The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  Payment shall be delayed until the task you were born to perform has been completed.

  He had not been told what that task was, but he felt in his heart that the time for its fulfilment was drawing closer.

  For two days the Turog did nothing. They waited in their camps on either side of the city and made no attempt to attack it.

  At first, the King was grateful for the respite but soon their inactivity began to fray at his nerves. Observation from the city’s walls revealed that there was much sharpening of weapons going on and much activity around the black tents, but it was Celedorn who first pointed out that there were fewer of them than there should have been. As he watched, he became convinced that the activity was a sham, designed to convince the Eskendrians that all their enemies were still present in the camp when in fact they were elsewhere.

  Then, at dawn on the third day, the reason for such strategy became clear - the first pale threads of light revealed a river shrunken within its banks.

  Sarrick, leaning anxiously over the wall, was appalled to discover that Celedorn’s prediction had proved to be correct. As the cool sun of autumn rose and the morning wore on, the remaining pools of water left in hollows in the riverbed, began to dwindle, draining quietly but inexorably away to leave sheets of drying mud, plastered with long, green weed and some gasping fish caught by surprise by the unexpected removal of their habitat.

  Celedorn wasted no time in useless recriminations but flung himself into the frantic preparations to deal with the inevitable assault on the walls. Long pikes were brought up to the battlements to fend off scaling ladders. Cauldrons of oil had fires lit under them at intervals along the walls, and the gates were triple braced. The townspeople, who were not directly involved in helping the military, were ordered to stay in their homes.

  Elorin and Relisar appeared on the walls about noon, as chance would have it, just as the Turog army began to mass for the attack. They both instantly incurred Sarrick’s displeasure. His tension found relief by rounding first on Relisar.

  “What are you doing here? Unless you are here to produce some sort of spell that will strike dead a thousand Turog, then you are only in the way.”

  “You know very well that I will not use my abilities to kill,” replied Relisar with unfortunate piety.

  Uttering a sound of disgust, Sarrick turned his attention to Elorin. “It is far too dangerous for you to be up here. If I read the signs correctly, we are about to be bombarded.”

  She looked at him coldly. “I will not hide in some corner until the Turog come to get me. If I can bring down just one of them, then I will deem it to have been worth the risk. I would rather die here on these walls, than be caught like a rat in the town.”

  Sarrick, secretly impressed, said gruffly: “I wasn’t thinking about you, I was thinking about myself. If anything happens to you, I need not fear the Turog, for your husband will cut out my liver.”

  She laughed, her flash of anger extinguished. “Where is he?”

  “He and my brother are at the bastion by the gate. However, if you want to help, we could make most use of your skill with the bow here, where the walls are lowest. Your first priority will be to pick off any Turog trying to raise a scaling ladder. Ask the quartermaster for more arrows.” He smiled with a suddenly charming smile. “I know you won’t waste them.”

  When Sarrick had moved away, Relisar, who had no intention of letting the Prince dislodge him, leaned his elbows on the parapet and watched the preparations below. The day had become cloudy and dull, with a chill wind blowing off the Westrin Mountains. It seemed to render everything a monochrome grey: the walls of the city, the bare trees, even the plain below seemed the colour of a shield. Against the metallic background, the black swarms of Turog manoeuvred. Legion after legion in their sable armour, bristling with wicked spikes, began to move with remorseless precision into attack position on the east bank of the river. Amongst their ranks, imperfectly concealed, were dozens of scaling ladders, and grappling hooks shaped like barbarous claws. Siege mantlets were not in evidence as, thankfully, the river mud was too boggy to support them, but catapults loaded with heavy stones were already in position to bombard the walls. As he watched, a detachment of Red Turog, complete with a heavy, iron-shod battering ram, formed up on the bank opposite the gate.

