The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2)

by R. J. Grieve

  Still the two protagonists assessed one another, oblivious to all but their contest. Few of those watching had seen a fight like it for sheer speed and power. Mordrian, finding his heavy, round shield cumbersome, had also discarded it, and when the attack was renewed, the blades flashed back and forth between them with strokes so fast and cutting, that orange sparks shot into the dull air.

  Eimer, watching them with knuckles white around his sword hilt, tried to be objective and decided that although Vesarion had more speed and agility, his opponent was cunning, always trying to deceive or misdirect, always trying to unbalance him and expose an opening. They had again broken apart for a moment, both running with sweat, their chests heaving but soon they stubbornly closed again and a flurry of lightning fast blows was exchanged that culminated in a vicious sideways swipe from Mordrian. Vesarion ducked, but was not quite fast enough and the black sword caught the crest of his helmet. Under the force of the impact, the leather chin-strap broke and his helmet was wrenched from his head.

  A heart-rending cry of horror broke from Sareth and she made to start forward only to find herself caught by a strong arm. The King, who had been standing behind her, grasped in an instant what she had been about to do, and caught her around the waist, pinning her arms to her sides.

  “Let me go!” she cried, struggling frantically with him. “Let me go, Enrick!”

  “No, Sareth,” he panted, for he was barely able to constrain her. “You will not be helping him but distracting him. Do not meddle, sister, I command it.”

  “No!” she wailed.

  Eimer for once, sided with his brother. “Enrick is right. You cannot help and will only make things worse. You must have faith in him.”

  But of all of her well-meaning advisors, only Iska understood, and her hand closed on her friend’s trembling shoulder as they stood together watching with helpless fear. All Sareth’s nightmares were coming true. Everything she had striven so hard to deny was unfolding before her eyes. Suddenly, she felt a warm, leathery paw grip her hand. She looked down to find Gorm mysteriously at her side. He returned her look with his yellow eyes and said with gruff sympathy: “Sareth must not be afraid. Vesarion is good fighter.”

  Once again the combatants had briefly separated. Mordrian, deliberately and provocatively, removed his helmet and cast it aside.

  “There, Eskendrian, see how little your skills impress me! I need nothing but this sword to defeat you. I need no armour; no shield; no luck. I have all I need in my own strength and this weapon.” Despite the fact that he was out of breath, he managed to give a predatory smile. “Did you know that it has a name? All great swords have a name.” As he spoke he began moving round Vesarion, who was paying little heed to his words and was instead anticipating the next attack. “Do you want to know its name, Eskendrian? It bears the name of its creator, for its name is Gorgoron – the bringer of evil.” As he spoke the name, a deep, blood-red flame flared briefly along the edges of the black blade.

  A murmur of shock came from the onlookers and Vesarion’s eyes widened in dismay, for he knew that by speaking its name, Mordrian had just invoked its demonic powers, succeeding with the evil sword, where he had failed with the sword of Erren-dar.

  This time, when the assault came and the two swords sliced together once more, there was a difference. The moment the black blade made contact with his, Vesarion felt a terrible force dart from it, shooting up the shining metal of his own sword and into his arm. It pierced every muscle and sinew with an intense jolt of pain that made him cry out and disengage. His reaction gave Mordrian the chance he had been looking for. With the speed of a striking snake, his blade shot forward in a powerful lunge and drove deep into Vesarion’s shoulder. The sword passed through his chainmail, the finest that the most skilled armourers in Eskendria could produce, as if it was made of nothing more substantial than paper. With a malevolent roar of triumph, Mordrian jerked his blade free. Vesarion staggered back and sank on one knee, clutching his left shoulder. The pain of the wound inflicted by the black blade was intense and inside his mail, he felt the slick, warm flow of blood as it began to pour down his chest and side. Amber eyes glowing fiercely in exultation, Mordrian brought his blade sweeping downwards, intending to finish his opponent, but to his astonishment, the blow was struck aside and Vesarion, through sheer force of will, struggled to his feet again.

