The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (70 page)

 “I make good my
omission on our wedding day,” he had said, as he put it on her finger. “Since
finding the heart-shaped pearl at Skeris-morl, I can think of no other gem that
would become you more.”

 Looking at him again,
she knew that he thought her calmness arose from her overwhelming confidence in
his ability to win, and she continued to allow him to believe that: but it was
not true. Her calmness arose from the fact that she had made up her mind that
if he lost, she could not bear to continue living in a word that no longer held
him. If he departed from it, then so, too, would she.

 Shortly before noon,
they both repaired to the King’s apartments. Sarrick, Triana and Relisar were
already there, having announced their intention of coming with him. The companions
would not be facing the Turog alone, as Andarion had ordered the entire
Eskendrian army to deploy in battle order before the city, to ensure that there
was no foul play. The place of contest lay on some level ground, near a small
copse of trees, just beyond the ruins of the old bridge.

 To leave the city, the
Eskendrians had been forced to build a ramp similar to the one the Red Turog
had tried to use and which had been destroyed in the first assault.

 At first, Andarion had
tried to persuade Triana to stay within the safety of the city, but her reply
had silenced all his arguments.

 “If Celedorn loses,
nowhere is safe.”

 Sarrick, who had been
staring moodily out of the window, sprang to his feet when Celedorn entered. To
the Prince’s surprise, he wore no armour but was dressed in his usual fashion
in black breeches and boots and a longish leather waistcoat over a loose linen
shirt. Only his sword, swinging in its scabbard by his side, indicated any
warlike intentions.

 “Where is your armour?”

 “I have decided not to
wear armour, as it will only be an encumbrance. Gorth will outmatch me in
strength and I know of no armour which could withstand the power of his blows.
The only area in which I may excel him is speed, and I will be relying so
greatly on that quality that I must not wear anything that will slow me down.”

 “But surely you will
take a shield?”

 “No. My sword will be
my sole means of defence as well as attack.”

 “There is sense in what
you say,” agreed Andarion. “For when I fought Gorth, he cleaved my shield in
two with a single blow. However, I will give you something that you might find
useful.”

 He disappeared into a
side chamber and returned with two broad wrist straps in his hands. They were
beautifully made of the finest leather and were tooled in dull gold with the
image of the chalice flower.

 “You will have to
repulse many heavy blows. These will help to strengthen your wrists.” Celedorn
nodded and made to take them from the King, but Andarion insisted on putting
them on himself, fastening the tiny buckles on the underside of the straps.

 “Is that tight enough?”

 “Yes, that’s fine.”

 Their eyes met. “We are
all coming with you. The army has already been deployed beyond the gate and the
Ravenshold brigands wait to escort us through the city. If this is a trick, the
Turog will pay dearly for it.”

 “It is no trick,”
replied Celedorn quietly. “Why should it be? Gorth has no doubts that he will
win.”

 Andarion smiled
suddenly, with the unexpectedness of the sun on a winter’s day. “That is only
because he does not know who he is fighting.”

 “He did not ask?”

 “He asked, but I told
him he would be fighting the Lord of Westrin - which conveyed nothing to him.”

 “Good. I want to look
in his yellow eyes when he realises who I am.”

 “At least the weather
favours you,” Sarrick observed.

 “Why is that?” asked
Triana.

 “Gorth is over seven
feet tall, a whole nine inches taller than Celedorn. He will have a lot of
looking up to do, so it is just as well there is no sun to get in his eyes.” As
he spoke, he crossed to a table on which lay a cloak of royal crimson fastened
with a golden clasp. He lifted it in his hands and carried it to the King.

  Taking it from him,
Andarion held it out to Celedorn and said formally: “My brother and I wish you
to wear this today, Lord of Westrin.”

 Celedorn, well aware of
the honour being paid to him, said: “I cannot wear this.”

