The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound

by GJ Kelly

  He shifted the weight of his longsword on his back and called one of the horses back from the western edge of the ridge where it had strayed in its quest for greener grass. Tyrane was jogging up the tow-path towards him, apparently enjoying the run, though it looked as though Rollaf was content to walk alongside the barge.

  Gawain turned north again, and continued his ambling, keeping an eye on the horses and waiting for Tyrane to catch up. Birds were everywhere it seemed, life was everywhere, and all of it attending to the simple business of living. The last days of summer were fading quickly, great patches of the forest to the east and west were already turning to autumnal hues, and the weather at the farak gorin, if or when they finally made it there, would be less than clement.

  Tyrane padded up alongside to his right and slowed. “They’ve all gone mad back there, m’lord, with those honey-bar things. Last I saw, the wizard Allazar was dipping his into his breakfast wine to soften and melt it. Even your lady sits upon the roof of the deckhouse eating it.”

  “They’ve fired up the brazier then?”

  “Aye, and strange it was too. I watched from the shore with Rollaf while the wizard poured oil over the bricks, and then sparked it off somehow. There was a very brief whump of a sound, some blue-ish smoke, and that was that. The smoke was an acrid fume though, made my eyes water, I’m not surprised the horses didn’t care for it. Jaxon put a pan of spice wine on the brazier, and it was simmering in no time.”

  Gawain shook his head. “Astonishing, really. When you think of all the trouble a rider on the plains would have to go to for a hot meal, assuming he was desperate enough to give away his position with a fire.”

  “Aye. I once found myself on the plains in the southeast, winter on the way, soaked through and chilled to the bone. I’d been sent to audit the granaries at Dunbere. I hacked my way into the middle of an old gorse for dry wood, and spent the best part of two hours kneeling in it with a firestone and the steel of my knife before I finally got the tinder to take. Anyone passing that night would’ve fled terrified at the sound of a shrub pouring forth a stream of invective that’d make a Gorian pirate blush.”

  Gawain chuckled, and glanced over his shoulder to gauge the distance to the approaching barge. “I’ve never encountered Gorian pirates, but I can well imagine the discomfort and frustration. I nearly cut my own fingers off trying to start a fire at Northpoint in winter, and that was indoors.”

  “Indoors, m’lord?”

  “Aye, there was a small watchtower at Northpoint, stone-built. The duty watchman would either stand atop it and gaze out and down over the lowlands looking for beacons, or if the weather were truly grim, shelter within it and peer out through a loophole. There was a small hearth within. The rest of the watch had a large barracks cabin, with stables too, well-appointed with all the comforts of home. But there was only one watchman on duty at the tower itself at any time.

  “I was fifteen and full of myself when I was sent to Northpoint in midwinter, to gain some ‘valuable experience’, they said. When my first turn for the night’s watch came, I nearly got blown off my feet by the gales on the walk from the barracks to the tower. The man I relieved warned me the fire was low, embers dull, and I acknowledged his report and watched him go. Then, cocky as you like, I went up top, up through the trapdoor and into the teeth of the gale so they’d all see a prince of the realm braving the cold, attending to his duty like any other good man of Raheen.

  “The fellow I relieved, I can’t remember his name now, never looked back on his walk to the barracks, staggering as the wind whipped his cloak before him, nearly taking him off his feet. And you can bet that no-one within the cabin was remotely concerned about me either. If any of them had bothered to look out of that thick and ice-rimed window, they may have seen the shape of a royal idiot atop the tower, but with the clouds heavy with snow that night I doubt it.

  “By the time I realised what a complete imbecile I was being and went down, I was frozen. It seemed to take an age to close that Dwarfspit trapdoor behind me too, and my fingers were as numb as my brain must’ve been to take me up top that night. And yes, if you hadn’t already guessed, the fire was out, and though there was a bit of warmth in the stones of the hearth, all the heat from the ashes had been sucked up the chimney, and the blast of air from my opening the trap had put out all the candles.”

  “Oh dear.”

  Gawain chuckled again. “I think I said something similar. So there I was, freezing, in the dark, feeling my way with numb hands, trying to find the tinderbox on the table by the brief flashes made by firestone on boot knife. How I still have my hands much less my fingers beggars belief.”