  Sareth by this stage could barely stand, her terror almost overcoming her, but in some corner of her heart she was intensely proud of him, of his courage and determination, and desperately she did the only thing she could – as in the cave of Sirindria Eleth, with all her heart, she began to plead for him.

  By now, Vesarion was no longer attacking. He was conducting a perilous defence with strength that visibly was beginning to fail. Yet all the time, while he was desperately parrying blow after blow, something was nagging at his mind and at last, in a moment of revelation, he realised what it was. Mordrian had said that the black sword bore the name of its creator. What if the same were true of the sword of Erren-dar? He remembered Iska telling him about the old manuscript she had found that described how, at the time of its making, when it was still glowing from the furnace, the Master of the Order of the Flower had blessed it in a language long forgotten. And when the sword had cooled, and the steel hardened, the chalice flowers had appeared by enchantment on the blade. But what was the Master’s name? As he recklessly fought on, striking aside each blow, sometimes within an inch of defeat, he ransacked his memory. He recalled Bethro saying that the old sage, Relisar, had been convinced that the White Monastery was not occupied by the descendants of the original Brotherhood of the Flower, but was instead host to those very same brothers who had seen the fall of the Old Kingdom, shielded against the passage of time. Was it possible that their master was the very same one who had blessed the sword? But what was his name? Surely Bethro or Triana must have mentioned it?

  Finally, in his weakened state, his last defensive parry was not quite strong enough and Mordrian succeeded in forcing his blade to the ground. Even then, when his life hung by a thread, Vesarion refused to give in, for never had he more reason to live. Resorting to the only option left to him, he threw an unexpected punch with his left hand that caught his adversary under the chin and snapped his head back, forcing him to give ground.

  Alas, it was only a momentary respite. The swords crossed again and the blades slid down one another until the hilts locked. Vesarion was no longer up to this contest of strength – as Mordrian well knew. The sweat was pouring off him and the loss of blood was taking its inevitable toll, making him a little light-headed. He was thrown violently backwards and stumbled and fell. In an instant Mordrian was upon him, determined to put an end to his hated opponent once and for all, but in that very moment the name of the Master of the Order flashed into Vesarion’s head.

  Holding out the sword before him, in a loud voice he cried: “Galendar! I command you to serve me, Galendar!”

  Instantly, a beautiful blue flame began to flicker along the edges of the blade for the briefest of moments before vanishing. Mordrian fixed his eyes upon it, as if he could not believe what he had just seen. The sight put new strength into Vesarion and he grabbed the opportunity to roll clear and regained his feet. This time, when the swords crossed again, there was a sudden blue flash and the onlookers collectively gasped - for the black sword was seen to come away damaged. Where the blades had met, there, in the inky-black steel, was a deep, incisive notch.

  Mordrian stared at it, stunned, and in that instant, when his adversary’s attention was distracted, Vesarion seized his chance. With the very last of his strength, he gripped his hilt with both hands and plunged the point of his sword deep beneath the Prince’s ribs.

  The amber eyes looked into his in astonishment for a moment, then slowly the light went out of them and the Prince of Adamant fell without a sound to the trampled grass.

  A shocked silence encompassed both watching armies. Vesarion stood swaying on h
is feet, looking down at the body of his conquered foe, before he, too, sank to his knees on the grass.

  Sareth twisted free of her brother’s grasp and diving forwards, caught him in her arms as he fell, knowing that all her greatest fears had been brought to pass. She knelt on the grass, cradling him in her arms, looking down at his face, now deathly pale. The sword of Erren-dar lay in his hand and from his armour, great drops of ruby blood fell to the ground. Every detail was as exactly as she had foreseen.

  “Vesarion!” she called urgently.

  His eyelids fluttered open and he looked up at her as if a little puzzled as to how she came to be there.

