The Crystal Chalice (Book 1)

by R. J. Grieve

  Andarion glanced questioningly at Celedorn, who nodded, then together they descended the wooden ramp and across the causeway laid across the river bed. Once they had crossed, on the signal from the King, Celedorn melted discreetly amongst the men of the Ravenshold Division, not choosing to reveal his identity until the last moment.

  Sarrick and Andarion strode towards Gorth, their cloaks of royal crimson standing out vividly against the leaden plain. Andarion looked every inch a king. His tall figure bore sword and shield and he wore a golden circlet upon his golden hair. The brigands escorting them halted a short distance from Gorth and allowed the brothers to proceed alone.

  Sarrick was relieved to see that Gorth, too, wore no armour. He carried a sword of human design with a long, straight blade that looked fearsomely heavy. It hung in its scabbard by his side. He folded his powerful arms arrogantly as he watched the King approach.

  When they were a few feet from him, Andarion halted. Both armies were utterly silent. A fretful breeze blew across the grass, tugging irritably at the standards, making them flap and crack.

  “I keep our appointment,” said the Great-turog in his bass voice.

  Sarrick’s heart was thumping as he looked upwards at the mighty creature before him. Gorth was dressed in a sleeveless leather tunic, worn over his breeches, that left his massive arms bare, exposing grey skin swelling over powerful muscles.

  “He will never do it,” Sarrick groaned inwardly. “No man could defeat such a creature.”

  If Andarion thought the same, he did not reveal it. “I, too, keep the appointment,” he replied with a touch of disdain.

  “Where is your champion then?” Gorth asked, his yellow eyes, with pupils slitted like a goat’s, staring mockingly at the King. “I do not see him - unless you intend to fight me yourself, as you did once before.” His wide mouth stretched into an even wider sneer. “Your broken arm mended, I take it?”

  “It mended,” replied Andarion, refusing to rise to the bait.

  “Well? Where is this Lord of Westrin? If indeed he is such, for it is a title long defunct.”

  Without taking his eyes from Gorth, Andarion raised his voice just loud enough to carry to the Ravenshold brigands a short distance behind him.

  “My lord, come forward.”

  Celedorn stepped from behind the first rank of men and walked slowly forward. His back was straight, his head held high and his eyes were the colour of steel. Despite the cold fear gripping her, Elorin watched him with pride. Gorth, too, was watching his approach intently, but with an entirely different expression on his face. Suddenly, a murmur like wind in dry grasses rustled through the Turog ranks.

  “The Executioner! The bringer of death!”

  “Zardes-kur,” Gorth hissed. He swung a slitted glance towards Andarion. “So! You fall already from your high standards and stoop to a lie! You told me I was to fight the Lord of Westrin!”

  Celedorn halted facing Gorth.

  “He is the Lord of Westrin,” said Andarion in a hard voice.

  “He is Zardes-kur. I killed the last Lord of Westrin and all his family twenty years ago,” Gorth snarled.

  “No, you did not. Calordin’s son survived. He has now taken his father’s place.”

  For the first time, Celedorn spoke. “You told me you would know me again by the marks you put on my face.” He turned his injured cheek slightly towards Gorth. “Look now, Turog. Look long and hard at my face, vermin, and tell me you don’t remember that day.”

  Gorth stared at him. Slowly he said: “You were the boy, the whelp who tried to fight me. You should have died from those wounds.”

  “I did not die. I have lived these twenty years with one desire in my heart and that is for vengeance. Now that day has come and it will cost you your life.”

  Gorth suddenly broke the spell and threw back his head and laughed. “All this time Zardes-kur is no more than the whelp I branded that day! And now you think you will make me pay? No man has ever defeated one of my kind in single combat. Have you forgotten that your father tried and failed? I remember you now. I remember how I toyed with you merely for fun, after I had slaughtered your family. I remember how your mother lasted much longer than we expected. I recall your sister’s screams. What sport we enjoyed that day.”

  Celedorn’s black brows had come down and in his eyes was sheer, undiluted murder. Andarion, observing him closely, almost recoiled a step, so powerful was the anger emanating from him.

  Elorin, who was near enough to hear what was said, leaned towards Relisar: “Gorth makes a mistake by taunting him.”

