by GJ Kelly
“And I did, Allazar, I did! Just as I’ve done everything in my power to vex Morloch since first the blackhearted bastard appeared to me! And now, wizard, now while the men and women who fought in that battle celebrate escaping death and destruction in the way that all men and women celebrate life together, what have I? Tell me wizard, what have I?
“Nothing! That is my reward! My land is still ashes, my people still dead, and I have a wife who would rather see me dead than see my hand upon her! And for why? Because some eldenbeard bastard dead ten thousand years or more says so, that’s why! How do you think lord Rak celebrated victory with his lady, Allazar? How do you think Eryk and Brock and yes even poor dead Willam of Juria celebrated the relief of victory and the joy of yet being alive with theirs?
“I am not yet twenty-one years old and I have endured and faced every trial and tribulation put before me and I have prevailed where men twice and thrice my age would have and did fail in their duty! And you! You and she who claims to love me and those who claim to be my friend dare to offer reproach simply because I look at a woman worthy of any man’s eye?”
“Longsword…”
“Be silent!” Gawain cried again, breathing hard, pacing like a caged animal, breath hissing, the veins on his neck throbbing. “Where is it written that I and I alone must endure alone to the end of my days? In the vakin circles of eldenbeards? Is that where?
“Do you have any idea what it’s like to be twenty years old, to endure years of hardship and months of peril and face the end of all things with the woman you love and then, Allazar, then, when the fighting is done and the bells and clarions of victory ring out across all the lands, to share a room with her, and never be closer to her than I am to you now! Do you?”
“I… I do not.”
“Then take your vakin reproach and shove it where I swear by the ghosts of Raheen I’ll shove my vakin sword if you ever accuse me thus or berate me in public again!”
Gawain turned on his heel, his wet cloak clinging to his legs, and the strap of the longsword chafing his shoulder. Then he strode towards the door.
“My lord…” Allazar gasped, “Where are you going?”
“I go to the inn, to the only comfort left to me! And if I decide to sleep there tonight and every other night of my sojourn in these vakin hills that is my business! Not yours, not Rak’s, and not Elayeen’s!”
At the Traveller’s Rest, Derrik noted the dark set of Gawain’s features as soon as the young man strode through the door, and the innkeeper moved closer to the pumps at the edge of the bar.
“What can I get you, milord?”
“A pint of your darkest ale. And d’you have a vacant room, goodman Derrik? If so I shall stay the night, longer if I’ve a mind to.”
“We do, milord. Winter’s driven most folk to their homes now, and what with the battle and all, we’ve had no merchants from other lands for a long time, and so none to winter in Tarn. The room that Serre wizard Allazar vacated do for you, milord?”
“Why not, it’s served well enough in the past.”
“I’ll bring the ale over to you, milord. May I ask, has something happened? You seem not yourself, if’n you don’t mind my asking.”
Gawain sighed, and his shoulders slumped. “News just arrived, and all Threlland will hear it soon enough. Willam, King of Juria, is dead these four weeks past, slain by a traitor of the D’ith.”
Derrik’s eyes widened in shock and disbelief, and all he could do was shake his head sadly.
“I’ll be at the corner table,” Gawain said quietly, and left the bar, its portly owner gazing after him with sorrow.
The corner table was gloomy, the great log fire some way along the wall to its left and the main room’s nearest window well away to the right, and thus very little light reached it. It was mostly used by couples, or those who didn’t wish to be noticed. A glowstone lamp was set in a sconce, but even with its shutters open wide it struggled in vain to defeat the shadows around the table where Gawain sat, his back jammed into the very corner of the room, sword propped to his right. He eyed the brass plate glinting in the floor some twenty feet away towards the bar, marking the spot where the traitor Joyen was slain a year ago. The memory of that event did nothing good for his mood.
Derrik, true to his word, fetched the tankard of ale and with it a bowl of fried pork rinds, and set them on the table. “Is there anything else I might fetch you, milord?”
