The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (10 page)

 The day was fading fast and he saw the men below him
begin to leave the forest and head back towards Ravenshold. He waited, sitting
astride his horse, his sharp vision focused on the edge of the forest. If she
was to attempt to ascend to the pass, she must leave the concealment of the
trees. His horse stamped and shook its mane restlessly, but still he waited.

  Elorin had heard the men approaching long before
she had seen them. Her senses, already acutely attuned to the sounds of the
forest, had no difficulty in determining that this time the pursuit was not
imagined. She did all she could do in the circumstances and took cover amongst
a stand of dense young holly bushes. Their glossy leaves were prickly but gave
better cover than the bare trunks of the deciduous trees. Feeling that her
cloak was by far too conspicuous, she rolled it into a ball and stuffed it into
her cloth bag. Her tunic, thankfully, was dark green and blended well with the
holly trees. Silently she crouched amongst the jagged leaves, hardly daring to
breathe. Twice a mounted man passed close to her. Twice she was certain that
she had been discovered, but gradually as the light faded, the sounds of the
search party began to diminish. Still she remained where she was, her senses
strained to the utmost. The birds were singing their evening chorus now,
apparently undisturbed by the presence of man. The beautiful, fluted trill of a
blackbird rang out quite close to her. Another answered from some distance off,
its song echoing through the forest.  Stiffly and cautiously she crept out
of her hiding place.

 “I will reach the edge of the trees before darkness
falls,” she murmured to herself, “then I must find somewhere to rest before I
drop with tiredness.” She shivered. “It’s going to be a long and bitterly cold
night.”

  Still he waited. Then just as the light had almost
gone, he detected a movement amongst the trees. He straightened in the saddle,
his gaze intensifying.

 At the same moment, as if alerted by some sixth
sense, Elorin turned and saw the mounted figure silhouetted against the snow on
the slopes above her. Although the rider was some distance away, she knew he
had seen her by the way he stiffened to attention. She also, without the shadow
of a doubt, knew who it was.

 Blindly she began to run. She could hear the crunch
of the horse’s hooves on the brittle, shallow patches of snow as the rider
descended the hillside. She flew with all the speed she could summon towards
the forest, hoping to lose him amongst the trees, but he had anticipated that
and directed his descent to intercept her. She was forced higher, above the
tree line and out onto the bare mountainside with its alternating patches of
white snow and grey shale. The horse leapt up the gradient after her, closing
with every second. She glanced over her shoulder in time to see him spring from
the saddle before his horse had even stopped moving. As she was tall and
lightly built, normally her speed was considerable but she was tired and he
gained on her. Finally he brought her down in a patch of snow. She rolled over,
half free of his weight and with more courage than wisdom, flung back her arm
to strike him. But he caught her wrist in a grip that made her cry out in pain.
Suddenly the fight went out of her. He jerked her to her feet and shook her,
his eyes fierce.

 “Why did you run away? Why? You were not
ill-treated. What were you thinking of? Do you not know that if the cold did
not finish you out here, the wolves would?”

 She looked at him sullenly. “There is only one wolf
in these parts.”

 “The Turog have infiltrated this region too, you
headstrong, foolish girl,” he continued as if he had not heard her. “Why did
you run from me?”

 She sank down on the snow as if she no longer had
the strength to stand. “Because I no longer wanted to live as your prisoner, my
life hanging every day by a thread to be snapped at your whim. Not to live in
fear that some day that unpredictable temper of yours would go too far and make
an end of me. When I volunteered to come here, I thought my life meant nothing
to me. I thought I had no past and no future and could willingly give it up,
but I was wrong. Life is hard to let go of. I found I wanted to live after all,
but not under these conditions. I wanted to be free. Free of fear - free of
you. I would rather you killed me now, than live like that, than go back to
that bastion of cruelty you call Ravenshold.”

 He didn’t reply to her speech, and as the silence
dragged on, she risked looking up at him. The fire had all gone from his eyes
and they were grey and cold as the shale on the mountainside.

 He looked at her strangely for a moment, still
without speaking. Finally he fetched his cloak from his horse and put it around
her.

 “Come,” he said quietly. “Darkness is falling and it
will soon be bitterly cold.”

