The Crystal Chalice (Book 1) (66 page)

 She laughed. “I think
your powers of perception increase with the benefit of hindsight.”

 He grinned back,
creating three double chins in the process. “Now, if it were not for those
accursed creatures, I would think that all has ended happily.”

 “Did he......did he
have to fight whoever had taken his place?”

 “Surprisingly no, he
did not. Suffice it to say, that the man who had taken over the leadership had
seen Celedorn fight many times and chose....er....voluntarily to surrender his
position.”

 “How did he persuade
them to follow him?”

 He smiled tolerantly at
her. “They may be brigands, my dear, black-hearted, unprincipled cut-throats,
but they are not fools. They know better than anyone, that if Addania falls,
then nothing on this earth will save Ravenshold. Their only chance of survival
is to add their strength to the King’s, otherwise they are as good as dead
already. However, as most of them have sentence of death hanging over their
heads, they could hardly return to the grasp of the law. Celedorn’s message
solved their dilemma. Doubtless, if the Turog are defeated, many of them will
fall back into their old ways, but for the moment, necessity puts them on the
same side as the King.”

 “Do you think their
numbers are sufficient to make a difference?”

 Dorgan, who privately
thought that they would make little difference, said: “Who knows? We have done
all we can. Our futures are now in the hands of fate.”

 The council chamber was
a long, lofty hall at the head of which stood a mighty carved chair inlaid with
gold. Running down the hall, in an avenue facing each other, were two rows of
carved chairs, a little smaller and less magnificent than the one at the head.
The tall back of every chair was carved with the coat of arms of each of the
baronies. One chair had stood empty for twenty years - the chair bearing a
circle of chalice flowers surrounding a sword - the emblem of Westrin. As the
King took his seat at the head of the chamber, he directed Celedorn to this
chair. He took his place amidst many black looks and mutterings of discontent.
The barons, while recognising the necessity of what the King had done, had not
forgotten, or entirely forgiven Celedorn’s past misdeeds.

 When they had all taken
their seats, it appeared that one other chair was left empty.

 “Where is Lord
Gorlind?” enquired the King.

 Veldor, as the oldest
of the barons, rose to his feet. “Alas, Sire, he fell in our last encounter
with the Turog. His son is still but a child.”

 “This is sad news
indeed, Veldor. He was a man of great courage and will be sorely missed. You
have just arrived this morning from the army, I assume you bring other ill news
with you.”

 “When I left yesterday,
my subordinates were under orders to begin an orderly withdrawal to within a
mile of the city under cover of darkness tonight. Once we have regrouped, then
it must be our priority to retire within the city in a controlled manner. The
Turog, of course, will try to take advantage of the situation and turn it into
a rout, but that we must avoid at all costs if we are to safely extract enough
men to put up an effective defence of Addania.”

 “Have the Turog
attacked again since your last report?”

 “Only minor skirmishes
- in one of which Gorlind was killed. They appear to be concentrating on
amassing more and more forces, so that when they do attack, their victory will
be overwhelming and not the inconclusive affairs so far. Naturally, the last
thing they will want is for us to shut ourselves up inside the city, for it is
well fortified and supplied and will prove a very difficult obstacle to
overcome.”

 “How long is the city
provisioned for?” asked one of the barons.

 “Three years,” replied
Sarrick. “If they want to starve us out, they must be prepared to wait a long
time, and in the meantime, who knows, perhaps King Orovin will change his
mind.”

 “In case he does not,”
added Andarion, “the two thousand men brought from Ravenshold today will prove
most useful.”

 “Brigands,” someone
muttered contemptuously.

 “Yes, brigands,” the
Prince shot back. “The very same who have been butchering the Turog for years.”

 “We hardly need them,”
replied another baron, in more measured tones, “for Addania is impregnable.”

 “I beg leave to
differ,” said a cool voice, and every eye in the room turned towards Celedorn.
“Addania is strong but not impregnable - nowhere is. It has its weaknesses.”

 “Indeed?” said Sarrick,
with a derisory look. “Let us have the benefit of your wisdom.”

 Celedorn returned the
look levelly, in a manner that made Sarrick feel a little small. “It has two
weaknesses - its gate and the river. Now a gate is, of necessity, the weakness
in any fortified place, but it is mainly the river that concerns me. There is
too much reliance on it to keep the Turog away from the walls, and thus
preventing them from employing close siege tactics, like scaling ladders,
against us.”

