The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (11 page)

 When he learnt of the rafts hidden in the trees and
the sheer numbers of Turog in the forest opposite where the Prince had
stationed his men, he for once found himself in complete agreement with the
proposed course of action.

 Lately there had been so many incursions by the
Turog into the mountains that he and his men had been hard pushed to deal with
them. Something much bigger was clearly brewing and if the Prince dealt with it
for him, so much the better. What he had difficulty finding out, what still
eluded him, was the means by which the Turog were reaching the mountains.

 He was seated in his usual chair by the fire in his
quarters, pondering the information the scout had just given him. His legs were
stretched out in his usual relaxed fashion and a glass of wine rested untouched
in his hand. So deep in thought was he, that the daylight faded unnoticed. The
room gradually darkened until it was lit only by the subdued red glow of the
fire. Outside the leaded panes of the window, the clear spring sky darkened to
the most intense, eternal blue of evening.

 Finally, as if suddenly aware of the darkness, he
arose and taking a brand from the fire, lit several candles on the long table.
The blueness of the sky deepened in response, but his mind was on other
matters. He crossed to the cabinet that unbeknown to him, Elorin had ransacked
in her search for paper, and extracted from it a roll of fine leather which he
spread open on the table. It was a map of the region showing the two kingdoms
of Eskendria and Serendar side by side, both bordered to the north by the
Harnor. Although the map was detailed to the south of the river, showing
forests, rivers, mountains and towns, to the north the Great Forest petered out
into emptiness marked only by the words “The Forsaken Lands”. These were the
lands that had once belonged to the Old Kingdom but which now lay within the
domain of the Destroyer. Virtually nothing was known about them, only legends
and rumours, each more wild than the last. For a thousand years no human being
had lived there, but what was clear was that the region now crawled with Turog
and anyone in their right mind avoided it.

 He looked more closely at the Westrin Mountains. He
had assumed up until now that the Turog were crossing the Harnor further east
in Eskendria and then penetrating the mountains along the long valleys that
stretched up to the passes. But with a large Eskendrian army stationed to the
east, that looked increasingly unlikely. Yet still they came.

 Where the Harnor entered the mountains it had
cleaved for itself a mighty gorge, narrow and sheer, a dizzying chasm through
which it forced its powerful volume. So deep and precipitous were the sides of
the gorge, that sunlight never penetrated it. It therefore constituted a
formidable natural barrier and there was no point at which it could be crossed.
The precipitous cliffs continued on the southern side all the way to the sea
but on the northern side they dipped a little for a few miles, allowing the
forest to come down almost to the river. Beyond this region the river thundered
over a mighty cataract known as the Sorcerer’s Falls before re-entering the
gorge on its final stage to the sea.

 So how were they getting into the mountains? He
looked at the map again. The curious curving path of the river, forced into
convoluted shapes by the iron-hard rocks of the mountains, gave the gorge its
name - the Serpent’s Throat. He stared at it reflectively. The mystery of how
the Turog were getting into the mountains in such numbers must be solved. 
They were stretching his resources to the limits and even Ravenshold could not
withstand them for ever. Perhaps it was time for a personal reconnaissance.

  The hammering finally stopped as dusk fell. After
hours of tapping, banging and the steady thump of bellows, the silence seemed
eerie, unnatural. Dimly, flickering between the trunks of the trees like
fireflies, the watch fires of the enemy appeared.

 Prince Andarion, observing all this from his
favourite vantage-point, had lost none of his uneasiness.

 “They know we are here,” he murmured to himself,
“and they are indifferent to the fact that we clearly know where
they
are. That speaks either of total belief in the superiority of their force, or
they know something we do not.”

 He watched as the daylight receded and the forest
became a dark and gloomy mass, its canopy stretching unbroken as far as his eye
could see. The sturdy trunks rose like pillars along the edge of the far riverbank,
giving the forest a fortress-like appearance. Even the Harnor colluded in the
gloom, sliding between its banks with furtive power. There would be no moon
tonight, he thought, glancing at the clouded sky. Sarrick would be pleased.
There would be no silver face illuminating the rafts, turning the Harnor into a
gleaming band as bright as a sword, against which their approach would be
silhouetted. The river was as black as ink, its strong flow creating scarcely a
ripple. Yet though it aided them in one way, it could betray them in another.
It was swollen now with snow melted in the mountains far to the east, where in
some distant glen it arose from the rocks as a tiny bubbling spring. Now,
joined by countless brethren, it reached for the sea in a mighty effort,
girdled and confined only by the Serpent’s Throat to the west.

 He resigned himself to a long wait for the dark
hours before dawn when the attack would begin. The Prince stayed where he was,
preferring the solitude of the hilltop to his tent in the camp below. He would
return in time to see the rafts moved down from their hiding place to the
river’s edge below, but until then, he would commune silently with his own
thoughts, sleep as far distant as the hidden moon.