  “I didn’t fail,” he said faintly.

  “No, you didn’t – you never have,” she replied brokenly.

  “It seems I keep my promise after all.”

  “Your promise?”

  “I swore I would love you to my very last breath,” he whispered.

  And with the words, his eyes closed and his head fell back.

  Sareth let out a wail of despair that would have rent asunder the stoniest heart.

  “No! Vesarion! NO!”

  Eimer and Iska stood beside her, unable to offer comfort. Tears were pouring down Iska’s face and Eimer was ashen with grief.

  “Help me!” begged Sareth in utter desperation. “His heartbeat is so faint! He is barely breathing! Someone, help me!”

  But something else was happening. Mordrian’s corpse, lying a short distance away, began to twitch. Every eye swung from Sareth to fasten upon it. How could he have possibly survived such a brutal blow? Then suddenly his eyes flew open, but no longer were they amber, like Iska’s. The open lids revealed only black, bottomless voids, like the eyes of the black warriors. They were no longer human but were instead two deep wells of unending darkness.

  A gasp went up from the assembled onlookers and the more timorous amongst them began to edge away.

  “What is this devilry?” demanded the King in a shaken voice.

  But no one replied, for Mordrian’s body had begun to arch upwards. Convulsively twisting and writhing, it began to rise as if tormented. Just when it seemed that his spine must break under the strain, a thin stream of black vapour began to pour from his open mouth. Jet black smoke began to well up in a dense and ever-growing cloud from between his lips, gathering and accumulating above him into a shapeless body of darkness.

  Only Iska seemed to know what was happening. “The demon of darkness had possessed him!” cried she in a terrified voice. “Now that he is dead, it is leaving him!”

  Upwards rose the black cloud, growing and expanding, rearing up like a wave. It was more than black, it was more than the darkness of the deepest night without moon or stars. It was the concentrated absence of light that is the source of evil.

  As high as the tallest tree it grew and still it continued to rise until it towered over the two armies. Men began to scatter across the plain, crying out, desperately trying to escape from it. Then in the black depths, two burning red eyes, like embers plucked from a furnace began to glow with malevolence. As the eyes began to search across the battlefield, men in their hundreds were brought to their knees, cut down by a terrible fear as easily as corn falls before a reaper’s scythe. Strong men, who would willingly have faced any enemy, found themselves overwhelmed by the sheer power of its will. Only the black warriors were immune, standing frozen, awaiting its command.

  At last, its gaze turned towards Sareth, still kneeling on the grass with the motionless figure of Vesarion in her arms.

  And in a voice so powerful that it reverberated across the plain like thunder, it roared: “Fools! You think you can defeat me? Pitiful creatures whose span is so short, know this - all those who oppose me shall die. This vile remnant of the Old Kingdom, this festering wound, shall be destroyed for ever, and my master’s rule will be complete. Darkness will fall upon this land and there will be no dawn for the Children of Light. Their accursed race shall be annihilated for ever.” Its eyes descended to Vesarion. “And this, the last of a rebellious line, this heir of Erren-dar, shall trouble my master no more, for I shall crush him and all those who stand with him.”

  Every man present quailed with horror at the words, covering their ears unavailingly to cut our that terrible voice.

  Working itself up into a fearsome rage, the black cloud continued to tower ever higher, curling over a little at its crest like an immense wave about to break. Still those burning eyes continued to blaze downwards with utter malice upon the two figures before it, rendering them tiny and fragile in comparison with its magnitude. Around the edges of the cloud began to play jagged darts of red lightning, and Sareth, tightly holding Vesarion, knew that the whole kingdom, and every soul within it, lay defenceless before such a creature. She buried her head against Vesarion’s neck and waited helplessly for the blow to fall.

  But she had not taken into account two things – the love of her brother and one small, but devoted Turog.