 He obliged her to mount before him and guided his
horse down into the trees just as the night began to close around them.
Normally she would have disliked this proximity to him. His powerful arm around
her waist, his scarred cheek close to hers, but she was too exhausted to care.
The realisation that they were returning to Ravenshold, took all feeling away -
except fatigue. Occasionally on that long ride back, despite herself, she dozed
against his shoulder, but her dreams were no refuge to her, for they were
haunted by fear. 

  Prince Andarion stood on a knoll overlooking the
river Harnor and the dense forest beyond. The pale spring sun glinted off the
broad expanse of the river as it slid by on its inevitable way to the sea. The
river was so broad and deep at this point that its passage made little sound,
enabling the Prince to hear clearly the noises issuing from the forest on the
far side: the sharp ringing of hammers on steel and the steady thump of bellows.
Yet the forest gave no other indication of this activity. Its dark ranks
remained impenetrable, its canopy of leaves closed tightly in rebuff. But he
knew they were there and he knew what they were doing. The sound of the forging
of weapons was unmistakable. Still he stood, as if staring at the trees might
bring him wisdom. The soft spring breeze stirred his fair hair and ruffled his
cloak but he was unaware of its presence. Aware only of the turmoil within him.
Tomorrow he would lead his army across the river; and he feared a trap. Would
he fail as he had failed with Celedorn? Perhaps the last mistake he would ever
make?

 The sound of a footstep behind him finally broke
into his thoughts. He turned to see his brother ascending the hill.

 “Well, Sarrick?” he greeted him. “Do we proceed as
planned tomorrow?”

 His brother appeared to share few of his doubts. “Of
course we do. We can wait no longer, for every day that passes enables them to
become better prepared.” He cocked his head, listening for a moment. “I hear
they are still at it. Day after day this goes on. I wonder just how many
weapons they need?”

 “Too many for comfort.”

 “That sound gets on my nerves after a while.”

 “Did it ever occur to you that it is designed to
make us think that they are still there? Still busy, when in fact they could be
massing for an attack at some other point across the Harnor?”

 “They are there, all right.” Sarrick confirmed
grimly. “My best scout has just returned. He nearly drowned crossing the Harnor
in full spring flood but fortunately he is a powerful swimmer.”

 “Did the Turog know he was there?”

 “They saw him in the river and fired arrows at him
from the trees but they couldn’t pursue him once he was in the water because,
as you know, not one of them can swim. Mind you, there were some near misses
with those arrows. He has reported that about five thousand of them are hidden
amongst the trees. Even more worryingly, he says that they are forging weapons
for a much greater number. The Destroyer must be planning to send considerable
reinforcements. I would say, brother, that an attack tomorrow is not a day too
soon.”

 “Are the rafts well hidden?”

 “Yes, the last one was completed this morning and
they are behind some trees covered with branches.” He pointed to a dense copse
of trees standing in the meadows on the Eskendrian side of the river.

 Andarion nodded and turned to face the Harnor again.
“I don’t like it, Sarrick. Those rafts make us too vulnerable. We rely too
heavily on the element of surprise. When our army is crossing the river on
those contraptions, it is completely vulnerable.”

 “I have stationed archers on the highest point of
the riverbank to provide a covering fire if we are discovered. They’ll keep
them back amongst the trees long enough for our forces to land.”

 “Perhaps a bridge would have been better after all.”

 Sarrick, who was the better soldier, although he had
difficulty in getting his father to recognise that fact, said: “We have been
over this before. The rafts give us the element of surprise, which a bridge
would not. Also, a bridge commits our forces to crossing at one point in narrow
file, whereas the rafts enable us to land along a broader front. If we cross
just before dawn as planned, we will have cover of darkness.” Seeing that
Andarion still looked doubtful, he added: “Besides, we are committed now for
better or worse. The time for planning is past, we must now act. My scout’s
information confirms what we feared - that this is merely an advance force of
Turog sent to prepare the way. We must attack before they become too strong and
we must achieve a victory that will enable you to convince Serendar and the
Isles of Kelendore to re-create the old alliance of the three kingdoms. It is
the only way. We must unite or fall.”

 Andarion sighed. “I know that you are right,
brother, it’s just that the debacle with Celedorn has unsettled me.”

