The Longsword Chronicles: Book 02 - Sword and Circle

by GJ Kelly

  “It’s not your fault, Captain.” Gawain sighed. “None of it is.”

  “She practically flew up the Pass, my lord. You should’ve seen her. I think we all fell in love with her at that, at the sight of her charging up that perilous way where none of us ourselves would dare set foot at any pace. You should’ve seen her.”

  Dusk was falling when Healer Turlock approached the table where Gawain and Tyrane sat in silence. At once Gawain’s head snapped up, his eyes wide and attentive.

  “My lord, Captain.” Turlock announced, his voice rich and unhurried, utterly professional.

  “How is my lady?” Gawain asked, his voice flat in comparison.

  Without waiting for permission, the healer drew up a chair and sat facing the two men.

  “Your lady has two broken fingers in the left hand, the little finger and adjacent. These I have bound and in truth there’s not much other treatment to be recommended for that in our present surroundings. She has also suffered multiple bruises, mostly to her right arm and particularly the right shoulder, the result of a heavy impact no doubt.

  “However, it was the bruise to your lady’s head that gave me cause for most concern, above the left eye. Yet on closer examination it appears to be trivial, if an injury to the head can ever truly be described as such. I do not think the bruise or any other impact to the head is the cause of your lady’s blindness, though Elvendere has mystic healers whose abilities far exceed my own humble knowledge.

  “I have to say, my lord, I believe that once you and your companions have rested and given yourselves time to overcome the shock of the events to which you have all been exposed, you should make at once for Elvendere and seek the advice of the see-eelan healers there. I would also like your lady to rest for at least two days and nights, and the wizard also, so that I may be certain that the injuries they have suffered to their heads are no more serious than my examinations have revealed thus far.”

  Gawain simply nodded.

  “I believe your lady’s blindness and her apparent deep shock and withdrawal are the result of your encounter with the dark wizard you mentioned on arrival. I’ve treated many head wounds, my lord, from the practice field to the tourney ring, jousting and sparring to injuries sustained in falls and in combat and more. I have seen cases where partial and temporary blindness resulted from an apparently minor injury, but the effects faded quickly and sight was quickly restored.”

  “Then Elayeen’s blindness could be just such a case.” Gawain exclaimed.

  But Turlock did not seem to share his sudden hope. “In each of those cases the injury to the head was considerably greater than a slight bruise, and the cases were very few. My lord, the bruise to your lady’s brow is slight, barely a discolouration. And her pupils are fixed and closed, as if constantly exposed to a dazzling light. They do not respond to any amount of shade nor any variation in light I have contrived to produce. I am sorry to say, my lord, I have not seen the like in any other patient I have attended.”

  Gawain’s heart sank.

  “But,” Captain Tyrane added firmly, “If this affliction is the result of dark magic, the see-eelan of Elvendere will likely be effective.”

  Turlock nodded his agreement. “As for the wizard, his case too is likely to respond better to the see-eelan than any treatment I can offer. I have treated the cut and opened his swollen eye, cleaned and stitched the wound. Trivial is not the word I would use to describe his injury. That he has suffered a considerable concussion should be obvious to all within earshot of his sudden cries. He is dazed, and badly bruised, though he does appear to respond to questions, which is encouraging. It would be useful if he could be persuaded to part with that heavy staff he carries, at least then he might find sleep a little more comfortable. But he refuses to part with it, and when the men tried to prise it from his grasp, the ends began sparking alarmingly.”

  “He is the Keeper of The Staff,” Gawain said weakly, as if that explained everything, “I gave orders it must not fall into enemy hands. I think that’s why he is guarding it thus.”

  “I see,” the healer frowned, “Perhaps a fixed obsession which survived the concussion. Though the language is worrying. He seems to understand the common tongue and once or twice appeared genuinely startled that I could not understand him. But,” Turlock sighed, “Brains are beyond the wit of mortal men to understand, for if they were simple enough to be understood, we would be too simple to care. There is no telling how serious a stout blow to the head may be, hence my advice that neither your lady nor your wizard be moved for at least two days and two nights, and I will observe them both closely.”

