The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  So Vesarion, much to his surprise, found a chastened Bethro awaiting him, apprehensive but willing to obey orders.

  Directing Bethro to go first so that he could help him find footholds, Vesarion began the delicate task of guiding him up the cliff. He could clearly hear his charge making short, gasping breaths indicative of panic and occasionally they had to stop altogether for Bethro to summon up the courage to go on, but this time he managed to keep both his head and his footing.

  At last, with immense relief, they emerged from the shadowy void up into the windy heights amongst the pine trees. Without a word, Bethro sat down with a thump on the pine needles as if his legs had given way under him, and inwardly vowed never to leave his comfortable study in Addania again. But Vesarion stood staring across the ravine, his gaze distant, asking a question in his mind to which there was no answer.

  Had Vesarion but known it, Prince Eimer, too, was having difficulty with argumentative charges. He was perfectly used to bickering with his strong-minded sister but he soon discovered that he had acquired yet another female of decided opinions. Iska, it soon emerged the following morning, was not convinced that their friends had proceeded upstream and was all for following the Turogs’ trail leading in a downward direction, on the assumption that they must be in pursuit of them. A sharp argument ensued during which some totally uncalled-for aspersions were cast on his tracking abilities. The skirmish was rapidly degenerating to infant level, when Sareth intervened to throw her weight behind her brother’s opinion. She suggested that they should try upstream for a short distance in the hope of picking up some trace of them. Iska sulked a bit at being overruled, but when it came to such matters, experience had taught Sareth that Eimer’s instincts were seldom wrong. After travelling for a few hours, her faith in him was once again proved justified. Eimer had been dismounting periodically to peer into the depths of the ravine in the hope of finding their friends but he found nothing until mid-afternoon, when lying flat on his stomach in order to get as good a view into the gorge as possible, he spotted some footprints on a bank of shingle. He was too distant to make out much more than that the shingle had recently been disturbed but it was enough to vindicate his choice of direction. However, if he expected an apology from Iska, he had sadly underestimated her. She merely divested herself of some muttered remarks about lucky guesses.

  They hurried on, encouraged by what they had found, following the edge of the ravine as closely a they could, but a short distance further they encountered a thicket so dense that it could not be penetrated on horseback and they were forced to leave the cliff edge and return once more into the maze of trees. The old, silent feeling of being watched that had receded a little on the more open ground by the defile, now returned as the trees closed ranks conspiratorially around them. Eimer once more began to wonder if the strange forbidding atmosphere was beginning to play tricks with his mind, for several times he thought he caught the flash of movement out of the tail of his eye, yet each time when he swiftly turned his head to look more closely, he could see nothing at all. However, just as he was beginning to doubt his sanity, Iska, riding behind him with her arms around his waist, said softly in his ear: “I think you were right when you said that something was following us. Twice I have seen the leaves of bushes move when there is no wind, and I am certain it was not merely a bird.”

  “Did you see what it was?”

  “No. But whatever it is, it appears to be alone.”

  All three companions were now watchful, every sense heightened, unsure what they were dealing with, or how hostile it was.

  It was therefore with a sense of shock, that upon cresting a slight rise, they saw a short distance ahead of them a horse tethered to a tree.

  They halted, staring at it in soundless disbelief for a moment, before Sareth made a discovery that made her grasp her brother’s sleeve.

  “Eimer,” she whispered urgently. “Is that not Vesarion’s mare?”

  He looked more closely at the chestnut horse with the distinctive white blaze down its nose. “I believe you are right,” he acknowledged softly. “But how does it come to be tethered to that tree? The last time I saw it, it was bolting off into the woods in terror, looking as if it wouldn’t stop until it got to Addania. So how can this be possible? This smells like a trap to me.”

  “What do we do?” Sareth asked.

  “I’ll dismount and go to investigate.” He spoke over his shoulder to his passenger. “Iska, get in the saddle as soon as I’m down and if there is any sign of trouble, the two of you take off just as fast as you can – and no arguments. You are not to wait for me or try to help if it turns our that this horse has been put there as bait by the Turog.”

  Sareth and Iska both nodded agreement but they exchanged significant glances with one another when the Prince’s back was turned.

  Eimer slid from the saddle and drew his sword. Instead of approaching the horse directly, he circled around through the trees, moving silently, scrutinising the branches above him to detect signs of an ambush.

  But nothing moved. The horse seemed relaxed, tugging a little at its tether now and then but not exhibiting the alarm that close proximity of the Turog would have engendered.

  As silently and warily as a wood spirit, Eimer drew closer.

  Still nothing moved. The horse watched him approach, its ears pricked forward, its eyes intelligent.

  “If only you could talk,” breathed Eimer as he laid his hand gently on it neck, every nerve alert for attack. But still nothing happened.

  The saddle and all of Vesarion’s belongings seemed intact. Nothing appeared to have been disturbed or tampered with.