 “You were not outfought, Andarion, you were
outwitted,” he said, intending to be comforting and failing signally. “No Turog
can match that fox for cunning. If you wish to look for someone to blame, then
blame our father who forced you to take Illiana with you against your will.”

 Andarion, who was much more dutiful than Sarrick,
looked uneasy with that suggestion but Sarrick knew his brother well.
“Besides,” he continued, “what troubles you most is the certainty of losing
some of our men tomorrow. The inevitable casualties of war. You think because
you give the order to advance that it is your fault that they die, but it
isn’t. You are not the aggressor - they are,” he said, jerking his head towards
the Harnor. “We only defend what is rightfully ours. Our men would cross the
river to fight them whether you ordered them to or not.”

 Andarion did not seem comforted but Sarrick was not
concerned, for he knew from past experience that once the fighting began, his
brother would leave all his doubt behind him in the single-minded determination
to win. It was only the waiting that frayed his nerves. Sarrick had seen him in
battle with the Turog before, slaying to right and left with as little compunction
as a reaper in a cornfield, aware of no doubt and no fear. But afterwards, when
the heat of battle had faded, depression and self-blame would descend. Sarrick
sometimes wondered if his brother’s sensitivity of conscience would not be a
burden to him when he became king, when he must hold a country against a
determined and vicious enemy. He respected him for his courage and fighting
qualities, but it took a streak of ruthlessness to rule a kingdom and he
wondered if Andarion had it.

 Although the brothers looked alike and got along
surprisingly well for two siblings so close in age, they were very different in
character. Sarrick was the more practical of the two, less afflicted by
sentiment. He tended to see everything in life as a job to be done, with
efficiency being the measure of success. He also saw people in a practical
light, pawns to be moved across the board in the great game. He was not
deliberately unkind, but he lacked the humanity of his brother that expressed itself
in the acts of kindness which so endeared him to his people. The Eskendrians
respected Sarrick, but they did not love him as they did his elder brother. In
some ways Sarrick too much resembled his father who was a cold-hearted man,
distant, aloof, not overly acquainted with love except in the matter of his
daughter. Andarion favoured his mother, a lady whose early demise was still
mourned in Eskendria.

 Something of these thoughts drifted across Sarrick’s
mind as he watched his brother resume his study of the Harnor. Somewhere, in an
obscure, unexplored corner of his mind, lurked the thought that he would make a
better king than Andarion, a thought that hid in the dark recesses of his soul
unacknowledged and unexamined. Dimly he felt it rise to the surface as gently
as a bubble in a pond but he wasn’t ready to acknowledge its existence, not
yet. To distract himself he said: “What are you thinking now?”

  “I was thinking about Elorin. I cannot hear
Celedorn’s name mentioned without wondering if she is safe. I would give half
the kingdom to know it.”

 Sarrick, who cared little one way or the other about
Elorin’s existence, shrugged behind his brother’s back. “That reminds me why I
came up here. The old fool wants to speak to you.”

 Andarion turned. “Relisar?”

  “Who else? He’s had his long nose stuck in a book
all morning, but has he found a spell that will be of any use to us? Oh no! He
is still obsessed about the Champion. Why could he not raise a curtain of
adamant as his predecessors did? Now
that
would be something useful.”

 Sarrick’s irritation with Relisar never failed to
amuse his brother. “You know very well, Sarrick, that it takes three of the
brotherhood to raise a curtain of adamant. It is a great pity that Relisar is
the last of his kind. So many spells of power need at least three. When
Tarlingdor died a few years ago, I hoped that another with the gift would be
found, but like all else these days, fortune went against us. Relisar has no
young apprentice in training, no future generation of seers. He is the last and
when he dies, the old arts will be gone. They will fade into history like the
legends we so often read about as children in the Chronicles of the Old
Kingdom.”

  Sarrick snorted derisively. “It’s just a pity that
the last of the brotherhood should be such an incompetent old idiot.”

 Andarion laughed and clapped him on the shoulder.
“You are too hard, my friend, anyone else would think you meant it.”

 Sarrick, who meant every word of it, merely
remarked: “You had better go and see him. I left him hopping around like a frog
on a hot brick.”

 “Where is he?”

