The Longsword Chronicles: Book 02 - Sword and Circle

by GJ Kelly

  Three circles one for each of the kindred races three sets of adjectives likewise one for each thus each of us has been altered according to our ancestry the elders knew what qualities would be needed to unlock the circle and which qualities would be needed in the battle for freedom and justice for all

  Me they are teaching though what I do not know the voices of old are filling my head I have yet to understand the knowledge they are imparting

  To you they gave the gift of the Sword and the power to wield it you know it is too heavy for any other to wield as you do that is why you seem unchanged you were changed more than a year ago

  The elders who left the circle had a plan and knew what they were doing we must trust to them and wait

  “And that’s all he wrote,” Gawain mumbled, handing the notebook back, “A pity these elders can’t teach you basic punctuation while they’re at it, wizard.”

  Allazar sniffed, and wrote a rude word on the page, holding it up for Gawain to see, and the young king smiled.

  Sudden movement from the bend in the road caught Gawain’s eye before he could reply, and he watched, frozen, as a Callodon guardsman sprinted down the track to make a hurried report to his commander.

  “What is it?” Elayeen asked, “Is there more?”

  “No,” Gawain said, his voice rich with sudden concern, “Something is happening, a runner is reporting to Captain Tyrane.”

  She swung around in her seat, and looked towards the wells where she knew the captain kept himself available. Seeing the bright shape against the dull grey backdrop of the mountain, she announced softly, more to herself than the others, “He is approaching with news.”

  He was. Tyrane hurried across the cobbled expanse as quickly as dignity permitted.

  “My lord, word from our lookouts. A group of people, perhaps two dozen in number, are approaching from the west. They are dressed poorly, but some are carrying weapons. Your lady’s escort brought rumours of Gorians dressing in such a manner and crossing the border near the Old Kingdom, I think it would be wise if you withdrew within.”

  “Very well, Captain,” Gawain agreed. “My lady and the wizard will retire. I’ll re-join you here shortly.”

  The captain saluted, and turned to give hand signals to his sergeant, and soon the outpost was alive with quiet military efficiency.

  Gawain led Elayeen inside, Allazar following, leaning heavily on the staff. With a sudden jolt of surprise, Gawain remembered he’d left the sword on the bed in their room.

  “Allazar will stay with you, miheth, I need to fetch my sword. Allazar, look to my lady.”

  “Isst,” the wizard nodded, standing close enough to Elayeen that their arms brushed, so she would know where he was.

  “Fetch my bow, G’wain.” Elayeen demanded.

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes. You know who I am.” She replied firmly.

  Gawain hurried to the room, slung the longsword over his shoulder into its customary position, and loosened it in its scabbard. As an afterthought, he buckled on his shortsword, and then picked up his lady’s longbow and the quiver of arrows that were as much a part of her outside Elvendere as the longsword was to Gawain.

  “Here,” he said, back by the main doors of the inn, handing her first the quiver and watching as she slung it over her shoulder with practiced ease, her eyes gazing at a point somewhere in the middle of his head. And then he handed her the bow.

  “Stay inside, both of you,” he commanded. “We don’t know who these people are, and for all the beatings we’ve given Morloch I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have a last lash at us. If they’re friendly, I’ll come for you. If not, the two of you have mine and the good captain’s backs.”

  “Compindathu, Longsword.”

  “Be careful.” Elayeen added, her head following his movement to the door.

  “I shall,” he said, and he meant it.

  Gawain closed the doors behind him, and Tyrane, armed now with shortsword and with a crossbow cocked and bolted joined him on the boardwalk, looking to the northwest.

  “Lookout in the trees north of the stables has signalled nineteen of them, four of them women, eight armed with bladed weapons.”

  “You’ve drilled your men well, Tyrane.” Gawain acknowledged.

  “Since you relieved my homeland of the Ramoth towers, my lord, much is changing within the ranks of the Guard. For the better, I might add. We were all too long at peace since the Pellarn war caught us on the hop, and must learn quickly to cope with war once again if half the stories we have heard are true.”

