The Longsword Chronicles: Book 02 - Sword and Circle

by GJ Kelly

  Salaman Goth, utterly unprepared for an attack from the rear, a direction he thought completely barren, stood rooted to the spot, agog behind his iron mask…

  Gawain watched, as an elven longshaft seemed to float delicately from Elayeen’s bow, and flew straight and true across the courtyard. Elayeen was by no means a cavalrywoman. The woodlands of Elvendere were her domain. But she was Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ní Varan, daughter of Elvendere and thalangard trained. So, when she loosed her shaft, she took into account the speed and motion of her horse. And the arrow smashed into Salaman Goth’s right shoulder blade, drilled through it, and burst from his chest while Gawain danced forward and swung the Sword of Justice.

  An upward swing it was, which took his enemy’s right arm off midway between elbow and shoulder. The arm, with its hand still clinging to the staff, fell, the sound of the staff clattering on the flagstones drowned out by more pealing of thunder and the hammering of hooves as Elayeen brought her horse around and to a skittering halt on the courtyard flags where once the stables stood. Rain fell, great cold drops of rain that splashed dark on the bleached stones of Raheen, rain that hammered Salaman Goth’s upturned iron mask as he collapsed to his knees.

  “Know despair, vermin of Goria, for this is the Sword of Justice, and it is Gawain, son of Davyd, King of Raheen, who wields it and ends your pitiful existence!”

  And before Salaman Goth could frame an answer or chant a spell, Gawain swung the sword again, the blade taking the dark wizard’s left arm clean off on its way through ribs and blackened heart and spine beyond. Gawain drew out the sword, and backed away from the corpse, the rain washing the blackness from the steel.

  Elayeen dismounted from her trembling horse, the foam-flecked steed gulping great lungfuls of air, exhausted from a charge made after a long hard ride from Downland. At once, Gawain sheathed his sword, and in a few long strides Elayeen was in his arms, and he almost crushing her so fierce was his embrace.

  Allazar kept his eyes fixed upon the corpse of Salaman Goth, as if fearful it would somehow spring into vengeful life. But when it did not, he crossed the dark-stained flagstones and placed his left boot firmly on the severed arm, just below the wrist of the hand still clutching the staff. He stooped, and prised the five-foot length of precious Dymendin from the dead hand’s grasp, marvelling at its weight; a rod of iron would be lighter. But for small bumps here and there, the staff was polished smooth, and had a deep sheen, and Allazar could see the world and himself reflected in a wood black as burnished jet.

  “I seem to remember leaving a letter asking you to wait for us at the foot of the Pass, miheth.” Gawain whispered, relaxing his grip and gazing down into Elayeen’s hazel-green eyes with a fierce pride the like of which his elfin queen had never before seen.

  “I am no horse-maid of Raheen, miheth,” she sniffed, smiling in the rain, “To be ordered so.”

  “No,” Gawain smiled, and Allazar could not tell if either or both of them were crying in the rain. “No, you are Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ní Varan, daughter of Elvendere, and I love you even though you’ve half killed this poor brave horse...”

  And with that, Gawain kissed her, his hands buried in her hair, until, finally, he broke away, and left her gazing at him breathlessly as he walked her horse around the shattered courtyard.

  Less than an hour later the rain eased, and then stopped as abruptly as it had began. The storm continued its roiling journey west towards Goria, rumbling and flashing, the thunder fading. The light of late evening broke through low grey clouds here and there, sending shafts of sunlight down upon the glistening ruins, finding only the steaming carcasses of the Graken, and its maker.

  Within the Keep, Allazar busied himself by leaning on the Dymendin staff and idly watching the pools of water which formed in the Circle of Justice wherein he stood, pretending to study the runes. At the sentry-post, Gawain stood holding wide and aloft the arrowsilk cloak Elayeen had returned to him, while within the vaulted alcove Elayeen changed out of her soaking wet clothes and into dry.

  They took it in turns to change, and by the time Allazar was presentable a strange and unpleasant odour wafted occasionally from the courtyard entrance. Gawain went to investigate, prising his tingling hand from Elayeen’s in order to do so. Then he called both of them to the entrance, his voice a little alarmed.

