The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  Unintentionally, he could have done nothing better to stiffen his opponents’ resolve. He thought he was inspiring fear, but he had made a misjudgement – for he instead inspired hatred. From King Enrick, down to the lowliest farm hand clutching a spear, the Eskendrians burned with anger.

  My Lord Veldor, watching from the head of his division, was heard to growl fiercely: “This arrogant upstart seems to hold us cheap, but we will teach him respect the hard way – and I look forward to it.”

  Enrick, stung by this performance, decided to seize the initiative. He swung round in the saddle and snapped to his trumpeters: “Sound the advance.”

  Their call rang out clear over both armies. In response, the heavy infantry lowered their pikes and bristling with steel, the entire army began to move forwards.

  Mordrian, a little wrong-footed, retreated amongst his cavalry and hastily set his own forces in motion.

  Out on the wings, things were moving faster. Seizing his chance, Demeron led his archers at a run out beyond the main body of infantry. Each man moved light and fast, carrying a bow almost as tall as himself. It took years of training to master the longbow, to develop the strength of chest and shoulder needed to be effective, but the Perith-arn were sure of their skill. At Demeron’s command, arrows were fitted to the notch and every bowstring creaked as it was drawn back to its fullest extent for maximum killing-power. Pointing their weapons skywards, the Perith-arn unleashed a hail of death upon the advancing army of invaders. The dark mass of arrows whistled through the air and descended with deadly accuracy on the front ranks of the army of Adamant. Some managed to raise their shields above their head as protection, but many were not quick enough. Man after man began to fall under the relentless rain of arrows that carried enough force to pierce mail and even, as the distance shortened, plate armour. Screams of pain began to rend the air, but Mordrian’s men were well trained and as each man fell, the ones behind merely stepped forward over the bodies of their wounded comrades to plug the gap.

  Mordrian, alive to the danger the enemy archers posed, dispatched his cavalry to cut them down. A body of horsemen swept from behind the foot soldiers and made for Demeron’s men at full gallop. Vesarion knew the archers had little defence against such an onslaught, and was swift to act. Gathering the Ravenshold Brigands behind him, he drew his sword, dug his heel into his horse’s flanks and shot forward to intercept them. The Perith-arn, aware of their exposed position, were already retreating when the Ravensholders flashed past them in a body, the thundering hooves of their horses kicking up clods of earth as they went. The ground between the two converging horsemen just seemed to vanish and they crashed together in a shock-wave that soon degenerated into a confused melee. Eimer’s men on the far wing were in a similar state. Never shy of a fight, the young prince had slammed down his visor and was laying about him recklessly with his sword. Yet even in the heat of the battle, it crossed his mind to wonder what had happened when Vesarion had first drawn the sword of Erren-dar in battle.

  Vesarion was now in possession of the answer to that question. He had been forced to go into battle with the chilling realisation in his heart, that if the sword had indeed special powers, then he was not the man to unlock them. The moment he had drawn the sword, his eyes had searched for any sign of the blue flame that was said to burn along the edges of the blade when its powers were unleashed, but he had seen nothing. The sword was merely a very fine weapon and must serve him as such. He had little time to indulge his disappointment. Faced with an aggressive opponent wielding a spiked mace, he refused to blunt his sword’s sharp edge against such a weapon. He ducked under the blow aimed at him, and without hesitation, slammed his shield upward, catching the unwary man under the chin with such force it unseated him and more than likely broke his neck.

  The two armies had now closed the gap between them and the slow-moving infantry quickened their pace, covering the last stretch of intervening turf. With a mighty crunch that seemed to make the ground tremble, the shield-walls of the front lines collided. The pikes did their gory work, their long reach skewering through armour, bringing down many, but neither line had given way and no significant gaps were opened. After the initial collision, the long spears were largely abandoned as an encumbrance in the tight heave and thrust of close-quarter fighting. Swords and battle-axes flashed as each man hacked and stabbed for survival.

