by GJ Kelly
“It knows we pursue!” Venderrian shouted, and leapt over a neat pile of potato sacks. “It turns to the centre!”
Dwarfspit! Gawain cursed to himself, hard on the elf’s heels as the ranger turned to the right. The creature was hoping to lose its pursuers in the middle of the crowded market. It didn’t know it had no hope of evading a Kindred Ranger.
“Make way!” Gawain screamed again, and another great ripple of fear sent people surging away from that cry.
It was too much, it seemed, for gentle folk. When the roots of fear grow deep the flower of panic is quick to blossom, and the people of West Forkings had been frightened for a long time. Word had flashed like fire through the crowd, evil was among them, pursued by Last Ridings. People fled in all directions, bags and baskets dropped, children snatched up, cries and screams rising and spreading as Allazar’s call of ‘Make way!’ charged with mystic insistence cut through the din of barrows and carts overturning as the rush to escape the unnamed and unknown horror became a stampede.
A great wave of people was suddenly rushing towards Gawain, stalls being toppled this way and that, produce and merchandise scattered and trampled. Gwyn and the horses surged forward, overtaking man, elf and wizard and forming a moving barrier that towered over the panicked people and forced a way through.
“Make way!” Allazar cried again, and held the staff aloft, and this time there was a bright flash and a thunderclap the like of which Gawain had not heard since the wizard had employed those tools to break the grip of throth rage between himself and Elayeen. It had been a long time ago, that day outside Jarn, the three of them on their way to Raheen together.
But the technique Allazar had employed then worked now too, and the wave parted before them like the Sudenstem at the headland of Last Ridings, and suddenly the way ahead was clear except for debris and the scattered ruins of barrow and stall. Some stalls yet stood, pristine, their wares still fresh on display, others were virtually matchwood, produce or merchandise ruined.
“This way, miThal!” Venderrian called, running faster now that people were no obstacle to their progress.
The Grimmand, if Grimmand it be, would seek the anonymity of a crowd, this Gawain knew. But it didn’t know fear, and it didn’t know panic. It possessed intent and the intelligence to carry it out, but not knowing fear and panic it had not joined in with the stampede to escape the marketplace. It had merely continued on its way, trying to avoid pursuit and following its primitive instinct to use guile and avoid drawing attention to itself.
And that was why it was following the fast-thinning and disappearing crowd at a distance, and moving much slower than it might if it had known that a Sighted elf ranger had his eyes fixed firmly on its dark signature.
“MiThal!” Venderrian called.
“Take the shot Ven!” Gawain replied without hesitation, seeing the blue-clad figure loping between the stalls.
Venderrian didn’t stop. As he leapt over scattered bolts of Arrunwove silkcloth he swung his bow into position, drew the string, and loosed almost the moment his boots hit the ground.
Gawain saw the white streak of the arrow and saw it smack dead centre into the creature’s back. He saw the thing go down hard, face-first into the cobbles of the vast market square, and was about to cheer when he remembered another arrow and another Grimmand at the foot of the Downland Pass. Arrows would not stop the creature.
But the arrow did make the creature angry. Whatever its former intent, whoever its target might have been, and Gawain and doubtless everyone else could guess who that might be, it now knew it had been discovered, and self-preservation demanded the destruction of those attacking it.
It turned to face them, and Gawain saw a plain-looking man in his late thirties, smartly clad in colourful garb and a jaunty blue cape and hood. A cape and hood which the creature shirked off as its true form made itself manifest.
“Tireandanam!” Allazar shouted, and presented the white staff, cutting loose with a gout of white fire which blasted shards of cobbles in all directions as it tore along the ground towards the advancing creature.
Fire struck the thing full in the chest, burning away the gaily-coloured clothing in an instant, lifting the foul creation off its feet and hurling it backwards through the air.
“Allazar…” Gawain began, stomach lurching.
The wizard sneered, jerked the staff back to the port position across his chest, and sniffed his disgust at the thing and his satisfaction with a job well done.
