The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

Immediately taking his discomfiture out on the lad, he clipped him smartly round the ear.

  “Idiot!” he barked. “He’s not dead. Anyone can see that!”

  Thus it was, that Bethro awoke to discover three things – that he had no idea where he was, that he had a thundering headache and that two complete strangers were hovering over him.

  The faces above him were swimming a little and Bethro, feeling that it was beyond his capabilities to deal with the situation, closed his eyes and resorted to groaning again, hoping that someone else would sort things out.

  The lad, alarmed by the sepulchral groans, asked in an awed whisper: “Do you think his brainses are damaged?”

  “Brainses? How many brains do you think he’s got, you daft donkey? Although, even if it’s only one, it’s bound to be one more than you. Now, you stay with him and I’ll go a get a cloth to clean up that nasty cut on his forehead.”

  When he had gone, Bethro opened his eyes again and fastened them on the youthful face before him, causing the boy to step back in alarm. He had still no idea where he was but had wits enough left to realise that if he didn’t get away fairly quickly from these two well-meaning citizens, his identity would be discovered.

  Playing on the boy’s gullibility, he made choking noises and mimed that he needed something to drink.

  The lad, panicking, said in the type of loud voice usually reserved for the mentally deranged: “You want some water, is that right?”

  Bethro nodded vigorously and immediately wished he hadn’t, for a shower of sparks shot across his vision.

  The boy disappeared with alacrity up the stairs and Bethro managed to heave himself to his feet. Immediately the cellar began to whirl around him and grasping onto a barrel for support, he made it to the steps and ascended them on his hands and knees. Discovering that he was less dizzy in this position, he continuing with this mode of travel, shuffling along the corridor on all fours, like a large, disgruntled bear. On hearing the voices of the landlord and his assistant returning, the bear made a sharp turn into the taproom and disappeared behind the counter. Gingerly he stood up, and finding that good fortune had not entirely abandoned him, his eye fell on a flagon of the finest mead sitting on the counter, fortuitously already opened. Helping himself to a liberal draught, he found himself a little steadier. A moment later and he was out in the street, trying to recollect which part of the city he was in.

  Indecisively, he ambled along the street, unaware of his rumpled appearance, or the fact that he had dried blood on his forehead.

  It was a pleasant, sunny morning and finding that no one was paying any heed to him, he began to revive a little and looked about him for landmarks that might tell him where he was.

  After an hour of fruitless wandering, he came upon the square with the fountain where they had all met that first day, and from thence it was but a short distance to the magnificent library – a route that Bethro was not likely to forget.

  Callis, quietly making notes in his fascinating study at the back of the library, was interrupted by the door unceremoniously bursting opening. A stout, tearful librarian was precipitated through it and promptly collapsed in a heap on the floor.

  Never a man prone to extravagant reaction, Callis merely raised a pair of patrician eyebrows and rose to help his unexpected guest into a chair.

  “Where have you been, my dear Bethro?” he asked calmly, soaking a cloth in some spirit to clean the wound on his forehead. “Iska has been looking for you everywhere. In fact she’s out at the moment, combing the streets for you and Prince Eimer.”

  Bethro would badly have liked to produce a tale of heroic exploits, or at the very least, a pithy account of how his quick wit had saved him from capture but he was inconveniently constrained by the truth.

  “I…er….fell into a cellar and knocked myself out.”

  Never had he spoken a sentence that sounded so lame.

  Callis’ lips twitched for an instant before he resumed his usual gravity. “Then you have not heard about the Lord of Westrin?”

  Bethro looked up in alarm at his tone. “No. What has happened?”

  In a few brief, dry words, Callis recounted what had occurred, while Bethro sat as if turned to stone, every speck of colour draining from his ruddy cheeks like an ebbing tide.

  When Callis had finished, Bethro sat in a stunned silence for a moment, before saying in a voice loaded with self-loathing: “This is all my fault. He was captured because of me. I am the one who gave the baker the coin of Eskendrian mint and triggered this whole sorry mess. I am the one who brought this suffering upon him. I am the reason that Prince Eimer is missing. What have I ever contributed to this whole mission but disaster?”