 “Indeed you can,” the
King assured him solemnly. “You are of the royal blood and entitled to wear it.
Do you not realise that after my brother and sister, you are next in line to
the throne of Eskendria? Your mother was a princess of the royal house, honour
her, and me, by wearing this today.”

 Celedorn bowed his head
slightly, deeply moved, as the King fastened the golden clasp to his shoulder.

 When he turned to
Elorin, he saw her eyes shining with an expression that pierced him to the
heart. Oblivious to his audience, he bent and kissed her as he had never kissed
her before. In his touch, he spoke wordlessly of his love and his joy, yet underneath
lay the faintest whisper of a message of farewell.

 Triana, watching them,
felt her throat close and her hand blindly sought Andarion’s. Relisar blinked
rapidly and looked away. Even Sarrick hung his head, rendered silent by what he
saw.

 When Celedorn released
Elorin, he turned to face the King and said calmly: “I am ready.”

 The Ravenshold brigands
preceded them in full battle array down the winding streets towards the gate.
The King walked behind them, with Celedorn to the right and his brother to his
left. Relisar and the two women followed directly behind them.

 Word of what was
happening had somehow got around the townspeople and they had turned out, en
masse, to line the streets. They knew the gravity of the situation better than
any, and consequently they stood in silence as they passed. An occasional voice
called out to Celedorn from the crowd.
“The chalice flower protect you. The
Father of Light give you strength.”

  At last, they arrived
at the city’s gates, whose massive timbers stood open to reveal an intimidating
sight. From the vantage-point of the gate, they could see beyond the dried up
river bed to where the Eskendrian army had fanned out in battle formation to
right and left of the bridge. Cutting through the centre of the plain that lay
before them, ran a white road that diminished into the distance towards the
prominence where Andarion and Elorin had once, long ago, viewed the city. To
the left of the road, lay a broad expanse of level grass broken only by the
presence of a small copse, whose bare branches pointed at the sky. Beyond that
area, facing the Eskendrians, lay the main Turog army, drawn well back from the
river as agreed. In their thousands, like a dense black forest, the hordes
stretched across the plain from east to west. In the space between the two
opposing armies, stood Gorth, flanked by a smaller Turog bearing the jet-black
banner of the Destroyer, which bore no device or symbol.

 The sky brooded above
the scene, sullen and overcast, giving the light the strange metallic quality
of liquid mercury. The clouds hung heavily, like the lid of a pot, giving a
sense of being closed in, oppressed. The only bright spot of colour in the
entire plain was the blue and gold pennant of Eskendria, fluttering bravely on
its tall staff.

 Andarion glanced
questioningly at Celedorn, who nodded, then together they descended the wooden
ramp and across the causeway laid across the river bed. Once they had crossed,
on the signal from the King, Celedorn melted discreetly amongst the men of the Ravenshold
Division, not choosing to reveal his identity until the last moment.

 Sarrick and Andarion
strode towards Gorth, their cloaks of royal crimson standing out vividly
against the leaden plain. Andarion looked every inch a king. His tall figure
bore sword and shield and he wore a golden circlet upon his golden hair. The
brigands escorting them halted a short distance from Gorth and allowed the
brothers to proceed alone.

 Sarrick was relieved to
see that Gorth, too, wore no armour. He carried a sword of human design with a
long, straight blade that looked fearsomely heavy. It hung in its scabbard by
his side. He folded his powerful arms arrogantly as he watched the King
approach.

 When they were a few
feet from him, Andarion halted. Both armies were utterly silent. A fretful
breeze blew across the grass, tugging irritably at the standards, making them
flap and crack.

 “I keep our
appointment,” said the Great-turog in his bass voice.

 Sarrick’s heart was
thumping as he looked upwards at the mighty creature before him. Gorth was
dressed in a sleeveless leather tunic, worn over his breeches, that left his
massive arms bare, exposing grey skin swelling over powerful muscles.

 “He will never do it,”
Sarrick groaned inwardly. “No man could defeat such a creature.”

