by R. J. Grieve
Approaching his two escorts, he enquired: “Are you ready?”
Both bowed respectfully. “Yes, sire,” they replied together, and took up their positions on either side of him, but one respectful pace behind.
“It begins here,” said Enrick so softly that only they could hear. “Only fate can determine where it ends.”
With the words, he stepped out into the sunshine. Immediately the trumpeters, keeping an eagle eye for his emergence, proclaimed his presence to the awaiting townspeople. A clear fanfare rang out over the mighty walls of the city and over the narrow, twisting streets. Faintly, it was carried by the breeze to the motionless army on the plain below.
With their steps synchronised with military precision, the three men began to descend the cobbled streets, their cloaks fanning out behind them, barely touching the ground. A tremendous cheer broke from the crowd outside the palace gates and swept like a wave right down the steep street to Sareth and Iska waiting at the gate. Women threw the flowers they had gathered in the path of the King and many raised voices called out the two words of the Old Language that everyone knew – chalcoria ferrenore – may the chalice flower protect you. The sight of the sword by Vesarion’s side also created a stir, and the occasional voice cried out over the cheers: “The chalice flower guard you, heir of Erren-dar.” And to Enrick’s chagrin, he realised that even though Vesarion wore no crown, he drew every eye.
When they rounded the last bend before the city gates, Vesarion’s eyes fell on the one face he had been searching for. Sareth was dressed in a gown of deep-blue velvet that fell in rich folds to the ground. Around her slender waist was a golden sash, and on her hair she wore the delicate diadem of a royal princess. Never had she looked so regal, and he found his heart swelling with pride that she was his. She smiled at him with such radiance that it hid from him the fear that was gripping her heart.
The King halted before her and the crowd quietened to hear his words.
Carefully, he removed the golden crown from his head and placed it in her hands.
“To you I give the crown of Eskendria for safekeeping against my return. Guard it well.”
Gracefully, she curtsied to him and setting the crown on a cushion held by a squire, she lifted a battle helmet, ringed with a replica of the crown in steel and placed it on his head. She then gave him a kite-shaped shield painted with the royal crest. As she did so, she whispered: “Defeat our enemies, Enrick, and come home safely once more.”
He looked a little surprised by the words, but acknowledged them with a slight inclination of the head.
She repeated the ceremony with Eimer, who had unfortunately chosen a helmet with a visor that showed a tendency to come down at inappropriate moments. Shoving it back up, he almost upset matters by looking at his sister with such roguish merriment in his eyes that he nearly overset her gravity. As he grasped his shield and turned to join Enrick, he caught sight of Iska in the crowd and gave her a smile that he had never given any woman before.
Lastly, Vesarion approached her. Sareth lifted a plain, visorless helmet with long nose and cheek guards, and placing it on his bowed head, insisted on buckling the chin-strap with her own hands.
Looking up intensely into his eyes, she said: “You must promise me that in battle you will never remove this helmet.”
He returned her look a little quizzically. “But why.…?”
Anticipating his question, she cut in: “Just promise me.”
He looked down at her, not entirely understanding, but willing to oblige her. “I promise.”
A little comforted, she lifted his shield, bearing the arms of Westrin, now quartered with the royal crest in reference to their marriage, and watched as he slid his arm into the grips.
For a final brief moment their eyes met again, then with a slight nod, he joined the King and Eimer. Together they mounted their horses and accompanied by the cheers of the crowds, proceeded out of the city gates.
At the very last moment, just before the bastion cut off his view of her, Vesarion looked over his shoulder at the woman he loved, and for some reason, a slight chill gripped his heart.
When they had crossed the bridge, Sareth, accompanied by Iska, hurriedly ascended the steps to the top of the bastion to watch the army depart. The Ravenshold Brigands fell neatly into line behind the three horsemen emerging from the city and as they rode past every division, the barons saluted the King by dipping their standards. Then regiment by regiment, they, too, fell into line behind him.
The two watchers were joined at this moment by Bethro, slightly puffing from ascending the steep steps.
Iska looked at him in surprise. “I thought you had gone with them!”