  “The men of Callodon are at your disposal, my lord.” Tyrane affirmed.

  “Thank you.”

  Healer Turlock stood. “You may see your lady if you wish, my lord. But if she is sleeping, I pray you, do not disturb her. I will be nearby at all times should anything occur which you feel needs my urgent attention.”

  “May I stay near her? I would sleep on the floor, or a chair?”

  “Of course.”

  “Thank you.”

  Elayeen lay in a large bed, a light linen sheet covering her against the cool of the early autumn evening, the night slowly drawing in. A lamp had been lit and glowed on a table at the far side of the bed. She lay on her back, staring straight up at the ceiling, and did not move when Gawain entered.

  “It’s me, miheth,” Gawain announced softly, kneeling at the bedside and taking her right hand in his. He brushed away a wisp of hair from her sightless eyes and gently caressed the bruise on her brow. In the lamplight and gathering gloom, it was barely visible. Besides, Gawain knew exactly what it was that had robbed Elayeen of her vision, and of their throth, and a slight blow to the head had nothing to do with it.

  “We are come down,” he said, needlessly, but desperate for something to say, desperate to hear her speak, if only his name. “Soon, we will leave here, and ride for Elvendere, and Shiyanath, and if by then your sight has not returned of itself, then the see-eelan will restore it.”

  Elayeen’s head rolled towards him on the pillow, those wondrous eyes staring over his shoulder. “Eem faranthroth, G’wain, they will not attend me.”

  “You are the queen of Raheen…”

  “I am faranthroth.”

  “Elayeen…”

  “I cannot feel you, G’wain.” She said, drawing her hand from his and laying it on her breast. “Here. I cannot feel you any more.”

  “The light…” Gawain whispered, “It’s just the light from the circle, your blindness… it will return, all will be well. I love you, Elayeen, you are miheth and mithroth and my heart yet beats in your breast.”

  “No.” Elayeen said, drawing in a shuddering breath. “We are no longer throth. I cannot feel you, and I can hear the lie in your voice. Once we were apart, and alone, and then we were together, and then together we ascended and became one in throth. Now we are descended, and apart once more.”

  “E…” Gawain pleaded, weeping quietly, “We will never be apart. Never. I love you. You are my queen.”

  oOo

  10. Forgetting and Forgiving

  The next morning, just after Elayeen was awoken from a dreamless sleep by the creaking of the bedroom door, Gawain was unceremoniously shuffled out of the room by the whitesleeves healer wearing an expression that brooked no dissent. Feeling bereaved and utterly helpless, Gawain found himself back at the table by the bar, plates of hot food on the table once again before him. Eggs, salt pork, bread, some rather rancid-looking butter, and fried potatoes. None of it seemed particularly appealing, but hunger had its way and Gawain ate.

  He was tired. During the night, Allazar’s cries from the smaller room on the far side of the inn could still be heard, and though muffled by the doors and distance between them, they jarred on the young man’s ears and jerked him from sleep as though he were in the same room. Elayeen stirred not once, and more than once, awakened by the wizard’s shouts, Gawain had known the s
udden terror he’d felt in the Great Hall, and anxiously watched and waited for signs of her breathing in the orange glow of the lamplight.

  Gawain himself had drifted in and out of sleep, hovering on the brink of dark dreams where strange words became great cries and soft light became a dazzling agony. Now, as he finished the last of his breakfast, he felt drained. When it was apparent that Turlock was in no hurry to finish his examination of Elayeen, Gawain went in search of Gwyn. Dawn had come and gone, his Remembrance forgotten, and in truth, Gawain felt no guilt for his lapse; his was a heavier burden, and he felt sure The Fallen would understand.

  Gwyn had been well enough attended, at least as well as could be expected from lowland guardsmen. She seemed to sense Gawain’s mood as usual, her bright blue eyes wide and sad-looking as he dragged the brush through her mane. “Hai Gwyn,” he managed, “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with so much. Thank you, for carrying us to safety once more.”

  Gwyn’s head bobbed, though whether in acknowledgement or to revisit the bucket of oats and apple on the stable floor Gawain did not know. There was so much he did not know, now.

