The Sword Of Erren-dar (Book 2) (48 page)

 Ursor gave a harsh grunt and dropped to his knees. With a
suppressed groan of pain, Vesarion jerked his blade free and swinging the sword
sideways, slashed it across his enemy’s throat, silencing him for ever.

Sareth flew to help him as he swayed on his feet. “Thank
you,” she said fervently. “It was my intention to rescue
you
, but once
again it is you who have saved
me
. And yet, somehow it is only fitting
that he should die by your hand.”

 His hand gripped her shoulder and behind the bruises on his
face, she thought she detected the ghost of a smile.

 “I was always taught not to fight while in a temper,” he said,
“but clearly that rule does not apply to you. I have never seen you in such a
rage.”

 Iska, who had been giving the body a kick, just to make
sure it was really dead, hurried over. “Sareth! You were magnificent! That
bully can take his threats and his cruelty to the grave.” She said the last few
words with such venom that for a moment Sareth thought she was going to spit on
the corpse, however, she quickly recollected herself, and drew Vesarion’s arm
across her shoulder again. “We have delayed too long. We must hurry. I can only
pray that the sound of the fight has not attracted attention. I will lock this
door behind us, and the door to the guardroom as well, because the longer what
has happened here remains unknown, the better chance we have of getting away.”

 By the time Iska made use of her stolen bunch of keys to
gain access to the armoury, everyone’s nerves were raw. Vesarion made the best
speed he could as they descended the stairs but at every moment they expected
to be discovered, as fresh guards coming off duty repaired to the guardroom.
Just as the armoury door opened, they detected the sound of marching feet
outside in the parade ground and knew that their run of luck had ended. The
three fugitives practically flung themselves through the door and waited in
silence while Iska locked it behind them.

 The armoury, lit by the limited light of the candle, seemed
a huge, high-ceilinged affair lined with rack after rack of swords, pikes,
maces and battleaxes, disappearing off in ranks into the darkness. Helmets and
plate armour sat on shelves and chain-mail hauberks hung from hooks on the
wall.

 Iska gasped when she saw the huge stockpile of weapons.
“All this was not present the last time I was in here. There is enough here to
equip an army.”

 “I think,” replied Sareth grimly, “that is the idea.”

 Vesarion might have only possessed the sight of one eye but
he still managed to pick out the choicest sword, lifting it down from the rack
with care.

 “You shouldn’t burden yourself with that,” Iska cautioned,
“because you are going to have to crawl through the drainage system.”

 But he refused to give it up. “It might come in handy,” was
all he would say.

 A fresh moment of panic broke out when, despite a frantic
search at the back of the armoury, they failed to find the inspection hatch.

 “Are you sure it’s here?” Sareth asked.

 “Yes, of course I’m sure,” Iska replied scornfully. “I’ve told
you, I’ve been in the armoury before, courtesy of the hatch, it just
seems…er…to have disappeared.”

 It was Vesarion who resolved the problem. Raising his voice
a little he called: “Gorm? Are you there?”

 “Yes,” came the muffled reply from beneath the floor. “It
won’t open.”

 “Then tap on the underside of the cover.”

 A steady tapping sound began to issue from underneath a heavy
chest found to contain spare parts for crossbows. Just as they were in the act
of heaving the chest aside, the sound of running footsteps was heard in the
corridor outside. They froze and listened intently. A raised voice was heard
calling in puzzlement to someone in the parade ground: “Has anyone got a spare
key to the guardroom? The door is locked and I can get no reply!”

 “Quickly,” hissed Vesarion. “They’ll be on us in no time.”

 Desperately they levered up the hatch using a borrowed
battleaxe, with Gorm pushing from below, and were soon peering into the dark
void. The ugly but welcomingly familiar features of the Turog stared up at
them, his eyes unblinking.

 “Save Vesarion,” he announced and held up one leathery paw
to the injured man.

 Some time ago, Vesarion might not have taken that hand, but
now he did so without hesitation.

 “Thank you, Gorm,” he said, wincing in pain as he squeezed
through the narrow opening.

