of escape was to cross the Forsaken Lands - and that is what I have been doing all these months.”
Veldor stared at him wide-eyed. “You crossed the Forsaken Lands! No one has ever done that before! No one has ever survived such a journey.”
The Prince smiled whimsically at his incredulity. “I have had the good fortune of exceptional travelling companions - and a great deal of luck.”