  What have I unleashed, he thought as he went about his duties to Gwyn, what have I set in motion? What have I done?

  Broken your beloved wife’s heart as well as her eyes, and broken Allazar’s mind, a cruel inner voice responded. But Gwyn snorted suddenly and shifted her weight, the brush caught in a tangle, reminding Gawain to pay attention to the task in hand, and not lose himself in self-pity.

  There will be no breach at The Teeth! Gawain had declared to the ghosts in the Keep. And he knew that was true. Just as he had seen across the Teeth in the great aquamire lens under the mountains so long ago, and knew the visions swimming in that dark lens to be true, he knew the great wave had slammed into the mountains, destroying the thousands labouring thereon, binding Morloch once again. That was the great power locked in the ancient magic of Raheen’s Circle of Justice. A great power set aside against the day which the magi of old surely knew must eventually come, the day when Morloch broke free of the mystical bonds they imposed upon him in an age long since faded into legend and myth. That day had come. But so long was it in the coming, all memory of that ancient power had been lost.

  Now, brushing Gwyn and picking stones and gravel from her hooves Gawain understood the reason for the ancient tradition of sending the Crown’s sons into the lowlands, banishing them for a year and a day, to wander, nameless, unknown, throughout the lowlands, to return with news which might trigger the need for the Circle to be unlocked, the ancient power unleashed. Or not.

  Gawain paused a moment, he thought he heard Allazar cry out, but he was too far from the inn for that to be true. A gull squawked overhead, and Gawain sighed. He tried to remember the old tales of Morloch, the darkest of wizards who in ancient times turned from the teachings of Zaine, and instead of serving the kindred races of Man, plotted and schemed for dominion over them. Before Gawain’s own banishment two years ago, and his encounter with the Ramoth, he would laugh at the tales told to frighten naughty children into better behaviour.

  If you’re bad, Morloch will wait until you sleep, and take you away to the darklands!

  How many mischievous children had lain awake for hours at night, peeping over the top of their drawn up bedclothes and jumping at every shadow since memory of the truth of Morloch had been forgotten? The facts were scant enough, and shrouded in a history all too-well guarded by the D’ith deep in the library catacombs under the halls of learning at the citadel that was the Hallencloister. Gawain had glimpsed it, long ago, just before he plunged the Sword of Justice into the black lens in the cavern below the Dragon’s Teeth, and sent black fire racing through the Morloch-made tunnel to leap across the great divide and strike at the dark wizard, ‘liberating’ the vast lake of aquamire fermenting on the northern plain beyond the mountains.

  Of the three kindred races of Man, Elves, Humans and Wizards, dwarves of course being close cousins of men, it was with Wizards and Elves that the mystic powers resided. Few men ever learned to wield such powers and those who did invariably had some elven or wizardly forebears and bore the mark of it in their white hair. After all, wizards are born, not made. So long did Morloch labour and in such secrecy that when he broke from Zaine, taking with him a cabal of corrupt and power-hungry wizards, the world was stunned. So stunned, it was said Morloch even had time to raise an army of men in what is now the Gorian Empire, and the war which ensued was long and bloody.

  But the combined might of the kindred races drove Morloch ever north, until he crossed the Teeth, and finding neither Elves nor Wizards there, conquered all those lands. There, distracted by the strength of his power and dominion over all he surveyed, he paused to revel in the fruits of his conquest, and thus gave time for the kindred races in the south to gather, and unite, and bind him there, trapped behind the great mountain range for all time.

  Thus bound, people forgot the truth of Morloch and his betrayal of all the kindred, and he passed out of memory and into myth. Until, that is, Gawain vexed the dark lord of the north and discovered his intent. Morloch doubtless knew the hidden secret of Raheen, safe and secure atop the mountain in the south, farthest kingdom from his dark influence. Raheen had been chosen by the elder magi to be a bastion against Morloch, an unconquerable symbol of hope, isolated, aloof, its people constantly enjoying peace yet always making ready for war. Morloch was of those elder magi. He knew them all, the extents and limits of their powers, for had they not taught Morloch all they knew?

