The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (67 page)

 “We must fall back,
Andarion,” he gasped, short of breath.

 His brother shook his
head and glanced significantly at the King. “If you wish to pose that argument,
brother, I wish you luck. I have just had my head bitten off for attempting
it.”

 “It’s no good, we
cannot hold much longer. Celedorn and the brigands stemmed the retreat to our
left and managed to frustrate an attempt by the Red Turog to get behind us, but
the forces against us are overwhelming. It cannot last.”

  Just at that moment
there was a cry from the King. Both brothers spun round in time to see a Red
Turog, mounted on one of their fierce-looking horses, raise its sword for a
second blow. The King had dropped his shield and was clutching his arm,
nevertheless, he raised his sword to ward off the blow just as his two sons
dived to his assistance.

  They were too late.
The Turog’s heavy sword smashed aside the King’s guard and the point buried
itself in his side at a join in his breastplate. The King reeled and Sarrick
caught him as he fell from the saddle.

 Andarion, driven by
grief and rage, attacked the Red Turog. He had learnt much in his practice
sessions with Celedorn, and deftly used a trick he had been shown to disarm his
opponent. He deflected a downwards blow and with a deft twist of his wrist,
circled his blade under his opponent’s. It flew from the grasp of the unwary
creature and in that instant the Prince’s sword found its mark.

 He didn’t wait to see
it fall, but retreated from the battle to the place where they had carried the
King. Sarrick had removed his father’s helmet and breastplate, revealing his
bloodstained tunic. Relisar was hovering anxiously over him. He looked up when
Andarion arrived and gave a tiny, unmistakable shake of the head. The Prince
leaped from the saddle and fell on his knees beside his father. The King was
still conscious but his face bore the pallor of approaching death.

 “Where are you,
Andarion?” he asked faintly.

 The Prince leaned
closer. “Here, father, right beside you.”

 The King turned his
head slightly and looked at him. “You were right, you know,” he said a little
obscurely. Then after a moment said: “Send for Berendore. Quickly now, my time
is short and I must speak to him before the end.”

 Sarrick sprang to his
feet to obey his request and a short time later returned with Celedorn
following him. The King signalled weakly for him to come closer and Celedorn
sank on one knee beside him.

 “You were right,
Berendore. I should have come that day. I thought kingship meant weighing all
the factors, one against the other, and then making the practical decision, but
I was wrong. Sometimes compassion must come before common-sense. Sometimes
loyalty must outweigh all other considerations. I let your father and mother
die because I was afraid to lose more men in a vain attempt to rescue them, and
if truth be told, I feared to risk myself in such a cause. Now I ask you what I
have asked of no other man - I ask your forgiveness. If it gives you any
satisfaction, you should know that I have spent my entire life blaming myself
for the decision I made that day, wishing that it could be undone. When I
discovered that my sister’s son still lived, for the first time in many long
years, I had hope - hope of being at peace.”

 Celedorn looked down at
the dying man, his face set and stony. Those watching him found it impossible
to tell what was going on in his mind.

 “Celedorn?” said
Relisar gently. “You once told me that you had been forgiven. Now you, in turn,
must forgive. You, of all men, know what it is to live with decisions you
regret, now heal the hurt of twenty years before it is too late.”

 Celedorn did not reply
but dragged his eyes away from Relisar’s earnest countenance and dropped them
to the King. The King’s vision was clouding a little, but he strained to hold
off death, to focus all his remaining strength on the man beside him. He raised
his hand in a gesture that was almost pleading. Without a word, Celedorn took
the hand in his own in a strong clasp.

 “I forgive you, Sire,”
he said, his voice shaking a little with emotion. “Be at peace.”

 The King released a
deep sigh. “Thank you, Berendore,” he breathed, then his eyes became fixed and
he saw no more.

 Celedorn closed the
King’s eyes and laid his hand back by his side. When he stood up, he looked at
his own hand, to discover the King’s blood upon it.