  Allazar grasped the heavy staff, and hurried to join the crowns of Raheen. Outside, in the fading red-orange glow of sunset, the carcasses were smouldering like a charcoal fire.

  “Aquamire.” Allazar explained. “Salaman Goth was riddled with it, explaining his great age and power. And the Graken is a creature made and driven by that evil substance. Do not approach, my friends, I will try to speed the process with white fire and rid us once and for all of their presence.”

  Gawain slipped his arm around Elayeen’s waist and they watched as the wizard picked his way through the rubble to stand some feet away from the smouldering corpses. He held the staff loosely in his left hand, resting on the flags, while chanting and pointing at the carcasses with his right.

  “We may have a while to wait,” Gawain announced loud enough for the wizard to hear, “It took him an age to light a simple fire in charcoal less than a week ago.”

  Suddenly, and seemingly to Allazar’s astonishment as much as his onlookers, a broad streamer of lightning, broader and brighter than any they had ever seen the wizard produce, shot from the top of the staff and struck the Graken. The enormous body twitched as though given a sharp kick by some giant boot testing for signs of life, and then with a whoosh burst into crimson flame, a flame which consumed the massive beast in moments, leaving nothing but charred and blackened mud on the flags where its ash mingled with pooled rainwater, and a billowing plume of greasy black smoke bubbling as high as the ruins of the Keep before the wind whipped it away to the west.

  “Dwarfspit.” Allazar gasped, looking at his right hand, turning it over and back, and then at the staff held in his left.

  “Dwarfspit indeed.” He heard Gawain mumble, and looked over his shoulder to see the young man drawing his lady back under cover of the vaulted entrance to the Keep.

  The wizard shifted the heavy staff to his right hand, and holding it out from his side, but still resting its foot upon the flags, he chanted again. Another broad streamer of white fire struck the grisly remains of Salaman Goth, and in seconds, it too was nothing more than a dark smear on the stones of the courtyard, leaving nothing but the blackened iron mask, face down.

  Again Allazar studied his hands, and turned towards his companions, his own eyes as wide as theirs.

  “Is it safe?” Gawain called.

  “Yes, it’s quite safe, Longsword.” Allazar called back, adding quietly, “I think…”

  “What is that thing,” Gawain asked later, impressed, when all three were sat on their saddles in the alcove.

  “Ffymmffin wufff.” Allazar managed through another mouthful of a second beef sandwich retrieved from his pack.

  Elayeen gave the staff an inquisitive look, but was too busy chewing on a sandwich of her own. Chicken, she had said, prepared for her the night before on the road from Jarn. Gawain sniffed haughtily and popped another strip of frak into his mouth, and Elayeen nestled close at his left shoulder.

  “Dymendin wood.” Allazar managed after swallowing, almost in awe of the stick, “It’s very rare. Extremely rare.”

  “Some kind of magical weapon?”

  “No, Longsword. And… yes. On it’s own it’s just wood. Very heavy, but just wood nonetheless. What you see is the entire trunk of a Dymendin tree, the roots and branches ground off. It grows so slowly, one ring of growth every two hundred years, or thereabouts. Salaman Goth said this one was 5000 years old. Small wonder so few survive.”

  Allazar dragged the staff with his free hand and allowed it to rest on the packs which lay discreetly between himself and the two crowns. “Feel it, Longsword, it’s only wood. It cannot harm you.” And with that, he took anot
her great bite of his sandwich.

  Gawain tried to lift it, but was surprised at the weight. “Dwarfspit, it’s heavy as iron, yet warm to the touch as any other wood.” He encouraged Elayeen to feel the weight of the staff but she was content simply to finish her sandwich, brush the crumbs from her lips, and draw Gawain’s left arm over her head and around her shoulders as she settled comfortably against him.

  “It’s heavier than iron, in truth.” Allazar said quietly. “The wood, growing so slowly, is very dense. Imagine a mighty oak, five thousand years old, compressed into a rod not three inches in diameter. This wood will not float. Nor can it be cut by steel. Those bumps you see are where the slender branches and roots were ground off through years of rubbing upon a gritstone. The sheen is the result of polishing which, given the hardness of the wood, would have taken the craftsmen I dread to think how long to achieve. ”

  Gawain allowed the staff to settle back on the packs once more. “Yet it seemed to give you great power, in the courtyard.”

