The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  When they had all taken their seats, it appeared that one other chair was left empty.

  “Where is Lord Gorlind?” enquired the King.

  Veldor, as the oldest of the barons, rose to his feet. “Alas, Sire, he fell in our last encounter with the Turog. His son is still but a child.”

  “This is sad news indeed, Veldor. He was a man of great courage and will be sorely missed. You have just arrived this morning from the army, I assume you bring other ill news with you.”

  “When I left yesterday, my subordinates were under orders to begin an orderly withdrawal to within a mile of the city under cover of darkness tonight. Once we have regrouped, then it must be our priority to retire within the city in a controlled manner. The Turog, of course, will try to take advantage of the situation and turn it into a rout, but that we must avoid at all costs if we are to safely extract enough men to put up an effective defence of Addania.”

  “Have the Turog attacked again since your last report?”

  “Only minor skirmishes - in one of which Gorlind was killed. They appear to be concentrating on amassing more and more forces, so that when they do attack, their victory will be overwhelming and not the inconclusive affairs so far. Naturally, the last thing they will want is for us to shut ourselves up inside the city, for it is well fortified and supplied and will prove a very difficult obstacle to overcome.”

  “How long is the city provisioned for?” asked one of the barons.

  “Three years,” replied Sarrick. “If they want to starve us out, they must be prepared to wait a long time, and in the meantime, who knows, perhaps King Orovin will change his mind.”

  “In case he does not,” added Andarion, “the two thousand men brought from Ravenshold today will prove most useful.”

  “Brigands,” someone muttered contemptuously.

  “Yes, brigands,” the Prince shot back. “The very same who have been butchering the Turog for years.”

  “We hardly need them,” replied another baron, in more measured tones, “for Addania is impregnable.”

  “I beg leave to differ,” said a cool voice, and every eye in the room turned towards Celedorn. “Addania is strong but not impregnable - nowhere is. It has its weaknesses.”

  “Indeed?” said Sarrick, with a derisory look. “Let us have the benefit of your wisdom.”

  Celedorn returned the look levelly, in a manner that made Sarrick feel a little small. “It has two weaknesses - its gate and the river. Now a gate is, of necessity, the weakness in any fortified place, but it is mainly the river that concerns me. There is too much reliance on it to keep the Turog away from the walls, and thus preventing them from employing close siege tactics, like scaling ladders, against us.”

  “Nonsense,” said Sarrick, still smarting. “The river is wide and swift. It divides immediately upstream of the city and flows on either side of it before converging again. The water is deep, which means they cannot get close enough to the walls to scale them. The bridge leading to the gate will, of course, be demolished.”

  Celedorn appeared to consider this, his head slightly inclined to one side. “I could tell you what I would do, if I were attacking Addania.”

  “Enlighten us.”

  “I would divert the river upstream of the city.”

  There was a moment’s silence.

  “That would be quite an engineering feat,” the King observed.

  “Indeed,” acknowledged Celedorn, “but they have the time and the resources to do it. They could then cross the drained riverbed to the very foot of the walls, and we will be reduced to conventional tactics to prevent the walls either being scaled or undermined. The gate, too, becomes vulnerable to being rammed. Perhaps it would be wise to prepare such defences in advance.”

  Sarrick alone was still sanguine. “You overestimate their ingenuity. Such a thing would never occur to them.”

  “I have never overestimated them. That is why I have always defeated them.”

  At that moment, the tall doors burst open and a dusty messenger flung himself into the room and fell at the King’s feet, his chest heaving for breath.

  “Forgive me, Sire,” he gasped, “but the Turog army has attacked!”

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The Battle of Addania

  Everyone in the chamber started to their feet.

  “What do you mean they have attacked?” demanded Sarrick. “Speak coherently, man!”

  “The army was preparing for its retreat tonight and had already sent the baggage train back towards the city, when the Turog army began to form into battle order. It is not known if they got wind of our retreat and were trying to prevent it, but before we had scrambled together more than a semblance of battle order, they attacked. The army is doing its best to contain the assault, but without the barons there to command the divisions, all is chaos.” He rose a little shakily to his feet. “We need help, Sire, and we need it quickly.”

  “You will have it,” said King Tharin decisively and began to issue orders. “My lords, you must return to command your divisions with all possible speed and try to impose order. My sons will go with you. My Lord of Westrin, your brigands are needed sooner than we thought. Get them ready to join us on the battlefield as soon as you can.”

  Celedorn nodded and swiftly left the room in the wake of the other barons. The King raised his voice for his servant. “Bring my armour, quickly! And have my horse saddled.”

  The man fled to obey him, but Andarion remonstrated with his father. “It is too dangerous, Sire, you must stay here. You can depend on Sarrick and myself to do all that can be done.”

  The King’s cool blue eyes looked at his son. “No, Andarion, I have stayed too long in this palace sending other men to fight for my kingdom. Today I will go and strike a blow for myself.”

  His son’s next comment reinforced his father’s earlier perception that he had matured.

  “I think that this has more to do with Celedorn than the Turog.”

  The King turned away, refusing to be drawn on that issue. “There is no time for discussion now. Join your brother as quickly as you can.”