  It was Tyrane’s turn to chuckle. “Aye, well, m’lord, did you gain any valuable experience?”

  “Oh yes, the lessons were many.”

  When the barge finally drew alongside, Gawain and Tyrane nimbly leapt aboard and gratefully accepted the mugs of hot breakfast wine poured by a smiling wizard. Both, however, declined the additional offer of honey-bars to dip in the drink or to eat. Rollaf and Jaxon hopped ashore to keep an eye on the horses and to stretch their legs, walking briskly alongside the vessel as it slid along the canal.

  “This isn’t bad at all,” Gawain sighed, sipping his wine.

  “No indeed,” Allazar agreed, smiling and leaning on his staff, “All very civilised I must say.”

  They were standing outside the forward deckhouse, for with Elayeen and Kahla sitting on the roof and the men on the bank alongside, they had no need of additional lookouts.

  “Civilised would include a full breakfast of eggs, bacon, sausages, tomatoes, mushrooms and potatoes, Serre wizard,” Tyrane smiled, eyeing the stew warming on the brazier, “Though of course for myself and his Majesty it’s supper-time.”

  “Of course, Captain, please, help yourself, though I have no doubt that someone will insist on frak instead.”

  “Actually…” Gawain began, but was immediately stunned into silence.

  Something a brilliant white, perhaps twice the size of a pigeon, flashed over Gawain’s right shoulder and slammed into Allazar’s Dymendin staff, and with a slight hiss, disappeared. The staff glowed, and within the shimmering luminescence, strange writing swam the length of the rod. Allazar stood wide-eyed, paralysed with shock, staring at the staff and the characters within it as they faded.

  “…Dwarfspit! Allazar, what was that? Are you all right?”

  “It… it is a message from Arramin! It says he and Terryn have crested the ridge!”

  “How is this possible?”

  Allazar blinked, dumbfounded, and shook his head as if clearing it. Then he recited from the ancient knowledge imparted by the Circles at Raheen: “The Dove of Orris was first designed to locate a fellow wizard of staff rank, the initiator simply observing the direction of the Dove’s flight after its summoning and release. This device was later adapted by Orris himself to bear messages from one staff to another, though messages may only be carried to an intended recipient within line of sight of the sender. It is particularly effective when both staves have shared a wash of Aemon’s Fire.”

  Gawain handed his mug of wine to Tyrane and leapt up onto the walkway, shielded his eyes and started hard to the south. Nothing.

  “Elayeen, please look to the south. Tell us if you can see Arramin and Terryn.”

  “I see nothing there. They are beyond my sight.”

  “Thank you,” he mumbled, returning to the deck, and then, after retrieving his mug from Tyrane and draining it hastily, asked: “Can you send a reply, Allazar?”

  “I believe so, though it’s something I have never done before. It must be knowledge familiar to the D’ith Sek, and not to one of my station. I believe it only worked for Arramin because it was Aemon’s Fire from my Dymendin staff which helped to create his. What would you have me send to him, Longsword?”

  “I don’t know. I was going to suggest ‘Where are you’, but since one part of this ridge is much the same as any other,
it would be pointless.”

  “You might acknowledge receipt of the message, Serre wizard,” Tyrane suggested diplomatically.

  “Ah. A good idea, Captain. Longsword?”

  Gawain nodded, and stepped away from the wizard a little. Allazar moved a few feet from the brazier and the stew simmering there, and lifted his staff, somewhat theatrically, Gawain thought. The wizard closed his eyes, and mumbled something, then opened them. The staff brightened a little, the unknown writing appeared briefly deep within its pearly lustre, and then what looked like a sausage of white light ballooned from the top of the staff before floating some six feet up into the air and then flashing away south with incredible speed.

  “That was a most unusual feeling,” Allazar mumbled, but nevertheless looked rather pleased with himself.

  “Could you send a message to Shiyanath like that?”