  But the wizard shook his head sadly. “Alas, no. Dymendin serves in the manner of a lens, as glass does to light. It can focus a wizard’s power, perhaps amplify it a little, and conduct it. There is a limit to the energies a D’ith Sek wizard can safely discharge lest his hands and arms burn. When the strange aquamire burst from you at Ferdan, your sword seemed to act just as Dymendin would for a wizard, though your hands were wounded by the discharge. Without the staff, a D’ith Sek would suffer in the same way. Salaman Goth, with all the power of aquamire within him and centuries of study could produce the lightning blasts you saw, and absorb my feeble energies, with the staff. Without it, he would have incinerated himself had he tried to send such blasts as he did.”

  “Then it is a weapon, the hands of one who wishes it to be so.” Elayeen announced softly.

  Allazar nodded sadly. “It must be taken to the D’ith Hallencloister, and there the Sardor and the Council of Sek will decide its fate.”

  Gawain snorted in disgust. “Under no circumstances at all must that happen wizard! It shall remain the property of Raheen, a trophy of war entrusted to your keeping until I decide otherwise.”

  “But Longsword, I am D’ith pat, the lowest of wizards, I cannot begin to do justice to such an artefact as this. In the hands of a trusted ally of the D’ith Sek…”

  “There are none.” Gawain announced. “Your hands, wizard, are those I distrust the least. And that’s an end to it. I don’t care if you only use it to whack rabbits on the head, it does not go to your treacherous brethren where it would doubtless be used to create another Salaman Goth of Goria. The stick is yours. What was it they called you at Ferdan?”

  “The First of Raheen.” Allazar mumbled self-consciously, staring at his sandwich.

  “There you are then. First of Raheen, Keeper of The Stick.”

  Allazar was about to protest, when he noticed Elayeen’s eyes were closed and her breathing deep and slow. He smiled, and tilted his head slightly towards her in answer to Gawain’s questioning look, then quietly rose, and walked away into the gloom, carrying his pack and bedroll, and almost as an afterthought, the Dymendin staff.

  oOo

  7. What News?

  Several times in the night, from his cracked and drafty alcove in the south-eastern corner of the Keep, Allazar heard soft voices in the dark. He smiled, and slept as best he could, hoping he’d seen the last of the rains at least until they were all safe back in the lowlands and in more sheltered and salubrious surroundings.

  It was a lance of dawn sunshine streaming in through a rent in the east wall which woke the wizard, and he moved quietly on rising so as not to disturb the crowns of Raheen, until he finally realised they were not in the sentry’s alcove where he had left them sleeping. With a rising sense of disquiet Allazar slung his bag over his shoulder, hefted the staff entrusted to him, and strode quickly across the great hall and out into the sunshine.

  “Good morning, your Majesties,” he sighed, spotting them in the middle of the courtyard, and they noted the relief in his voice. “I hope I’m not disturbing you?”

  “No, Allazar,” Gawain said graciously, his voice tinged with sadness, standing close to Elayeen, their arms about each other’s waists. “I was describing what once stood here, and where... telling stories…” Gawain trailed off, and shrugged.

  Allazar studied them both closely.

  “You needn’t fear, Allazar,” Elayeen said softly, “G’wain and I have other feelings to keep the worst of the throth at bay for now.”

  “Ah.”

  “I think it was Elayeen’s arrival in Downland yesterday that triggered my somewhat unseemly outburst in the hall. I should have known,” Gawain explained, a little embarrassed. “But there was so much happening, so much competing for attention inside my head it wasn’t until the Gorian’s attack that I realised my lady was so near.”

  “Ah,” the wizard nodded sagely, “At least it wasn’t my half a cow wedged between two loaves. Your lady’s arrival would indeed explain much, including your twinned resolve and strength before the horror that was Salaman Goth.”

