The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound

by GJ Kelly

  “What has happened? Have the lowlands fallen? Has Morloch struck across the farak gorin? Why are you here?”

  Gan held up a hand, his face all regal deadpan but his eyes betraying his sadness.

  “The armies in the north remain encamped in the wastes, yet day by day reinforcements trickle from the west. They grow in numbers. When Morloch struck here, in the west, I was despatched to prepare our forces for war. Much has happened, Thal-Gawain.”

  “And the Council? What of them? What of Union, and what of diplomacy?”

  Again, Gan’s eyes betrayed his apparent lack of emotion.

  “There is no Council at Shiyanath. In the aftermath of Morloch’s attacks on our south-western provinces, the Council was ordered to leave Shiyanath. They await you now, with such forces as they can muster, at Ferdan. You are to join them there.”

  “At least grant us the use of the Threnderrin Way to take us north! It will be quicker than the plains…”

  “No. I cannot. My father’s orders are clear, Thal-Gawain. You are to be escorted east, along the Morrentill, to the plains of Juria…”

  “The Morrentill was abandoned long ago. It is impassable.” Elayeen announced.

  “Not true, Thalin-Raheen. Abandoned it was, but when news of your approach was received from the soolen-Viell a week ago, word was sent ahead. The Morrentill is being cleared in advance of your passage, even now.”

  “The Morrentill?”

  “An ancient path to the east,” Gan explained, “Narrow, it is true, but two may ride abreast. It was once used to bring word direct to Ostinath of events on the plains.”

  “Threnderrin Way would be faster.” Elayeen announced.

  “It is denied to you by order of Thal-Hak.” Gan asserted.

  Elayeen stood poised, and it suddenly occurred to Gawain that she was waiting for him, taking her cue from his decisions.

  “This is hardly the welcome of friends, Gan-thal. Nor is it much of welcome between allies. More must have happened than we have learned from the Sutengard. More than Morloch’s assaults on four of your provinces.”

  Gan seemed to struggle with himself, briefly. Then he turned to the two thalangard officers flanking him, and quietly ordered them to the rear. They didn’t seem to like it, but obeyed.

  When he was satisfied with their distance, Gan stared long and hard at his sister, and then at Gawain, and then to Allazar.

  “So, it is true then. My sister is blind.”

  “I see well enough, brother.”

  “How is this possible? The wizard?”

  “No, not I,” Allazar said softly, but Gawain took a pace forward, halting any further explanation Allazar might have given.

  “Gan, why has the Council been expelled from Shiyanath? What has happened?”

  “Much, since Ferdan. Here, in Elvendere, the Viell fought amongst themselves, and visited destruction upon each other. And when Morloch’s forces attacked in the west, it was as before, when you trespassed Elvenheth to take mishith from faranthroth, and took her to Threlland. Raheen was blamed for all, and you are Raheen. There was chaos, just as there was then. My father had to act to preserve order, and preserve Elfkind. He must still act. We have long been apart from the races of Man. For the good of Elfkind, we must be so again, it seems.”

  “You are abandoning us?” Gawain gasped. “This cannot be! It must not be!”

  Gan grimaced. “The thalangard you see mounted behind me are those loyal to mishith Thalin-Raheen, and thus through her, to you. They will escort you along the Morrentill, and fight with you on the plains in the north. Perhaps others will join you from my province in the north east, I do not know. This duty, here in Ostinath, was not my choice. My sympathies are known. I am thus kept far from events in Elvenheth and my own province, and no longer have influence there.”

  “Then you too have been expelled,” Allazar sighed.

  “Yes,” Gan glanced over Allazar’s shoulder towards the distant mooring pond, where the elfwizard’s barge was banging hard against the dockside, elves scrambling to secure its mooring chains. “The soolen-Viell will be here soon. You must go. I was permitted to greet you, and to pass Thal-Hak’s orders, no more.”

  “Then it’s the whitebeards who have done this?” Gawain spat.

  “You do not understand, breth-hoth.”