 Blindly, he walked away
a pace or two, oblivious to all around him, conscious that a terrible tension
had been released within him. A terrible pain, that had become so much part of
him that he had hardly been aware of its existence, was flooding away like snow
melting in spring.

 So absorbed was he,
that when he felt a hand on his shoulder, he started.

 It was Andarion, his
face pale with grief. “Thank you, Celedorn,” he said quietly. “Thank you for
forgiving him. You enabled him to die in peace.”

 Celedorn nodded slowly.
“Yes, Sire.”

 “Sire?”

 “You are king now, my
friend. Eskendria is yours.”

 “I had not thought to
be king so soon.”

 Celedorn stared back
towards Addania. “Elorin once told me that bitterness never healed any hurt. I
will hate humanity no longer but reserve my vengeance for those who deserve it.
It was not your father who caused the evil that day, it was the Turog and it is
against the true enemy that I reserve retribution.”

 Sarrick came running
up. “Andarion! You must give the order to retreat! This is not the time or
place for grief, when Eskendria’s fate is balanced on a knife-edge.”

 Andarion, with an
effort, put aside his sadness. “You are right, brother. We must fall back on
the city. Celedorn, your men are the freshest troops we have - they must cover
our retreat.”

  The retreat was a
costly business. The enemy, realising their goal, had no intention of allowing
them to disengage. Division after division fell back while still fighting
involved rearguard actions. Given the difficult circumstances, Sarrick’s
tactics were masterly, keeping the enemy busy, while the bulk of his men
converged on one point - the bridge over the river into the city. During the
first stages of the retreat, the Ravenshold brigands were everywhere, keeping a
close formation and using their tight massing and bulk like a battering ram to
break up knots of the fiercest fighting. Again and again they charged the
enemy, giving the beleaguered infantry a desperately needed respite in which to
fall back. At last, under Celedorn’s orders, the brigands took up defensive
positions in a semi-circle before the bridge, protecting the last men to cross
into the city.

 Elorin, watching the
retreat from the height of the city walls, with Dorgan by her side, saw with
horror how the black tide of Turog swept ever forward, swirling against the
barrier of shields, causing the semicircle to shrink ever smaller towards the
gate. As their lines shortened, so the brigands dismounted and sent their
horses back into the city. They fought shoulder to shoulder, their shields
taking fearful punishment as blows hammered upon them.

 She could distinguish
Celedorn in the centre of the line, hacking and slicing without mercy. He
ducked suddenly, as a swinging blow from a mace came in his direction. The blow
snagged the crest of his helmet and swept it from his head. A shrieking howl,
audible from the top of the wall, even above the rumpus of battle, went up from
the Turog.

 
“Zardes-kur!
Zardes-kur! The Executioner is here!”

 
Dorgan leaned precariously over the parapet. “They had
not recognised him before because of his helmet, but they know those scars as
well as we do.”

 “Is he hurt?” Elorin
asked urgently, hopping to see around his bulk.

 “No, I don’t think so,”
he said, peering doubtfully into the chaos below. “I have lost sight of
him.......no, there he is! I can see him - there, to the left. He is fighting a
Red Turog!”

 Sarrick and Andarion
were also watching the scene at much closer quarters from the crest of the
bridge. Men were streaming past them into the city, many covered in blood or
being helped, limping, by their comrades. Yet to the brothers’ pride, there was
no panic but an orderly, disciplined retreat.

 As the army diminished,
the Ravensholders took more and more of the strain. Sarrick positioned archers
on the city walls and in front of the gates, to cover the sudden dash for
safety that they were going to have to make.