“No, my dear Iska, I am no warrior and my recent experiences have shown me that great exploits and battles are not for me. I am the King’s Librarian and am proud to be such. The only adventures I will have from now on, are the ones in the Kingdom inside my head, where I can be all I can never be in this world.”
“That sounds a little sad, Bethro.”
He smiled, creating a double chin in the process. “No, I am not sad. I have learned to accept myself for who I am. I love my books and my study and the occasional glass of mead in convivial company, and I am content to leave great deeds to those more fitted for them. Contentment is the greatest reward that my travels have brought me, along with the friendship of five such wonderful people.”
Sareth could not resist teasing him. “I note you say five.”
“Indeed. I little thought I that I would ever call a Turog my friend, but now it is so. These are strange days that we live in.” He gazed out wistfully across the plain at the departing army.
“Chalcoria Ferrenore, heir of Erren-dar,” he said softly. He heaved a deep sigh, then brightening a little, descended the steps to repair to his favourite tavern for a much-needed glass of something fortifying.
After he had gone, Sareth and Iska remained leaning on the rough stone of the battlements. They stood for a very long time, the breeze lifting their hair back from their faces, watching the slow process of an army setting off for war. They watched until the head of the column was out of sight. They watched until each baronial division had fallen into place and marched away. They watched while all the carts and wagons bearing provisions, trundled off behind them. By the time there was nothing left on the plain below them but a cloud of drifting dust, the sun was setting in an orgy of colour. Its orange light turned the grey stone of the battlements to a gentle peach and gave colour to the two rather sombre faces still looking northwards.
Finally, Iska, elbows sore from leaning on the stone, said; “So, that’s it then.”
“Yes.”
“Nothing more we can do.”
“No.”
After a moment’s silence, Sareth said: “I don’t know about you, but I’ve packed already.”
Iska grinned impishly. “So have I - shall we go?”
Sareth was in less of a hurry. “We should let them get far enough ahead so that when we catch up with them, it will be too late for them to do anything about it.”
“An excellent idea,” Iska approved.
“I thought you’d like it.”
Chapter Thirty-seven
The Snake Prince
The vanguard of the Eskendrian army arrived at the clearing in the Great Forest two days after crossing the Harnor. It was just as Gorm had described it – an immense open area of over two leagues in diameter, densely surrounded by the ancient ranks of trees. Vesarion, who had set out to reconnoitre the area on horseback the moment they had arrived, thought it strange that the trees did not thin and then gradually peter out, as might have been expected. Instead, they stopped with almost shocking suddenness as if they had encountered an invisible boundary which they dared not cross. The plain was therefore open and bare of concealment. From a military point of view it could not have been better, for it gave excellent room to manoeuvre, together with another important advantage for an army facing a more numerous foe �
� the dense border of trees made it difficult for it to be outflanked.
Enrick, whose privilege it was to deploy the army in battle formation, had accompanied his cousin, at last convinced that their unusual spy had not led them astray. His change in attitude had begun two days previously, when their forces had halted their march at the Bridge of the Twelve Arches and he had accompanied Eimer and Vesarion onto the bridge to meet their informant. Every expression, every line of his body proclaimed distrust, for the inherited hatred of the Turog was deeply ingrained. Had he but known it, the Turog he had come to meet was equally distrustful. He wisely placed no reliance on any humans other that his five companions – and he still had reservations about Bethro. In response to Vesarion’s call, the small Turog emerged cautiously from the concealment of the trees and began to sidle towards the three riders on the bridge, whilst keeping a wary eye on the host of men assembled on the far side of the river. Murmurs of surprise began to rustle through the ranks like wind through dry grasses as soon as the men saw him. Enrick’s brows came down over his cold blue eyes in a frown, but he said nothing and following his companions’ example, dismounted. Together they walked towards the north end of the bridge until they were only a few paces from Gorm, who had halted as if unwilling to go any further. The King was silent, eyeing the Turog with a mixture of suspicion and disdain.
Vesarion and Eimer crossed to their old travelling companion.
“Well, old fellow?” Eimer greeted him in his usual jocular fashion. “Punctual as usual, I see?”.