 Sareth and Iska followed, closing the hatch behind them and
they all found themselves on their hands and knees in the dark drain, lit only
by the small candle from the guardroom, which, having rendered such excellent
service, was now showing an inclination to go out.

 The drain smelt damp and mouldy and was lined with a squelching
carpet of wet leaves. Something of the rodent variety scuttled secretively away.

 “Lucky it’s been dry recently,” observed Sareth, “or we’d
have to swim for it. Lead on Gorm.”

 The Turog, happily in his element, could easily have
out-distanced his human friends, but showing remarkable solicitude for the
injured man, he slowed his pace, helping and encouraging as best he could. With
an unfailing sense of direction he guided them past every intersection until he
halted beneath another access hatch, set just above his head. Rising to his
feet, he cautiously eased it upwards. Anyone standing in the street above,
would have been a shade nonplussed to have seen the hatch rise, apparently of
its own volition, and a pair of alarmingly yellow eyes glaring out from beneath
it. But the hour was late and the quiet side-street was deserted, except for a
stray dog, initially intrigued by the rising hatch. It came sniffing over, but
as soon as it caught the whiff of Turog, it shot off, howling in terror.

 As Vesarion struggled out of the tunnel, he scraped his
back against the edge and could not suppress a faint cry of pain. Gorm gripped
his elbow and helped him to his feet, his observant stare taking in the fact
that the back of the new shirt was already soaked with red.

 “Vesarion badly hurt,” he remarked gruffly. “Brave man.
Sareth make you better.”

 But the object of his sympathy, teeth clenched in pain,
could not reply.

 Iska, hoping that it was taking the guards a very long time
to locate a spare key, led them quickly through quiet back alleys towards the
south gate, followed by Sareth supporting Vesarion. Gorm brought up the rear,
glancing over his shoulder for signs of pursuit. He had refused to obey Iska’s
instructions to go back down the drain and now ducked uneasily in and out of
doorways, afraid to be seen. He need not have troubled himself, for it was long
past midnight and all the respectable townsfolk were in bed, and the
not-so-respectable ones, had they seen the Turog, would probably have attributed
it to having indulged in one glass of ale too many.

 The livery stable, too, was deserted and quietly as ghosts
they drifted in, to be greeted by the pleasant, musky smell of hay and warm horseflesh.
Two chestnut horses were already saddled and waiting patiently in their stalls.
Sareth helped Iska to lash their belongings onto the horses. Then both she and
Vesarion donned their cloaks and pulled up the hoods. Rapidly, Iska gave Sareth
instructions how to reach the hiding place she had chosen for them.

 “You should be there by tomorrow, if all goes well. Actually,
I could not be sending you to a better hiding place. Not only does no one but Callis
and myself know of its existence but it will help to heal Vesarion.”

 “How so?” asked Sareth, perplexed.

 Iska smiled mysteriously. “You’ll understand when you get there.
Callis has given me some remedies to treat Vesarion’s injuries and I have put
them in your pack, along with a letter instructing you how to use them.”

 Vesarion, who with immense effort had managed to get in the
saddle, leaned down and offered his hand to Iska.

 “Forgive me for ever doubting you, Iska,” he said quietly.
Then gently gripping her hand, said simply: “Thank you.”

 To everyone’s surprise, he then turned to Gorm who had hung
back because he was making the horses uneasy.

 “I am greatly in your debt, Gorm. Take care of Iska until
we meet again.”

 Gorm, who had been about to announce that he wanted to come
with Sareth, was obliged to swallow the request and nod agreement.

 Just as Sareth put her foot in the stirrup to mount,
impulsively, she suddenly turned and caught Iska in the sort of hug that made
her friend wonder if all her ribs were still intact.

 “There are no words to thank you,” she said brokenly in her
ear. “Just see if you can find that idiot brother of mine, and above all, stay
safe.”

 “Don’t worry. Thanks to the fact that you disposed of that
animal Ursor, I am in little danger. When I find Eimer and Bethro, we will
probably have to lie low for a while until the dust settles, so don’t be
alarmed if you don’t hear from us for some time. Just concentrate  on getting
Vesarion well again.”