  “I understand that Elvendere is condemning itself to death by abandoning the lowlands. Without a thousand archers at the farak, the battle and the war is lost. Threlland, Mornland and Arun will fall, then Juria and Callodon. And elves will peer out through the tree line of their great forest and see nothing but Morloch’s spawn gazing back at them for their pleasure!”

  “There is nothing I can do,” Gan said simply, and the simplicity of the statement carried far more weight than any protest to the contrary might have done.

  “We have friends here from Goria, who could give valuable insight into the forces you might face from the Empire! We have news of Morloch, which could make all the difference to Thal-Hak’s decisions! We smote him, Gan, we smashed him back beyond the Teeth and all this, all the rest, is merely spite! This is Morloch’s plan, to divide Elvendere from the rest of the kindred, this was seen at Ferdan! We need Elvendere at the farak!”

  “There is nothing I can do.”

  “You face the strength of the Pangoricon, Gan-thal.” Allazar announced quietly. “Against that, only a wizard’s white fire may be counted on to prevail.”

  “I shall pass this news north. But now you must go, before the soolen-Viell arrives.”

  “There is more I would have!” Gawain hissed. “Allazar, your note-book! Hurry!”

  The wizard produced a note-book and the stub of a pencil from his bag, and Gawain scribbled hurriedly upon a page within it. Behind them, hooves clattered on the flagstones, drawing closer. Gawain ripped the leaf from the book, and handed it to Gan.

  “Can you send this to Ferdan? As fast as can be done?”

  Gan studied the paper, and then stared at Gawain in surprise.

  “Can it be done?” Gawain urged again, as the hoof beats drew nearer.

  “It can. It shall.”

  “Thank you.”

  Gan slipped the paper into his tunic, and was about to speak again when Elayeen interrupted him.

  “I have a message for our father.”

  “Then tell me quickly, mishith, for the soolen-Viell will forbid it.”

  “It is this…” Elayeen reached up and clenched Gan’s tunic, just below his throat, dragging his head down level with hers. The surprise in his face turned to horror, and Gawain stepped back as Eldengaze pinned the prince and spoke, softly, a stream of words in lilting Elvish which none could hear clearly save for Gan.

  “My lords…” a familiar voice called from behind them. Keeve, of the soolen-Viell, had dismounted, and was striding towards them.

  Eldengaze finished her message, and released Gan, who straightened, fear, and panic fading from his expression as his breath returned.

  “Tell him, brother.”

  “I shall.”

  “My lords,” Keeve oozed with weasel charm as he stepped to the fore, “I had hoped you would await my arrival, but you have met Gan-thal again, I see.”

  “We have, whitebeard,” Gawain turned and glowered dangerously at the elfwizard. “Perhaps you would like to meet my lady, again?”

  Elayeen’s head swung to her left, responding to the threat, and at once the soolen-Viell took a pace back.

  “Thank you,” he muttered nervously, “That won’t be necessary.”

  “Then clear the path. It seems we ride for the Morrentill, and the Plains of Juria.”

  “Yes, it seems you do. My lords.” Keeve took another pace back, fearful lest the glowering longsword warrior or his queen should take exception to Thal-Hak’s orders.

  “Farewell, Thal-Gawain,” Gan said sadly, bowing his head slightly, “And farewell, Thalin-Raheen.”

  Elayeen said nothing. Gawain caught Gan’s eye briefly, n
oted the sorrow and the fear there, and returned the bow.

  “Farewell, Gan-thal, mifrith, breth-hoth. Always remember, I have killed whitebeard traitors in Elvendere before,” and with a final glance at the soolen-Viell added, “I will always be happy to do so again, should you require my blade.”

  Gan nodded, turned and walked back to the two officers, who waited respectfully until he passed between them. They saluted, and then turned to escort the prince back to the horses. Gawain’s group watched them mount up, and ride through a gap which opened up in the ranks of the hundred or more mounted thalangard patiently and quietly waiting.

  When Gan and his small retinue had gone, Gawain and his party returned to their horses, and mounted.

  “What was your message to your father?” Gawain asked Elayeen, holding her bow while she climbed into the saddle.

  “Private,” Eldengaze rasped, easing her horse forward and turning towards the east.