But Gorm was uneasy in the presence of so many humans and paid no heed to him. He merely fingered his treasure pouch possessively, as he always did when unsettled. His yellow eyes had fastened on the person of the King, and ever quick to read human expression, he easily interpreted the harsh look being directed at him. However, it soon appeared that he was a little over-awed by his company. He tugged urgently at Eimer’s sleeve and whispered urgently: “How do I speak to king? Gorm has never met a king before.”
Eimer, inwardly amused, replied with commendable gravity: “You bow and call him ‘sire’.”
Vesarion, ignoring this interchange, proceeded to business.
“Gorm,” he began reassuringly, “our king has guaranteed your safety. Every man in his army has been given strict instructions that you are not to be harmed. In return, we ask you to guide us to the clearing in the forest towards which our enemies are heading.”
Gorm, still a little overcome to be in the presence of a sovereign, merely gulped and nodded.
Enrick stepped closer and looking more than a little uncomfortable to be addressing the spawn of the Destroyer, said: “I give you safe conduct in return for your services as a guide. Are you prepared to fulfil your part of this bargain, Turog?”
Gorm stared at him transfixed, then belatedly recollecting his instructions, executed so quick a bow that it looked like he was bobbing for apples. “Yes…er...sire,” was all he managed to produce.
Despite himself, the merest hint of a smile crept across Enrick’s stern features and speaking in an aside to Vesarion, he said: “At least he has some manners, if not exactly charm.”
But Gorm’s eyes had once again strayed past him to the host gathered on the far bank.
“Many men,” he commented. “Many carts. Two, maybe three days to clearing. Carts slow us down.”
“They will come last, Gorm,” Vesarion explained. “The cavalry and infantry will go on ahead. Do you know how far Mordrian is from the clearing by now?”
Gorm gave him his famous slit-eyed look indicating exasperation. “No. Vesarion told Gorm to stay here. Can’t be in two places at once. Not a magician, you know!”
Eimer gave a choke of laughter and even Enrick’s lips were seen to twitch at the sight of his dignified cousin being berated by the little Turog.
Now, with their goal finally reached by a series of forced marches, the tired soldiers began to make camp at the edge of the trees. The small humourist was dispatched to resume his duties as spy-in-chief, along with two scouts foisted on him by Enrick - which he diligently tried to ditch.
He was unsuccessful in this, however, and all three returned just as dusk was falling as softly as gossamer amongst the still trees. The carts had caught up with the main army during Gorm’s absence and a large pavilion had been erected for the King. Gorm, deriving a certain perverse pleasure from the fact that all conversation stopped when he passed, marched sturdily through the bivouacking army until he reached the King’s quarters.
“Want to see King,” he barked at the guard on duty outside the tent. Seeing the man’s jaw drop, he added wickedly: “And hurry up!”
What he had to tell them made it plain that they had not arrived a moment too soon.
“Army of Adamant and black soldiers camped in forest about two leagues north of clearing. Will reach here tomorrow morning,” he announced, with the type of confidence that makes doubt irrelevant.
“Do they know we are here, Gorm?” Vesarion asked.
“Not sure. Don’t think so. Saw no scouts. Very silly not to have scouts,” he noted, unimpressed by Mordrian’s campaigning skills.
The King turned to the scouts who had accompanied him. “Do you agree with this?”
“Yes, sire,” replied the elder of the two men. “We think they are as yet unaware of our presence.” Then reading Enrick’s mind, he hastened to add: “But the chances of taking them by surprise in a night raid are slim because…” the man hesitated and looked anxiously at his companion for support.
“Well?” prompted the King. “Because of what?”
“Because the black warriors do not seem to sleep. We watched them for some time from a hiding place that the Turog found amongst the trees, and we saw the army of Adamant begin to make camp, just as we have. But when the order to halt came, the black warriors just stopped where they were. They did not lie down, or prepare a meal, they….they just stood there in their ranks, not moving or speaking. Whatever they are, sire, they are certainly not human.”
The King’s eyes met Vesarion’s. “It appears you have not misled me.”
“Did you really believe I had?”
Enrick did not reply, but instead turned to his younger brother.