“Allazar!” Gawain declared again, watching as the Grimmand dragged itself to its feet and began advancing upon them again.
The wizard blinked, his jaw sank, and he gaped in total astonishment.
Charging towards them was no ordinary Grimmand, a form-shifting creature of aquamire able to take on the appearance of any man or woman unfortunate enough to fall victim to the creature. Its skin sparkled, twinkled almost, like a cloud of stars or a bejewelled diadem. Venderrian’s bow thrummed again, and another white streak sped across the shortening distance between them and the arrow’s target.
“Rock-crystal…” Gawain heard the wizard mumble as the longshaft smashed into the Grimmand’s chest, sending out a puff of fine dust before the wound sealed itself and the spent arrow clattered harmlessly on the cobbles.
Allazar blinked away his shock and loosed another stream of white fire into the thing, again checking its headlong charge towards them and knocking it off its feet. As soon as the wizard’s stream of fire winked out Gawain charged forward, sword readied. But another shape thundered past him over the cobbled ground. Gwyn, squealing in fury, feeling her chosen’s intentions and acting on them, sprinting the twenty yards to the Grimmand faster than any man could hope to cover the distance.
The creature had barely made it up onto its hands and knees before the Raheen charger was rearing up, squealing in rage and then slamming mighty hooves down upon its crystal-covered back and head. Gawain skidded to a halt on the well-worn cobbles, poised, grinning like a madman and feeling once again the joy of being Raheen, of knowing the bond, seeing his horse-friend vent all the long frustration of her being abandoned and left in the care of others while he had gone alone into danger.
Hooves, steel-shod in Callodon, slammed down upon the Grimmand, pounding, mashing, smashing, yet still the creature aquamire-made survived the trampling. Gawain cared not.
“Vex!” he screamed, and Gwyn danced clear, head bobbing, blue eyes wide.
The Grimmand pushed itself to its feet, and stared with aquamire-infused eyes at Gawain’s advance, perhaps seeing the great black blade, perhaps not, perhaps seeing only Gawain’s life-light.
But that blade slammed into its chest, ripping it open, the coating of rock-crystal which had protected it from Allazar’s white fire powdered and rendered utterly useless during Gwyn’s pounding attack.
“Vex!” Gawain screamed again, this time in disgust, whipping the blade backhanded, laying open the creature’s head, seeing nothing but grey-black ooze within before the wound closed, the gaping gash in the torso already sealed and healed.
“Allazar!” Gawain shouted again, bringing the longsword down upon the Grimmand’s head in a blow that might have cut an ordinary man clean in two from crown to crotch, but merely laid the thing open. Exactly as Gawain had intended, dancing away to the right and leaving a clear field of fire open to the wizard.
Instantly, a searing bolt of white fire lanced forward, tore into that gaping wound and the substance within, and blew clean through it. Gawain glimpsed purple before he turned to continue running with Gwyn away from the Grimmand, and both had gone no more than three or four yards when the welcome and familiar whoosh of an aquamire conflagration brought news of great cheer to their ears.
Greasy smoke drifted skyward, a large stain on the cobbles marking the passing of the Grimmand. Gawain stood looking at it with Allazar and Venderrian.
“It was covered in fine rock-crystal…” Allazar sighed. “It must be the work of t
he Viell. There is nothing of the kind in the Pangoricon!”
“I’ll tell you something else that isn’t in your book too, wizard,” Gawain heaved a breath, sheathing the blade.
“Longsword?”
“Like those luvly big tomarters, you don’t get many Grimmands to the pound either.”
oOo
5. News
“Word must be sent to Last Ridings, Serre Mayor,” Gawain declared, gazing out of the window in the spacious but rather plain office in the town hall.
Below, people were quietly going about the business of clearing up in the aftermath of pandemonium. From the vantage of height on the upper floor of the hall, it looked as though the marketplace had been struck by a whirlwind, the centre ruined, and damage and debris spreading outward.
“We’re at your service milord,” the familiar and portly official replied. “We do have horses and riders?”