  “In fact,” he continued conversing with the horse, “if it were not for the fact that someone or something tethered you to this tree, I would call this a happy discovery.”

  He turned to the two women, anxiously watching, and shrugged his shoulders, indicating that he was at a loss to explain the situation. As they rode forward to join him, Iska was still looking over her shoulder, checking for movement.

  “This is unsettling,” she said to Eimer.

  “To say the least,” he agreed. “There appears to be no ambush for the present, but this horse was put here in our path for a reason. We were meant to discover it and I cannot see that any good will come of it.”

  “Vesarion could not have found it, could he?” asked Iska.

  “Unless Vesarion has acquired the powers of a mountain goat, he and Bethro are still trapped in that ravine. No, I would guess that whatever has been following us has done this, which means that not only has it been watching us but it is now trying to manipulate us – something I do not care for at all.”

  “Are you going to leave the horse?” asked Sareth.

  “No. I’ll take it because we need it, but I’m not very easy in my mind about it.”

  Eimer unhitched the horse and mounted it, then promptly got off again.

  “What is it?”

  He chuckled. “Clearly no one has ridden this horse since Vesarion, because the stirrups are too long for me.” He adjusted the straps. “At least now we can get up some speed without the risk of the pillion falling off.” He grinned at Iska, who couldn’t resist smiling back. “Now, let’s get out of here.”

  For two long, wearisome days during which they had nothing to eat other than a few small trout, Vesarion and Bethro followed the edge of the ravine northwards as it cut like a wound into the high moorland. Apart from the occasional copse of rather leggy fir trees, the terrain was open, a rolling plateau of heather and bracken, occasionally interspersed by hidden bogs masquerading as innocent clearings of grass and moss. Unexpectedly, it was Vesarion who first fell foul of these obstacles. Taking the lead as always, he was striding through the heather, keeping one eye on the edge of the ravine, when without warning he plunged into a peaty morass up to his knees. At first, not taking the event very seriously, he tried to turn round to regain firm ground but the bog had a deceptively strong grip on h
im and with a revolting glooping noise, he sank even further. Bethro, standing on the last firm tussock of grass, did what Bethro always did on such situations – he panicked.

  “What do I do?” he cried, distractedly wringing his hands. “What do I do?”

  Vesarion, who had stopped struggling, realising that it only made matters worse, said in a voice of enforced calm: “Take off you belt, Bethro, and toss the end to me. You are going to have to pull me out and I can’t give you much help because there is nothing firm under my feet at all. You will have to use your weight as a counterbalance.”

  But Bethro was still teetering around on the only clump of grass he had identified as being secure. “The edges of this swamp are not clear,” he wailed. “What if I fall in too?”

  “On the whole,” replied Vesarion dryly, “it would be better if you didn’t.”

  Brought up short by the unexpectedly humorous reply, Bethro steadied himself. Obediently, he unloosed his belt, which was of considerable length because of his girth, and tossed the buckled end to Vesarion. Unfortunately, it fell short on the first throw but on the second, with a lunge that made him sink even deeper, Vesarion caught the buckle and got a firm grip on it.

  “Can you put a turn around your wrist?” he asked Bethro.

  “There’s not enough length.”

  “Very well. Just get as good a grip as you can, dig your heels in to get purchase and lean back. Don’t try to pull with your arms, just use your weight.”

  Bethro did as he was bid and the belt tensioned but although he had weight in abundance, his grip was another matter. The belt shot out of his grasp and he fell flat on his back with an audible thud that knocked the wind out of him.

  Vesarion, digging deep into reserves of patience he did not know he possessed, encouraged him to try again, ignoring an uncomfortable sensation of downward motion around his legs.

  Warming to his role as rescuer, the Keeper of Antiquities dried his hands on his breeches and got a determined grip on the belt. “I’ll give it another go,” he declared. “I would have done better if it were not for the fact that I am weakened with hunger. Now, here we go!”

  True to his word, he got a two-handed grip on the leather strip and heaved backwards. The belt pulled tight and Vesarion felt the tension on his shoulder joints as his arms extended to full stretch. At first nothing much happened. Vesarion, now up to mid-thigh in the bog, barely stirred, but he was beginning to get an inkling that Bethro had a stubborn streak, because instead of being discouraged, his rescuer only heaved harder. His face went plum-coloured with effort and sweat broke on his forehead, but still he heaved until with a sucking sound, the swamp lost its grip a little, enabling Vesarion to pull one leg clear up to the knee. Inch by inch Bethro hauled and pulled, forcing the squelching peat to surrender its victim, until finally a soaked and filthy Vesarion arrived on the heather beside him, under the impression that his arms were two feet longer than before they started. Bethro was on his back, gasping for air like a stranded fish, but inwardly immensely pleased with himself.

  “Thank you,” said Vesarion, pulling off his boots and emptying water and mud out of them, “I never thought that I would be glad of the fact that you are so fond of your food.”