  Several Great-turog could be seen striding about, directing the lesser ones with shouts and snarls and occasionally with the help of their long whips. One, in particular, halted on the bank opposite Relisar and looked up at the battlements with its sulphurous eyes. For a long moment its glance travelled along the walls before coming to rest on Relisar. Even from the height of the walls, it was a formidable creature. It stood over seven feet high, with breadth of shoulder to match. Its black breastplate covered its deep chest, but its arms were unprotected, exposing powerful muscles under its grey skin. On its wrists it wore broad steel bands and in its hand it gripped a heavy sword of human design, but made in proportion to its height. Even from a distance, Relisar felt its strength of will and its desire to dominate. He attempted to pit his will against it, but it just laughed mockingly, showing its pointed fangs, and strode away.

  Just then, Sarrick’s voice, raised to a thunderous roar, carried clearly along the battlements.

  “Take cover!”

  Relisar had just time to observe some ominous activity around the catapults before Elorin caught a fistful of his robe and dragged him down behind the wall.

  Scarcely had they hit the flags, than with a terrifying howl, the first projectile hurtled over their heads and slammed into some of the houses in the city.

  Sarrick had crawled along behind the wall and was now near to them. “They are finding the range,” he growled with impotent anger. “A few more shots and they will have it.”

  Barrages of heavy stones were flung screaming like fiends at them. Some overshot into the city, wreaking destruction amongst the houses, some fell short with dull thuds into the mud of the river bed, but many more began to strike the walls with such force that the flags beneath them began to tremble with the impact.

  “Is there nothing we can do to stop them?” shouted Relisar, his hands over his ears.

  “Nothing,” replied Sarrick bitterly. “The catapults are out of range of our arrows. If we were stronger, I would try a sortie to capture them, but we can’t spare the men for that. We must trust that those who built Addania’s walls a thousand years ago knew their business.”

  “What if one hits the gate!” Elorin exclaimed.

  “It won’t. The gate has been deliberately set at an angle behind the bastion to prevent such an occurrence.”

  With an ear-splitting crash, a stone hit the top of the parapet a few yards from them and exploded through it, flinging chunks of wall and smaller debris like hailstones all around them. Even though Elorin was crouched almost flat on the flags, she found herself violently flung backwards and was only saved from falling down a flight of steps by Sarrick’s iron hand grabbing the collar of her tunic. He hauled her back beside him and she saw that he was bleeding from a graze on his chin and another beneath his ear.

  “Are you all right?” he yelled in her ear, almost completely deafened.

  She nodded. “Where is Relisar?”

  Relisar was lying flat on his back, some distance further along the flags from the place where he had been sheltering, quite at a loss to account for how he got there. He was covered in white dust from head to foot, and was blinking at them like a dazed rat in a flour bag. He at least appeared to be uninjured. A soldier, sheltering closer to the impact than they had been, was not so fortunate. What remained of his body did not make pleasant viewing.

  The bombardment continued for over an hour, until all the defenders were deafened and blinded with dust, but the city walls, though damaged in places, did not give way and no significant breach was made.

  When the catapults finally fell silent, they were replaced by a storm of arrows snicking and pinging off the stonework, b
ut once again the mighty walls protected the inhabitants, their very height rendering all but the luckiest shot, fruitless.

  A thunder of drums erupted from below. Heavy, rhythmic thuds that seemed to make the earth vibrate. In time with the drumbeats, the Turog began to clash their weapons against their shields. The noise was simply terrifying. Knowing well what it presaged, Sarrick, covered from head to foot in grey dust, regained his feet and signalled to his bowmen to come forward.

  “Here they come,” he muttered grimly, as the waiting hordes began to surge across the drained river to the base of the walls.

  Scaling ladders began to sway up clumsily into the air, and at the same time, a multitude of grappling hooks were launched. Some clanged harmlessly off the lower fortifications but a few made it to the top of the walls and instantly their steel claws hooked the parapet. Men flew to slash the attached ropes with their swords, but more and more came. A forest of ladders, like some frightening fungal growth, arose out of the black throng below.