  Eimer, seeing the demon was bent on destroying the two defenceless people before it, did the bravest thing of his life. Exerting every grain of will-power he possessed, he broke free of the crippling fear that held them all in thrall and struggling to his feet, placed himself between his kneeling sister and the demon, holding up his shield to protect her. He knew that against such power it was likely to be a futile gesture, but he did not flinch – and he was not alone.

  In an instant, the little Turog was at his side, his round shield with its heavy central boss, held protectively over Sareth. However, his presence unfortunately seemed to enrage the demon even more.

  “Traitor!” it shrieked when it saw him. “You betray your master!”

  But Gorm stood firm, his sturdy legs planted apart, his short sword levelled aggressively.

  “Gorm has no master,” he growled. “Gorm is free.”

  Incensed by his temerity, little flashes of red light began to pulse within the cloud, then out of the depths of the darkness, the demon launched a screeching spear of red lightning at him. It screamed through the air, faster than the human eye could follow and struck Gorm right in the centre of his shield. The shield burst apart, shattered into a thousand pieces and its owner was picked up bodily and hurled across the plain. He fell with a sickening thud on the grass and his small form lay still. The demon did not waste another glance on him, but returned its attention to Eimer, still defiantly guarding his dying friend.

  Up it rose, its black emptiness expanding until it seemed to fill the dull sky. Its red eyes blazed down on the group of three, with concentrated hatred. Ominously, in its depths, the little forks of red lightning began to pulse once more.

  Iska, watching in terror, knowing that her friends had but moments to live, began to experience an odd feeling. She began to feel strangely light, as if she were less solid than she should be. The sensation only increased as her fear began to turn to anger. The three people she most cared for in all the world, who had befriended her and stood by her through all her trials, were about to have their lives snuffed out as easily as she would extinguish a candle. When that happened, evil would indeed have triumphed - and the thought enraged her. This was not how it was meant to be. In the Chronicles of the Old Kingdom, evil was not stronger than love. It did not prevail over goodness. She saw Eimer’s arm tense, as he braced himself for the final attack, and she knew with utter certainty that the shield would not save him. His courage would be swept aside as a thing of little value, and that also was not as it should be. And as her emotions changed and her anger grew, the odd sensation increased. She began to experience an increasing feeling of lightness, as if her feet had left the ground and she was floating. When she looked down, she discovered, with a stab of fear, that her feet did indeed appear to have left the ground. The grass was now a hand’s breadth below her. She panicked and began to fight the sensation, but just as she felt herself begin to sink downwards, she heard the Keeper’s kindly voice inside her head.

  “Trust your instincts
, Iska. Do not be daunted by what you see before you. Trust yourself, and do not hold back.”

  Instantly, a whole medley of voices began to clamour in her mind.

  “Avenge us, Iska!” cried the lone voice of a young girl. “Avenge our deaths, for we lost our lives because we would not bow to evil.” Once more she saw the row of coffins in the ice caves. Once more she saw the plea she now heard in her head, being etched letter by letter into the ice.

  Then the spirits of the Lonely Lake whispered in their silver voices, like the wind through the grasses on the sand-dunes. “Good can be found anywhere. In any race, or clan, to those of low birth or high. There are no boundaries to goodness. The demon has stirred up many spirits, once quiescent, and now they serve the Destroyer. Your journey was foretold long ago and each of you has a role to play that can be filled by none other.”

  And the words made Iska remember how the sand creature and the trailing weed in Engorin had both singled her out for attack and knew now that they were obeying their master’s will, for he saw that she posed a danger to his plans.

  Finally, all the voices quietened until only one, clear voice spoke. “You are our sister, Iska and were born for this task. Hesitate no longer. Avenge us!”

  And at that moment, Iska knew that despite her ignoble birth, she bore within her the powers of her ancestors of the House of Parth. Her father had not been able to uncover those powers because he had searched for darkness, and what she had inherited was foreign to that. What she had inherited was not the power to promote evil, but to oppose it.