  The black warriors had been positioned in the centre of the Adamantian forces and now came up against the Eskendrian heavy infantry. Lord Veldor, in the centre of the line with his squire bearing his standard at his side, had placed his steadiest troops in the front rank and now was more than glad he had done so. The black warriors were daunting enough to make even the bravest heart blench and he kept an eagle eye on his men to make sure that no one broke ranks and fled. Dismounting, he took his position in the vanguard and drew his sword, well aware that his presence might just tip the balance between courage and cowardice. When the two lines crashed together, he picked his target and went for the tall, masked soldier in front of him. Although his years were not in his favour, Veldor was an experienced and stubborn fighter. The black warrior, accepting the challenge, lunged at him with its sword. Veldor with surprising agility, deftly avoided the thrust and using his considerable weight, rammed his shield against his tall opponent’s. Turning swiftly sideways, he slammed his shoulder against it with such impact that his adversary was driven back a pace. Recovering, it swept its sword over the rim of the two shields, scoring Veldor’s breastplate. Things might have gone ill with the oldest of the barons at that point, had not his devoted squire, scorning conventional tactics, dropped to his knees and with all his strength, thrust his sword clean through the leg of his master’s opponent. A roar of pain broke from behind the mask, of such volume that it would have caused a lesser man to recoil, but Veldor did not miss his chance. Swinging his sword sideways like a scythe, he aimed for the black warrior’s exposed neck. The sharp blade sliced through muscle and sinew and blood spurted from a severed artery. But it did not die. It took a second enormous blow to decapitate it. The severed head fell at his feet. Snatching it up by the crest of the helmet, he handed the grisly trophy to his squire, shouting urgently over the noise of battle: “Take this to the King…” He broke off to duck under a swinging blow, before snatching his standard from the squire. “We must find out what we are dealing with and I cannot examine it here. Now, go!”

  The young man, aware of the critical importance of his mission, struggled through the heaving throng, dodging blows and jostling men out of his way using his shield. When he reached the King, he had no need to explain.

  Dragging him to the rear, the King peremptorily ordered him to remove the visor from the severed head. When he did so, all those who saw it, gasped with shock. Beneath the mask was the twisted face of a red Turog, its brick-red skin running with blood of a brighter hue. Its yellow fangs were bared in a convulsive death-snarl but what had shocked them was its eyes. The red species of Turog shared the same sulphurous eyes as the common kind, but not this one. Its eyes, frozen open in death, were not yellow but uniformly black. The entire eye lying between the open lids, was a deep, bottomless black without even the gleam of a surface. It was like looking into two empty, infinite voids.

  The King looked at the appalled faces around him and nobly rose to the occasion, once more proving his worth.

  “No matter what its eyes are like, it is a red Turog and can therefore be killed – as Lord Veldor has just proved. So, gentlemen,” he said with a bleak smile, “spread the word, and let us go and kill some more.”

  With that, he lowered his visor and was soon deep in the fray, heading directly for the centre of the battle line where it was becoming clear that Lord Veldor’s division was already in trouble.

  However, it was at that very same moment, over on the right wing, that the two men who were the most deadly enemies in the two kingdoms, came face to face.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

 
The Name of the Sword

  Despite what Vesarion and Eimer had both predicted, Sareth had her own reasons for remaining largely true to her promise to stay at the back. She and Iska had watched anxiously as the Ravenshold Brigands had gone to the rescue of the archers. She had tried to keep track of Vesarion but he had ploughed into the thick of the fight and the distinctive blue of his shield was instantly lost to sight. Although tempted to join the mounted fray, Sareth was wise enough to realise that she would be putting herself at a disadvantage, as fighting from horseback deprived her of her main assets – her speed and manoeuvrability. So, tensely gripping her hilt, she waited and watched, noting how the Perith-arn, once they had the cavalry off their backs, re-grouped and began bringing down individual targets, notably from amongst the black warriors. Meanwhile, their rescuers were proving that their reputation as the best mounted troops in the land was well deserved. At first, in the chaotic melee that followed the collision of the two forces, it was difficult to tell which way the battle was going, for every man was fighting for himself, slashing in all directions. Shields clashed together, maces swung viciously through the air, swords flashed and men cried out as wounds were inflicted. Like all mounted battles, it did not follow straight lines like the infantry, but had rapidly degenerated into a dangerous muddle in which the rider behind was just as likely to be a foe as a friend. It required not only strength and skill, but the ability to fight in several directions at once. Moreover the horses, although trained to tolerate the noise of weapons, sometimes succumbed to panic and became difficult to manage, often changing the course of a fight by their unpredictability.