“Quickest by boat, I think, though it needs to be fast.”
“We have such vessels milord. I have pen and ink here milord at my desk, and paper too should you wish to write a note for Last Ridings?”
“Good idea. Allazar, if you please? Advise my lady of our continued good health, apprise her of the threat we faced. Describe it in detail for the benefit of Corax and Wex, and have Ranger Nuriyan despatched at once here to the town. Suggest that he keeps watch as best he can around the docks for anything attempting to sneak in from the west by way of the river.”
“We could return to Last Ridings, Longsword?”
Gawain shook his head. “No. Our friends can only bear so many farewells in a day. Be sure to tell all, in the letter. Our people must be forewarned and prepared for this new threat.”
“I shall.”
Allazar sat at the mayor’s desk, took up pen and paper, and began to write.
“Was it black or rather more grey to your Sight, Ven?”
“It was not black, miThal. It was the same shade as the Graken of Eastbinding.”
“Viell grey, then.”
“Yes, miThal.”
Gawain nodded, and turned his attention to the window again, and gave a slight twitch of his head for the ranger to join him there.
Venderrian understood at once, and stepped forward to cast his Sight over the gathering throng below labouring to restore order to the marketplace. A slight and commendably discreet shake of the head told Gawain all was clear, and a slight hand gesture in return marked the spot as the ranger’s duty-post for the time being.
“Serre Mayor,” Gawain announced, turning back to the office and its anxious incumbent. “I am sorry for the chaos below. It was our intention to pass quietly through West Forkings about our duties, and we were grateful that the good folk here were kind enough to allow our passage unhindered. But the nature of the Rangers’ Oath meant we could not possibly ignore the threat we saw mingling with the townsfolk, irrespective of our purpose.”
“Aye milord, of course not! Beg pardon milord, ‘tis us as should be apologising to you, for the panic and the mayhem which obstructed you all in your duties milord. I’m sorry. They’re good folk, but after the ‘weed was sown...”
“I know. We all of us know at Last Ridings. Our own settlement there would not be half so comfortable were it not for the good people here. The ferry and landing stage alone are worth their weight in gold to us. If not for them and for Morkel, we’d still be paddling a raft across the river while a foul creature passed through your town unseen and unhindered.”
“Morkel’s a decent fellow, milord, and though fond of his beer he earns it, and with the work he does it’s not in him for very long. We were glad to help, milord, more than you know. If there’s anything you need…?”
“No, thank you Serre Mayor. I expect some of our people will arrive soon to purchase provisions and winter stores. You mentioned you have horses and riders?”
“Aye milord we do, and they’re at your service should you need them.”
“I learned from my lady that Mornland has a guild of newsriders, fellows who go about bearing news from place to place, helping remote villages and communities remain abreast of events in the wider world. Perhaps you and the council of West Forkings might consider such a service. I understand homesteads are springing up on the north shore of the river, for example.”
“Aye, milord, that they are. It’s good grass hereabouts and good land for farming near the river. Town’s growing, East Forkings is, too.”
“We can sometimes feel cut off in Last Ridings, Serre Mayor. Waiting for boats to bring news is almost an occupation in itself, and unless supplies have been ordered there’s little traffic on the river stops at our quay since you took your wool to Sudshear and returned home. Doubtless there’ll be even less come winter.”
“Aye. Aye, milord, I can see that, now you’ve mentioned it. And with the station built now on the south bank and Morkel the ferryman dwelling therein, it’d be a simple thing to send a rider once each day or two for word to be carried across.”
“Good. The riders would need to be reliable, Serre Mayor, and trustworthy.”
“I understand milord. Last thing Last Ridings needs is false alarms and other such mischief to distract you from your duties. I’ll attend to it, milord.”
“You almost finished, Allazar?”
“Almost, Longsword,” the wizard mumbled, scratching the page rapidly with his pen.
“And speaking of news, Serre Mayor, has any fresh arrived?”
“Depends what you mean by fresh, milord?”