  “More than half, probably,” Gawain scowled. “Could these people be simple farmers of Callodon? I met honest farmers on the road to Jarn when I first set foot in the lowlands.”

  “On foot and carrying weapons? I doubt it, my lord. Nearest farm is out towards what’s left of Stoon, and the track from there runs to the Jarn road well north of here. If they were local farmers fleeing some catastrophe they’d be running for Jarn, not to an outpost abandoned more than a year ago. Begging your pardon, my lord.”

  “That’s all right, Tyrane. I understand. I’m thinking out loud more than anything. If local people wouldn’t come here, it makes you wonder why poorly-dressed and poorly-armed Gorians would.”

  The sergeant, standing between the wells with a small contingent of men, gave a flurry of signals.

  “We’ll soon find out, my lord. They’ve passed the bluff and the lookout there, and are heading this way.” Tyrane gave a brief signal, and the guards sank to their posts concealed behind the wells and the tents erected there.

  Gawain surveyed the area. With only a limited number of men at his disposal, Tyrane had deployed them in strategic positions from which to launch a withering ambuscade should the need arise, or to emerge and take captive any small force between the stables to the north and Downland Pass slightly to the south. It was the best any captain could have done in the circumstances, and Gawain studied the man beside him out of the corner of his eye anew.

  Tall, as tall as Allazar give or take half an inch, rangy but wiry with it, perhaps forty years old, and always crisply dressed. His hair was thinning underneath the burnished and embellished helmet he was strapping tightly under his jutting chin. An intelligent man, with a keen sense of protocol and an appreciation of military tactics. He was probably highly thought-of in Brock’s court, which was precisely why, Gawain knew, Brock had ordered him to hold the Pass. If anything, it was an apparent lack of imagination that probably let him down; Gawain remembered how he and Allazar had taken the outpost by surprise when they first arrived. The captain simply hadn’t been expecting to have to cope with anything until after Gawain had arrived, and that could’ve been costly for the men of Callodon.

  Tyrane loosened the sword in his scabbard and as the group of strangers came into view around the bend the track asked quietly: “Would you like to do the talking, my lord, or I?”

  “Oh I think we can take it in turns, Tyrane. If words don’t work and it comes to fighting, my blade has a large swing, best to give me plenty of room to the right.”

  “Aye my lord.”

  The group slowed almost as soon as they rounded the bend and saw Gawain and Tyrane standing outside the inn. Tyrane was clearly a military man, in military uniform, and the outpost had always had about it a military feel, and so it appeared to them now. The group slowed almost to a standstill, and people seemed to jostle for position. The women were eased into the middle of the small throng, the armed men to the front and flanks, and the man who was clearly their leader strode perhaps two paces in front of all them.

  Though the tactics were sound and they walked in a column of threes, they were all out of step, their gait nervous, their gaze fixed on the two men at the inn.

  “They don’t look military.” Tyrane said quietly,

  “Neither does my lady ‘til she starts shooting Morlochmen and dark wizards out of their saddles.” Gawain replied tellingly.

  “Weapons lo
ok old, and not well maintained.”

  “Aye. Probably still hurt if they disembowelled you though.”

  “True,” the captain conceded, hefting his crossbow and holding it casually across his chest. “Though I rather hope my men will have taken care of that eventuality before my lunch finds itself at risk.”

  The group of strangers were about twenty yards out and well within crossbow range when Tyrane stepped forward a little and called out:

  “Good afternoon, Serre, you and your party look like you’ve travelled far on foot.”

  At fifteen yards the leader made a motion with his left hand, and the group slowed to a stop.

  “Good afternoon to you too, my lords,” the leader called back, his voice strong and clear, but Gawain thought he could hear the catch of the man’s breath, nervous if not downright fearful. The clothes they were all wearing were indeed poor, but hardwearing, serviceable, and if anything, a little warm for the time of year. Closeweave garments, of the kind worn by farmers or labourers, clothes meant for life and work outdoors, the kind worn by many folk in the lowlands. What embellishments there may have been, embroidery or patterns dyed into the cloth, had faded long ago, leaving just plain khaki brown, dull, and in all respects, common. Stout boots, stained with the mud and dust of many miles of travel.