  Celedorn, crossing the courtyard at a run, almost collided with Dorgan coming the other way, bearing his helmet. Celedorn took it from him but would not stop. “Look after Elorin,” he shouted as he disappeared through the archway.

  The brigands, acting on their own initiative, had already saddled up and were mounting their horses even as he arrived at the stables. His own horse was being led out by a stable boy, who was clearly a little overawed by his company.

  One of the men handed Celedorn his shield. “We earn our keep sooner than expected, my Lord,” he remarked in the tone of voice that suggested that he was not at all averse to the idea. He thumbed the sharp edge of his battle-axe suggestively. “Since you left, we have not slain enough of those rodents for my liking.”

  Celedorn grinned fiercely as he slid his arm behind the shield. “Then let us repair that omission.”

  He swung into the saddle, and led his men at a brisk trot out through the palace gates and down the winding streets. Rank after rank of heavily armed riders fell into place behind him, with such military precision that it would have gladdened Sarrick’s heart had he been present to see it.

  When they crossed the bridge over the river, their pace quickened to a canter and Celedorn signalled to his men to fan out on either side of him. They could clearly see the struggling armies up ahead, for the battle was taking place only about a mile from the city. The light breeze carried the din of conflict to them - the clash of weapons, battle cries, screams, yells, horses neighing. Wounded men were already being carried to the rear, some limping their way back to the city. Over on the right flank, Celedorn spotted Relisar, busy helping the wounded, his grey gown stained with blood.

  In the confusion of the battle, it was difficult to interpret what was happening but he saw several of the barons rallying their divisions, imposing order through sheer force of will. Prince Sarr
ick broke off from the fight and spurred his horse towards them, his bloodied sword in his hand.

  “They are concentrating on our left flank, on some of the divisions that have been most depleted in previous encounters. You are needed there. Whatever happens, don’t let them outflank us. If they get between us and the city, we are lost.”

  “We will hold them,” said Celedorn firmly and wheeled his horse to the left, with his men following suit.

  It quickly became evident that Sarrick had spoken no less than the truth. My lord Veldor’s infantry division attempting to hold the left flank, was in deep trouble. Their orderly battle formation was disintegrating, as the yelling black hordes broke upon them in a thunderous cataract. A seemingly endless forest of spear-tips and black banners bristled before them, and those in the thick of the fighting were taking heavy blows from battle-axes and nail-studded maces. The Turog shrieked insanely, their yellow eyes blazing with hatred, their sharp fangs bared in killing frenzy. The men fought desperately, bracing themselves against the onslaught, taking dreadful risks - for they knew their very existence hung in the balance. Their bright swords and armour were blood-splattered, helmets and breastplates dented and shields riven, but still they fought stubbornly on.

  Veldor, recognisable by his bulk, despite his armour, had discarded his shield and caught up a heavy mace abandoned by one of his foes and was swinging it around his head, bringing it down with skull-splitting force on anything grey-skinned within his reach. Three or four Great-turog stood behind the smaller species, cracking heavy whips over them, should they show any tendency to fall back. One of them, a little ahead of the others, flicked his whip above his head and cast it towards Veldor. Its tail snaked round the shank of the mace and a tug-of-war for possession of the weapon ensued. It ended with the Great-turog wresting the mace from Veldor. He forged through the fight towards Veldor, his powerful frame rising a full head and shoulders above those fighting around him, his curved sword raised threateningly to strike.

  Celedorn, signalling to his men to close ranks and increase their speed to a full gallop, circled the Eskendrian infantry and slammed two thousand riders into the side of the Turog division. The shock of the impact was like a tidal wave striking a cliff-face. The front six rows of Turog recoiled against those behind them. Celedorn fought his way through the seething mass, savagely laying about him to right and left, in a determined bid to reach the Great-turog attacking Veldor, but when he got there, the creature had gone, disappearing with almost supernatural ease into the throng.

  Veldor was gasping for breath, covered in blood that was fortunately not his own, his sword badly notched.

  “Your timing is impeccable, my lord,” he panted. “A Great-turog is not something I would care to confront alone.”

  From the vantage-point of the saddle, Celedorn looked over the struggle. “I fear the relief is only temporary,” he said. “There are simply too many of them to defeat. The best we can hope for, is to gain enough time to retreat on Addania.”

  “Aye, my lord, I fear you are right. Just pray it does not become a rout. We must await the King’s order to retire, but in the meantime we should put our time to good use.”

  Celedorn gave a wolfish smile, and twisted in the saddle to deal with a Turog trying to bring his horse down with a long spear. A hard blow struck the spear aside and the long, razor-sharp blade hissed through the air with such cutting-power that the astonished Turog’s head flew from its shoulders. Its dark blood jetted into the air liberally bespattering both Celedorn and his horse with gore, before it fell amongst the tangle of bodies being trampled underfoot.

  One of the brigands fought his way through to his leader’s side. “Red Turog,” he announced with grim brevity, “and they are mounted.”

  Celedorn’s brows snapped together. “No horse will tolerate a Turog.”

