The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  The Sword of Erren-dar

  Book Two of ‘The Legend of Erren-dar’

  By R.J. Grieve

  Copyright © R.J Grieve 2014. All rights reserved.

  The Right of R.J.Grieve to be identified as the Author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  The Thief

  Chapter Two

  The Lord of Westrin

  Chapter Three

  Queen Triana

  Chapter Four

  Bethro’s fall from Grace

  Chapter Five

  The Fugitive

  Chapter six

  The Forest of Ninn

  Chapter Seven

  The Barony of Sorne

  Chapter Eight

  The Spirit of the Woods

  Chapter Nine

  Iska’s Tale

  Chapter Ten

  Ambush

  Chapter Eleven

  The Ravine

  Chapter Twelve

  A Voice from the Past

  Chapter Thirteen

  The Lonely Lake

  Chapter Fourteen

  The Wood of Ammerith

  Chapter Fifteen

  The Breaking of a Betrothal

  Chapter Sixteen

  The Vale of Rithlin

  Chapter Seventeen

  Wolf Pack

  Chapter Eighteen

  Storm Fortress

  Chapter Nineteen

  The Fire Sprites

  Chapter Twenty

  The Vengeance of Parth

  Chapter Twenty-one

  A Question of Courage

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The Hidden Kingdom

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Betrayal

  Chapter Twenty-four

  The Scorpion’s Sting

  Chapter Twenty-five

  The Armoury

  Chapter Twenty-six

  Escape

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Springs of Healing

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  The Black Sword

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The Heir of Erren-dar

  Chapter Thirty

  The Lost Ones

  Chapter Thirty-one

  Perith-arn

  Chapter Thirty-two

  The Fate of Two Nations

  Chapter Thirty-three

  The Rose of Teltherion

  Chapter Thirty-four

  The Usurper of Westrin

  Chapter Thirty-five

  The Rightful King

  Chapter Thirty-six

  War Council

  Chapter Thirty-seven

  The Snake Prince

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  The Name of the Sword

  Chapter One

  The Thief

  It was utterly dark. The kind of darkness that is so intense, so concentrated, that it is suffocating. It was too dominant to be merely an absence of light, but exuded a will of its own, a certain watchful sentience that was not benign. The darkness was silent, as if it listened, brooding on its own omnipotence. Not a sound broke the uniform stillness; not a rustle, not a whisper, not the squeak of a mouse.

  Then, just as the oppression seemed unbearable, a tiny dot of light began to glow, struggling feebly against the overwhelming weight of the encompassing blackness. Slowly, it began to grow and expand, increasing in power until it became something that resembled a glass sphere about the size of an apple, suspended mysteriously in the dark air without any visible means of support.

  As the light of the globe grew stronger, it could be seen that within its glass prison shifted swirling patterns of fire; streaks of red and orange shot with writhing snakes of gold that squirmed and gyrated within their invisible confines.

  As if obeying an unspoken command, the globe floated gracefully higher, shedding its golden light abroad to reveal a circular stone chamber, not large, but with a lofty ceiling that gave the impression of space. Its bare walls were stark and unadorned. Their massive grey blocks of stone sat snugly together with nothing to break the solidity of their symmetry except a single iron-bound oaken door, its stout timbers offering the only hope of escape from the absolute confines of the chamber.

  The room housed only one item of furniture – a long, narrow table made of some dark, polished wood that glossily reflected the light of the orb. Upon the table, placed end to end, were two oblong cushions covered in rich, blood-red velvet, and reposing upon them was a sword. Its long, steel blade gleamed and glittered in the golden light, its wickedly sharp slenderness a perfect study in deadly beauty. Closer inspection would have revealed that three flowers were engraved on the broadest part of the blade, just below the hilt, their stems gracefully intertwined. Other than this, the purity of its lines was free from adornment. Its hilt was of plain steel, tightly bound in black leather. It was not fashioned of gold, nor was it encrusted in jewels, yet its position on the velvet cushions suggested an item of great value or great reverence. Beside it on the table lay a plain back scabbard – obviously its mate.

  All at once, the sword began to tremble, quivering a little against the velvet. Then gently, hilt first, it began to rise from the cushions. Upwards it travelled, until the tip of its blade left the cushions and arose into the air. It moved sideways with the deliberation of purpose and slid with deeply satisfying ease into the awaiting scabbard, as if it knew that it had found its proper home.

  The scabbard and the orb together drifted silently across the room until they halted before the heavy oak door. For the first time, the unseen will directing events seemed to hesitate. The sword hung motionless before the door with a slight air of indecision, then suddenly there was a sharp click, astonishingly loud in the stillness, the unmistakable sound of the lever of a lock being shot back. With a protesting groan from its ancient hinges, the door swung inwards.

  The light from the globe now spilled outside the chamber into an equally dark passage beyond, which disappeared up the stone steps of a narrow spiral staircase. Gently, in total silence, the sword and the globe drifted towards the stairs. Behind them the door shut itself with a dusty thud and the lock shot home again. Up and up the twisting staircase they went, until an aperture appeared, a narrow cobwebbed window that revealed the reason for the steeply spiralling staircase – it climbed the inside of a tall, round tower, obviously of great antiquity. Beyond the window, with its tiny diamond panes, lay a moonlit courtyard, its cobbled surface gleaming like a pebbled beach. A palatial building, pierced by many unlit windows, enclosed the courtyard on three sides and on the fourth lay an ivy-covered wall penetrated by a single dark archway.