  But the use of that beautiful word ‘food’ caused his gallant rescuer’s mind to fasten once more on his all-consuming obsession. “Oh, for something to eat!” he groaned. “Three trout in two days! I shall soon waste away to a shadow. Every time I close my eyes, all I can see is the side of beef they set before me in that wonderful tavern in Sorne, all juicy and succulent. And as for the apple pudding, covered in cream!”

  “Stop it!” cried Vesarion, covering his ears. “This is torture! If you don’t stop talking about food I am going to jump back into that bog.”

  “We can’t go on like this,” moaned Bethro dispiritedly. “We are going to starve to death in this wilderness.”

  Vesarion, who had begun to think the same thing himself, at first could offer no reply, but at last he said: “I see no other choice than to continue with our plan. We must believe that the others not only survived the Turog attack but are searching for us. If they are following one side of the river and we the other, we are bound to meet eventually. This ravine must come to an end as the river nears its source and then we can cross to the other side and retrace our steps back to the site of the ambush. We must try to make what speed we can while our strength holds, for I will not conceal from you that the lack of food has me worried. I know you must be tired, for I certainly am, but we must cover as much ground as we can before nightfall, do you understand?”

  Bethro propped himself up on his elbow, as pale now as he had been red before.

  “Yes,” he replied in a subdued voice. “Forgive me, my lord, this is all my fault.”

  Vesarion shrugged carelessly and merely remarked: “You need not be so formal with me, Bethro. We are not at court now. I mean, look at me! Wet, dirty, unshaven. Not exactly an inspiring sight. Wouldn’t Enrick just love to see me now.”

  Bethro, who detested Enrick, and was rapidly revising his initially unfavourable impression of Vesarion, could not suppress a chuckle, his spirits lifting a little.

  His companion, smiling a little to himself, pulled on his damp boots and stood up, offering his hand to help his prone rescuer to his feet.

  “Come, Bethro, we must keep moving.”

  The King’s librarian looked at the extended hand in surprise, but took it willingly and found himself hauled to his feet by a strong clasp.

  Although Vesarion did not realise it, at that moment he had secured for himself a firm friend.

  Their luck, which had been running as persistently against them as the river current, finally turned that afternoon. Although the cheerful sunshine had vanished to be replaced by a blanket of grey clouds that rendered the hitherto pleasant upland a little bleak, the dismal light revealed a sight that gladdened their hearts more than any amount of sunshine – the end of the ravine. After persisting for so many miles, it ended with great suddenness, as such features often do, at a waterfall. The fine plume of white water cascaded over a bar of hard, black rock. Above this, the shallow river chattered along merrily between heather-covered banks, its bed strewn with flat rocks that made convenient stepping stones for two tired travellers. The trees on the far side had stopped short at the waterfall but a downward scramble through the bracken, soon brought them once more into their enigmatic embrace.

  The corrosive pain of hunger reminded Vesarion that any jubilation they might have felt at finally crossing the ravine was premature, for there would be even less to eat amongst the trees than by the river. He looked dubiously at the tall trunks, stiff as sentries, and the dry, barren undergrowth and knew that he might just as well have been in a desert for all the hope of sustenance it offered. They were also back in the kind of territory the Turog most favoured for ambushes and he knew that neither Bethro nor he had the strength either to out-fight or out-run a serious attack. Glancing surreptitiously at his companion stumbling along beside him with his head hanging in fatigue, he knew Bethro could not keep going much longer. The fact that he was utterly silent, spoke volumes in itself. It was therefore with a feeling of persecution, that a little further on, he discovered that his plan of following the edge of the ravine was going to be frustrated. Before them lay an impenetrable maze of thorny bushes and brambles growing in tangled profusion along the very edge of the cliff and for some considerable distance into the trees. The two tired men were going to be forced to make a detour deeper into the forest, further into the silence and shadows and the danger of attack.

  But as Vesarion stood contemplating the obstruction with disfavour, he detected something he had not expected to hear - the faint sound of horses’ hooves. Swiftly, he brought Bethro to a halt by the simple expedient of grasping his arm. Listening intently, he could hear the drum-like beats on the dry ground. Several horses proceeding at a brisk trot, the rhythm unmistakable. He remembered that Fer
ron had said that no horse would tolerate a Turog on its back, but then Ferron had also said that the Turog were too few in number to attack them, so he placed little reliance on his wisdom. Gesturing for silence, he dragged Bethro behind a brake of thorn bushes. The hoof-beats grew louder, becoming more insistent, before suddenly ceasing. Ears straining, Vesarion thought he detected the sound of voices. Signalling to Bethro to stay put, he stealthily crept through the bushes, sword drawn. The voices grew more distinct. Definitely not Turog. Then he thought he could distinguish a woman’s voice, and his heart leapt with hope. However, still cautious, he drew closer, still keeping to what cover he could find.