by GJ Kelly
“Aye, my lord,” the guard smiled appreciatively as he hung the hares from his saddle-horn. “We’ve a heavy bag today, should be good eating tonight.”
Gawain nodded, and watched the guard ride all the way back to the caravan. After a few minutes, the column began moving north again. Gwyn lifted her head from the stream, eyed the road and the horses trotting along it in the distance, gave a brief snuffle, and then turned her attention back to the crystal clear water of the stream again.
“Me too, Gwyn, me too,” Gawain muttered, in no rush to rejoin the group.
On the open plains there was little if any chance of a sneak attack by man or beast, Morloch-made or otherwise, and just as it had felt good to hunt in the forest on his own, it felt good now, standing alone here on the plains waiting for Gwyn to drink her fill. Gawain decided he’d ride wide on the flank, perhaps swing around behind the column and take a station on the western side of the road; there was unlikely to be any threat from the east which the guardsmen of Callodon couldn’t cope with. Gwyn’s head bobbed up, and she turned sideways on to him, waiting patiently while he brushed. She was filthy from the quagmire on the road, and Gawain decided to take his time and restore his horse-friend to her full glory.
If only he could do the same for Elayeen. She had become a gaping wound deep within him and he had to tell himself that the loss he felt was a reaction to the throth dependency that had been ripped from them both, that she was in fact still alive and well and leading the column north even now. Voices seemed to whisper to him from the sound of the brush, the breezes, and the stream.
The elder magi foresaw the need to gift a wizard with knowledge and power far beyond his lowly station and education, and the need to gift an elfin with the mystic sight of her ancient forebears. It means, my friends, they foresaw that we would need them, together with the wielder of the sword.
Gawain wondered if Hurgo the Halfhanded had heard such voices, and imagined he probably had, though the voices would likely have been real and belonged to the ‘suckwits, soothsayers and sundry sycophants’ that Arramin of the D’ith Sek had spoken of.
We are far, far removed from the minds of those who made this place, and the world in which they lived. Who are we to meddle thus, with neither knowledge nor wisdom of their intent to guide us?
More to the point, Gawain thought back at the memory of Elayeen’s gentle lilting voice, who did they think they were? They are far removed from us indeed, dust these long centuries past. Yet Morloch lives. He endured to walk through the mists of myth and to emerge from his lair beyond the Teeth, while those elder magi, oh so wise in ages past, left nothing but the circles and the sword in Raheen. While their remains mouldered in their crypts, Morloch survived to draw up his plans against us. The knowledge given to Allazar is ancient knowledge. The sight given to Elayeen is ancient sight. Who was there left from those elder days but Morloch? Who could say for certain whether sword and circle were nothing but a useless legacy rendered obsolete a thousand years or more ago? How far advanced now was Morloch compared to the traitor the elders had known?
Adjectives.
From a bygone era, words hidden from view and revealed by accident in the curved reflection of a polished Dymendin rod five thousand years in the making. But for Elayeen that Dymendin staff would still be in the hands of Salaman Goth of Goria. The sword would be lost, Gawain and Allazar dead, and Elayeen, throth-bound to Gawain, dying. And Morloch gloating, victorious, his armies breaching the Teeth to flood across the farak gorin.
Soothsayers
Could such twists of fate, such accidents and coincidences which had led them all to stand together in the Circle of Justice truly have been foreseen? Or were sword and circle merely wishful thinking, a fool’s hope, an insurance policy against the future’s judgement of those who had failed to rid the world of Morloch and his evil, content instead to settle for locking him away in the gentler lands beyond the mountains of the north?
Gawain stepped back and admired his work, nodding approvingly before casting a glance to the northwest and at the backs of the group on the road slowly shrinking into the distance.
“Turn around, Ugly, time for the other side.”
Mostly what is known comes to us in the form of myths and tales and snatches of old songs, from which we may deduce little, but speculate much.