  At once, fully half of the riders now on their left flank rode forward, leading the way towards a small opening in the tree line beyond a cluster of ruined buildings. The other half waited patiently, clearly to be the rearguard.

  “How long to Ferdan, Arramin, do you know?”

  “I’m sorry, my lords, I do not know the length of this Morrentill path, nor its true bearing. I would have to try to make calculations when I know more… I’m sorry.”

  “It matters not,” Gawain sighed. “We shall know for sure if or when we arrive there.”

  “Yes, my lords.”

  Hooves thundered on flagstones and the sound rang hollow through the abandoned city of Ostinath, and with fifty or more riders on his left flank and fifty or more ahead, Gawain knew if he closed his eyes he might easily imagine himself at home in Raheen, riding out through the north gates with the Red and Gold. But there were no gates ahead, just the gloom of another forest track, and the riders wore the green and brown of elven Thalangard.

  “Dwarfspit,” he muttered to himself, moving Gwyn a little to the left and allowing Kahla to ease through to the fore to ride beside Elayeen. Then, on a sudden impulse, he threw a glance over his right shoulder. Mounted, and following slowly, the soolen-Viell seemed to be kneading something in his lap. Then the whitebeard suddenly held up a hand, and a snowball of lightning sped away to the west, arrow-straight, towards an opening near the top of the Toorseneth.

  “Dwarfspit whitebeard bastards,” he muttered again, a familiar anger ballooning within his chest, and then his sight of the soolen-Viell was blocked as the rearguard peeled into position behind them, in a column of twos.

  oOo

  21. Rage

  It was impossible. Incredible. Gawain’s mind swam, trying to absorb the full impact of their eviction from the forest of Elvendere, with nothing but a hundred elven archers as Thal-Hak’s contribution to the coming war in the north. And for all Gawain knew, those elven archers were outcasts, acting out of loyalty to Elayeen, and were not under Thal-Hak’s orders at all.

  They had travelled so far, and so quickly, the nine who had left Jarn together, enduring the horror of Calhaneth and prevailing against Morloch’s spawn along the way. Suffered the tedium and discomfort of the Canal of Thal-Marrahan, and for what? Summary dismissal, and a forced march to the plains of Juria in the east.

  “Longsword…” Allazar spoke urgently from his right side as the column of riders approached the gloom of the woodlands and the path through the trees that elves called the Morrentill, “It looks barely wide enough for two to ride abreast in comfort.”

  Gawain spoke softly, and menacingly, his words hissing through clenched teeth. “I don’t care how wide the Dwarfspit path is, Allazar. We have failed. Rak has failed. Diplomacy has failed and simple common sense has failed!”

  The clattering din of more than four hundred hooves on flagstones began to quieten, becoming a steady diminuendo as the riders in the vanguard entered the forest at the edge of the great paved centre of Ostinath, still in a column of twos. Stone gave way to the earthy track of the Morrentill, and though the sun had crept above the horizon scarcely two hours before, it became suddenly gloomy in the shadow of the trees.

  “We cannot know that for certain,” Allazar tried, though even to him his words sounded more like a desperate hope than fact. “Thal-Hak may have sent other forces from Shiyanath when the Council was disbanded…”

  “You heard Gan as well as I. They have barred the Threnderrin Way and set their faces against us! They’ve put up the shutters of elvishness once more. The lowlands stand alone against two armies in the north, armies growing day by day as reinforcements trickle in from the western wilds! ‘Urgent,’ Brock’s message said. Urgent! This is not urgent, wizard, this is a complete and utter catastrophe! The lowlands are doomed!”

  Heads twitched slightly, in front of Gawain and behind. Anger had given volume as well as passion to his words, and they had carried.

  “Yet,” Allazar insisted, “More may have happened in our favour than we currently know. Don’t rush headlong into making blind judgements, let us first see what else has transpired in our absence. Things are not always as dark as they may at first seem.”

  “More pointless whitebeard optimism! There were twelve hundred Morlochmen camped north of the farak gorin when we left Ferdan, and we left the Council of Kings committed to standing together to face them! How many are there now in that dark army? Twice that number? Three times? Four? And what stands between them and all the lands south of the Teeth, hmm? Tell me, Allazar, apart from two hundred volunteers from Callodon and a couple of hundred honour-guards from Juria, Callodon, and Threlland combined, what do we have! They have the Kraal, and the Kiromok, Grimmand and Razorwings and ‘spit knows what else in their arsenal and what do we have, hmm?”