  But Relisar, who had been staring abstractedly into thin air, suddenly started out of his reverie. He turned to Elorin, his eyes bright, his silver beard almost bristling with excitement.

  “I was right!” he cried in an excited undertone. “I was right all along! You are the key, but a key is not used to summon someone, it is used as a means of unlocking something precious that is hidden away. It is used to open a prison door and set the captive free. Your role, descendant of Tissro, was to unlock Celedorn’s heart. You see, he cannot become Erren-dar until he has learned both to love and to forgive. You have released him from the prison of bitterness in which he has spent the last twenty years. You have set him free to do both of these things - to love and to forgive. It is only now, that the door has been unlocked, that Erren-dar can be summoned forth. It is only now that he can be revealed.”

  Suddenly, in a loud voice that caused everyone to look at him, he cried: “It is written in the Book of Light, that the Champion will come at the moment when humanity is most in need, but for him to appear, he must be summoned by name.” He paused, aware of the King and Celedorn watching him, aware that every eye, human and Turog, was fastened upon him.

  Then in a rich, resonant voice he called:

  “Serrianth b’Ethmor, Celedorn - I summon you whom the world knows, yet knows not.

  I call forth Berendore – who had been forsaken. Who had died and yet lives.

  Zardes-kur - I command you, whom your enemies fear, to be with us in our time of need.

  Serrianth b’Ethmor, Erren-dar - in accordance with the prophesy of the Book of Light, I summon you to appear, Wielder of the Sword of Flame!”

  Every single living soul in the two armies held their breath - but absolutely nothing happened.

  Gorth tilted back his head and began to laugh. Soon the laughter spread, until all the Turog army was hooting and cackling. The Eskendrians stood in devastated silence. The derisory laughter issuing from the Turog reached a crescendo, their roars echoing round the plain.

  But Relisar was not daunted. In the same loud voice he called: “Celedorn, draw your sword!”

  Without the slightest hesitation, Celedorn reached his right hand across to his scabbard and in a single swift movement, swept his sword from its housing.

  A gasp went up from the Eskendrian army. For a brief but unmistakable moment, an incredibly intense blue flame flickered and burned along the edges of the blade.

  “He was right all along,” whispered the King in an awed voice. “You are Erren-dar.”

  As they watched, the flame faded and vanished from the blade, leaving the sword gleaming with its usual cold, razor-sharp steel.

  The laughter from the Turog had completely died away to be replaced by murmurs of unease: but Gorth was not impressed.

  “It matters not. You are but a man and therefore mortal. Call yourself Erren-dar if you will, you can have it written on your tombstone.”

  Celedorn removed his cloak and scabbard and handed them to Andarion. “You and Prince Sarrick must withdraw. I have unfinished business with this creature.”

  Looking at his resolute expression, Andarion merely said: “Chalcoria ferrenore, Erren-dar.”

  “What did he say?” Triana whispered to Relisar.

  “He said, ‘may the chalice flower protect you, Erren-dar’.”

  A murmur, like the susurration of the sea, rippled around the two armies w
hen they saw the King withdraw, and there was much clinking of armour as everyone, human and Turog, craned their necks to see.

  Gorth slowly drew his sword and cast the scabbard to one side.

  “I should have killed you twenty years ago,” he hissed between his sharp fangs.

  “Yes,” Celedorn unexpectedly agreed, “you should have. Now your omission comes back to haunt you, for I will not rest until you are dead.”

  “Brave words! But I will defeat you now, as easily as I defeated you then.”

  They began to circle one another. Celedorn, his eyes sharp with concentration, replied dryly: “I think you will find that things have changed.”

  It was as well that he was on his guard, for Gorth, without any warning, attacked, launching such a powerful blow at him, that had it found its target, the fight would have ended before it had begun. But his opponent, with the lightning reflexes that had disconcerted so many of his adversaries, sprang aside and avoiding the blow entirely, shot his blade in underneath Gorth’s, coming within a hairsbreadth of wounding him. Gorth started back in the very nick of time, a new respect in his eyes, but he was not easily flustered, and instantly counter-attacked.