 “Nonsense,” said
Sarrick, still smarting. “The river is wide and swift. It divides immediately
upstream of the city and flows on either side of it before converging again.
The water is deep, which means they cannot get close enough to the walls to
scale them. The bridge leading to the gate will, of course, be demolished.”

 Celedorn appeared to
consider this, his head slightly inclined to one side. “I could tell you what I
would do, if I were attacking Addania.”

 “Enlighten us.”

 “I would divert the
river upstream of the city.”

 There was a moment’s
silence.

 “That would be quite an
engineering feat,” the King observed.

 “Indeed,” acknowledged
Celedorn, “but they have the time and the resources to do it. They could then
cross the drained riverbed to the very foot of the walls, and we will be
reduced to conventional tactics to prevent the walls either being scaled or
undermined. The gate, too, becomes vulnerable to being rammed. Perhaps it would
be wise to prepare such defences in advance.”

 Sarrick alone was still
sanguine. “You overestimate their ingenuity. Such a thing would never occur to
them.”

 “I have never
overestimated them. That is why I have always defeated them.”

 At that moment, the
tall doors burst open and a dusty messenger flung himself into the room and
fell at the King’s feet, his chest heaving for breath.

 “Forgive me, Sire,” he
gasped, “but the Turog army has attacked!”

 
Everyone in the chamber started to their feet.

 “What do you mean they
have attacked?” demanded Sarrick. “Speak coherently, man!”

 “The army was preparing
for its retreat tonight and had already sent the baggage train back towards the
city, when the Turog army began to form into battle order.  It is not
known if they got wind of our retreat and were trying to prevent it, but before
we had scrambled together more than a semblance of battle order, they attacked.
The army is doing its best to contain the assault, but without the barons there
to command the divisions, all is chaos.” He rose a little shakily to his feet.
“We need help, Sire, and we need it quickly.”

  “You will have it,”
said King Tharin decisively and began to issue orders. “My lords, you must
return to command your divisions with all possible speed and try to impose
order. My sons will go with you. My Lord of Westrin, your brigands are needed
sooner than we thought. Get them ready to join us on the battlefield as soon as
you can.”

  Celedorn nodded and
swiftly left the room in the wake of the other barons. The King raised his
voice for his servant. “Bring my armour, quickly! And have my horse saddled.”

 The man fled to obey
him, but Andarion remonstrated with his father. “It is too dangerous, Sire, you
must stay here. You can depend on Sarrick and myself to do all that can be
done.”

 The King’s cool blue
eyes looked at his son. “No, Andarion, I have stayed too long in this palace
sending other men to fight for my kingdom. Today I will go and strike a blow
for myself.”

 His son’s next comment
reinforced his father’s earlier perception that he had matured.

  “I think that this has
more to do with Celedorn than the Turog.”

 The King turned away,
refusing to be drawn on that issue. “There is no time for discussion now. Join
your brother as quickly as you can.”

 Celedorn, crossing the
courtyard at a run, almost collided with Dorgan coming the other way, bearing
his helmet. Celedorn took it from him but would not stop. “Look after Elorin,”
he shouted as he disappeared through the archway.

 The brigands, acting on
their own initiative, had already saddled up and were mounting their horses
even as he arrived at the stables. His own horse was being led out by a stable
boy, who was clearly a little overawed by his company.

 One of the men handed
Celedorn his shield. “We earn our keep sooner than expected, my Lord,” he
remarked in the tone of voice that suggested that he was not at all averse to
the idea. He thumbed the sharp edge of his battle-axe suggestively. “Since you
left, we have not slain enough of those rodents for my liking.”

 Celedorn grinned
fiercely as he slid his arm behind the shield. “Then let us repair that
omission.”

 He swung into the
saddle, and led his men at a brisk trot out through the palace gates and down
the winding streets. Rank after rank of heavily armed riders fell into place
behind him, with such military precision that it would have gladdened Sarrick’s
heart had he been present to see it.