  Elorin found a place on the battlements beside the other bowmen, and ignoring the incoming arrows still pinging off the walls below her, took careful aim. Her target was a Great-turog directing operations at one of the ladders and she drew back her bow with all her strength to put killing power behind her shot, but just as she released the arrow, he moved. The smaller Turog standing behind him fell with Elorin’s arrow driven right through its throat. Quick as a blink, Elorin whipped another arrow from her quiver, but the Great-turog had melted away, in that rather disconcerting way they were prone to.

  Further along the walls, Celedorn and Andarion were defending the bastion that protected the gate from attack. The Red Turog, realising that the draining of the river had left the gate some twenty feet above ground level, had prepared a wooden ramp, designed to give them the height needed to use the battering ram. The Eskendrians had absolutely no intention of allowing them to get such a structure into position. Arrows hissed down from the heights above onto the enemy struggling with the heavy ramp. In response, they locked shields above their heads and although their losses were heavy, continued to move the ramp forward inch by inch.

  “We are not going to stop them this way,” commented Andarion.

  “No,” agreed Celedorn. “Let us see what a little hot oil between the armour can achieve.”

  “You have no compunction?”

  Celedorn was clearly surprised by the question. “None.”

  Cauldrons of oil were carried to the edge of the parapet by men staggering under the weight but also wary of spilling their scorching load. When the order was given, searing hot sheets of oil fell mercilessly on the Red Turog below. Screams and shrieks of pain rose up from the gate, as the oil penetrated their armour. Some ran wild, tearing frantically at their burning armour, driven mad with pain. There arose to the nostrils of the defenders an unpleasant smell of roasting Turog. The ramp was abandoned, as those few who had escaped the oil came under fire from the walls. However, a Great-turog on the far bank, snarling with rage, swung his long whip over his head and lashed another detachment of Red Turog into position by the ramp. It said much for the fear in which he was held, that despite the screams of their burning comrades, the Red Turog obeyed.

  “They have come back,” exclaimed the King in despair.

  Celedorn leaned over the wall, dangerously exposed, to view the ramp below.

  “I have an idea,” he said, sharply withdrawing his head as an arrow struck the stonework beside him. “I need a torch.”

  At a word from Andarion, a soldier came running up and thrust a flaming torch into his hand. Celedorn leaned out again. “Some oil fell on the ramp. If I can get this torch to land on it, with luck, it will catch fire.”

  To get a good shot, he had to lean out so far that Andarion was forced to thrust his hand through his belt and lean his weight backwards as a counterbalance. The soldiers around him were appalled that their king should risk himself in such a fashion, for arrows fell thick and fast around them and several men fell. Without a word being spoken, they raised their shields to protect him.

  Celedorn, taking careful aim despite his exposed position, gently lobbed the torch and watched as it slithered down the ramp amongst the Red Turog. For a moment nothing happened, then suddenly there was a burst of flame as the oil ignited. The creatures sprang back, remembering the fate of their comrades, and as they did so, the shields locked protectively over their heads, separated. The Eskendrian archers did not waste their opportunity and the Turog were forced to abandon the blazing ramp in disarray.

  Not so, however, at the section of the wall under Sarrick’s command. As expected, his section bore the brunt of the attack, as this was the place where the wall was most vulnerable. Although many scaling ladders were pushed back with the long pikes and many grappling hooks cut, the overwhelming numbers that just kept on coming, no matter how many were repulsed, began to tell on the defenders. The river bed below the wall at that point was so choked with dead Turog that those continuing with the assault climbed over heaps of bodies to get to the base of the wall. In a never-ending black flood they swarmed across the riverbed. Ladder after ladder swayed into the air and so many grappling hooks were cast, that the wall looked like the centre of some gigantic spider’s web.

  Elorin had been so busy that she had not noticed Relisar slip away to look after the wounded. She had also not noticed that at the section of the wall where the parapet had been smashed, a ladder had been established. A knot of Turog had already reached the battlements and were defending the head of the ladder. As men charged to attack them, more and more ladders hit the wall.