 “At last count, in your tent, where he had managed
to spill some revolting yellow potion all over your cloak. If you intend ever
to wear it again, I must be careful to stand up-wind of you.” Then he added
with a grin. “Or perhaps we should stand you upwind of the Turog, believe me,
they would drop like flies.”

 Andarion was still chuckling to himself when he
returned to the camp and entered his tent, but his good-humour abruptly ceased
as he recoiled violently, assailed by the overwhelming smell of rotten eggs.

 “Relisar, if you want to speak to me you will have
to come out here,” he called sharply into the tent.

 Relisar emerged wearing a sheepish expression and
carrying a red cloak.

 “Em.....I don’t quite know how to put this but there
has been a little accident. I don’t know how it happened but......”

 The Prince interrupted him, beginning to think that
there might be some merit after all in his brother’s opinions.

 “You never do, Relisar.” He picked the cloak up by
its edge and handed it to a passing soldier. “Burn it,” he commanded
laconically.

  “I must speak to you......”

  “Not in that tent. If you want to speak to me, we
will walk towards the woods where we can breathe some fresh air.”

  Without waiting for a reply, the Prince strode
towards the woods with Relisar trotting behind him. When they reached a
clearing caused by the demise of a mighty oak, Andarion seated himself on its
fallen trunk and resigned himself to the inevitable.

 “Well?”

  “I think I know why the spell to summon the
Champion did not work,” Relisar announced in thrilling accents. The reaction
was not all he could have wished.

 “We are launching a most dangerous attack against
the Turog tomorrow and you drag me out here to tell me
tha
t
? Does
this discovery enable you to summon the Champion?”

 Relisar looked crestfallen. “Well....er....no.”

 The Prince sighed in a manner that conveyed his
exasperation more than words.

 “But it is important,” Relisar protested. “Please
listen. I promise to be brief.”

 Andarion shrugged and taking that as encouragement,
Relisar began: “I found it in the Lays of Tissro the Wanderer. The old man that
he met by the city of Korem said something that goes like this - if I can
remember the words correctly.” He thought for a moment then quoted:

    
“Here is a riddle for you. The
Champion of the Book of Light has four names. One by which the world will know
him yet know him not. One that only he knows but which he has forsaken. One
bestowed upon him by his enemies in fear and the one given to him by the Book
of Light - Erren-Dar - the Wielder of the Sword of Flame. Now tell me,
Wanderer, what are his first three names?”

 Tissro shook his head. “I cannot tell, old man.”

 “That is because you do not have the key, nor
shall you ever find it. Yet through you it will be found and the names of the
Champion will be known.”

 Don’t you see?” said Relisar excitedly. “The
Champion must be summoned by name and I only know one of his names - Erren-Dar -
the one bestowed on him in the Book of Light. His first three names are still
unknown. That is why he did not appear. That is why the spell failed. I don’t
know why I didn’t think of it before.”

 Neither did Andarion. “So what do we do now?”

 “We must find out his names,” Relisar announced with
great conviction.

 “And how do we do that?”

 “I....er...I don’t know. The passage that I just
quoted contains another reference to a key that I had forgotten about. But what
key? I once thought it might be Elorin, but I have gone wrong in so many things
recently, that I begin to doubt myself. Perhaps the key is not a person but an
object, a book, a spell? If so, then where can it be found? It said it would be
found
through
Tissro but not
by
him. But Tissro is long dead, so
how can we find it though him?”

 The Prince stood up abruptly. “So, we are no further
forward. Sarrick is right. We must rely on our own strength, such as it is.”

 Relisar looked distressed. “I will find the answer
to the riddle. I will. I swear it.”

 Andarion relented a little. “I know you will do all
you can, but in the meantime we must proceed by human methods. We must fight a
battle and we must prevail. The alliance of the three kingdoms must be reborn.”

  Prince Andarion would have been most disturbed if
he had known that far to the south-west in Ravenshold, his old enemy knew every
detail of the planned attack. Like Sarrick, Celedorn knew the value of scouts
and the advantages of being forewarned. When he discovered that a large portion
of the Eskendrian army was massing near the Harnor, he suspected that he was
not the target, but he had survived so long in his dangerous occupation because
he never based his actions on suppositions. Some of his most trusted men were
despatched in secret to find out just exactly what was going on.