 When they crossed the
bridge over the river, their pace quickened to a canter and Celedorn signalled
to his men to fan out on either side of him. They could clearly see the
struggling armies up ahead, for the battle was taking place only about a mile
from the city. The light breeze carried the din of conflict to them - the clash
of weapons, battle cries, screams, yells, horses neighing. Wounded men were
already being carried to the rear, some limping their way back to the city.
Over on the right flank, Celedorn spotted Relisar, busy helping the wounded,
his grey gown stained with blood.

 In the confusion of the
battle, it was difficult to interpret what was happening but he saw several of
the barons rallying their divisions, imposing order through sheer force of
will. Prince Sarrick broke off from the fight and spurred his horse towards
them, his bloodied sword in his hand.

 “They are concentrating
on our left flank, on some of the divisions that have been most depleted in previous
encounters. You are needed there. Whatever happens, don’t let them outflank us.
If they get between us and the city, we are lost.”

 “We will hold them,”
said Celedorn firmly and wheeled his horse to the left, with his men following
suit.

 It quickly became
evident that Sarrick had spoken no less than the truth. My lord Veldor’s
infantry division attempting to hold the left flank, was in deep trouble. Their
orderly battle formation was disintegrating, as the yelling black hordes broke
upon them in a thunderous cataract. A seemingly endless forest of spear-tips
and black banners bristled before them, and those in the thick of the fighting
were taking heavy blows from battle-axes and nail-studded maces. The Turog
shrieked insanely, their yellow eyes blazing with hatred, their sharp fangs
bared in killing frenzy. The men fought desperately, bracing themselves against
the onslaught, taking dreadful risks - for they knew their very existence hung
in the balance. Their bright swords and armour were blood-splattered, helmets
and breastplates dented and shields riven, but still they fought stubbornly on.

 Veldor, recognisable by
his bulk, despite his armour, had discarded his shield and caught up a heavy
mace abandoned by one of his foes and was swinging it around his head, bringing
it down with skull-splitting force on anything grey-skinned within his reach.
Three or four Great-turog stood behind the smaller species, cracking heavy
whips over them, should they show any tendency to fall back. One of them, a little
ahead of the others, flicked his whip above his head and cast it towards
Veldor. Its tail snaked round the shank of the mace and a tug-of-war for
possession of the weapon ensued. It ended with the Great-turog wresting the
mace from Veldor. He forged through the fight towards Veldor, his powerful
frame rising a full head and shoulders above those fighting around him, his
curved sword raised threateningly to strike.

 Celedorn, signalling to
his men to close ranks and increase their speed to a full gallop, circled the
Eskendrian infantry and slammed two thousand riders into the side of the Turog
division. The shock of the impact was like a tidal wave striking a cliff-face.
The front six rows of Turog recoiled against those behind them. Celedorn fought
his way through the seething mass, savagely laying about him to right and left,
in a determined bid to reach the Great-turog attacking Veldor, but when he got
there, the creature had gone, disappearing with almost supernatural ease into
the throng.

 Veldor was gasping for
breath, covered in blood that was fortunately not his own, his sword badly
notched.

 “Your timing is
impeccable, my lord,” he panted. “A Great-turog is not something I would care
to confront alone.”

 From the vantage-point
of the saddle, Celedorn looked over the struggle. “I fear the relief is only
temporary,” he said. “There are simply too many of them to defeat. The best we
can hope for, is to gain enough time to retreat on Addania.”

 “Aye, my lord, I fear
you are right. Just pray it does not become a rout. We must await the King’s
order to retire, but in the meantime we should put our time to good use.”

 Celedorn gave a wolfish
smile, and twisted in the saddle to deal with a Turog trying to bring his horse
down with a long spear. A hard blow struck the spear aside and the long,
razor-sharp blade hissed through the air with such cutting-power that the
astonished Turog’s head flew from its shoulders. Its dark blood jetted into the
air liberally bespattering both Celedorn and his horse with gore, before it
fell amongst the tangle of bodies being trampled underfoot.

 One of the brigands
fought his way through to his leader’s side. “Red Turog,” he announced with
grim brevity, “and they are mounted.”

 Celedorn’s brows
snapped together. “No horse will tolerate a Turog.”

 In reply, the man
pointed to the outer edge of the battle where a strong detachment of mounted
Red Turog, manlike in shape and size, circled determinedly towards Addania.