 When finally he descended the hillside, his mind was
calm and his purpose committed. When he passed Sarrick’s tent, he looked in,
and found, to his envy and amusement, that Sarrick was still fast asleep. Not
so Relisar, who appeared to have adopted the Prince’s tent as his personal territory
and was oblivious to all hints to the contrary. He shot out of his chair like a
startled pheasant when the Prince appeared.

 “I was beginning to worry about you,” he declared,
clearly relieved. “You had been gone so long and there is no saying but some of
those creatures might be crawling about on this side of the river.”

 The Prince merely nodded slightly in reply,
unwilling to get involved in conversation.

 “Go and wake Sarrick,” he ordered quietly. “It is
time.”

 When Relisar had gone, he lifted his scabbard from
the table and buckled it on. His shining blade was spotless and razor sharp. It
slid into the scabbard with such willingness that it seemed almost eager for
its task. He donned his helmet and lifted a heavy, round shield on his left
arm.

 Sarrick appeared at the entrance to the tent
similarly attired.

 “Come, brother, the first of the rafts is on its
rollers and descending the bank to the river.”

 The water looked even blacker and more evil near at
hand than it had done from the vantage- point of the hill. Its face reflected
no light, making the area between the banks seem like some bottomless void. The
huge, cumbersome rafts were lined along the bank, the men waiting in orderly
lines behind the raft that each was to board. Sarrick signalled the swimmers to
enter the water. Dozens of them waded out before disappearing from view,
swallowed up by the darkness. Andarion thought that it took a particular kind
of courage to tackle that black river at night with the Turog perhaps waiting
to deal out death on the far bank. But if they didn’t make it, then the whole
attack would be abortive, for they were to secure the ropes which were the
means of getting the rafts across.

 Suddenly, one by one, the ropes lying beside the
rafts sprang tight. Andarion tensed, listening for the sound of a fracas on the
far bank but all was silent except for the gurgling of the river against its
banks and the lonely call of some night bird. Sarrick leaned towards him and
murmured: “All the ropes have been secured. The archers are in position to give
us cover if necessary. I have ordered complete silence until we are across.”
Andarion nodded. “The raft below is yours, brother,” Sarrick added. “Good
luck.”

 “May the Father of Light grant victory to his
children,” a voice said out of the darkness.

 Sarrick turned in exasperation. “Relisar, you old
fool, what are you doing here?”

 “If the Prince goes into danger then I will go with
him.”

 “You will only get in the way,” Sarrick hissed. “He
has no time to protect you from getting your stupid head cut off by the Turog.
If you come, you may take your chances. Just don’t get in my way.”

 With that, he strode off to his own raft.

 “He’s right,” said Andarion in a milder tone. “It’s
too dangerous, old friend.”

 He couldn’t see Relisar’s face in the darkness but
could make out the faint glimmer of his silver hair and beard. However his tone
left no doubt of his determination.

 “I’m coming,” he announced with uncharacteristic
brevity, reminding the Prince that he could on occasion be stubborn.

 “Very well, just stay to the back and keep your head
down.”

 The rafts were no more than crude wooden platforms,
floating stodgily, weighted down by their burden of men. The Prince stood at
the front, watching the far shore approach, sword drawn in hand. The men heaved
on the ropes secured by the swimmers, and the heavy cables creaked and groaned
with the strain. The Prince imagined the darkness to be a shade less intense as
dawn approached, for he could distinguish the rafts on either side, making
their cumbersome way across. The moment the raft bumped the far bank, Andarion
leaped ashore, followed closely by his men. All along the bank a similar event
was happening. He heard the small noises of their presence. The clink of
weapons; a smothered cough. But still silence reigned in the forest before him.
Dawn was coming fast. The darkness was no longer black but deep grey. The Turog
watch fires still glimmered between the trees. A messenger touched his arm and
in a low voice informed him that all the troops had landed. With thumping
heart, he signalled the advance. Military formation was impossible due to the
density of the trees and the men began to filter like shadows between the
silent trunks. Like a secret tide they moved noiselessly forward, swords and
bows ready, shields poised.

 Still there was no response. All the Prince’s old
uneasiness returned. Cautiously they approached the campfires. He could see one
of them plainly now, situated in a clearing in the forest, surrounded by tents
pitched in the Turogs’ usual disorderly fashion. There was no one in sight.
Were they all in the tents asleep? Where were the guards?

 Someone touched his arm and he almost jumped. It was
Sarrick. “I have halted our advance,” he whispered. “I do not like this. It
smells of a trap. I have despatched scouts to the other camps to locate the
Turog. In the meantime I do not think it advisable to enter these clearings.”

 “Surely we must send a small party to investigate
the tents?”

  Sarrick hesitated. “Agreed.”

 He despatched half a dozen men who entered the camp,
watched by their comrades from the trees. The fire still crackled and blazed
cheerfully on the empty scene. Unnoticed, strand by gossamer strand, the
darkness lifted. A soldier approached the first tent and drew back the flap
using the point of his sword. He turned and shrugged, which the watchers took
to mean that it was empty. The other men did the same. Their captain, made bold
by the silence, turned and called: “There’s no one here. They’ve all gone.” The
words were no sooner out of him, than an arrow whistled out of the trees and
thudded into his throat. For a brief moment he looked surprised before he fell.