  Sarrick, alert to the danger, bellowed for reinforcements before drawing his sword and wading into the fray. In response to his cry, the soldiers defending the bastion left their stations and raced along the wall to his aid. Andarion stayed to defend the gate, but Celedorn, sword in hand, sprang along the flags and charged into the bitter struggle at full tilt.

  Elorin, her arrows all gone, pressed herself back out of the way and watched as he dealt summarily with those bold enough, or foolish enough, to oppose him. For a precarious moment the issue hung in the balance as more enemy poured over the walls, but then one of the Turog recognised Celedorn. With a howl of terror it shrieked: “Zardes-kur! Zardes-kur!”

  The others heard its cry and their assault faltered for a second. It was all that was needed. The men flung themselves upon them with renewed fury and a scene of utter butchery ensued. All those on the walls were slaughtered and with a mighty, muscle-cracking effort the ladders, heavy with ascending Turog, were heaved back off the walls. In slow motion they arched out from the wall, their loads of frozen Turog too terrified to scream. At one point they almost seemed to reach a state of equilibrium, before tipping too far and crashing down on the frantically scattering masses below.

  Their fall created chaos amongst the besiegers. The Great-turog snarled and laid about them with their whips, but they knew that order had disintegrated. Slowly, the black hordes began to retreat back across the riverbed.

  “Are they re-forming?” Sarrick gasped, his entire face streaked with dust and blood.

  “No,” replied Celedorn, watching the scene below intently. “I don’t think so. They appear to be withdrawing to their camp.”

  “I don’t believe it!” exclaimed the Prince. “They can’t have given up so easily!”

  Celedorn raised his eyebrows ironically. “I did not say they had given up.”

  As those lining the walls watched tensely, the din issuing from the Turog began to subside. The noise drained away, like the water from around the walls of Addania, until almost complete silence had fallen. From amongst the black ranks, a single Turog came forward carrying a long spear with a flag of truce tied to it.

  “Now what?” muttered Sarrick. Raising his voice, he shouted to his own men to be quiet. An eerie silence descended.

  The Turog advanced to the foot of the walls where the dead were piled up like bluebottles. T
here was a sudden creak of a bow being drawn, but Celedorn moved swiftly along the wall to check such misplaced enthusiasm.

  The Turog, satisfied that it had their attention, shouted up to them: “My commander, Gorth, Captain of all the forces of the Lord of Darkness, he whom you call the Destroyer, wishes to speak with your king.”

  Chapter Thirty-six

  The Debt

  By the time Andarion arrived, one of the Great-turog had emerged from the ranks of the enemy forces and taken up position beside the flag of truce, its mighty arms folded truculently.

  Andarion leaned his hand on one of the crenellations and looked over. When the Great-turog saw him, he called in his deep voice: “Where is King Tharin?”

  Andarion responded coolly. “I am Andarion, King of Eskendria.”

  “Ah! So it is true! The old king is dead. My congratulations to you, King Andarion, not so much for succeeding your father, but because you made it through my master’s domain despite our best endeavours to prevent you.”

  Andarion shrugged indifferently and as he did so, he happened to glance along the battlements and noticed Celedorn leaning forward intensely, his entire frame as taut as a bowstring, his gaze riveted to the Great-turog.

  “Is there a point to this meeting?” the King asked tartly.

  “The point to this meeting is to avoid further bloodshed.”

  Andarion was sceptical. “Since when has that interested the Turog?”

  Gorth solemnly inclined his head as if the King had paid him a compliment. “Let us not fence with each other. There are two things we both know without the shadow of a doubt about the present situation. One, is that Addania will be a difficult stronghold to take and will cost many Turog lives: the other, is that its eventual fall is utterly inevitable. It is just a matter of time. Now, if you wish, we can repeat today’s performance again and again, day after day. We will attack, and you will defend. Time and again this will happen, until you are worn down or the city’s walls are breached. Or we can settle this in a more.....ah.....satisfactory fashion.”