The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  “So, it is true,” he said reflectively. “I would not give it credence until I had seen it with my own eyes.”

  “We both received Sorne’s letter,” interjected Gorlind, “but the contents were so incredible that I felt I had to hear it from your own lips. Veldor and I met on the road by chance but it seems we are both on a similar mission.”

  Veldor had by now noticed Sareth and Eimer and bowed courteously. “I believe, Princess, that you are now Lady of Westrin.”

  “That is correct, my lord Veldor,” she replied formally, for he was the most senior of the barons and not a man one would ever consider being familiar with.

  “I see,” was the rather arid response, and she noted he did not congratulate her. He took a folded letter from his pocket that bore the seal of Sorne and handed it to Vesarion.

  “Read this,” he commanded curtly, “ and tell me if all that it contains is true.”

  Resisting a twinge of irritation at the tone, Vesarion looked enquiringly at Gorlind.

  “The letter I received is identical,” his lordship replied in response to the look. “We have compared them.”

  Swiftly, Vesarion’s eyes began scanning the lines, repressing a smile now and then as he encountered a flowery phrase that was clearly Bethro’s. When he had finished, he handed the letter back to Veldor in silence, aware that the older man could be difficult to handle.

  “The letter is brief but in its essentials, it is correct. Prince Mordrian of Adamant is preparing an army to attack Eskendria and that attack will come soon – although I do not know exactly when.”

  “You recovered the sword, then?” Gorlind asked.

  Vesarion tapped the hilt by his side. “Yes. It will be sorely needed, if all I fear comes to pass.”

  “Is all this true about the demon making the black sword that can cut through steel?” Gorlind asked, with just enough scepticism in his tone to cause Eimer to intervene.

  “It is,” he confirmed. “I saw it myself. They are also assembling an army of black warriors and we know not what manner of creatures they might be, for we never saw their faces.”

  Veldor turned and fastened his attention on Iska. “I assume this is the girl who helped you, a daughter of the House of Parth. How do we know that she is to be trusted? The House of Parth was ever the breeding-ground of traitors.”

  “Yes, it was,” replied Vesarion, forestalling Iska’s reply. “But not in this case. Iska has proved her loyalty beyond doubt. Without her help, we would be in ignorance of what is about to befall us. I should, perhaps, make it plain,” he said pointedly, “that she has my protection, should she stand in need of it.”

  Veldor raised his eyebrows haughtily at the tone. “I have never liked you, Westrin,” he said bluntly. “I have always considered that you have too much pride for so young a man. I hear that you even on occasion denigrate your famous ancestor. I think, perhaps, you need to learn respect.”

  Instead of taking offence, Vesarion smiled ruefully. “There may once have been truth in what you say, but no longer. I have learned many things on my journey and have unlearned even more. You are the eldest of the barons, the only one amongst us who still remembers Erren-dar. If, in the past, if I have caused offence by my attitude, I ask your pardon.”

  For the first time, Veldor’s phlegmatic features registered surprise. “Your experiences have indeed changed you. It takes a strong man to do what you have just done. Do you know, for a brief moment, you looked the very image of your grandfather.”

  Just to prove the point, Vesarion, who at one time might have taken offence at such a comparison, merely laughed disarmingly.

  “A compliment indeed – although you should be careful not to feed my conceit.”

  But Veldor stood contemplating him. Something clearly growing in his mind, and slowly said: “With your marriage, you now stand behind only Prince Eimer in your claim to the throne.”

  Not making the mistake of taking this at face value, Vesarion promptly replied: “I am Baron of Westrin. I aspire to no more. To do so would be treason – and I am no traitor.”

  Gorlind nodded approvingly. “We feel as you do, but there are those amongst our ranks who would go further and they may be difficult to control. We had to be sure that you were not trying for the throne before offering you our support. I believe you leave for Addania tomorrow?”

  “I do. I must persuade the King of our need to unite against a peril that could engulf us all.”

  “Make sure he publicly restores the barony to you,” advised Veldor, showing that he was no fool. “I have treated with this new King and find him…er…elusive.” He glanced a little warily at Eimer, who had no compunction in amending his statement.

  “I think you mean slippery,” he supplied.

  “We both have our personal retinues with us,” Gorlind informed them, “but we cannot start raising troops without the King’s fiat – although I fear a few of the rasher spirits amongst us have already begun to do so.”

  “Make no mistake about it, Westrin,” the older baron said grimly, “our new King will be tricky to handle. He must not be made to feel under threat, or I anticipate that he will harden in his attitudes. The matter must be handled with great insight and diplomacy.” He looked at Vesarion significantly from beneath his bushy eyebrows. “You have a delicate task ahead of you.”

  No one present disagreed with him.

  Seldro, watching the encounter, knew better than either of the barons that something had changed in his master. Although, because of the difference in their positions he could not claim friendship with him, over the years he had come to know him very well. Although not normally a person of deep insight, with sudden clarity, Seldro saw that the man who had always seemed to have something to prove, both to himself and others, was now at peace within himself. He had always been fairly intimidating, but now he had become a much greater man, wielding authority with unconscious ease. However, from what Seldro had seen of the new King, Vesarion would need every grain of his considerable abilities if he was to stand any chance of succeeding.