  “In truth, I seriously doubt it. I don’t know any wizards bearing staves there. Pahak of Elvendere I recall from Ferdan, and Mahlek of the D’ith Sek and of Juria. It was Mahlek who regulated the Council meeting at Ferdan. I have no idea if either still serve at the Council, and even if they do, I have no idea whether I could send a Dove of Orris to either of them. I would certainly not feel comfortable doing so.”

  “And I would not feel comfortable if you did. I was thinking out loud. I’m tired, and never fond of wizard-made surprises.”

  “I confess I am as surprised as you are, Longsword. The arrival of Arramin’s message was really rather alarming.”

  “Could Arramin send such a message? To Shiyanath, I mean?”

  “Is your sense of suspicion suddenly alert, Longsword?”

  Gawain shrugged, and dipped his mug into the camp-pan of goat stew, following Tyrane’s lead, his appetite finally succumbing to the aroma. “Is your sense of impending violence asleep, wizard?”

  “Ah. Well, in answer to your first question, if Master Arramin were to send a Dove of Orris to a wizard of staff rank at Shiyanath, I doubt it would arrive. The Dove was created originally to point the way, more as a useful guide to location rather than as a courier. When it was later modified to carry a short message, it was found that objects such as trees and hills and mountains rapidly diminished the Dove’s strength, and also its ability to retain a coherent message. Hence the requirement for both staves to be within line of sight of each other, in order for a message to be successfully transmitted. Here on the canal there are no obstructions to interfere with the message or impede the Dove’s progress.”

  “And from the walls of the Hallencloister?”

  Allazar frowned, and pondered the question gravely while the two men ate. At length, leaning on his staff and looking pensive, the wizard shrugged. “The D’ith Hallencloister is built on a rise on the southern plains of Juria, west of Arrun. From there it might be possible to send a Dove of Orris to the south-western tip of Threlland, if there was a wizard standing on high enough ground there with a clear view of the southwest. North to parts of Juria, south also to parts of Callodon, and yes, west to Elvendere, but the trees of the forest would destroy first the message and quickly the Dove itself. A wizard would need to be raised high above the forest, and the only place I can think of which would be suitable is the Toorseneth, at Ostinath. And that is a long way from the Hallencloister. I seriously doubt a message could be carried that far.”

  “And to the Dragon’s Teeth?”

  Again, Allazar shrugged. “No, no I don’t think so. It’s a very long way, Longsword, and the message fades with distance even when its path is clear of obstructions. I cannot say with any certainty one way or the other, but my intuition says no.”

  “Yet Morloch appeared on the road to Jarn, with nothing but one of those Jardember things to show the way.”

  “Morloch possesses aquamire, and therein lies the difference. With aquamire at their disposal, Morloch and his followers have no need of the quaint and archaic means of communication Orris devised in elder times. I understand your concern, Longsword, I myself was unaware of the Dove of Orris until moments ago. Yet I do not think it a common means of communication between wizards of power in modern times, for good or ill.”

  “Certainly we have not heard of it in Callodon,” Tyrane asserted, “Or we might have been able to dispense with carrier pigeons long ago.”

  “I rather think your carrier pigeons are in many ways superior, Captain, neither trees nor terrain nor indeed distance are a hindrance to them or the messages they carry. And let us not forget, the D’ith Sek are not inclined towards such a menial tasks as messenger-boy.”

  “No, I can’t see too many whitebeards cheerfully accepting so humble a role,” Gawain agreed.

  “Besides,” Allazar added, “A Dove of Orris can carry only a short message. Arramin’s, for example, was ‘Crested ridge, Arr.’ The longer the message, the greater the power needed to send it on its way, and the greater the concentration of the wizard needed to generate it. No, the feathered doves of Callodon are superior in many ways, except over a short distance.”

  “Yet it may be useful, especially if a short message is a signal for great action.” Gawain yawned. “I am turning in. Thank Jaxon for the stew for me, and wake me when Terryn and Arramin arrive.”

  “I shall, Longsword. Sleep well.”

  oOo

  14. Reunion

  Gawain was woken from dreams of fiery birds battling with Razorwings and shimmering spearbills, and his first thought was of his sword, until he realised where he was. He dragged the blindfold from his eyes and saw that the thing nudging his foot was Allazar’s staff. The wizard himself stood a safe distance back from the sleeping men, and was prodding Gawain with the full length of the Dymendin rod.