  “Surely, Bethro…..”

  “No!” interrupted the librarian with unusual vehemence. “No excuses. Not this time. This is the second time I have brought ill-consequences upon Vesarion – and who am I to have done this? He is Lord of Westrin, heir of Erren-dar, the last of an ancient line that can trace its lineage back to the high kings of the Old Kingdom, and I, Bethro, a fat fool, a nobody, have twice now almost brought that line to an end. There can be no forgiveness for me this time, Callis. The last time, Vesarion forgave me with great graciousness, but I cannot permit him to do so again. Nor can I permit myself to accept any forgiveness. The pain he underwent should have been mine, but instead all I suffered was one slight blow to the head that was entirely my own fault. I am a vain, greedy, pompous fool and others have paid the price for it.”

  “Do you think he would blame you?” Callis asked quietly, a little disturbed by the depth of self-hatred he was seeing.

  “No. He is always generous, which makes it even worse. I have never seen anything small or mean in him and I know he would not hold it against me, but this time there is no excuse for what I did.”

  At that moment, they were interrupted by a smart knock on the door and a soldier, dressed in the uniform of the King’s Guards, came in. He had already opened his mouth to speak to Callis, when his eye fell on Bethro. He turned to him suspiciously.

  “Who exactly are you?” he demanded.

  Chapter Twenty-seven

  The Springs of Healing

  Sareth soon discovered that with their escape from the city, her troubles were far from over. She found herself in a dark, unfamiliar countryside, repeating over and over to herself Iska’s instructions lest she forget them. At the same time she was in charge of someone barely able to stay in the saddle. The waning moon helped a little, enabling her to pick out some of the landmarks mentioned by Iska, but their progress was slow, as they could not risk increasing their horses’ pace much above a walk.

  She knew dawn would bring with it some fresh problems, as it greatly increased the risk that they would be recognised or challenged. Iska had told her that they would soon leave the more populated parts behind and enter a region of low hills and tangled woodland, but she had no idea if they would reach it before dawn.

  Vesarion rode silently beside her, his head bowed. With one hand he gripped the pommel of his saddle, willing himself not to fall, and Sareth was convinced that he knew little of what went on around him. His horse followed hers more or less of its own volition.

  They passed several farmsteads and one small village in the darkness, but Iska had chosen their route well, and as the first clear call of a thrush began to take to the air and the first pale strands of light began to weave through the darkened sky, they left the farmland behind. The rising sun soon set on fire the few morning clouds, turning the sky a blushing pink. It cast its rosy light over the jumbled hills they were now entering. They were thickly wooded with a chaotic assortment of deciduous trees, sometimes so dense that the way was barely passable. Little brooks tumbled down from the hills in all directions, so they were never far from the pleasant sound of running water.

  At any other time, Sareth would have delighted in her surroundings, but she could think of nothing but her concern for Vesarion. He desperately needed somewhere
safe where he could rest. The back of his new shirt was soaked with blood and he had uttered not a word since they had left the city. The only sign that he was still conscious, was that occasionally, when he swayed in the saddle, his hand convulsively tightened on the pommel to correct his balance.

  When Sareth finally encountered a much larger stream, its bed studded with round, mossy boulders, she could only hope she had followed her directions accurately and that this was the river that Iska had mentioned. Slowly, they began to follow it upstream, penetrating deeper into the wild hills. The trees began to close around them in tangled chaos. Branches linked together, twigs wove into mats and trunks crowded against one another, until they could make no progress at all, and Sareth was forced to guide the horses into the bed of the stream.

  They proceeded like this for another hour, then Sareth at last saw what she had been looking for. Up ahead, tumbling with lacy perfection over a black, rocky ledge, was a waterfall.

  “Look, Vesarion!” she cried. “We have arrived!”