  A long line of mounted men snaked across the Plain of Addania into the hazy distance of the warm summer’s day. A clear sky vaulted over a land just now golden with fields of ripe grain, some already harvested and standing in neat rows of stooks. The air was rich with the sweet smell of newly mown hay, and the labourers in the fields ceased their work to lean on their scythes and stare curiously at the long cavalcade passing them by. Yet already a certain chill in the early morning air and the silver dew on the grass, signalled the advance of a new season. The summer had grown old, melting gently into the mellow embrace of a ripe autumn, reminding those who saw it that time which was lost, would never come again.

  The path of the convoy was marked by a plume of white dust kicked up by the hooves of the many horses, plainly visible to those on sentry duty on the walls of Addania as the breeze carried it westwards towards the mountains. The Captain of the palace guards leaned against the solid stone of the battlements high above the plain and peered into the distance, eyes screwed up against the bright sun. What he saw struck unease into his heart, for several thousand armed men were descending upon the city. He could make out the blue cloaks of the Ravenshold Brigands but behind them came many mounted men bearing the standards of their barons. He could distinguish the green, swallow-tailed pennant of Gorlind and the square, scarlet banner of Veldor, but there were others as well. At the head of the advancing column, rode a tall, straight-backed man who was too far away for the Captain to clearly identify, but there was little doubt who it was. The King had predicted that his cousin would descend on the capital, and it would seem that he did not err. What had not been expected was that he would do so with so large a force. The Captain, troubled by all he saw, pushed himself away from the wall and set about the unenviable task of breaking the news to the King.

  What he did not know was that it had not been Vesarion’s intention to approach Addania with a force so large that it
bore something of the appearance of an invading army, but circumstances had taken the matter out of his hands.

  They were barely half a day from Ravenshold, when the other barons had started, one by one, to arrive, insisting on joining him in an attempt to place their grievances before the King. They each came with their personal retinues, which varied in size from a mere ten men, as in the case of my lord of Devren, to a force of hundreds brought by the wealthier barons. My lord of Sorne had also appeared, as bluff and hearty as ever, with all his flame-haired sons in tow - and a certain rotund librarian. Bethro was beaming with delight, both at being re-united with his friends and the realisation that it was his letter which had stirred up such a storm amongst the nobility.

  Although in one respect, Vesarion appreciated their support, yet in another, he fervently wished they had stayed at home, for their numbers had swelled to such proportions that Enrick could very easily read it as evidence of insurrection. Veldor’s assessment of the new king was correct. If threatened, he would become intransigent. To persuade him needed a delicate balance of sufficient force to get him to listen, and a convincing argument tempered by enough deference to sooth his ruffled pride. Veldor, being somewhat direct by nature, had fared badly, for he had a tendency to adopt the tone of a schoolmaster lecturing a wayward pupil. To a man of Enrick’s temperament, that had not gone down well. Now Vesarion rode with Veldor and the other barons, unsure what sort of reception they might expect.

  Sareth unexpectedly found her heart lifting at the sight of the city of her birth. Although at one stage she had thought that she never wished to see it again, her attachment to it ran deeper than she had been aware. Riding with the barons as they drew near to the city, she looked up at its massive defensive walls, springing directly from the encircling waters of the river. On the pinnacle of every tower gallantly flew the sky-blue flag of Eskendria, emblazoned in gold with the chalice flower. She could make out the inner walls surrounding the palace on the crown of the hill and could even distinguish the very tip of the old ivy tower rising above them. Memories of childhood came flashing back to her unbidden. Her eyes rested on the elegant bridge that spanned the river to the city gate; the very same bridge that Eimer had fallen off when pursued by his irate brother. Even the spot where Terebar had regularly ditched the terrible twins into the moat, had memories for her and brought a smile to her face. However, her recollections of her elder brother were more equivocal. By virtue of the age difference between them, they had never been close. His thought processes were an enigma to someone of her more open temperament. Often he could be irritable, sometimes cruel, but occasionally he could be pleasant and amenable – and never had Sareth been able to work out the reason for any of his moods. Of course, she conceded fairly, she and Eimer had never lost an opportunity to vex him and had rather unreasonably expected Vesarion to shield them from the consequences. Now, she realised, that with the fate of not only Westrin but the entire kingdom at stake, she, the King’s own sister, had no idea how he would react.

  However, the approaching convoy began to get a clue as to his state of mind the moment they arrived beneath the city walls. For the mighty gateway, the only entrance to the city, was shut and barred against them. It was the first time in over sixty years, since the last siege of the city, that it had been so.

  The Captain of the palace guards had returned to the walls and was standing high on the bastion by the gate, looking down at those assembled below, uncomfortable with his orders but prepared, nonetheless, to carry them out to the letter.