  “Be this the kingdom of Raheen, and you its officers?”

  That was certainly not a common question and all those listening, including Allazar and Elayeen at the window of the inn, understood the ramifications of it; no man alive in the remaining five kingdoms would ever ask such a question, certainly not since Morloch’s Breath…

  “You are people of Goria.” Tyrane announced.

  “Aye.” The leader acknowledged, his hand resting nervously on the pommel of an ancient shortsword. “Aye we are. We seek sanctuary in the highlands.”

  oOo

  13. Shadows

  Tyrane gave a brief signal with his left hand, and his men emerged from concealment, crossbows cocked and levelled. The leader of the Gorian group looked utterly desolate.

  “We seek sanctuary…” he repeated, and his shoulders slumped, clearly expecting death, or worse.

  “I’ll thank you and your party, Serre, to form a line before me, and those of you bearing arms to place your hands upon your heads while my men relieve you of your weapons,” Tyrane announced, and seeing the despair confronting him, added “And then we shall discuss the matter of the sanctuary you seek.”

  At once, hope seemed to lift heads and fill hearts and eyes, and the group hastily formed a line behind their leader, who unbelted his decrepit shortsword and let it fall to the ground before placing his hands on his head. The other armed men promptly followed suit, and three of Tyrane’s men nimbly yet cautiously advanced to collect the weapons and remove them from all risk of the Gorians reclaiming them.

  “I am Captain Tyrane, of the Royal Callodon Guard. These are my men. Please remain as you are while some necessary precautions are taken.”

  “My name is Jaxon, Simayen Jaxon,” the leader announced, his hands still on his head. “My friends have made me their leader since we escaped Goria. We will do as you command, Captain. There is nothing else we can do.”

  While Tyrane’s men began searching the Gorians for concealed weapons, the captain himself stepped forward a little, lowering his crossbow. “Jaxon? That’s an Old Kingdom name.”

  The leader nodded. “Aye. Some of us were children, some babes in arms when Pellarn fell to the empire. We were taken south and west, across the Eramak, to work in the fields of the province of Armunland.”

  A few daggers and boot-knives were found and confiscated from the Gorians, including from the women, and when the sergeant nodded an ‘all clear’ to Tyrane, the captain visibly relaxed.

  “You may lower your hands, but please remain where you are. There are many questions that beg answers.”

  Those with arms raised lowered them, and all seemed to relax a little, including the Callodonian guardsmen.

  Inside the inn, standing a couple of feet back from the window overlooking the scene unfolding without, Allazar was describing events to Elayeen as best he could in his fragmented language. Suddenly, Elayeen stiffened, tilting her head this way and that.

  “Allazar,” she whispered, “How many are there? From Goria?”

  “Dies-nyen, meleeah.”

  “Does that mean nineteen?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  “Then a shadow walks among them, Allazar, for I am sure I see only eighteen.”

  “Forgive me, Captain,” Jaxon called, “You said you and your men were of Callodon? I had thought this great mountain was Raheen, so it was taught to us by our parents in our slavery.”

  “And so it is.” Tyrane announced when Gawain said nothing. “Though that great kingdom is now no more, destroyed by dark magic more than a year ago.”

  Heads bowed and shoulders slumped again. Jaxon gave a great sigh. “Then the stories we were told are true, and the darkness has spread across all lands. There is no hope for us then, and no freedom.”

  “Callodon is a free land…” Tyrane declared, and Gawain stood quietly allowing the captain to reassure the Gorians…

  “The sergeant of the guard stands a short distance to the left of the line does he not?” Elayeen asked.

  “Isst, est verithias the sergeant…”

  “I think it best if you simply reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’ Allazar.”

  “Isst.”

  “Then after that short distance there are three Gorians, then a…gap…”

  “Nai.”

  “No… the shadow is moving, is the fourth person moving? To the right?”

