The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (14 page)

 A party of men was despatched to the northern end of
the bridge where two of their number were lowered on ropes and soon were
attacking the supporting spars with the axes, weakening them before attaching
the ropes that would complete their destruction. When the job was done,
carefully they retired back across the bridge, paying out the ropes behind
them. In the meantime a similar process had almost been completed on the
southern side.

 But just when the ropes were ready to be attached to
the horses, one of the men standing guard suddenly let out a cry of alarm.

 
“Turog!”

 All the men working on the bridge instantly sprang
for their weapons and the forest rang to the sound of three hundred blades
drawn in unison. Celedorn’s tall form strode forward, sword in hand, in time to
encounter a large party of Turog emerging from the trees, the bridge clearly
their destination. For a moment there was a stunned silence, then with fierce
yells the Turog drew their weapons and attacked.

 Elorin, forgetting Celedorn’s instructions, stayed
where she was near the bridge. The men flung themselves into the fight, not one
coward amongst them. Soon the tumult was fierce, weapons clashing, the Turog
snarling as they always did in a fight, and the battle cries of the men rending
the air. One man, unable to reach his weapons in time, was doing valiant
service using the axe with which he had been attacking the bridge. It wasn’t a
battle axe, and lacked the double-edged blade of that fearsome weapon, but that
didn’t prevent him burying it in the chest of his opponent. Celedorn was at the
far side of the fray, she saw his sword flash above the heads of the others and
standing on the tree-trunk to get a better view, she watched the fury with
which he attacked his adversaries. They surrounded him in a pack, four
attacking at once, unaware of who he was because of the helmet covering his
face, realising only that the man before them was a daunting opponent. He
fought with such speed and aggression that he held all four at bay. One, he
killed with an astonishing backwards stroke that left Elorin gasping at the
sheer audacity of it. She began to realise that during his fight with Hydar he
had been restrained, expending no more effort than had been necessary to
achieve his ends. Now his true abilities became apparent and she watched
enthralled, completely fascinated by his mastery of the sword, his speed and
power. Even as she watched, one of the Turog was not quick enough in defence
and Celedorn’s heavy sword sliced effortlessly through its thick neck. Its head
flew from its shoulders and for a moment it stood upright pumping a dark jet of
blood from its severed neck before crashing to the ground.

 Suddenly, Elorin became aware of a danger to which
her single-mindedness had rendered her oblivious. A small party of about a
dozen Turog had broken through the semi-circle of men and was heading with
determination for the bridge and the safety of the Forsaken Lands. Elorin stood
directly in their path. She cast a despairing glance in Celedorn’s direction
but he was fighting with his back turned towards her. She retreated before them
and found herself trapped at the end of the bridge. They advanced towards her,
curving swords drawn, yellow eyes cruel. She did the only thing she could do
and retreated onto the bridge, at the same time she took a deep breath and
screamed Celedorn’s name at the top of her voice.

 He heard her, for he turned briefly from his
opponent to glance over his shoulder in her direction. Instantly he saw her
plight. The Turog before him found its weapon ruthlessly smashed from its hand
and the point of Celedorn’s sword driven into its chest. Jerking his sword
free, Celedorn sprang for the bridge.

 Elorin had been driven half way across by now. The
Turog, suddenly aware of Celedorn descending on them from the rear, stampeded
in a body onto the bridge. In its weakened state it would not take their
weight. A horrible rending groan issued from the structure. With a mighty
cracking and splitting sound one of the supports on the northern end began to
give way. The bridge shifted sickeningly and began to tilt. One of the Turog,
thrown off balance, fell with a scream over the side and disappeared into the
chasm. Celedorn reached the end of the bridge and ruthlessly cut down the Turog
nearest him. Elorin was balanced precariously on the tilted bridge about
three-quarters of the way across. A dozen terrified Turog stood between them.
They all turned with one accord to retreat, only to find Celedorn barring their
path. The sudden shifting of weight was too much for the injured support and
with a terrific crack it gave up the struggle and plunged down into the ravine.
The bridge instantly disintegrated, planks and spars flew apart and plummeted into
the depths followed by all the wretched Turog. They screamed and bounced off
the rocky sides before disappearing into a horrible silence, swallowed whole by
the Gorge.

 Only the supports on the southern side, where
Celedorn was standing, had held. Not for an instant had he thought of his own
danger. His attention was riveted to Elorin. She had fallen with the Turog, as
there was simply no bridge left beneath her to stand on, but because she was
further across than they, she had managed to catch hold of the remaining spar
which projected from the cliff, forlornly pointing into space with nothing left
to support. In sheer terror she was now clinging to the end of it with both
hands, her legs swinging in thin air over the void.

 Oblivious to the fight still going on behind him,
Celedorn called to her urgently.

 “Elorin! Elorin! Get your legs up over the spar.
Your arms will not hold you for ever. Hook your legs over the spar!”