  Five riders detached themselves from the throng and rode to the foot of the bridge. The Captain saw four faces he recognised looking up at him – Prince Eimer, Princess Sareth, my Lord of Veldor and the reputedly deceased, Lord of Westrin. They were escorted by a young squire bearing a flag of parley.

  “My lords,” called the Captain down to them in a strong voice, “the King commands that you lay down your weapons and surrender yourselves to his justice. You will send your forces home and you, my lords Veldor and Westrin, will enter the city unarmed and on foot, to explain yourselves to your rightful sovereign. All this I command you in the name of King Enrick.”

  Eimer’s eyes had been scouring the walls for sign of his brother, but had found none. Under his breath he muttered to Vesarion: “I would not comply, if I were you, for once he has the upper hand, he will clap you in some damp dungeon and forget all about giving you an audience.”

  Vesarion was unperturbed. “He has behaved very much as I expected him to. The key is to get him to deal with this matter directly himself and stop sending minions to do his bidding.”

  “You were prepared for this?” Veldor asked.

  “I was.” Vesarion drew a letter bearing the seal of Westrin from the long cuff of his gauntlet and passed it to the squire. Looking up at the Captain, he said clearly: “Permit my squire to deliver a letter to the postern. It is to be taken directly to the King and is for no other eyes but his. I will return for his reply in an hour.”

  The Captain, a little thrown by this turn of events, was unsure whether he should agree or not, but in the end reluctantly did so.

  Just to make a point, Enrick kept them waiting some time after the appointed hour. The tiny postern gate opened and a subaltern approached Vesarion bearing a note stamped in red wax with the distinctive royal seal of a rampant lion quartered with a crown. He opened it while the young man awaited his reply. The others watched his eyes scanning the lines. Finally he looked up and said to the messenger: “Tell the King that I agree to his terms.”

  When the postern had closed again, he said to Veldor: “He wishes to speak with his brother, sister and myself. He will meet us here, just outside the city walls, provided that the rest of you withdraw to a safe distance. I think it is the best we are going to get, so I would ask you to persuade the barons to withdraw.”

  Veldor seemed to see no difficulty with this. “I think they will need little persuasion, as it was always agreed that it would be you who would present their case to the King.”

  When he had gone, Eimer looked at Vesarion with a certain amount of awe. “What on earth did you say in that letter that caused him to agree to meet you with so little argument?”

  But Vesarion only smiled and shook his head, refusing to answer.

  Once the barons had retreated, a laborious scraping sound began to issue from the gates as the mighty bars were raised, then slowly, with a groan of tortured hinges, they began to inch open.

  First to emerge was the remaining half of the Ravenshold Brigands. They crossed the bridge in pairs, trotting in neat military formation and fanned out along the river, a mirror image of the body facing them a short distance away across the grassy, open area where the parties were to meet.

  Once in position, King Enrick rode out, escorted by the few barons who had thrown in their lot with him. He wore a cloak of deep crimson, the colour only permitted to be worn by those of royal blood. His fair hair glinted gold in the sun and his beard was neatly sculpted close to his jaw. Even Eimer was forced to admit, that whatever his character defects, he looked every inch a king. He halted his horse on the brow of the bridge and surveyed with disfavour his dissident barons. Then signalling to his retinue to remain, he guided his horse down off the bridge and across the open area to where his siblings and his arch-rival awaited him.

  His first words of greeting were typical. The moment his eye fell on Sareth, a sharp reprimand rose to his lips. “How dare you, a princess of the royal house, present yourself to your king dressed thus. Go and attire yourself in a manner that shows respect to both our ranks.”

  Sareth, heart inwardly sinking, stood her ground. “I see that you are overjoyed by my safe return, brother dear. If my husband has no objection to my dress, then I do not see how it concerns you.”

  An arrested expression came over his features and his eyes narrowed. “So, it is true, after all. I had assumed the rumours of your marriage must be false. I take it this represents not obe
dience to my orders, but rather the fact that it has suited you to marry him for some reason of your own.” He then added waspishly, “That is, if you did indeed do so.”

  Eimer saw a little flash of anger in Vesarion’s eyes at this imputed dishonour and leaped to intervene.

  “I can assure you that they are married, Enrick. I was witness to it, as was Bethro.”

  “Am I supposed to be convinced by the testimony of a fat librarian and a young fool? Hardly impressive.”

  Finally Vesarion spoke. “Be impressed or not as you will, but your sister is now my wife and the sooner you accept the fact , the sooner we can move on to issues of greater importance.”

  Enrick gave him a slit-eyed look of dislike. “Your motivation for such a marriage is plain enough. You now stand closer to the throne than you have ever done. An interesting position for so ambitious a man.”

  But to his surprise, Vesarion laughed. “You have very little imagination, Enrick. You attribute your own motives to everyone else. I married Sareth because I love her, and as far as the throne goes, if you want to look for something that threatens it, you need to look further afield than me.”

  “Ah! I assume you refer to Prince Mordrian, this scion of the House of Parth, whom you claim is about to descend upon us.”

  Eimer was thrown a little off balance by this. “You know of all that happened on our journey?” he asked naively.