 The Red Turog and Celedorn
were fighting within the confines of the circle. It wielded a straight-bladed
sword which it had taken from a previous victim, and it wielded it well,
combining strength with cunning. The two blades clashed with such jarring force
that in the overcast light sparks could briefly be seen. Celedorn fought with
all his customary coolness and agility, but his calm demeanour was deceptive,
for no one except the Turog was close enough to see the blaze of hatred in his
eyes. Suddenly, he cast aside his shield and abandoning the finesse of his
usual technique, caught his hilt in a powerful double-handed grip and began to
fight solely using sheer, naked power. The long blade swung again and again at
the creature, with dreadful force and precision. It fought well in return, but
its opponent would brook no opposition and pace by pace it was forced to
retreat.

 Elorin, leaning
dangerously over the wall, watched with her breath held in horrified
fascination. So, too, did the King and his brother, but they need not have
feared for him, for his strength of will was such, that to oppose him was
fruitless. Swift as lightning, Celedorn exploited a moment’s carelessness on
the part of his foe, and his blade flashed over its shield and found its mark
deep in its throat.

 The brigands were now
fighting tightly packed at the end of the bridge, compressed into a narrow,
constricting mass.

 Andarion called out
urgently to Celedorn, raising his voice to bellow over the noise of battle.

 “Celedorn! Run for the
gate! We will cover you!
Run
!”

 All the brigands heard
him, and at the signal from Celedorn, took to their heels and fled. The Turog
sprang after them, but were met with a hail of arrows from the ramparts that
cut them down with deadly accuracy. So many fell, slain in mid-stride, that
they blocked the path of others forging forward from behind towards the narrow
bridge.

 Celedorn was the last
man through the heavy gates, just as they were slammed shut in the faces of the
pursuing swarm.

 Andarion eyed his
cousin in alarm, for he was spattered with blood from head to foot. “Are you
hurt?”

 Celedorn gave his
characteristically wicked grin. “No cause for alarm. All this,” he said,
indicating the gore, “is, I assure you, not mine.”

 The King relaxed his
concerned posture. “I should have known you would come through without a
scratch. All the same, you had better get cleaned up before Elorin sees you.”

 Celedorn turned away,
only to be confronted by Sarrick, bleeding from a scratch on his forehead but
still pugnacious. “I said to you a short time ago that we would soon see what
sort of bargain we had bought ourselves. Well, I watched you fight the Red
Turog and I saw your men cover our retreat and so I think, perhaps, it was a
good one.” He held out his hand. “I refused to shake hands with you when you
assumed your title. I wish to repair that omission.”

 Celedorn transferred
his bloodied sword to his left hand and took the Prince’s hand in his. Sarrick
smiled, suddenly revealing his relationship with his brother. “I agree with
Andarion, you had better get cleaned up before your appearance panics the
townspeople.”

 “Surely there is
something that must be done first?” objected Celedorn.

 “I know - the bridge.
You have done enough for today. I have long had plans in mind to demolish the
bridge. Leave it to me.”

 Celedorn spoke to one
of his men, patiently waiting for orders. “How many did we lose?”

 The brigand pulled off
his helmet revealing a fierce, sweat-streaked face. “Five hundred or so, my lord,
a quarter of our force.”

 “After what you did
today,” the King told him, “I will create an elite division called the
Ravenshold Brigands, using your men as the core. It will be formed of only the
bravest fighters.”

 The man grinned,
savagely pleased with the compliment and Celedorn recognised that the new king
knew how to handle men.

 Elorin, fighting her
way through the throng towards the gate, missed Celedorn, who was at the same
time making his way up the winding streets towards their quarters in the
palace. Consequently, he had time to bathe and change before she caught up with
him .She came into the room just as he had finished dressing. Her eyes
instantly fell on the bloodstained clothes lying on the floor. Before she could
voice the question that sprang to her lips, he said quickly: “I am not injured.
It is my enemy’s blood you see.”

 She crossed to him and
saying nothing, put her arms around him and buried her face against his neck.
He stood for a long time leaning his injured cheek against her hair, holding
her in the kind of silence that makes words utterly superfluous. When at last
he stepped back, he said: “I must go down to the gate again. Andarion may need
me.”