“No, thank you. You might take those chairs away though, I’m in no mood for company, should any arrive.”
“Aye, milord, of course.”
When Derrik had taken the three chairs and discreetly moved the closest tables further from the gloomy corner, Gawain sat back, and closed his eyes, trying to still his breathing and loosen the knots in his stomach.
He rested the palm of his hand on the table, and felt areas of roughness, shallow gouges scraped with pocket-blades over the life of the oft-polished and sturdy old furniture. Names, carved into the wood. Gawain opened his eyes, and tried to read those names in the weak light from the lamp above him. There was another table in the room, he knew, on which he himself had absent-mindedly scraped a name while in the foggy-minded onset of the throth, the day Joyen was killed: Tallbot of Jarn.
It had been a long time since Gawain had recalled Tallbot, an honourable town guardsman in the service of Callodon; killed by Ramoth mercenaries because kings had feared to take action against them. Tallbot had been a good man. They had all been good men, and good women, at Far-gor… good and loyal and courageous. And now they were nothing more than names, reverently inscribed upon the cairn and honoured for their sacrifice.
But in time, the names on the cairn would fade, as the names scratched into table-tops in inns and taverns throughout the lands would fade, and in time, while those who remembered the owners of those names themselves faded and were lost, what would remain to mark their passing? A gouge in a piece of wood, or a scratch upon the rusting limb of a broken grappinbow?
Now there was another name to be added to the litany. Willam, King of Juria. Slain in his own Hall, by a traitor of the D’ith. He was a good man too, Willam, the rock of Juria, loved and respected by his people and by his neighbours, a calm man, tall, and gaunt, and serious, not given to outbursts of temper or excitement, a man who thought before he spoke, and who always spoke well. A man who had survived aquamire poison, only to be slain by a treacherous wizard of the D’ith… just like Arras had been… Arras of Narrat, once of the Southride…
Gawain drew in a tremulous breath and then took a draught of dark Threlland ale to wash away the bubble forming in his throat. It was early, not yet noon, and in truth, much too early for the rich and heady brew. But it stemmed the emotion that had threatened to burst its banks. He picked up a pork rind and popped it into his mouth, crunching down on the snack and focusing on the salt pork tang that supplanted the bitter taste of the ale in an instant.
So many names, and all of them good men and women, and true to the kindred. Yet they were dead, while Gawain still lived… Ask Hellin of Juria who she would rather were slain, Gawain thought to himself, Her father, or me. Ask them all, the mothers and fathers, husbands and wives, brothers and sisters, friends and relations of all those slain at Far-gor, who they would rather have seen return home alive and well…
The main door opened to admit a blast of air from without, where it was still teeming with rain. A pair of dwarves Gawain didn’t recognise trudged to a table close to the bar, ignoring him and being ignored in return; nameless dwarves, miners, perhaps. Perhaps their names were on a table somewhere here in the main room of the inn.
A log spat an ember from the grate away to his left, catching Gawain’s eye, and recalling to mind yet more names. Names screamed in agony and in fear amongst crackling blasts of white lightning and the roaring of flames… Theo! Theo! This way! Run! In Stanas’ name run for your life! Peeta! Peeta don’t leave me!
Calhaneth. Gawain shuddered and closed his eyes.
Yathami! Yathami! Eem Fyeran! Eem Fyeran! Help me. Help me. I’m burning. I’m burning… The screams grew in Gawain’s head like the roar of the fire in Calhaneth as it spread, fanned by the swirling winds drawn in by the rising heat…
Then a door banged shut, and the sound of the wind and rain from outside was silenced, and Gawain opened his eyes. More customers for Derrik, dwarves seeking shelter from the weather, or perhaps a late breakfast, or an early lunch.
It’s all just names…
Gawain sighed, but couldn’t shake off the sudden and immense grief that seemed to spread through his veins like a poison.
oOo
8. Sorrows
“I have friends who are healers,” Rak announced, and Gawain, standing at the window of his small room at the inn, turned his attention from the view of the courtyard below to glance over his shoulder at his friend.