  “Ah. Longsword. Arramin and Terryn approach. It is late afternoon, the horses are still ashore, and I have yet to wake Captain Tyrane.”

  “Thank you,” Gawain yawned, and stretched, and dragged himself to his feet, sword in hand until, properly awake, he slung it over his shoulder.

  A few steps out into the early evening sunshine and onto the aft walkway, and he could see the elderly wizard and Callodon scout on horseback a good distance to the south. Tyrane joined him there while Allazar returned to the forward deckhouse.

  “We’ll have to come off the chain and pole across to the east side of the canal to let them aboard.” Tyrane yawned.

  “Aye. Doesn’t look like they’re in any hurry.”

  “No, with the vessel in sight there’d be no need to rattle poor old Arramin’s bones with a gallop down the tow-path.”

  “True enough, yet we’ll have to proceed at speed once we’re on that Threnderrin Way he spoke of. We’ll be pushing the horses hard, I think, and all the bones upon them.”

  “Three more days to the next wheel, or thereabouts.”

  “And still a long way to Ostinath,” Gawain agreed, yawning while watching the riders slowly approaching at a gentle trot. “Come, let’s get to the poles, Allazar can slip the chain.”

  Tyrane signalled Rollaf on the tow-path and received an acknowledgement, and when Allazar had disengaged the barge from the chain, the two men carefully poled the vessel towards the east bank. They had to be careful not to ram the long and slender poles into the chains running unseen in the murky water below the barge, and by the time the starboard side of the vessel bumped into the blue-stone wall, Arramin and Terryn were only a couple of hundred yards to the south.

  It was Allazar who stepped ashore on the east bank and pegged the forward mooring chain into the softer ground beyond the blue-stone tow-path, and while Tyrane stowed the poles Gawain pegged out the aft chain. The barge would need to be stable enough for the two horses to come aboard, though their riders would have no trouble themselves.

  “My lords!” Arramin called and waved happily, his smile radiant, “Well met, my lords!”

  “Master Arramin! Guardsman Terryn!” Allazar called back as the horses slowed from the trot to a walk about fifty yards away, “Well met indeed!”


  The old wizard’s joy at the reunion was infectious, and even Gawain found himself grinning as the two riders dismounted.

  “Ah, here we are!” Arramin exclaimed, “And oh what a night we had! Such rain! And such terrain! The sinkhole, Master Allazar, you should have seen the sinkhole we had to circumnavigate! And all the while wondering if the ground beneath our own feet would suddenly give way!”

  After much shaking of hands and claps on shoulders, Allazar announced “Come aboard, we have warm wine and hot stew!”

  “Oh dear me! You have the brazier in service?”

  “Indeed we do, Master Arramin, indeed we do.”

  Allazar helped the elderly wizard of Callodon onto the walkway and then down onto the main deck, and led him to the forward deckhouse and the waiting food and drink. Terryn, however, hung back, holding the reins.

  “Trouble?” Tyrane asked before Gawain had a chance.

  Terryn shrugged. “Dunno, Serres, can’t say. Seen something. Traces, maybe.”

  “Wolf, badger and boar?” Gawain suggested.

  But Terryn gave them both a serious look, glanced quickly at the deckhouse, and then softly surprised them: “No, Serres. People.”

  “Recent?”

  Another shrug. “Lot of rain. Can’t say. But recent enough. Just traces, mind. Nothing definite. Didn’t want to worry the old bird, so didn’t say anything.”

  “Where?” Tyrane asked quietly.

  “North of the big hole. Bottom of the ridge. Trees’re thin there, ground less soft. Grasses and ferns for the horses too. Easier going.”

  “Nothing further south, when you left the pool and the wheel?”

  Terryn gave a single shake of the head. “Nah. Whoever it was, stopped north of the hole. Don’t know why.”

  “Allazar calls it a sinkhole,” Gawain explained to Tyrane, “I saw it from the small mooring pool atop the wheel. It’s about a mile or two north of the wheel, and seemed big from up there.”