  But her companion, his head hanging, made no answer. Taking the reins from his slack grasp, she led his horse towards the cascade, until they were confronted by the deep, dark pool into which it fell. The air was filled with the hiss of the churning water and was suffused with a delightful freshness that blew in cool breaths in their faces. Remembering her instructions, Sareth dismounted and led the horses around the side of the pool until she found a narrow, rocky path just wide enough for the horses in single file. It disappeared into the darkness behind the waterfall. She led the horses carefully along the wet, slippery path and through the edge of the lacy curtain. Behind it, a narrow chasm slashed deep into the dark rocks, its floor churning with yet more water, that echoed against the damp walls until it began to sound more like a mighty cataract than one small stream. Gingerly, she edged into the darkness, leading the tired horses behind her. Step by careful step, she felt her way into the cool, noisy blackness until, turning a corner, she saw a faint light ahead of her. Wading knee-deep through the stream, she quickened her pace until she led the horses out of the darkness and into the most wonderful place she had ever beheld.

  It was an immense cavern, big enough to contain an entire village. Its roof vaulted over her at such height that the tallest tower could not have reached it. But unlike any cave that she had seen before, it was not dark. Here and there sections of the roof had fallen in, creating large holes through which the sunlight descended as softly as a blessing, filling the entire cavern with an enchanting, suffused light.

  Below each opening were green islands of vegetation, patches of grass and bushes and even the occasional stunted tree. Under the largest aperture, which opened expansively enough to reveal a patch of blue sky studded with fluffy white clouds, was a deep pool fed by two springs. They bubbled out of the rocks above it and cascaded exuberantly down steep channels to plunge into its blue depths. A faint cloud of steam drifted languidly into the air from one of the springs and diaphanous phantoms of vapour haunted the surface of the large pool. A broad band of grass edged the pool and a weeping willow tree, drawn irresistibly towards the light, leaned out far over the water, trailing its delicate fingers in the mirrored surface.

  “Mineral springs,” Sareth breathed, captivated by what she saw. “That must be what Iska meant when she said that this place would help Vesarion.”

  Leading the horses further into the cave, she selected a grassy island and unloaded them, then, spreading some blankets beside Vesarion’s horse, she turned to the problem of how to get him out of the saddle.

  Gently she gripped his knee. “Vesarion, we have arrived. Try and dismount. I have somewhere ready where you can rest.”

  Upon receiving no response, she tightened her grip and shook him slightly.

  “Answer me, please,” she begged, looking up anxiously into the bruised face. “Please!”

  Her voice seemed to penetrate the fog of impending unconsciousness in which he was lost, and he stirred a little.

  “Yes,” he replied thickly. “I’ll try.”

  He slid one foot free of the stirrup and dragging his leg over, more or less fell out of the saddle onto the awaiting blankets, giving a groan of pain as he did so.

  He turned onto his side and then lay still, oblivious to his surroundings, aware only that the ordeal of the ride was finally over.

  Sareth flew into action. She unsaddled and hobbled the horses, who drifted away in search of grazing. She then hunted with feverish haste through her pack for Callis’ remedies, noting with satisfaction that Iska had replenished their supplies of food. At last she found three glass jars wrapped up in a large towel. They were accompanied by a letter written in stilted, old-fashioned handwriting.

  Closer inspection revealed that the largest jar contained a sharp-smelling ointment of a slightly greenish hue. A smaller one, made of blue glass, held a white powder, fine as dust, and the tiniest one, sealed with a cork stopper, enclosed a brownish liquid.

  Hastily, she unfolded the letter and began to read. He began formally, in a dry, yet kindly, style that was so reminiscent of him that she could hear his voice in her head.

  My dearest Princess,

  It was with the greatest sadness that I heard of the cruel treatment meted out to the Lord of Westrin by those whose duty it is to know better. Let me reassure you that not all of us who live within the Ring of Haleb are possessed of such a bestial nature. Iska has described his injuries to me and I have sent you three of my own remedies which should assist the healing process. The salve is to be used liberally on bruises and contusions and may be applied as often as required. It contains many herbs noted for their ability to reduce swelling and should ease any resultant stiffness. The white powder is to help open wounds to close and should be applied morning and evening until all bleeding ceases. The smallest phial contains tincture of poppy and must be used with caution. It will relieve pain, but if used to excess, it will induce in the patient both hallucinations and an unwise craving for more. Use this only in the greatest need – three drops in some water, no more.