Gawain sighed. The truth, or such truth as ever there might be concerning Morloch, was, if it existed, locked away in the deepest vaults of the D’ith Hallencloister. And as Allazar himself had said, fat chance now of getting in there. After all, Gawain conceded, they really only had Morloch’s word that he was, in fact, Morloch. Who was there still living from the elder days to gainsay the foul and aquamire-stained figure unseen for centuries before the shimmering vision had appeared before Gawain on the plains of Juria far to the north? Perhaps ‘Morloch’ had become, like ‘Goth’, a title rather than a true name. Perhaps the foul creature Gawain had vexed so much over the past year was merely one of a long line of Morlochs, the head of some evil order founded by the original traitor so long ago.
Even if so, what did it matter?
It matters, Gawain thought, stepping into the stream and easing Gwyn into the water the better to wash her legs of dried and caked mud, because to know your enemy is strength. If the creature in the shimmering visions were merely a disciple or descendant of the original Morloch, then the knowledge and power at his disposal would be frozen in time, ancient, handed down from wizard to wizard as if from father to son. And if so, then the weapons the elder magi had left to the three of Raheen would be far from obsolete in any battle against the wizard currently assuming the mantle of Morloch.
Foul creatures of ancient times.
The Grimmand of Sethi, the Graken, the Kraal of Tansee. Creatures of darkness now seemingly commonplace in Goria, and of late, seen east of the Eramak for the first time since Armun Tal and his clawflies three hundred and eighty seven years ago. And why now? Because something was happening or had happened in the north, and Morloch wanted to shift all attention on the south, away from the farak gorin and the Barak-nor. But that had been before the three of Raheen had unlocked the circle and unleashed the ancient power to smite the Teeth.
Gawain remembered the awful fate which awaited the Gorians transported to the army of Morlochmen lurking in the bitter wastelands of the Barak-nor. Gorians transported, alive, in ox-carts, torn from their hearths and homes and bound, clattering east along the scree at the foot of the Teeth before the arduous crossing of the farak gorin. He shuddered in spite of the warmth of the noon sunshine. If Morloch held all Goria, if the war opened on two fronts, north and west, what then?
Poor Hurgo, Gawain thought suddenly, at least no-one’s proclaiming me The Chosen One and clamouring for me to lead them into battle.
Perhaps, Gawain thought, leading Gwyn out of the stream and crouching, his knees screaming, to pick stones and debris from her hooves, perhaps his sense of kinship with The Halfhanded of myth was misplaced. Had Gawain really been pressed into service? Or had he been born to it? As the second-born in Raheen, life had been a huge adventure for the young prince. He had always known Kevyn would one day wear the crown. Never once, not for a moment, had Gawain imagined the crown for himself. No, he was trained as all princes were, trained and prepared for rule, but thanks to Kevyn, never expecting to have to do so.
For Gawain, all that training, all the education and fighting and hunting, all the arts of war and horsemanship, it had all been pure and unadulterated fun! Until his banishment. Even then, the sense of adventure had been real enough, and not until his encounter with brigands on the road to Jarn had Gawain seriously expected to have to use any of his training except in the pursuit of food.
But for Morloch, he would have returned to his lofty homeland, regaled his family and friends with tales of his travels, and perhaps sparked anew his father’s dream of a Union between the kingdoms. But Morloch had destroyed Raheen, and in so doing, had laid the path on which Ga
wain had walked ever since. But surely, it was pure chance that he had been enduring regal banishment when Morloch’s Breath had annihilated all life in Raheen. It had explained Morloch’s sudden shock and terror at Ferdan, when Gawain’s identity had been revealed.
So, Gawain had not been pressed into service, as Hurgo had been. And certainly not torn from a humble life, nor destined to usurp a war-lord’s crown. Gawain stepped back and nodded approvingly.
“What do you think, Ugly? Have I made good on my failings of yesterday?”
Gwyn walked a few paces, bobbed her head, and waited while Gawain stooped, sighed in expectation of the pain he knew was to come, and then heaved the saddle up off the ground to gently lay it in place on his horse’s back.