 Dimly she seemed to hear him, for she turned a
white, terrified face in his direction. He leaned out precariously far on the
last fragile remnant of the bridge, trying to get in contact with her, trying
to force her to heed him.

 “Elorin, swing your legs over the spar,” he
repeated, raising his voice over the continuing sounds of battle. “You must
try. You must do as I tell you.”

 Sobbing with fear, she tried to raise her legs
upwards. The spar gave a jolt.

  “Oh no,” Celedorn whispered, “it’s going to give
way.”

 He snatched up a rope which was still attached to
his side of the bridge and cutting it with his sword, he swiftly coiled it.

 “Elorin, I’m going to toss you the end of the rope.
You must let go of the spar with one hand in order to catch it. Do you
understand?”

 “I can’t,” she wailed. “I can’t let go!”

 “You must. The spar is not strong enough to take
your weight. You must catch the rope. Do you hear me?”

 She nodded, unable to speak, her blue eyes fixed on
him in terror.

 “Don’t look at me, watch the end of the rope and
catch it as it falls across the spar.”

 Carefully he poised himself on the outermost edge of
the broken bridge and gently swung the rope. Skilfully, he cast it forward and
it landed neatly across the spar near her hand. She snatched at it but it slid
off just at the critical moment and she missed. Quickly she grabbed the spar
again.

 “Celedorn,” she sobbed. “I’m going to fall.”

 “You won’t,” he shouted back fiercely. “Just do as I
say. I’m going to throw the rope again and this time you are going to catch
it.”

 “I can’t hold on much longer!”

 “You will catch it this time. Now concentrate!”

 With frantic haste he pulled in the rope. His gaze
focused intensely on the portion of spar that he was aiming for and he prepared
to throw again. But before he could do so, the spar gave another jolt and with
a rending groan it broke free of its mounting. Elorin screamed as both she and
the spar plunged into the abyss.

 Celedorn threw himself flat on the bridge, flinging
his hands out in a futile attempt to catch her.

 She fell straight downwards, not striking the sides
as the Turog had done, and plunged into the churning river far below.

 Down and down she went, ever deeper into the roaring
torrent. The swirling currents tumbled her over and over until she no longer
knew which way up she was. Her collision with the water had knocked most of the
breath out of her and she was desperate for air. The water roared in her ears
and eyes, blinding and deafening her. Frantically she kicked out, her lungs
bursting from want of air. Still the mighty Harnor rolled her over, plunging
her deeper until she was sure she was going to die. But just when lack of
oxygen had almost forced her to draw in a breath of the icy water, she briefly
surfaced. She had just time to gasp in a mixture of air and spray before being
thrust under again. The river was full of broken planks and spars from the
bridge, all jostling about in the current, quite capable of delivering a blow
that could kill. She struggled to the surface again, whirled and buffeted by
the foam, in time to see a large plank bearing down on her. Taking another deep
breath, she lunged for it as it passed. The wet wood slipped from her fingers
but a sudden thrust of current brought the tail of it towards her again and she
grasped it with both hands. The plank, caught by the current, careered off down
the river, towing Elorin with it. It plummeted into hollows and reared onto the
backs of waves. It was thrown crazily from side to side as waves hit the cliff
walls and rebounded. Down the dark, sunless tunnel they were swept at
terrifying speed. Once the end of the plank hit the cliff face with a crack
that jarred her entire body and nearly caused her to let go. But she knew that
the plank was the only thing that might save her from drowning and hung on with
grim determination.

 The short vicious waves slapped and blinded her,
forcing her to swallow large quantities of the river, but finally, just when
she was sure she could hold on no longer, the river became quieter. It slid
swiftly and silently between the towering walls of black stone, its surface
dark and unbroken. Elorin dragged herself on top of the plank, allowing her
legs to trail in the water, and lay there like one dead.

 Still the river carried her. With an almost
dreamlike ease the walls slipped by. Pinnacles of rock swiftly approached and
fell behind. The plank turned gently in the current. Sometimes she was facing
forward, at others, back in the direction from which she had come; and all the
time a sense of dreamlike unreality possessed her, as swiftly and smoothly the
miles slipped by. She lay on the plank sodden and exhausted, too battered to
care what happened.

 At last the plank got caught in an eddy that swirled
it smoothly into a little bay. When it bumped to a halt, Elorin opened her eyes
with a jerk. She was in a little sandy bay on the northward side of the river.
The bay was filled with branches, planks and logs - obviously a depository of
anything swept down by the river. Sliding off the plank, she found the water
was only knee-deep. She had to clamber over many bleached trunks to reach the
shore but when she felt the solid ground beneath her feet, her legs gave way
under her and she fell onto the reassuring solidity of the sand, digging her
fingers into it as if she couldn’t believe that she was safe.