  The window opened reluctantly, its outward passage forced against the dense covering of ivy that vigorously strangled the old tower. The globe of fire, as if humbled by the cold power of the moonlight, began to fade. It dwindled and receded like a withering flower until it was gone. The sword hung motionless by the window until this process was complete, then glided noiselessly out into the night.

  The air was crisp and cold, hanging still as death in breathless complicity. Not a leaf stirred. The fat, yellow moon lounged on the horizon in drunken indolence, its calm brilliance dimming the scattering of stars, eclipsing their more subtle beauty. Once through the archway, the sword floated across some formal gardens, well tended but bare and stark except for a few hardy spring daffodils rendered colourless by the moonlight. The lawns, cut in prim geometric shapes, slept under a counterpane of frost.

  Another, much larger archway on the far side of the gardens, revealed the first signs of life. Torches burned on either side of its tall gates, shedding tw
o pools of yellow light over several guards on duty armed with shields and long pikes. Their purpose was to keep unwelcome intruders from the palace compound, and consequently they stood with their backs turned to the gardens, unaware that they were being observed, unaware of any threat, conscious only of hands numb with cold and the slow march of the moon across the sky dictating their time on duty. The invisible will, immune to such precautions, commanded the sword to rise higher into the night air until it cleared the crenellated walls that surrounded the palace and descended into the shadows of the city streets below.

  The townspeople of Addania slept in their quaint timbered houses, unaware that in the shadows of the narrow streets that wound down the hill to the city wall, a will, hostile to their very existence, was at work.

  The only living things that the sword encountered on its downward journey were two black cats squaring up to each other in the prelude to a fight, but with the uncanny perceptiveness of their kind, they sensed the presence that humans did not, and shot off up an alleyway howling with fright, their fur bristling with alarm, their quarrel forgotten.

  The massive city walls were a much more formidable barrier than the fairly nominal ones surrounding the palace. The immense ramparts rose sheer from the deep waters of the river which surrounded the city, effectively rendering it an island. There was only one gateway, which tunnelled its way through defensive stonework as wide as a house. Beyond it could be seen a graceful stone bridge, springing in a single, elegant leap over the fast-flowing river. On the far side, indistinct in the moonlit darkness, shimmered the plain of Addania, and escape. Inevitably, the gateway was guarded, even though it had been many years since a hostile army had stood without its walls. Yet memories were long and caution dies hard in a people who had once faced a threat so grave it could have spelt their doom. Thus, with tireless vigilance, a full brigade of armed soldiers patrolled the gates and the moon-gilded bridge beyond.

  Above the gate, the tall battlements reared upwards as precipitously as a sea-cliff, high above the roofs of the houses that huddled within the embrace of their protection. Only the citadel, perched on its eyrie, rose higher, its walls encircling the brow of the hill like a delicate diadem.

  Once again the sword stopped as if an assessment of the situation was required. Once again the invisible will avoided contact with humanity and took refuge in secrecy. The sword rose upwards, higher and higher, until its black form was lost against the darkness of the night sky. Upwards it flew until it had cleared the daunting height of the wall.

  The guard on the bridge reached the limit of his patrol, and turning sharply on his heel, retraced his steps with military precision. He did not see the moonlight flash on an object that crossed the river with impressive speed. He did not notice its slender shape disappear into the gloom of a dense copse of trees standing in the frozen darkness a short distance away. The year was too young for the leaves to have burst from the restraint of their buds, but the naked branches were dense and dark and their number sufficient to render the interior of the wood invisible to the guards. Even could they have seen the events taking place within the copse, they would have had no understanding of what they saw, for it seemed that a swirl of moon-kissed vapour drifted like a ghost between the trees. It moved softly, in haunted silence between the trunks, as if blown by a sigh. The sword hung motionless in the glade awaiting the approach of the cloud of mist. Gradually, the outer diaphanous strands of the mist began to draw inwards, coalescing and thickening from wispy silver to something altogether darker. The cloud continued to intensify. Stronger it grew, and more definite in form. Something, a shape, a figure, was emerging, growing and evolving with inevitable ease from the cloud. Soon, a grey, shrouded form stood surrounded by the tide of swirling vapour. The shape of a man gowned from head to foot in twilight grey. Long, wide sleeves hung over its hands, and its face was hidden within the deep recesses of a cowl. The mist crawled around the hem of its robe, concealing its feet, increasing the impression that it had sprung up from the earth. The sword trembled in the air before it. For a moment it neither moved nor spoke, although the wood almost groaned aloud at the strength of its presence. With the suspicion of a gleam within the dark hood, a pair of eyes fastened on the awaiting sword. Then slowly, almost languorously, the figure raised its arm, extended a hand encased in a dark glove and grasped the sword – not by the hilt, but by the long strap attached to the scabbard. The sword, as if exhausted by its unnatural defiance of gravity, plunged towards the ground until brought up sharply by the strong grip on the scabbard.