 Soon the air was thick with arrows. They whined and
sliced through the air, thudding into trees, clanging as they glanced off the
shields of the men. Andarion felt the impact of two as they struck his raised
shield. Then suddenly he heard a heavy thud, too heavy for the impact of an
arrow. He spun on his heel to discover a slant-eyed, heavily-armed Turog behind
him. For a split second he couldn’t think where it had come from, then more
thuds followed as one by one they dropped on the men from the concealment of
the tree branches. In the brightening light he caught a glimpse of Sarrick far
to his left, surrounded by enemies. The Turog charged him. Shorter than the
Prince but long-armed and powerful, individually they were formidable opponents
but Andarion knew that their instinct was to fight in packs. It was an old ploy
of theirs that one should attack from the front while another attacked from
behind. The Prince, his senses alert, heard the telltale thud behind him.
Swiftly he dealt the first Turog such a powerful blow that it staggered back
and in the same movement he spun to face the creature that had just landed
behind him.

 What he saw, checked him. Before him was a
Great-turog, the largest species, bred for its size, strength and aggression.
They were usually more cunning than the others and consequently were much used
by the Destroyer as captains. Its yellow eyes stared at him from beneath its
helmet, so close that he could see that its pupils were not round, but slitted,
like a goat’s. Its mouth was drawn back in a snarl that revealed ranks of
sharply-pointed teeth. It was taller than the Prince and much more powerfully
built: its bowed legs were iron-hard, its long arms gave it dangerously
extended reach. It swung its curved blade at the Prince like a scythe. He took
the powerful blow on his shield, flinging up his left arm to meet the attack. He
was a tall man, and strong, but the sheer force of the blow caused him to
stagger back. Pain sheered up his arm to his shoulder. He glanced in
astonishment at his shield. It had been cleaved in two with a mighty crack that
came down as far as the arm grip. For a dreadful moment he thought his left arm
had been broken, but he found he could move it and swiftly disengaged it from
the shield, casting the useless fragments aside. This took only a few seconds
but the Turog gave him no respite. Its blade was already swinging back to
deliver another hammering assault. Andarion gripped his sword with both hands
to increase the power behind his blows and ignoring his pain, flashed up his
sword to counter the attack. The two blades met with a force that jarred him again
to the shoulder. Despite himself, he groaned in agony. He had never fought a
Great-turog in single combat before and remembered too late that no man could
prevail unaided against one. But the Prince was no coward and fought grimly on,
glad only that the smaller Turog had abandoned him in search of easier prey -
or perhaps it feared to trespass on its captain’s territory, for the
Great-turog were known to kill the smaller species on the slightest
provocation.

  The Prince began to circle his adversary, realising
that he had made too little use of his greater flexibility and speed. Fast as
lightning, his longer blade slashed in under his opponent’s, missing its arm by
a fraction. It gave a snarl of rage but he thought he detected the first signs
of wariness in its yellow eyes. It fought more cunningly now, twice almost
deceiving him, twice parried by a desperate thrust delivered at the last
moment. Andarion was in very real agony now. Perspiration trickled down his
face under his helmet, getting in his eyes, but his determination never
wavered. So absorbed in this dangerous encounter was he, that he expected no
help from those around him, assuming that they too were fighting for their
lives. But the tide of battle had turned against the Turog. The men fought
fiercely and there were few of the Great-turog to hold the smaller ones
together in the face of such stubborn opposition. Finally they broke and fled.

 Sarrick wisely refused to allow his men to pursue
them. It was then that he caught sight of Andarion’s plight. Gathering some
men, he charged across to the clearing where the duel still continued. He
instantly saw that there was something wrong with Andarion’s arm, for it hung
loosely at his side now, and he was fighting only with his right hand. Sarrick hurled
himself into the clearing and with a powerful double-handed blow, struck up the
Turog’s sword. The creature, clearly caught by surprise, stepped back a pace,
disengaging from the fight. When he saw Sarrick and the eager men at his back,
he stepped back still further and turning to Andarion, he bowed ironically.

  “We will fight again, my lord Prince,” he said in a
deep, guttural voice and before anyone could stop him, he leapt back into the
trees.

 “Pursue him!” yelled Sarrick. The men needed no urging.

  Wearily, Andarion removed his helmet revealing a
face grey with pain and bathed with perspiration.

 “Thank you, Sarrick,” he gasped, his chest still
heaving.

 “Let me see your arm,” Sarrick commanded and
withdrawing a small knife from his belt, he slit the sleeve to the shoulder.
Andarion’s forearm was swollen and an appalling array of lurid colours. Sarrick
looked up grimly. “Your arm is broken, brother. How did you ever fight that
animal with an arm in this state?”

 Andarion did not reply but sank to his knees.
Sarrick saw that unconsciousness was not far away, held only at bay by his
will. He called to one of his men. “See if you can find that old fool Relisar.
Tell him Prince Andarion has been injured.”