  Gradually, however, out of the din and confusion, it began to become evident that the Ravensholders were getting the better of their opponents. The number of those facing them was clearly dwindling, as many arduous hours of training in the Westrin Mountains began to yield results.

  Sareth and Iska were not the only ones to notice this. Prince Mordrian was well aware that once his cavalry had been eliminated, the Eskendrians would sweep down on the flanks of his infantry in a manner that would cause their formation to disintegrate. The black warriors were pressing the centre of the Eskendrian line so hard that he knew it was close to breaking, but a cavalry attack on the flanks might just tip the balance against him. He had no intention of allowing this to happen, and gathering his personal retinue around him, he drew his sword and led them at full gallop into the counter-attack.

  Iska clutched Sareth’s arm in alarm as she saw the snake-banner streak across the plain towards the Ravenshold Brigands.

  “Look!” she cried. “That banner means only one thing – Mordrian is leading the attack himself!”

  They stared at one another in consternation. Then, not sure exactly what they intended to do, they both sprang forward.

  The Ravensholders had little warning of this new danger and had barely begun to regroup when Prince Mordrian’s forces slammed into them.

  It was at this moment that the two enemies encountered one another. The snake-banner had caught Vesarion’s eye and when he swung round in the saddle to face it, the fierce gaze of the two men collided with a force that was almost a blow. Their helmets, though visorless, left little of their faces visible but they knew one another in an instant, and even had they not, their shields would have proclaimed their identity. One of those strange moments in battle occurred, when suddenly amongst the din and seething confusion of war, a fragment of utter clarity emerges. The struggle continued to rage around them, but the two men were oblivious to it. Amber eyes and blue eyes, looking out over the cheek-pieces of their helmets, bored into one another and all their old enmity ignited like a white-hot flame. For the space of a heartbeat neither reacted, then, before Sareth’s horrified gaze, Vesarion touched his heels to his horses flanks and launched his attack. Mordrian answered the challenge willingly and they closed purposefully with one another.

  Vesarion had always known it was inevitable. Since the moment he had seen Mordrian in the distance earlier in the day, he had known in some hidden place in his heart that at some stage during the battle they would meet. Some might call it fate, or destiny, but regardless of what it was, Vesarion had no wish to avoid it. He knew no fear, or indecision. Self-doubt was a thing that used to plague him, but that was now in his past, and what he must now do had never been clearer. That day in Adamant when he had been helpless to defend himself, his tormentor’s mocking sneer, his contempt, had been seared into his memory, and from that moment he had been possessed by an almost obsessive desire to meet him on equal terms. And now, just at the very hour his hated enemy threated all that he held most precious, that time had come. But Vesarion’s anger did not cloud his judgement and he realised, with the part of his mind still functioning with a certain cool logic, that Mordrian would be a formidable opponent. He also noticed that in his hand, the Prince was gripping the hilt of the black sword – a demonic weapon against which the sword of Erren-dar had not yet been tested. He remembered what Eimer had said about it – that tempered steel was no match for it, suffering such damage that the sharpest blade was soon rendered a blunt instrument. Yet he drew comfort from the fact that although he had not been able to unlock the powers of his sword, it was no ordinary weapon and he prayed it would withstand that evil blade.

  He was soon to find out.