 The south gate was just around the corner from the stables
and leaving Gorm skulking and sneezing amongst the hay, Iska led them
confidently towards the guards. As they entered the pool of light by the gate,
she received a slight nod from one of them, then both sentries resolutely
looked in the opposite direction as the two hooded figures walked their horses
out through the archway and into the anonymity of the darkness beyond.

 As the city fell behind them, Sareth risked one last glance
behind her, but the guards were alone. Iska had vanished into the night.

 The landlord of the Cock and Pheasant inn was not a happy
man. The brewer who supplied his ale had put his prices up, profits were down,
and the disruption of the last couple of days, with soldiers charging about
everywhere, was scaring off customers. Only a few hardened drinkers had turned
up last night. And just to cap it all, he suspected that he had hired an idiot
to help in the taproom. He was leaning on the counter, rather despondently
counting the previous night’s meagre takings, when some tuneless whistling
coming from the far side of the room, made him look up from his task with a
frown of annoyance.

 A vacuous youth was vigorously sweeping the floor,
apparently oblivious to the sour looks being cast at him. Finally, resorting to
more direct methods, his employer said sharply: “Would you stop that dreadful
noise! It has all the charm of a cat with its tail caught in a mangle.”

 The lad, largely immune to insults, grinned and continued
enthusiastically sweeping the floor, raising a choking dust, until the landlord
could stand it no longer.

 “Set that broom down and go and fetch me another barrel of
ale from the cellar. We haven’t enough to do for this evening – although at the
rate things are going, one barrel should last us for a week. And don’t bring
the stuff delivered yesterday, mind. Make sure it’s one of the older barrels.”

 With a sense of relief, he saw the youth disappear down the
corridor towards the cellar, however, his respite from relentless cheerfulness
was short-lived, for just as he was half way through adding up a column of
figures, the door burst open and his assistant tumbled headlong into the room.
The landlord, losing track of his addition yet again, rounded on him angrily.

 “What now?”

 The boy, white around the gills and gasping, seemed
incapable of speech and stood gulping for a moment before blurting out:
“There’s a dead body in the cellar!”

 The landlord, who had recently been suspecting that the lad
was missing a few arrows from his quiver, was now confirmed in his diagnosis.

 “Stop acting the fool and fetch the ale.”

 “But….but, there
is
! There’s a dead man in the
cellar! I
swear
it!”

 He caught his employer urgently by the sleeve and tugged
insistently. “Come and see.”

 Lighting an oil lamp, the landlord followed the lad down
the steps into the dark cellar and immediately was forced to revise his
opinion.

 There, stretched out on the floor beneath the trapdoor, was
a portly man apparently exhibiting no signs of life.

 It wasn’t the first time someone had fallen down the
trapdoor and from the position of the body, the landlord was pretty sure that
was what had happened. However, hard on the heels of this discovery, came the realisation
that with the whole city in an uproar and the guards on edge, intent on being
mightily officious, a dead body might not be the most advantageous thing to
have in one’s cellar.

 Carefully, the landlord prodded the corpse with one toe and
fairly leaped back in alarm when a groan issued from it.

 Immediately taking his discomfiture out on the lad, he
clipped him smartly round the ear.

 “Idiot!” he barked. “He’s not dead. Anyone can see that!”

 Thus it was, that Bethro awoke to discover three things –
that he had no idea where he was, that he had a thundering headache and that
two complete strangers were hovering over him.

 The faces above him were swimming a little and Bethro,
feeling that it was beyond his capabilities to deal with the situation, closed
his eyes and resorted to groaning again, hoping that someone else would sort
things out.

 The lad, alarmed by the sepulchral groans, asked in an awed
whisper: “Do you think his brainses are damaged?”

 “Brainses? How many brains do you think he’s got, you daft
donkey?  Although, even if it’s only one, it’s bound to be one more than you. Now,
you stay with him and I’ll go a get a cloth to clean up that nasty cut on his
forehead.”

 When he had gone, Bethro opened his eyes again and fastened
them on the youthful face before him, causing the boy to step back in alarm. He
had still no idea where he was but had wits enough left to realise that if he
didn’t get away fairly quickly from these two well-meaning citizens, his
identity would be discovered.