“Is someone ill, then? Elayeen? Allazar?”
“No, it is nothing like that, though both are concerned for you. It’s been two days since you came here consumed by anger.”
“Anger?” Gawain snorted, and turned again to watch while below in the courtyard a couple of brawny fellows rolled barrels from a dray and carried them down into the maw of the cellars. “The regal ire of a king for a servant who should’ve known better. Brock would likely have killed him, if he’d still been in service to Callodon’s crown. Brock’s crippled servants for less.”
“Perhaps so. But the healers I spoke of tell of a condition, one that is well documented and understood here in Threlland, and also in other lands. Here it is called liefhargen, in the common tongue its closest meaning is ‘life-sorrow’. It often afflicts those who survive a terrible event when others do not. It is not uncommon for tunnels to collapse in the mines of Threlland, and in the rock-fall, trap a crew below ground. Sometimes, one or two miners might survive to be rescued, and for a long time afterwards, they are struck by the liefhargen. They do not feel worthy to have survived when their friends did not. The healers say it is common in other lands, after shipwrecks, for example, or earthshakes…”
“And what has this to do with me, Rak?”
“It might explain why you are here in a room at the Traveller’s Rest and not in the comfort of my home, with your lady.”
“Thank you for your concern, Rak, but the words ‘comfort’ and ‘my lady’ don’t belong in the same sentence together, much less under one roof. I’m far less likely to suffer an attack of this ‘liefhargen’ of yours if I’m not shut up in a dark room for the night with Elayeen.”
“Your lady has said she will visit with her friends Meeya and Valin at their lodgings, should you wish to return. Allazar also has offered to return here, that you may have the second room now that the inn is quieter.”
“Why?”
Rak looked momentarily surprised by the question.
“Why bother, Rak? I am comfortable here with my own company. If I wish to speak with Elayeen or the wizard I can easily walk across the Square to your house and do so. Allazar is comfortable in your house. Elayeen is comfortable in your house. And frankly, Rak, after the utterly unwarranted reproach I received from you and your lady as well as from the wizard and mine, I am not.”
“A mistake, my brother…”
“And not one of my making. To prevent further such mistakes I intend to remain here for as long as goodman Derrik welcomes me. Here, I’m free to do what I like, and go where I like, whenever I like. I’ve not enjoyed this kind of freedom for some considerable time and to be blunt, after the last six months, this kind of freedom is much more likely to cure any liefhargens I may be suffering than being shut up with Elayeen or watched over by judgemental wizards and friends.”
“I am sorry.”
“Don’t be. I’m not. I value the time I have now to think and reflect. Given long enough alone I might even learn to become less of the stumbling buffoon that elfwizards and my wife take me to be.”
“Turning away from friends and loved ones is a common sign of the liefhargen. Being alone is good for no-one.”
“If ants and bees could dream, Rak, then in all probability being alone would be their fabled yonderlife, a blessed reward for spending a lifetime of ceaseless labour spent rubbing shoulders with countless others. Besides, I’m not alone. There’s an inn full of friendly people just outside my door should I feel the need for company.”
“What shall I tell Elayeen?”
“She knows where I am should she wish to speak with me. It’s not as if this situation hasn’t arisen before, after all.”
Rak nodded sadly, remembering when Gawain had been evicted from the house and banished to this very room, when first the King of Ashes had rescued his love from faranthroth.
“And, Rak, if I were at all susceptible to these liefhargens, I rather think they would’ve afflicted me when I believed myself the sole survivor of the destruction of my land and my people, don’t you?”
Rak did not look convinced; while he clearly remembered the hollow and vengeful warrior of a year ago slaughtering brigands and Ramoths, Gawain clearly did not, and the Lord of Tarn was not about to offend his friend again by mentioning it. Instead, Rak tried another tack.
“I think, my brother, you underestimate the distress your lady feels at your leaving. She hides it well, but she is distraught.”