  The cave Iska has sent you to was known in the days of the Old Kingdom as Sirindria Eleth – the Springs of Healing. Like so much that belonged to those days, its whereabouts was lost in the chaos and darkness of the Kingdom’s fall. In one of my many forays into the ancient manuscripts held in the library, I found some reference to it, although it gave no clue as to its location other than that it was within Haleb Lor. It was Iska who discovered it, quite by chance, on one of her many exploratory expeditions into the countryside. Iska has always had a knack of discovering things that have been lost.

  Before the Destroyer triumphed over the Old Kingdom, people travelled great distances to bathe in the waters of Sirindria Eleth. Legend has it that a water sprite lives in the pool and will confer the gift of healing on all those who bathe in her pool whom she deems worthy. Personally, I think its healing powers derive from the many minerals issuing from the hot spring. You will see that there are two springs that feed the pool – one hot and one cold. Do not drink the waters of the hot spring, for its minerals are so concentrated that they will make you ill. There are thick white deposits around the place where the spring issues from the rocks, and it is this, when diluted and cooled by the other spring, that I believe confers healing. Perhaps you are of a romantic disposition and prefer the story of the water sprite, but as a dry old cynic who has seen too much of this world, I must choose the more prosaic explanation.

  Make sure the Lord of Westrin bathes in the pool at least twice a day until his injuries heal. Yet here, alas, I must sound a note of caution. Iska tells me that he was badly beaten by Ursor. I know this man, and he is as physically powerful as he is depraved. His blows will have been severe and I fear that he may have caused injuries that are not visible to the eye. Should this be the case, then there is nothing you or I can do about it, other than to pray to Yervenar, the Creator of Light, to intervene to save the life of a good man.

  You ma
y be assured that you both will be in my thoughts and prayers, even though I deem it unlikely that we shall meet again.

  Think a little more kindly of the Kingdom of Adamant because of me.

  Farewell,

  Callis

  The letter had both reassured and alarmed Sareth. Although it had already crossed her mind that Vesarion might have internal injuries, she had resolutely banished the possibility from her thoughts, for the simple reason that it was more than she could bear. She looked at him in tender compassion. Although his eyes were closed, his breathing was fast, suggesting some kind of distress. Unstoppering the small phial, she poured three drops into some water and held the cup to his lips.

  “You must drink this, Vesarion,” she said gently, but insistently. “It will help with the pain.”

  Eventually she seemed to get through, for he took the water without opening his eyes and in a few minutes had sunk into a deep sleep.

  Trying not to disturb him, she carefully slit his shirt up the back to expose his injuries and once more caught her breath at what she saw.

  “As you are in no fit state to go to the pool,” she said in a voice that shook a little, “then the pool must come to you.”

  Catching up a wooden bowl, she strode across the cave to where a shaft of golden sunlight was slanting down through the hole in the roof directly onto the pool. The beam plumbed its depths, turning the water to bright turquoise, rendering it so clear that she could see right down to its floor. It was covered in fine white sand which she assumed must be the mineral deposits. The mineral spring itself was too hot to be used. Not only did the steam suspended above it indicate that it was almost boiling, but it fizzed and bubbled under pressure arising from deep in the earth where it was born. Every rock within reach of the spring was coated in a smooth white deposit, giving rocks the look of melted candles. Just as she was on the point of returning to the main pool, her eye caught something that she had not expected to see. A beautiful stone bench stood a little distance behind the hot spring. It was carved in raised relief with chalice flowers, and apart from the fact that one corner had broken off and the carvings were a little mossy, it looked astonishingly recent. Between the chalice flowers were inscribed some words in a flowing script that was a little obscured by the lichens. Rubbing it curiously with her finger, Sareth uncovered the words ‘Sirindria Eleth en a’theran’. Sareth’s knowledge of the Old Language may not have been as good as Bethro’s but she knew that the words meant ‘the springs of healing and of peace’. And for some reason the words gave her hope. Perhaps in this place, the magic of the Old Kingdom, that so many believed had been lost for ever, lingered on.