  And that was why Morloch had destroyed Raheen. To destroy Hope, yes, and to remove the one great natural fortress to which all survivors of the dark armies flooding from the Teeth would flee. But also to destroy the sole remaining power able to oppose him in southlands.

  Morloch had only partly succeeded, and that was why he feared Gawain, the longsword warrior, the DarkSlayer, on learning the true identity of the King of Raheen, and thus, obviously, the identity of the great sword he carried. The Sword of Justice, the last key needed to unleash the great wave.

  Gawain studied his handiwork, admiring the sheen in Gwyn’s coat, then patted her gently on the neck. “Thank you, Gwyn,” he said again, and this time there was less of the young man feeling sorry for himself in his voice, and more the warrior king.

  So, what have I done? He asked himself once more.

  What indeed. He knew that all the labour of countless thousands of Morloch’s subjects hammering away at the north face of the Teeth to create a breach was now all for naught. When the wave had struck the range, all the workings were blown away in the spalls of rock blasted from the north face, reshaping the mountain range anew on that side.

  Yesterday, casting a final look at the ghosts gathered in the ruined Keep, Gawain had called to them silently:

  There will be no breach at the Teeth, not for at least another thousand years. Morloch is bound again. Yet there is no joy in this victory. There is only pain, and loss, and no justice for any of us here.

  Now, feeling the warmth of the sun on his face and hearing the sound of gulls wheeling overhead, Gawain modified his opinion somewhat. Morloch’s resources were dwindling, much was lost when he blasted Raheen and more was lost when Gawain liberated the lake of fermenting aquamire beyond the Teeth. Gawain remembered telling Allazar what he’d seen in the lens, when he’d looked beyond the Teeth: They feed on aquamire, all of them. All the lands north of the Teeth are gone. Destroyed. They do not seek conquest of the southlands. They seek food.

  It took Morloch millennia to bring his planned invasion of the southlands to the brink of fruition, only to be thwarted at the eleventh hour. Gawain smiled grimly to himself, but felt suddenly uneasy. He does not have the luxury of time. With the Teeth now closed against him once more, what now awaits the south?

  “Good morning, my lord.”

  “Good morning, Captain.”

  “Healer Turlock advises me that both your lady and the wizard are sleeping once again
. It seems the wizard is exhausted from a disturbed night, and doubtless the battle with your dark enemy.”

  “Yes. I’m glad. His cries in the night were pitiful. I’d be surprised if anyone slept.”

  “Really? I didn’t hear him, my lord, I and the sergeant have our accommodation there.”

  “Odd.” Gawain sighed. “I was concerned he would wake my lady. I’m glad he’s sleeping now though. Did the healer say anything else?”

  “No. Which I take to be a good sign.”

  “And no news from outside?”

  “None, my lord, and alas, none expected. When the guard from Jarn escorted your lady here, they brought with them the last of the supplies we can now expect. We have enough for ten days, should you need them. We are, as I said, entirely at your disposal.”

  “Thank you, Captain.” Gawain acknowledged with a weak smile, but genuine appreciation. “As you can imagine I’m in no hurry to risk my lady’s health by rushing north and west across the plains just yet. Not until the healer is sure it’s safe to move either of them would I dare to do so.”

  “We could send a rider, my lord, if you wish? To the castletown? Word could be sent thence to Juria by bird, and it’s but a short ride from Ferdan to Elvendere. We could have the elven healers Turlock spoke of meet us halfway?”

  But Gawain knew it would be futile. The see-eelan would not leave the security of their great forest for one who was declared faranthroth. “No, Captain, thank you. I have every confidence that the condition is temporary, and we’ll be heading for Elvendere anyway as soon as it’s safe to do so. The Council of Kings is there, and I need to bring them news of what has happened here.”

  “Of course. I’ve taken the liberty of not sending word of our current circumstances to my superiors. I know my King my lord, and he’s always made a point of expressing how much he values initiative in his officers. When I say my men and I are at your disposal, my lord, I mean it. We’ll escort you to the Teeth, if you ask it of us.”