  After a while she took stock of her surroundings
and began to realise that her sense of relief was a little premature. She was
on the northern side of the river at the edge of the Forsaken Lands. Here the
cliffs had lowered to form a long slope covered with trees that descended
directly to the edge of the river. On the opposite side, the Eskendrian side,
the cliffs rose in all their towering majesty, unbroken, unscalable, their feet
sunk in the swirling Harnor.

 She was cold and shivering convulsively, her clothes
soaked and dripping with icy river water. In her fear, she hadn’t noticed it
before, but now she became aware of just how chilled she had become. She wrung
what water she could out of her tunic and took stock of her situation. She was
alone in the Forsaken Lands with no way of crossing the river, no food and no
possessions - other than soaking wet clothes. Worst of all, she had no idea how
to get to safety.

 Her head sank in despair. Icy droplets ran down her
face from her wet hair.

 “What am I to do?” she groaned softly. “No one even
knows I am here. Even Celedorn probably thinks I am dead.”

  As another bout of shivering shook her, the only
thing she knew for certain was that if she didn’t get her clothes dried out
before nightfall, she would perish of cold.

  The cliffs on the southern side were casting long,
dark shadows over the part of the forest she was in, but when she looked up,
she discovered to her surprise that far above her the sky was still blue and
the sun shining. If she climbed higher through the trees away from the river
and the shadow of the cliffs, she might find a sunny glade where she could get
dry.

 She left the beach and began to scramble up the
steep bank to the trees. The bank was overhung with a shaggy shawl of brambles
and she had a rather painful struggle to get through them. An ominous rending
sound informed her that she had torn her tunic. She burst free of their
clinging embrace, paying with no more than a long scratch on her arm.

 “If only it had been autumn, I might at least have
got some blackberries from them,” she muttered, aware that she was becoming hungry.

 What appeared to be a track made by animals threaded
upwards through the gloomy trees. Soon the whisper of the river was left behind
and the silence of the forest closed around her. She remembered what Celedorn
had said about the Forsaken Lands and began to realise that he had been
correct. The place was suffused with a sense of brooding watchfulness. She saw
nothing. Not a bird nor an animal. But she found herself looking over her
shoulder, unable to shake off the feeling that something might be creeping up
behind her.

 After about half an hour of cold, damp walking she
emerged from the shadow cast by the cliff into filtered sunshine seeping shyly
between the leaves. By the position of the sun she judged it to be
mid-afternoon. Finally she found what she had been looking for - a grassy,
sunlit glade between the trees. As she entered it, the sense of oppression felt
amongst the trees, lifted and she turned up her face to the patch of blue sky
above. Wild flowers grew in the sheltered warmth and white butterflies flitted
between them, their wings bright in the mellow, drowsy sunshine. She headed for
what she thought was a fallen tree-trunk in the middle of the glade but closer
inspection revealed that it was stone and had, moreover, been shaped by the hand
of man. The old stone obelisk lay on its side half hidden by the long grass.
Rows of curling symbols had once been carved on its side but the centuries had
weathered them to indistinct ridges and hollows blurred by mosses and lichens.
She ran her fingers over the carvings and thought that she could detect some of
the symbols of the old language but they were too indistinct to be sure.
Somehow she was comforted by the evidence of the presence of man. The old stone
was warm to the touch and taking off her tunic and breeches, she draped them
over it to dry, then curled up on the grass in the sunshine. She unplaited her
hair and spreading it across the wild flowers to dry, surrendered to the warmth
and the drowsy hum of the bees in the flowers.

  When she awoke the sun was shedding its last rays
into the glade before dipping behind the trees. Her clothes were almost dry -
although her boots were still damp, and she dressed quickly wondering what she
was going to do next. She was still tired and more hungry than ever and it was
obvious that a cold night in the forest awaited her. She peered into its
shadowy depths from the open glade and baulked at the idea of creeping into the
gloom just as darkness was about to descend. It would be better to stay in the
glade, close to the illusory friendliness of the old stone, until morning came.
She had nothing with which to light a fire and indeed was reluctant to do so.
Some instinct warned her that her only safety lay in the fact that her presence
was undetected. Celedorn had said that the woods crawled with Turog and that
even when the forest appeared to be empty, it was rarely so. He had not been
specific about what else might live in the woods other than the Turog but her
imagination, activated by the brooding silence, supplied all that he had not.