 If Andarion thought the
same, he did not reveal it. “I, too, keep the appointment,” he replied with a
touch of disdain.

 “Where is your champion
then?” Gorth asked, his yellow eyes, with pupils slitted like a goat’s, staring
mockingly at the King. “I do not see him - unless you intend to fight me
yourself, as you did once before.” His wide mouth stretched into an even wider
sneer. “Your broken arm mended, I take it?”

 “It mended,” replied
Andarion, refusing to rise to the bait.

 “Well? Where is this Lord
of Westrin? If indeed he is such, for it is a title long defunct.”

 Without taking his eyes
from Gorth, Andarion raised his voice just loud enough to carry to the
Ravenshold brigands a short distance behind him.

 “My lord, come
forward.”

 Celedorn stepped from
behind the first rank of men and walked slowly forward. His back was straight,
his head held high and his eyes were the colour of steel. Despite the cold fear
gripping her, Elorin watched him with pride. Gorth, too, was watching his
approach intently, but with an entirely different expression on his face.
Suddenly, a murmur like wind in dry grasses rustled through the Turog ranks.

 
“The Executioner!
The bringer of death
!”

 “Zardes-kur,” Gorth
hissed. He swung a slitted glance towards Andarion. “So! You fall already from
your high standards and stoop to a lie! You told me I was to fight the Lord of
Westrin!”

 Celedorn halted facing
Gorth.

 “He is the Lord of
Westrin,” said Andarion in a hard voice.

 “He is Zardes-kur. I
killed the last Lord of Westrin and all his family twenty years ago,” Gorth
snarled.

 “No, you did not.
Calordin’s son survived. He has now taken his father’s place.”

 For the first time,
Celedorn spoke. “You told me you would know me again by the marks you put on my
face.” He turned his injured cheek slightly towards Gorth. “Look now, Turog.
Look long and hard at my face, vermin, and tell me you don’t remember that
day.”

 Gorth stared at him.
Slowly he said: “You were the boy, the whelp who tried to fight me. You should
have died from those wounds.”

 “I did not die. I have
lived these twenty years with one desire in my heart and that is for vengeance.
Now that day has come and it will cost you your life.”

 Gorth suddenly broke
the spell and threw back his head and laughed. “All this time Zardes-kur is no
more than the whelp I branded that day! And now you think you will make me pay?
No man has ever defeated one of my kind in single combat. Have you forgotten
that your father tried and failed? I remember you now. I remember how I toyed
with you merely for fun, after I had slaughtered your family. I remember how
your mother lasted much longer than we expected. I recall your sister’s
screams. What sport we enjoyed that day.”

 Celedorn’s black brows
had come down and in his eyes was sheer, undiluted murder. Andarion, observing
him closely, almost recoiled a step, so powerful was the anger emanating from
him.

 Elorin, who was near
enough to hear what was said, leaned towards Relisar: “Gorth makes a mistake by
taunting him.”

 But Relisar, who had
been staring abstractedly into thin air, suddenly started out of his reverie.
He turned to Elorin, his eyes bright, his silver beard almost bristling with
excitement.

 “I was right!” he cried
in an excited undertone. “I was right all along! You
are
the key, but a
key is not used to summon someone, it is used as a means of unlocking something
precious that is hidden away. It is used to open a prison door and set the
captive free. Your role, descendant of Tissro, was to unlock Celedorn’s heart.
You see, he cannot become Erren-dar until he has learned both to love and to
forgive. You have released him from the prison of bitterness in which he has
spent the last twenty years. You have set him free to do both of these things -
to love and to forgive. It is only now, that the door has been unlocked, that
Erren-dar can be summoned forth. It is only now that he can be revealed.”

 Suddenly, in a loud
voice that caused everyone to look at him, he cried: “It is written in the Book
of Light, that the Champion will come at the moment when humanity is most in
need, but for him to appear, he must be summoned by name.” He paused, aware of
the King and Celedorn watching him, aware that every eye, human and Turog, was
fastened upon him.