Sorry, Hurgo, Gawain thought an apology into the past as he prepared to mount, surprised at how far north the caravan had travelled along the road. But perhaps the only similarity between our lives is that neither of us could ever really hope to leave the path laid before us.
As Gawain mounted and Gwyn eased away from the stream to trot towards the northwest, he knew it was true. Could he turn his back on Elayeen? Never. Could he ignore the plight of the Gorians who had risked so much, and lost so much, seeking sanctuary in Raheen? No. He was Raheen, and he could not simply abandon them to satisfy some selfish desire to live his own life in peace. But the tale of Hurgo the Halfhanded, brief though the wizard’s telling of it had been, had left its mark on Gawain, if for no other reason than the Eldengaze, which had become so dread now he could not bare to look into his lady’s eyes when she turned it upon him.
Gawain swung wide around the rear of the column, easing Gwyn into position to their southwest. Tyrane had of course deployed his men with appropriate caution and Gawain kept his distance from them while he rode. It was good to be alone and in the saddle, and with the voices of his imagination silent now, the twittering of occasional skylarks and the sound of Gwyn’s hooves were like soothing music to Gawain’s ears.
Clouds billowed, white and harmless, and the cooling breezes were welcome. Heavy rain had left a legacy of springs and streams and progress was good for horse and men alike, hours passing with nothing more alarming than a rider breaking formation to add another hare or rabbit to the quartermaster’s already heavy bag. The mid-afternoon rest period came and went, Gawain electing to maintain his post away from the throng and the road, and with Allazar deep in concentration at his work there were none who had any need to disturb his peace.
It couldn’t last though, Gawain knew, and it didn’t. With the sun well on its way towards the western horizon, Gawain’s attention was drawn to something flashing at the head of the column. It was the Dymendin staff, Allazar swinging it one-handed in a lazy arc over his head. The message from Brock had been deciphered.
Tyrane had called the column to a halt for an early evening rest period by the time Gawain arrived at the head. Elayeen sat saddle, the eldengaze turned to the north. Allazar, in his position behind and on her left flank, held the staff in his right hand and his notebook in his left, and wore a nervous expression. Tyrane dispersed the vanguard to rest and stretch their legs, and then took up a position for himself a discreet distance away.
“So, Allazar. The message?”
“Yes, Longsword. It seems I hadn’t made an error after all. Brock had simply ciphered it a dozen times, more times than any message a crown of Callodon has ever sent in peacetime, and more than some which were sent when the land was at war.”
Gawain cast a longing glance at Elayeen’s back, and then drew himself up in the saddle, letting go of himself, and drawing tight the reins of duty once more. “And its content?”
“Is succinct, though I fear you will not like it.”
“Must I beat it from you?”
Allazar sighed, and there was genuine sadness in his eyes. He lifted the book, his thumb already marking the page, and read, quietly:
Raheen chosen by Council to lead Army of The North. Come at once to Shiyanath. Urgent.
“Dwarfspit.” Gawain grimaced, wiping dust from his brow with his left hand, and for a moment, he thought he heard Hurgo’s voice echoing down through the ages, Sorry, Gawain…
oOo
29. Urgency
“It is the word ‘urgent’ which perhaps carries the greatest weight for me,” Allazar asserted towards sunset, watching as the guards manhandled a large brazier and hung it by chains from an iron tripod. Preparations were being made to begin the stew which would be needed to feed all fifty four hungry mouths on the road.
Gawain had insisted that the caravan continue until the end of the day’s travel, claiming he needed time to consider the content of the message. He didn’t of course, but it made little sense immediately to abandon the caravan on the strength of a message which had taken days to reach him and most of a day to decipher. A few more hours could do no harm, and besides, he didn’t wish to simply up and leave.
“It is the entire message which concerns me.” Gawain muttered, paring another slice of frak from a lump and sitting on his saddle and bedroll while Gwyn wandered and munched grass away from the camp and its bustle.