  Allazar peered through grimy panes unwashed in years. A man, fourth from the left, had just moved towards the centre. “Yes,” he confirmed, frowning, watching intently.

  Gawain was watching intently too, while Tyrane described briefly the destruction of Raheen, but reassured the refugees, if indeed that was what they were, that all lands east of the Empire were free of oppression and tyranny. Gawain had seen the movement in the line too. The Gorians had inched forward a little, and were closing together behind Simayen Jaxon, and Gawain conceded that this was probably perfectly natural behaviour. And it was possible that the man inching closer to the centre of the line was hard of hearing, and simply wanted to shorten the distance between his feeble ears and those speaking. Certainly the man looked as travel-worn and dishevelled as all the others, nothing remarkable about him…

  “He has moved again, one person closer towards the centre of the line.” Elayeen asserted, her voice growing in confidence, concentrating hard.

  “Yes.” Allazar again confirmed, his nose pressed against the thin glass sheet, which gave a little under the pressure, the putty in the slender wooden frame cracked and lacking maintenance. It occurred to the wizard that if Elayeen had indeed been gifted with the sight of the Eldenelves, the grime on the glass would hardly be an obstacle to her vision of events unfolding outside.

  “Is it a man?”

  “Isst.”

  “Who now stands behind and between two of his companions?”

  “Yes…”

  “We had been told of the destruction of Raheen by our overseers,” Jaxon said sadly, his voice clearer now, stronger, “But how could we believe such a thing? All our lives were told of the great mountain, and of the great people there, and their steeds. Songs we were forbidden to sing told of their ride into battle to try to wrest Pellarn from the Emperor’s praetorians. But how could we believe such a thing as their destruction?”

  Again, Gawain said nothing, and though his head was angled towards the Gorian leader, his eyes, narrowed against the late afternoon sunshine, were fixed on the fellow inching his way closer and closer to the centre of the line. It was in the centre of that line the four women stood, though Gawain did not think that was the reason for the man’s movements. The more he watched, the more Gawain was convinced that the man was sly, his intent
less than honourable.

  “You spoke of ‘the darkness’, what did you mean?” Tyrane asked. “Is there a sickness, some disease among you we here should be wary of?”

  “No!” Jaxon exclaimed, holding up both hands, “No, we are well, all of us, though tired from our great journey, and poorly fed. But…,” he paused, as if considering something, then continued: “But we are pursued, that we know, for we were more than fifty when we fled through the guardstones at the Eramak in the east of Armunland, and in Goria it’s well known the dark makers allow none to live who escape their bondage.”

  “Now the shadowman has moved two more places and has pushed through to the front of the line?”

  “Isst!”

  Elayeen gazed intently. “You are sure it is a man, Allazar?”

  “Yes.”

  “I see only a shadow. All the others have a glow, Allazar, all the gingerbread men are shining save this one, which is as black as night against the grey backdrop of my world.”

  “You speak of Armunland,” Gawain spoke at last. “Would this once have been the province of Armun Tal, Goth-lord of Goria?”

  Jaxon appeared confused. “I do not know the name, Serre,” and with that he turned and looked to his people, all of whom, save one man, shrugged and looked to each other in search of an answer. That one man was the sly one, the mover, the one creeping closer to the centre of the line and who even now fixed his unblinking gaze upon Simayen Jaxon.

  “Armunland is the name of the province, Serre, and the lords of all provinces bear the title ‘Tal’. We have not heard of Goth-lords. I am sorry…”

  “The shadowman has moved once more, Allazar, and now stands behind and to the right of the one who speaks for the Gorians.”

  “Isst.”

  As Elayeen watched, the shadow seemed to become darker, blacker, and if blackness could ever be said to glow, then the arms and hands of this one certainly were.

  “Stand aside, Allazar!” Elayeen hissed, her face set grim as she drew a longshaft from her quiver, nocked it to the string, and drew the bow. She gasped a little as the pain from the two broken fingers of her left hand lanced along her arm, but with those two fingers bound together and sticking out at an odd angle, still she held the bow firm against the draw.