  No sooner did the horses meet, than Mordrian swung the black sword above his head and brought it sweeping down against his opponent. Vesarion flashed his blade upwards in a fierce blocking stroke and the two weapons collided with such raw force that each man was jarred to the shoulder. But to Vesarion’s relief and Mordrian’s chagrin, the sword of Erren-dar came away undamaged by the encounter.

  This confirmation that all was indeed equal between them at last, was all that was needed to fan the flames of vengeance, and Vesarion held back no longer. He attacked aggressively, bringing many powerful blows to bear against his adversary, pressing him harder than any man had ever done before. But Mordrian was a confident fighter, not easily intimidated and every blow was either parried or taken on his shield. Moreover, Vesarion’s deep blue shield, emblazoned with the arms of Westrin, possessed no special powers to protect it against the cutting power of the black sword and was taking heavy damage. Many deep scores and dents were already evident. Realising that it was soon likely to be rendered useless by the beating it was taking, Vesarion resorted to an old trick that his swordmaster had taught him. Feinting with his sword to distract Mordrian, he swung his kite-shaped shield sideways and caught his opponent such a blow with the edge, that he almost unseated him. Mordrian lost a stirrup and was thrown sideways over his horse’s shoulder. Even so, he might have recovered, had not his horse unwittingly come to Vesarion’s assistance by giving in to panic and rearing up. Mordrian struggled to hang on, but he had lost both stirrups by now and weighed down by his shield, could not regain his balance. The horse reared again and the Snake Prince fell with a crash to the ground.

  Yet, the set-back only seemed to prove his mettle, for in a flash he was on his feet, in the slight crouch of the experienced duellist. Vesarion, keen to come to grips with him again, kicked his feet free of the stirrups and sprang from the saddle, landing with almost feline poise, completely balanced and ready to fight.

  His self-belief unshaken by the incident, Mordrian could not resist the pleasure of taunting his opponent.

  “Last time I saw you, Eskendrian, you were on your knees before me, running with blood.”

  Vesarion’s eyes were as cold as steel. “Last time we met, my hands were bound behind my back – but no longer.”

  As if to demonstrate his point, he held up his right hand with the sword of Erren-dar in it.

  “I see you got it back,” observed Mordrian mockingly, “stolen by your accomplices, but it matters not. It has fulfilled its function and I have no more need of it.” He held up the black sword. “It is time it met its fate in this, its dark counterpart. The power of the demon lies in this sword and it
excels the original in both strength and power. It will destroy your precious sword of Erren-dar with ease.”

  “We shall see,” Vesarion grimly replied, before closing with him again.

  His shield took another hammering blow and was by now so riven that he knew that the next blow would split it in two. Swiftly casting it aside, he grasped his hilt with his favourite two-handed grip, knowing that his sword was now his only means of defence as well as attack. From now on, every blow must be intercepted by the legendary blade without fail, or he would suffer the consequences.

  Despite his bold words, Mordrian’s encounter with his enemy had taught him to be wary. Never before in a fight had any man stretched him to his limits as this man had done, and although he did not doubt his ability to dispose of him, he knew the slightest mistake would be exploited.

  Cautiously, the two men began to circle one another, trying to scent weakness, trying to spot an opening. So intense was their concentration upon each other, that neither was aware of something extraordinary happening around them. The battle that had been taking place on every side of them was faltering. The Adamantians saw their prince engaged in what was clearly a very deadly duel. On their part, the Ravensholders had seen their revered commander’s shield destroyed by a weapon with powers beyond that of mere steel. Against their will and better judgement, both sides found that their attention had become riveted to the fight with the inevitability of a pin to a magnet. As the contest continued, more and more men on both sides turned to watch. Sareth and Iska wriggled determinedly through the crowd to find themselves next to Eimer, on the edge of the space that had mysteriously cleared around the two combatants. Gradually, the sounds of battle died away as every weapon fell silent, until only the clash of two swords could be heard. Most extraordinary of all, the black warriors, when the attack against them began to stutter, stopped fighting, as if in receipt of some hidden command, and stood as still as if entombed in ice. It seemed as though the greater will that controlled them had found something more pressing to claim its attention.