Gawain drew in a breath and let it out slowly. “Then perhaps it would be wisest not to mention that were we in Raheen, I would be perfectly within my rights to take a second lady in these circumstances, and no-one there would bat an eyelid. I am not an elf, Rak, nor am I a dwarf of Threlland. Elayeen’s customs and ways are not mine, and nor are yours. And I am certainly not bound by whatever notions a whitebeard may have concerning ‘proper’ kingly behaviour.”
“No, indeed…”
“And neither her mood nor mine is likely to be improved by our gazing hopelessly at each other across the yawning divide of a table. If it’s comfort she wants, she’ll have to find it in whatever duty she feels obliged to fulfil. At least she has that. It’s more than I have.”
Rak was about to answer when a polite tapping on the door drew their attention.
“Come,” Gawain announced.
The door creaked ajar, and Derrik the landlord’s chubby face peered around it, eyebrows raised.
“Beggin’ your pardon, milords, a message has come from Crownmount.”
“Come in, Derrik, don’t hide behind the door.”
“Aye, milord,” the portly innkeeper pushed the door wide, wiped his hands on the front of his apron, and drew a sealed brown enveloped from within it. “It’s for you, milord, came by way of a fast rider. Don’t think it wants a reply, chap rode off again with messages for Major Sarek, or so he said.”
Gawain took the envelope from Derrik’s pudgy hand and thanked him, waiting until the landlord had left and closed the door behind him before studying the writing on the front of the missive. It was written in a neat and precise hand: To: HRM Raheen, Tarn.
Gawain flicked a questioning glance at Rak before turning the envelope over and breaking the plain wax seal. The letter inside bore the same neat handwriting, and its content was intriguing to say the least:
My Lord,
It is my sincerest hope that this humble note finds you and your lady in good health, and that you are enjoying the well-earned rest so richly deserved after such tribulations as you have both endured. Alas, I fear I had little time to express my thanks to you before I departed with his Majesty, King Eryk, for Crownmount, and to my new appointment as Master Librarian for The Kindred here in Threlland.
My lord, I must set aside my excitement at the wondrous spectacle which awaited me here in the depths below Crownmount; the library here is vast, and so deep that many ancient texts remain in a condition of almost perfect preservation. The air here in the deep vaults is naturally dry and remains at an unwavering temperature which, though chilly, is thoroughly conducive to the storing of books, scrolls, records and sundry parchments!
I do hope you will understand the nature of my excitement when you come, and I beg you to do so as quickly as your convenience will allow, and with Master Allazar too. Alas, I cannot bring these documents to you, they would crumble to dust should they ever leave the safe confines of these depths.
It was on a personal whim that I searched for, and by some great and kindly serendipity found, an answer to the question that is the City in the South. There was a survivor, my lord, and his account of events is intact! I hope to have finished translating this account by the time you arrive. It is most distressing, most distressing indeed, and I fear it will cause you as much concern as it does your loyal servant,
Arramin
Gawain read the note a second time, then folded it neatly, and slipped it into his tunic.
“It seems I won’t be staying here at the inn after all, Rak. I need to go to Crownmount, and I’ll be taking the wizard too.”
“When will you leave, my brother?”
“Now’s as good a time as any.”
“And your lady?”
“May continue to enjoy her rest here in Tarn undisturbed by any possibility of my coming into contact with her,” Gawain checked his pack, slipped it into place, and then flung his cloak around his shoulders before reaching for the sword.
“You won’t take her to Crownmount with you then, to see Eryk?”
“No, it’s not Eryk I’m going to Crownmount to see. Come, the sooner Allazar and I leave, the sooner we’re likely to return.”
Rak followed Gawain out of the room and down the stairs, and waited while Gawain spoke with Derrik for a few moments to reserve the room for his return and have Allazar’s horse readied for travel. Then it was out into the blustery chill of the day and the walk across the cobbles of Tarn Square back to the house.