  “Together, we are a force to be reckoned with,” Gawain agreed, smiling proudly, “My lady and I,” and in the early morning light, before Allazar and before the last surviving ruin left standing in Raheen, he kissed Elayeen, and led her back inside.

  Allazar followed, glad he himself was not throth-bound to either of them, lest they knew of the great bubble rising in his throat and the tears that threatened should it break upon the sight of them together in such pitiful surroundings.

  They shared breakfast together, sitting on the great marble steps overlooking the Circle of Justice, into which Elayeen had steadfastly refused to step. Indeed, it had taken Gawain more than a few soft words to persuade her to sit so close to the thrones at all.

  “I am faranthroth,” she had said quietly, “It does not feel right for me to trespass thus in the hall of your fathers, nor in their great circle.”

  Neither Gawain nor Allazar really understood Elayeen’s discomfort, and so simply accepted it as quaint elvishness on her part. But sit upon the steps she did, and quietly produced a veritable feast of meats and bread and cheese from her pack for them to share.

  When little remained but crumbs and a few slices of beef, Allazar could contain himself no longer.

  “What news, lady Elayeen, what news of the world did you have from Jarn?”

  “Wait your turn, wizard,” Gawain asserted before Elayeen could answer. “I want to know all, from the moment you went galloping off through the trees.”

  “In truth, there’s not much to tell. I followed the road, arriving in Jarn shortly after nightfall. The road into the town was held by Callodon guardsmen who had received orders to hold it, and to make all of us welcome on our arrival.”

  “More pigeons from Brock, I shouldn’t wonder.” Gawain mumbled.

  “So,” Elayeen continued, packing away what was left of the food. “I was greeted with great courtesy and consideration, and escorted at once to an inn, with stables. The Guard had commandeered the inn as their headquarters some weeks before my arrival, they said. There was hot food, a hot bath, mulled wine, then more hot food, and best of all a bed of softest duck-down…”

  “There’s no need to describe every detail.” Gawain mumbled. “Besides, Allazar and I enjoyed many luxuries along the way, including a very exclusive charcoal-burner’s cabin well off the beaten track and quite unspoiled by careless sightseers.”

  “Hmm.” The wizard agreed.

  “Well,” Elayeen went on, unperturbed, “I slept well. Next morning I rose late, and there was a hot bath, and more hot food…”

  “Enough, lest I command The Keeper of The Stick to beat you with it.” Gawain grimaced, and then smiled, and shook his head, the sadness of earlier faded beyond memory.

  “Well there was, G’wain, and you said you wanted to know all.” Elayeen smiled, and laced her fingers with his. “But Jarn; I do not think it is
as poor as you remembered. That morning there was a farmer’s market in the town square, and it seemed very popular.”

  “The guards let you go sightseeing?” Gawain asked agog.

  “They escorted me at my request, miheth, and were as concerned for my safety as you it seems. More perhaps,” she added, impishly, “Since they were there and you were not.”

  Gawain sniffed, and mumbled something that sounded like ‘Dwarfspit.”

  “But the people looked content enough I think. It was not thriving and bustling and full of life and gaiety, but the people were smiling and going quietly about their business.”

  “With the Ramoth destroyed a year ago, and the worst of their offences fading into memory, I am sure many such towns will rebuild themselves anew.” Allazar announced. “People are often much more resilient than even they would imagine following a disaster, natural or otherwise. But my lady please, what news of our friends?”

  Elayeen sighed. “What news indeed. I’m sorry, Allazar, I was as anxious for word of events from Ferdan and from all the kindred lands as you. What I received amounted to little more than rumour and speculation, with very few facts.”

  Gawain remained quiet, staring at the home-stone at the centre of the circle.

  “Surely the guards had news of Brock? I can well understand Captain Tyrane at the Pass knowing little, being so far removed from Jarn and the castletown, but surely at Jarn itself…?” Allazar trailed off, his face betraying worry and incredulity.

  Elayeen shook her head, and brushed stray wisps of hair from her eyes. “It seems that the guard in Jarn were despatched from their barracks outside Callodon Castletown, on orders received directly from the Crown. From the time of their deployment they had only the occasional contact with their officers there, infrequent reports and dispatches by courier.”