 “Quickly,” ordered
Celedorn, “gather some of the men. It is as Sarrick feared, they are trying to
get behind us and cut us off from the city.”

 Gathering up some of
the brigands near him, Celedorn extricated himself from the infantry battle and
set a course to intercept the Red Turog. He had never seen a Turog on the back
of a horse before and assumed that the horses must have been specially bred for
the purpose. Little of them was visible, as they were caparisoned in red livery
the same colour as their riders’ skins. Even the faces of the horses were
hidden by fierce red masks studded with iron. Their riders carried round
shields with a long, wickedly-sharp spike projecting from the centre boss.
Their helmets, too, were covered with a crest of steel spikes. The instant they
saw the mounted brigands descending upon them, they wheeled to accept the
challenge. The opposing forces were roughly equal in number - a fact for which
Celedorn was glad, as the Red Turog were a much more formidable proposition
than the common kind.

 When the two
detachments collided, Celedorn forced his way through the Turog in
single-minded pursuit of their leader. A fight of the most vicious kind was
taking place all around him. The brigands were the only men in Eskendria who
had fought Red Turog before and knew to be wary. On Celedorn’s orders, some of
his men remained on the periphery of the fight, bringing down both the Turog
and their horses with arrows, giving their comrades in the thick of things
every advantage they could. Celedorn engaged their leader - every bit as tall
as he was - and was exchanging blows of the utmost speed and ferocity with him.
Their swords met with such force that it was difficult for them to remain
mounted. Time and again the Turog tried to ram the long spike on its shield
into Celedorn, and time and again his opponent struck it away with the edge of
his own shield. At last, it tried that tactic one time too many and Celedorn’s
sword flashed down behind its shield, severing the arm that held it. The
shield, with the arm still attached to it, dropped to the ground, but horribly
wounded as it was, the Turog fought on until it was felled from the saddle with
a mighty sword-thrust.

 So fierce was the
mounted battle that it had, unnoticed by the participants, been gradually
drifting back towards the main fray and soon the riders found themselves caught
up in the infantry battle again. The Red Turog, who were getting the worst of
the fight, used it as an excuse to disengage, but their smaller cousins
instantly closed around the mounted men, bringing down some of the horses with
their long spears, adding the screams of the wounded animals to the chaos.

 Andarion had not been
aware of Celedorn’s arrival at the battle, until a messenger sent by Lord
Veldor arrived to inform the King that the retreat of the left flank had been
halted momentarily with the help of the brigands. The respite, Veldor advised,
could at best only be temporary and he begged the King’s leave to fall back
towards Addania.

 But the King, who to
Andarion’s alarm had plunged recklessly into the thick of the fighting from the
moment of his arrival, was in pugnacious mood and not inclined to listen to
talk of retreat.

 “Tell Lord Veldor to
stand firm,” he informed the messenger. “Things are not as bad as I was led to
believe and we will defeat this rabble yet.”

  The messenger bowed
and left, but Andarion, in great concern, pleaded with his father: “Sire, we
cannot hold out against such a force. There are too many and we grow ever
fewer. Our men are tiring and there are no fresh troops to relieve them. We
must retreat on Addania while we have enough forces left to disengage in an
orderly fashion. It is, after all, what we planned to do.”

 “The fabric of war
changes constantly, my son, you should know that. A good commander adapts his
tactics to take account of what he finds on the ground. I will hear no more
talk of retreat.”

 “But, Sire, we lose
ground even as we speak. We cannot hold out.......”

 An angry glance from
the King cut him short. “I do not countenance my orders being queried in
public,” he said coldly. “Not even by you. You have learned some bad habits
from your new-found friend. If your king orders you to stand and fight, then
you must do so without question. Do I make myself clear?”

 The Prince bowed his
head before the rebuke. “Yes, Sire.”

 They wheeled their
horses together and returned to the fray. A strange kind of battle-lust
appeared to have gripped the King. He shed his years like an old cloak and laid
about him with the vigour of a much younger man. Andarion spent most of his
time trying to guard his father from the consequences of his own recklessness.
Twice his blade caught a blow aimed at his father’s back - but the King seemed
oblivious to his danger.

 Sarrick came up to them
on foot, his horse having been killed under him. His helmet was gone and there
was a bad dent in his breastplate.