  “Your Majesty…” Allazar urged quietly, noting the visible signs of discomfort all around them, riders squirming and fidgeting in their saddles.

  “I’ll tell you what we have, Allazar! Between Morloch and all the lands south of the Teeth? Between the armies of the north, with whatever creatures their black wizardry may summon forth from the Pangoricon, between that and all things living? We have nothing. Nothing but the farak gorin and two wizards. A river of stone, and a couple of sticks!”

  Gawain’s words, like a ripple in a pond, spread through the column, and shoulders sagged as the ripple washed over them. A sudden gloom, and Gawain and Allazar were on the Morrentill, blinking in the poor light.

  “They will not wait, Allazar!” Gawain continued, spitting the words as though the taste of them were foul. “They will not endure another winter in the wastes beyond the farak. They expected a breach at the Teeth, or reinforcements across the great rip beneath the mountains. Those reinforcements won’t be coming. Now, they’ll take whatever additional strength they can from the Meggenveld and whatever creatures dark wizardry in the west can provide, and they’ll come! Before the last of autumn’s rains have a chance to freeze in the frosts of early winter, before whatever passes for blood in their veins turns thick and sluggish in the cold, they’ll sweep south and be in Mornland and Arun! And the fires they light there against the first snows of winter will be made from the bones of those they’ve consumed there!”

  The King of Raheen’s anger pulsed in his chest and hissed through his nostrils as the world rapidly reduced to the backs of those riding before him, Arramin and Jaxon, and the walls of pine and darkwood pressing in on either side of the column. It was claustrophobic, and though the forest was thin here at the outskirts of the ruin of Ostinath, the debris from the fresh-cleared path to the east had simply been heaped to the sides of the Morrentill, giving the impression of a barrier which must not be crossed.

  They rode in silence, at a gentle trot of a pace, hooves thudding on leaf-litter and humus every inch as thick as it had been on the broad avenue leading to Calhaneth, far to the south. From time to time, Arramin could be heard tapping his compass-box, trying to raise himself a little from the saddle to hold the instrument as steady a
s he could against the motion of his horse. Shapes in the gloom around them spoke of the ruin of the splendour which had once been the great city of Ostinath, and also brought the memories of the dread city in the south flooding to the fore… Yathami! Yathami! Eem fyeran! Eem fyeran! Help me. Help me. I’m burning. I’m burning…

  Though Arramin’s north-needle did indeed confirm their heading as due east, the sun still in its southerly summer track did little to relieve the gloom in the woodland or the damp in the air and in spirits. Here and there, occasional splinters of light burst through the canopy in shards, and on rarer occasions, lanced in broader beams, but those only served to throw the shadows around them into sharper contrast and darken moods further.

  Nearing noon, however, it grew brighter, the sun was higher of course but the forest seemed to be thinning, and the reason soon became apparent when the confines of the Morrentill abruptly gave way to an immense and grassy glade. There, at the northern side, the ground rose steeply, and a broad cobbled avenue swept up the rise to the crest.

  “Bastards!” Gawain hissed quietly.

  At the top of the rise, in line abreast across the avenue, between vast pillars of stone serving as gateposts and beyond, ranks of mounted Thalangard, and at their centre, a robed elfwizard, barring the way, and watching the column intently.

  “That is the Threnderrin Way, my lords,” Arramin said quietly, sadly, “The road north, clear to Shiyanath, and that is the ridge, the Spine of Elvendere.”

  Gawain eyed the force atop the ridge, and the elfwizard in particular, but the distance was far too great for him to discern their features. When, finally, the entire eastbound column were in the glade, the last rider clearing the forest at the west, Gawain suddenly called a halt. And halt the column did, though in more than a little confusion.

  From the gates of the Threnderrin Way atop the ridge, a familiar snowball of lightning shot down towards the rear of the column, and Gawain broke ranks. Keeve, of the soolen-Viell, was still following.