  Andarion, anxiously watching the fight with his heart in his mouth, realised that although Gorth relied mainly on his superior strength, he was also cunning, occasionally feinting in unexpected directions, occasionally trying some trick to disarm Celedorn. But his opponent fought with the uncanny instinct that Relisar had previously observed. He watched Gorth’s yellow eyes and anticipated the direction of each attack. Although he tried to avoid a direct contest of strength and angled his sword to take some of the power out of the strokes he was receiving, he nevertheless found himself on the receiving end of many blows of bone-shattering strength. Gorth’s thrusts, he parried with lightning skill, striking them aside, but many axe-like blows smashed down from above, his enemy making full use of his superior height - blows that he had no choice but to block with a fierce upward stroke of his blade that jarred him to the shoulder.

  Celedorn soon realised that despite his superior speed, he was losing ground. Step by step, he was being forced back towards the Eskendrian lines. Step by step, he retreated before the relentless hammer-blows. But Gorth, for all the punishment he was inflicting, could not break through that unwavering guard, nor did the sword of the Old Kingdom break or even notch under the strain. Its blade, looking slender beside Gorth’s heavy weapon, hissed through the air, sharp enough to split gossamer.

  Sweat stood on Celedorn’s forehead, but not for an instant did his determination falter. In his mind, scenes from that day so long ago that had embittered his life, flashed into his thoughts, not distracting him, but honing his desire to kill. He could see every country that he and Dorgan had ever visited. The tall reeds of the marshlands. The burning sands of the Great Desert. He remembered everything he had been taught about the sword. Every cunning device, every skilful advantage. Then into his head once more rang his sister’s screams.

  A thrust of cold fury shot through him, and taking a powerful double-handed grip on the hilt, he flashed his blade upwards with such speed and power that Gorth’s weapon was struck aside and involuntarily he retreated a pace.

  A collective gasp of disbelief went up from the Turog army.

  Celedorn defended no longer, but moved to the attack, wrenching the initiative from Gorth by sheer strength of will.

  He moved with such speed, such fluid grace, that those watching him could hardly follow his sword. He seemed to know every move Gorth intended to make before he made it, and not only countered it but turned it to his advantage. Gorth’s heavy style of fighting was being used against him, for Celedorn was using his speed to disengage, leaving his opponent unbalanced. Then swiftly, before he could regain his poise, the attack was delivered.

  The first horrible seeds of doubt began to sprout in Gorth’s mind, driving him to even greater exertion.

  The swords clashed and rang in the unnatural stillness. Not a soul present could drag their eyes away from the contest taking place before them.

  Elorin, fear and hope battling within her, was barely breathing and was squeezing Relisar’s arm in an exceedingly painful grip that he was not even aware of.

  Sarrick’s jaw had dropped open long ago and he had not even the presence of mind to close it, so mesmerised was he.

  But Gorth was by no means finished. The blades crossed with a heavy clash. Rather than allow Gorth to throw him back, using his superior weight, Celedorn circled his blade underneath his opponent’s and suddenly disengaged, but the Turog had anticipated the move and slashed forward with a rapid thrust. Celedorn stepped aside smartly, but was not quite quick enough. The blade ripped through his left sleeve. Instantly the white linen was splashed with a stain of red.

  Gorth let out a howl of triumph that was echoed by the watching Turog, who instantly began to beat their weapons against their shields in encouragement. The whole plain reverberated with the din.

  “You see,” Gorth panted, “you are as easy to defeat as your father.”

  “You are not fit to speak of my father,” replied Celedorn between his teeth.

  His blade shot towards Gorth in a sideways slice that was so fast, that the point had ripped across the shoulder of Gorth’s tunic before he could respond. The rhythmic crash of weapons faltered and died. Blood poured in a slick, shiny stream down the Great-turog’s leather tunic. He stepped back, but not before his relentless opponent had wounded him again on the arm.

  Step by step, he began to retreat before the incredible speed and viciousness of the assault. Each wickedly accurate blow was seemingly faster and more powerful than the last. Again and again the blade of the Old Kingdom found its mark, until Gorth was running with blood from a dozen wounds. The last wound happened when the point of Celedorn’s sword raked across his adversary’s face, splitting open his cheek. Gorth fell to one knee, weakened and in pain. He looked up with his yellow eyes, knowing the end had come.

  “Have you no mercy?”

  “For you? None,” was the implacable reply. Then gripping his sword with both hands, Celedorn drove it with all his strength into his enemy’s chest.