  The gowned figure stared at its prize and even though no face could be seen, a sense of greed suffused the glade like the smell of corruption. When it spoke, there was a soft hiss like escaping air.

  “At last I have you. At last!”

  A sudden gust of wind struck the faces of the guards on duty at the bridge. Like a scythe through a cornfield, the thrust of air roared across the plain, flattening the grass and bending the treetops. Last year’s leaves pirouetted into the air, scattered from rest. The guards hung on grimly to their cloaks and helmets, bending their knees against the sudden gale.

  Then it was gone. Vanished as suddenly as it had appeared, and the moonlight was still and innocent once more.

  Chapter Two

  The Lord of Westrin

  The cavalcade of mounted men wound slowly across the plain of Addania following the white road as it skirted fields bristling with the fresh green shoots of young wheat. A cool sun had just risen over the low hills to the east. It sent out pale beams of light, casting before it long shadows that flattened themselves across the ground, pointing to the west, towards the tall mountain range that the riders had just left two arduous days before. The Westrin Mountains, their snowy flanks gilded by the new sun, floated dreamily against the backdrop of diamond-clear sky. Here and there wispy clouds wound silken scarves around their jagged peaks, but nothing else dared impinge upon their remote majesty.

  The man at the head of the column had twisted in the saddle to look back at them, as if somehow irresistibly drawn against his will. Cold and inhospitable they might be, but they were his home and he loved them with a devotion almost beyond reason. His eye fell on the neat line of riders behind him, travelling three abreast with orderly precision. The cavalcade wound back along the road until a bend, curving around a dense copse of trees, cut off the tail of the column from sight. Every one of the two thousand men was heavily armed with swords and battleaxes. Sturdy, round shields were slung on their backs and all wore close-fitting helmets with long nose and cheek guards giving them a war-like aspect quite in keeping with their reputation as the fiercest fighters in the Kingdom.

  The man who led them, in contrast, wore no armour. He was dressed plainly but richly in a cloak of dark blue which was, coincidentally, the exact colour of his eyes. His leather gauntlets and riding boots were of the finest quality but were liberally splashed with mud, as was his horse – evidence of a long and difficult journey.

  The mighty ramparts of snow, high in the Westrin Mountains, had begun to melt early that year. Spring had arrived with unexpected suddenness, routing winter like a timid opponent. The result was such a sudden thaw that every brook became a rushing torrent, every stream an unfordable cataract. At the village of Tharn in the foothills, the infant river Addania had thundered down its steep valley in the mountains to completely sweep away the wooden bridge, necessitating a long detour.

  The harsh frown between the brows of the man in the blue cloak deepened as he remembered how they had lost a man in the perilous fording of the river. It was a waste of a good fighter, and he disliked waste.

  Although only in his mid-thirties, an impartial observer would have been left in no doubt as to his authority. He carried power with an ease more readily expected in an older man, yet he carried it with the nonchalance of one long used to so doing. His face, though not precisely handsome, would have been pleasant had it not been for the habitual frown. The trait, together
with a slightly steely quality in his glance, managed to convey the sense that it would be unwise to displease him. Closer inspection would have revealed a certain humorous quality to his mouth that his deep reserve and aloofness did not entirely conceal. He was at his best when he smiled – which was seldom.

  He straightened in his saddle, dragging his gaze away from the peaks just as the column crested a slight rise, in time to be greeted by his first sight in over a year of the city of Addania. It sat on its island, embraced by the protective arms of the river, its tall curtain walls and battlements rising sheer out of the water to the silver-grey machicolations high above the plain. A hill rose within the outer walls, up which wound many narrow streets. The roofs of the tightly packed houses were a jumble of different angles and levels, interspersed with chimney pots and the occasional glimpse of an ornate wooden balcony. The top of the hill bore another crenellated wall in the same silver-grey stone but this time more ornamental than defensive. It enclosed the palace compound, home of the Kings of Eskendria and the centre of power. It had been thus for over a thousand years, ever since the Destroyer had brought down the Old Kingdom, of which Eskendria had merely been a province. Now history had become legend and the memory of the High Kings of Korem had faded until it had become one of the many fables for children to learn from the ancient writings – The Chronicles of the Old Kingdom. The last governor of Eskendria had taken the title of king so long ago that the carvings on the wall of the throne room, setting out the names and dates of all the Kings of Eskendria, now stretched from floor to ceiling. Yet it was not the royal house that carried the last remaining bloodline of the old kings, but the house of Westrin.

  As they drew nearer, every rider tilted back his head to look at the pennants of sky-blue flying from the pinnacle of each slender tower. They billowed and unfurled in the gelid spring breeze. Although they were yet too distant for the emblem they carried to be visible, each man knew the symbol as well as he knew his own heart – the legendary chalice flower, Chalcoria, in the old tongue. It was the symbol of the Old Kingdom, the symbol of freedom, order and light. It emblazoned every flag, embossed every shield and every breastplate and symbolised everything Eskendria stood for.