Allazar disagreed. “I’m not at all surprised they would turn to you for leadership of any combined force they might be mustering at Ferdan for the march north. Even if not for your military skills or your fearsome reputation as the Longsword warrior, certainly for political reasons. It was inevitable, once the Council had seen for themselves the threat facing all lands south of the Teeth.”
“They don’t know that the Teeth have been kicked, and Morloch’s plans for invasion thwarted. Dwarfspit, Allazar, everything has changed since Ferdan. Everything.”
“I know. Yet something was happening in the north before the circle was unleashed, hence Morloch’s desperate attempt with the Kraal to divert attention here.”
Gawain chewed thoughtfully, following Allazar’s gaze as wood was loaded onto the brazier and set alight, a large black iron pot hanging from the tripod above the infant flames as they flickered first from dried grass kindling and began to grow as the wood was slowly fed in.
“Why does the word ‘urgent’ bother you so much?”
Allazar sighed. “It stands alone, and comes at the end of the message. Come at once to Shiyanath conveys the need for haste and as direct a route as possible to that northern province of Elvendere. But the ‘urgent’ nailed to the end speaks of a certain desperation on Brock’s part. It was he who crafted the message, Longsword, and I know him of old and his messages.”
Gawain frowned. “Then surely it would’ve been the first word of the message, if it were so desperate? Urgent, come at once, you are he, the chosen one who will smite our enemies.”
“The chosen one?”
“Sorry. Other thoughts have a habit of intruding lately.” Gawain dragged his eyes away from the fire in the brazier and swung his gaze towards his lady, standing with her bow resting on her boot, her back to them both where they sat, but within earshot.
Allazar nodded and glanced again at his notebook before closing it with a sigh and stuffing it into his bag. “Yet, I fear Brock has elected to give the good news first and save the bad for last. That you have been nominated by the Kings’ Council to lead this ‘Army of the North’ is no surprise, neither to me and nor, I suspect, even to you.
“Come at once to Shiyanath is a little surprising. The news we had from Arramin’s escort spoke of two hundred volunteers riding to Ferdan, so we must assume it’s there the army is mustering. Brock knows of your lady’s status within Elvendere, Thal-Hak and the Council could easily have requested that you go direct to Ferdan. But no, Shiyanath is the destination.
“And then, that one word, standing alone: Urgent. It implies so much more than ordinary haste. It implies circumstances which only you, and perhaps your lady, have the power to address.”
Again, Gawain glanced at Elayeen, but she didn’t move. There was a clinking of chains as the brazier, its fuel now well alight, was raised a little
closer to the base of the cauldron, and Gawain and Allazar watched as pieces of fresh-butchered hare and rabbit were added to the water within it. Away to their right, Arramin of the D’ith Sek was in quiet conversation with Tyrane. Out of courtesy if nothing else, Gawain had agreed to allow Allazar to reveal the content of the message to Tyrane and to the wizard whose hands Queen Elspeth of Callodon had trusted for its safe delivery. They deserved to know the reason why, in the morning, the three of Raheen would be abandoning the column.
“Tyrane would much prefer to escort us to Elvendere, Longsword.”
“I know. He even suggested leaving the Gorians in the care of Erik, the sergeant who escorted the wizard from Callodon Castle, so he could do just that.”
“Do you believe there is more danger between here and Jarn, then?”
“All is clear.” Eldengaze rasped, clearly listening.
“Perhaps not,” Gawain conceded, ignoring Eldengaze, “But as I explained to Tyrane, I feel a duty to the Gorian refugees. They escaped slavery and endured many hardships, even the loss of loved ones, to seek sanctuary in Raheen.”
“Ah. And you are Raheen.”
“Yes.”
“But leave them in the care of Callodon you must, Longsword. With them on foot and with the wagons, our progress is slowed far below the pace we three maintained on the plains during our journey south. It was mid-summer when we left Ferdan. Already the nights are cooler, the dog-days are upon us, storms are on the plains and leaves are turning early. Morloch’s armies in the wastelands will not wait for winter.”
“I know. And each day they are permitted to continue to live, another unspeakable horror occurs in the Barak-nor, and the wastelands to the west.”