 As the daylight diminished into darkness, she sat
with her back against the stone, trying to ignore the now insistent pangs of
hunger. It became colder and what little warmth the stone had absorbed from the
sun soon dissipated. She heard the bark of a dog-fox and the eerie scream of a
vixen. Some creature, that common-sense told her was a badger, snuffled and
grunted at the edge of the glade and somewhere distant amongst the trees an owl
hooted, reminding her nostalgically of Skah. She wondered if he still brought
mice back to the little round room in the ivy-covered tower. She thought of
Relisar and his bumbling kindness and of Andarion, tall and fair. She thought
of Dorgan and his last advice - which she had not heeded. If she had stayed
close to Celedorn, as both he and Dorgan had commanded, all this would not have
happened. She remembered Celedorn’s valiant attempt to save her. She saw him in
her mind’s eye, leaning out precariously, concentrating on throwing the rope to
her. She remembered her fear, the horrible, sickening stab of undiluted terror
as the spar gave way. Then that long, long fall that had been like death in its
finality.

 Celedorn’s voice echoed in her memory. “
Elorin!
Elorin
!”

 Suddenly she awoke with a start. It was still dark
but the moon had risen above the trees. Now almost full, it shed its metallic
light into the glade. She tried to remember what it was that had awoken her.
The night was still, silently painted with silver. Then she heard it again - the
crack of a twig under a foot. Slowly she turned her head in the direction of
the sound, at the same time shrinking down behind the stone, hoping that she
was invisible amongst the tall grass.

 She thought she saw a movement amongst the trees but
it could have been the product of an overwrought imagination playing tricks in
the darkness. The moonlight did not penetrate the dark ranks of trees, but as
she watched, her eyes straining against the darkness, she thought for an
instant that she saw a dark shadow cross a shaft of moonlight at the edge of
the glade. She couldn’t make out what it was but it was moving swiftly
northwards, skirting the glade. She held her breath, every sense straining but
she saw and heard nothing more. However, sleep was effectively banished. She
stayed awake and alert hour after hour in the darkness, while the moon sank
lower and the stars faded.

 When finally it was light, she arose stiff and cold
from her cramped position, half wondering if she had dreamed the incident. She
crossed to the edge of the glade where the shadow had been, but found nothing.
Rapidly her most pressing need was to find something to eat, but the forest
proved to be surprisingly barren at that time of year. Autumn would have
yielded berries and nuts but late spring produced only wild garlic which had a
strong, pungent taste, impossible to eat in quantity. She consumed a few that
were growing amongst the trees, signalling their presence by their white
flowers and rank smell but they did little to assuage her hunger. A tiny brook
that danced and leapt its way down some mossy stones on its way to join the
Harnor, provided some relief and she drank until she could hold no more.

  All through the long, wakeful night, her mind had
been revolving around the problem of how to get back. Her main difficulty was
that she lacked knowledge of the region. She had tried to recall in detail
everything that Celedorn had told her and remembered that he had said that the
cliffs resumed again to the west until the river reached the sea. Between them
the Harnor ran strong and deep and uncrossable. To the east, a Turog army was
encamped in the forest facing Eskendria, only momentarily disrupted by its
encounter with the two princes. She had decided that her best option was to
head west through the Forsaken Lands until she reached the coast. Perhaps there
would be some way of crossing the Harnor where it emptied itself into the sea -
the cliffs must surely end there.

 She left the little brook and climbed higher through
the trees. Then taking her bearings from the sun and occasional glimpses of the
distantly gleaming Harnor, she set off westwards. For the rest of that morning
she followed a kind of ridge upon which the trees grew more thinly. It appeared
to run roughly westward and was easier travelling than the dense forest below.
It provided panoramic views over the surrounding forest to the south, towards
the Harnor and the snow-tipped Westrin Mountains rising beyond, and in all
other directions over the dense, unbroken green canopy of the forest. She
wondered how far it was to the sea - it certainly, and rather discouragingly,
wasn’t visible from her vantage-point. Perhaps what she was doing was madness,
but she saw no alternative other than to wait by the Harnor until she was
caught by the Turog. In a strange way, all her instincts urged her to turn
towards the sea. In her head she heard the waves breaking and hissing on a
sandy beach and the haunting call of the gulls. It was not the first time she
had noticed a longing for the coast, for the smell of salt in the air. A
strange affinity that might have been the ghost of a memory.

 By midday her hunger pains were so intense that she
could think of nothing else. More water and allium did little to help. She
trudged on determinedly but by late afternoon the ridge had disappointingly
petered out and she was forced to descend into the claustrophobic density of
the forest. However, not far into it, she unexpectedly came across what
appeared to be a well-used trail. She stood looking at it, undecided. The track
went in roughly the right direction but it had recently been trodden by many
feet which she must assume were Turog. She glanced around her uneasily,
wondering if the speed the track would lend her was worth the risk. The maze of
trees on either side seemed confusing compared to the simplicity of the track.
Finally, it was hunger that decided her. She needed to leave this barren forest
as quickly as possible if she was not to starve. She would risk following the
trail until nightfall. Proceeding along it, every sense alert, she was aware
once again of the watchfulness of the forest. The sense of security that the
height of the ridge had given her was gone and now, once more, she looked
anxiously over her shoulder.