“Eimer, see that you post sentries far enough in advance that we will get plenty of notice should they try to attack us during the hours of darkness.”
Eimer bowed in acknowledgement and left with Gorm in tow. When everyone had gone except Vesarion, the King relaxed his commanding posture and sank wearily into a chair, as if his crown weighed heavily upon him.
“We will meet them in battle tomorrow, Vesarion, and it is then that the fate of Eskendria will be decided. We have kept nothing in reserve and have gambled all on one throw of the dice. If Mordrian gets past us, nothing will save Addania, not even its great walls, for it is not provisioned for siege.” He looked up at his grim-faced cousin standing before him. “It makes our past squabbles seem a trifle foolish now, does it not?”
“It does,” Vesarion admitted. “Perhaps, if we survive this, we will be wiser in future. May I suggest that in our deployment tomorrow, we scatter the seasoned troops amongst the new recruits to stiffen them. These young lads have never even seen a battle and must be made to hold fast.”
“My dear cousin,” replied Enrick lightly, “none of us, not even Veldor, has seen a battle on this scale. We are all likely to be tested to our limits. However, if it were not for the information you brought back with you, we would be sitting smugly in our homes in Eskendria without the least idea of what is about to descend on us. You, at least, have given us a chance. The time for regret is now past. We have done all we can in the short space of time available to us and can only hope that courage and a just cause will see us through.”
Vesarion stared strangely at him for a moment, as if seeing him for the first time. “I never thought to hear myself saying this,” he said slowly. “But I am glad you are our king, Enrick. Your father, kind man tha
t he was, would not have handled things so well. It will be my honour to go into battle at your side tomorrow.”
Enrick’s mouth twisted into a wry smile. “Let’s just hope we can both celebrate our new-found accord when next the sun sets. Now, get some sleep, Vesarion, for I fear you will need it.”
But as Vesarion turned to leave the pavilion, he encountered Seldro hurriedly coming in. The Captain glanced a little warily at the King, for he had not been officially pardoned, although Enrick seemed inclined to let the matter go by default.
“What is it, Captain?” Vesarion asked, as clearly the Ravensholder was bursting with news.
“A man has approached one of the sentries on the perimeter and appears to be asking for you, my lord.”
“Appears?”
“He does not speak our language. From what I can make out, it seems to be the Old Language he is speaking. The only word I recognised for certain was your name.”
Suddenly Vesarion had a premonition as to who it might be. “With your permission, sire, I think this man should be brought to us immediately.
Vesarion’s instincts had not led him astray, for when Seldro returned, he was accompanied by a slender young man, whose long, dark hair lay on the fur cape around his shoulders.
“Demeron!” cried Vesarion and strode forward to grip him warmly by the hand. “How did you find us?”
Demeron smiled. “Well met, Lord of Westrin. You perhaps forget that you are talking to the best tracker of the Perith-arn – or in other words, we followed Mordrian’s army. We knew he would lead us to you eventually. Have no fear, he had no idea we were there. His army makes its way through the forest with all the subtlety of an autumn gale.”
Vesarion turned to the King, who was looking at Demeron in fascination. “Sire, may I present to you Demeron of the Perith-arn, who kindly gave us aid on our return journey.”
Demeron did not bow to the King, as it was not his custom, but addressed him respectfully. “King of Eskendria, our patriarch, the Khaldor, sends greetings on behalf of the three tribes of the Perith-arn. We are an isolated people, few in number, surviving by secrecy in the wastes of the Morass of Engorin, but we are a free people who acknowledge no man our over-lord, least of all the Prince of Adamant. Until Vesarion of Westrin arrived on our shores, we were in ignorance of the fact that a fragment of the Golden Kingdom lives on in Eskendria. We thus claim a common ancestry with you, and consequently have come to offer to you the services of six hundred of our best bowmen in your fight against those who would destroy the last of the Children of Light. The Prince of the Hidden Kingdom has made himself our enemy ever since he devoted himself to the service of the Dark One - whom you call the Destroyer. Greed and the desire for domination control him and he must not prevail. I am therefore authorised by the Khaldor to place the services of our longbows at your disposal.”