  In reply, the man pointed to the outer edge of the battle where a strong detachment of mounted Red Turog, manlike in shape and size, circled determinedly towards Addania.

  “Quickly,” ordered Celedorn, “gather some of the men. It is as Sarrick feared, they are trying to get behind us and cut us off from the city.”

  Gathering up some of the brigands near him, Celedorn extricated himself from the infantry battle and set a course to intercept the Red Turog. He had never seen a Turog on the back of a horse before and assumed that the horses must have been specially bred for the purpose. Little of them was visible, as they were caparisoned in red livery the same colour as their riders’ skins. Even the faces of the horses were hidden by fierce red masks studded with iron. Their riders carried round shields with a long, wickedly-sharp spike projecting from the centre boss. Their helmets, too, were covered with a crest of steel spikes. The instant they saw the mounted brigands descending upon them, they wheeled to accept the challenge. The opposing forces were roughly equal in number - a fact for which Celedorn was glad, as the Red Turog were a much more formidable proposition than the common kind.

  When the two detachments collided, Celedorn forced his way through the Turog in single-minded pursuit of their leader. A fight of the most vicious kind was taking place all around him. The brigands were the only men in Eskendria who had fought Red Turog before and knew to be wary. On Celedorn’s orders, some of his men remained on the periphery of the fight, bringing down both the Turog and their horses with arrows, giving their comrades in the thick of things every advantage they could. Celedorn engaged their leader - every bit as tall as he was - and was exchanging blows of the utmost speed and ferocity with him. Their swords met with such force that it was difficult for them to remain mounted. Time and again the Turog tried to ram the long spike on its shield into Celedorn, and time and again his opponent struck it away with the edge of his own shield. At last, it tried that tactic one time too many and Celedorn’s sword flashed down behind its shield, severing the arm that held it. The shield, with the arm still attached to it, dropped to the ground, but horribly wounded as it was, the Turog fought on until it was felled from the saddle with a mighty sword-thrust.

  So fierce was the mounted battle that it had, unnoticed by the participants, been gradually drifting back towards the main fray and soon the riders found themselves caught up in the infantry battle again. The Red Turog, who were getting the worst of the fight, used it as an excuse to disengage, but their smaller cousins instantly closed around the mounted men, bringing down some of the horses with their long spears, adding the screams of the wounded animals to the chaos.

  Andarion had not been aware of Celedorn’s arrival at the battle, until a messenger sent by Lord Veldor arrived to inform the King that the retreat of the left flank had been halted momentarily with the help of the brigands. The respite, Veldor advised, could at best only be temporary and he begged the King’s leave to fall back towards Addania.

  But the King, who to Andarion’s alarm had plunged recklessly into the thick of the fighting from the moment of his arrival, was in pugnacious mood and not inclined to listen to talk of retreat.

  “Tell Lord Veldor to stand firm,” he informed the messenger. “Things are not as bad as I was led to believe and we will defeat this rabble yet.”

  The messenger bowed and left, but Andarion, in great concern, pleaded with his father: “Sire, we cannot hold out against such a force. There are too many and we grow ever fewer. Our men are tiring and there are no fresh troops to relieve them. We must retreat on Addania while we have enough forces left to disengage in an orderly fashion. It is, after all, what we planned to do.”

  “The fabric of war changes constantly, my son, you should know that. A good commander adapts his tactics to take account of what he finds on the ground. I will hear no more talk of retreat.”

  “But, Sire, we lose ground even as we speak. We cannot hold out.......”

  An angry glance from the King cut him short. “I do not countenance my orders being queried in public,” he said coldly. “Not even by you. You have learned some bad habits from your new-found friend. If yo
ur king orders you to stand and fight, then you must do so without question. Do I make myself clear?”

  The Prince bowed his head before the rebuke. “Yes, Sire.”

  They wheeled their horses together and returned to the fray. A strange kind of battle-lust appeared to have gripped the King. He shed his years like an old cloak and laid about him with the vigour of a much younger man. Andarion spent most of his time trying to guard his father from the consequences of his own recklessness. Twice his blade caught a blow aimed at his father’s back - but the King seemed oblivious to his danger.

  Sarrick came up to them on foot, his horse having been killed under him. His helmet was gone and there was a bad dent in his breastplate.

  “We must fall back, Andarion,” he gasped, short of breath.

  His brother shook his head and glanced significantly at the King. “If you wish to pose that argument, brother, I wish you luck. I have just had my head bitten off for attempting it.”

  “It’s no good, we cannot hold much longer. Celedorn and the brigands stemmed the retreat to our left and managed to frustrate an attempt by the Red Turog to get behind us, but the forces against us are overwhelming. It cannot last.”

  Just at that moment there was a cry from the King. Both brothers spun round in time to see a Red Turog, mounted on one of their fierce-looking horses, raise its sword for a second blow. The King had dropped his shield and was clutching his arm, nevertheless, he raised his sword to ward off the blow just as his two sons dived to his assistance.

  They were too late. The Turog’s heavy sword smashed aside the King’s guard and the point buried itself in his side at a join in his breastplate. The King reeled and Sarrick caught him as he fell from the saddle.