  For a moment suspended in time, the two froze together, joined by Celedorn’s sword, then he jerked his blade free and stepped back, his chest heaving.

  Gorth remained kneeling before him, staring upwards, as slowly the light faded from his yellow eyes. Then, without a word, he fell with a crash to the ground.

  The event was greeted by an utterly stunned silence. The two armies stared in disbelief at the fallen Turog.

  Then Sarrick, whose eyes had left Celedorn for a moment to travel to the Turog horde beyond him, urgently gripped his brother’s arm.

  “Beware, Andarion. They are not going to honour their word. They are preparing to attack.”

  Even as Andarion turned to shout orders to his men, Relisar raised his hand to check him.

  “I think,” said he quietly, “you will find that they will be made to keep their word.”

  As he finished speaking, his prediction was fulfilled in a strange and dreadful way.

  The body of the Great-turog lying at Celedorn’s feet, simply melted away like morning mist until all that was left was his mighty sword lying on the grass where it had fallen from his hand.

  The waiting black hordes began to shriek their hideous battle-cries and gathered up their weapons to charge the waiting Eskendrian forces, prepared to slaughter and burn their way into the city. The Eskendrians braced themselves for the impact, raising shields and drawing swords, but as the Turog began to charge across the plain, they too began to vanish. One by one weapons began to fall to the ground, deprived of hands to hold them. Rank by rank, the black masses began to evaporate like a nightmare upon waking. Division by division they were snatched from the face of the earth, until soon all that remained were scattered heaps of black armour and weapons. Soon the plain facing the Eskendrians was utterly empty of life.


  The lone standard of the Destroyer, still planted in the earth, flapped futilely like the forlorn cause it now represented. The King strode forward and pulling the standard out of the ground, snapped the wooden staff across his knee.

  As if his action broke a spell, a thunderous cheer went up from the Eskendrian army, a cheer that echoed and swelled though the divisions until it reached the city.

  Andarion turned to his cousin, words of congratulation on his lips, but the words died unborn, for he saw that Celedorn had turned deathly white. Even as he watched, he sank to his knees on the ground as if he no longer had the strength to stand.

  Elorin and Relisar darted forward. The cheering grew ragged and died away as the soldiers began to realise that something was wrong.

  “What is it?” cried Elorin desperately. “What is wrong? Is it your wound?”

  Celedorn slowly shook his head. “No, it’s only a scratch.”

  “Then what? Why do you look so white? Tell me!”

  Relisar bent towards the kneeling man. “It is time, is it not? Time for repayment of the debt?”

  Celedorn looked up at him. “My task has been completed. Payment can no longer be postponed.”

  Elorin stared at him distractedly. “Payment? Debt? What debt?”

  It was Relisar who answered her. “On the Hill of the Seven Crowns, Celedorn offered his life in exchange for the chalice flower that would save yours.”

  “No!” Elorin cried. “No! Celedorn, tell me it is not true? Do not leave me! Not now! I beg you, do not leave me!”

  “I gave my word, Elorin,” Celedorn replied faintly. “The debt must be paid. I could not leave your soul in the darkness in which it had been imprisoned. I know that if our positions had been reversed, you would have done the same.”

  Huge tears spilled over Elorin’s lashes and began to course down her cheeks.

  Relisar, moved with compassion for them, gently placed his hand on Celedorn’s shoulder and looked deep into his eyes. “I have the gift of percipience, you know, my dear boy, a little erratic perhaps, but it is mine and I tell you this; if you live, a year from now, before the leaves again begin to turn golden and fall from the bough, a son will be born to you and Elorin. You will become a strong and just Lord of Westrin, restoring the barony to order and prosperity, using your strength to guard and protect its people. Ravenshold will no longer be a bleak fortress, haunted by unhappy memories, but will become instead a home, a place of safety where children will play once more. Yet, if you are not alive to do these things, they will never happen. If you are not alive a few months from now to father your son, he will never be born and the line of Westrin will end. You are young, with so much ahead of you, so much to live for. I, on the other hand, am an old man. I have seen many things in my life. Things that have given me joy, like the love between you and Elorin, and, alas, many things that have given me sadness. I have lived long enough to see my gifts vindicated, my prediction come true, my hopes fulfilled. I have lived to see Erren-dar defeat the servant of the Destroyer and the future of my people secured.”