“Last we heard was of the ‘weed being cleared from around Porthmennen in Callodon, and a good yield expected at the vineyards outside Juria Castletown in spite of their earlier blight.”
“Oh, then the last you heard is stale now indeed, milord, and now I understand clearer your request for newsriders and a reputable source. Aye, Porthmennen was cleared by a lowly wizard from Callodon Court, so it’s told, and he was then despatched at once to Dunbere south of Porthmorl, where another crop of whipweed had been sowed in the fields. Crops were lost, the ‘weed mixed deep within the cornfields. They’ll know a hard winter unless Harks Hearth has enough put by in stores to support them.”
“Dunbere? I hadn’t heard of an attack there?”
“Aye milord, it was perhaps a week or so after you left here for the Eastbinding and assigned to us that dear lady ranger who watched over us so well, back before Ranger Foden came to take her place.”
“Hmm, then Dunbere was assailed by the Graken we ourselves saw on our journey into the mountains. That threat is destroyed.”
“Aye milord. Repairs also are being made at the docks in Porthmorl…”
“Repairs? The harbour was damaged?”
“Aye milord, so we heard, struck the same as here at the dockside, by that wizard on the wing.”
“Probably the same that attacked Dunbere then, striking on his return journey up the coast.”
“I daresay, milord, I daresay. But word is, ships o’ the fleet were unharmed, all being out to sea when the fire fell there. You heard the news about Doosen, milord? The village near the great forest?”
“I know of Doosen, Serre Mayor, the Jurian village on the border with Callodon, down near the Jarn Gap and close to the southern forest of Elvendere. What news of it?”
The mayor suddenly looked nervous. Clearly whatever news he possessed had not reached Last Ridings, and having witnessed something of the violence in the marketplace earlier, albeit from the safe distance of his office window, there were many stories about Gawain’s kingly rage...
“Milord, it’s said by those come down the water from Mereton that elves have raised watchtowers there, and built a palisade around the village which they have manned in some numbers.”
Gawain blinked. “And Juria has permitted this?”
“’Tis Juria’s flag still flies there, milord, so it’s said, the elves acting in defence of the queen and at her request.”
“Hellin requested that Doosen be fortified?” Gaw
ain gasped, and Allazar, pen poised, gaped.
The mayor shrugged. “I know not such details, milord, only the news that came downriver. You know what boatmen are like, milord, they’re all as fond of a good yarn as any of us, but when so many come bearing the same tale, why then that’s when we townsfolk lend it credence and take it as news.”
“I’m sorry, Serre Mayor, I didn’t mean to doubt you, nor to ask questions you cannot possibly answer. I am still new to life on the river.”
“It’s all the news I know, milord. Beyond such mundane matters as the raising or lowering of prices for this and that, and the odd bit of gossip, there’s been nothing we could call fresh news since the last you heard. Nothing beyond that which I have just now imparted, that is.”
“I have finished, Longsword, if you wish to peruse and inscribe the missive?”
“Thank you,” Gawain took the letter Allazar had written, reading it swiftly and nodding as he did so. Finally, he declared “Excellent, thank you Allazar,” and took the pen, wrote a paragraph or two of his own, and signed the page.
“Serre Mayor,” Allazar’s voice become chillingly stern. “This must be taken immediately to Last Ridings and delivered at once to her Majesty.”
“Of course, milords.”
“Will you then summon an esquire or other trusted courier to bear this downriver? I should like to assess the fellow myself,” the wizard declared.
“I shall not, milords. I shall carry this meself, direct to her Majesty’s fair hand and to none other in the between, and my oath on it. My brother-in-law shall be the boatman who bears it and me both to Last Ridings, and me back again.”
Allazar’s eyebrows raised in appreciation of the solemn declaration from the rotund and otherwise unremarkable official, noting the fierce pride in the Arrunman’s eyes.
“Very well, Serre Mayor,” Gawain agreed. “We’ll accompany you to the docks and escort you to this boatman of yours, and thence we’ll take the Northside Ferry. We cannot remain to keep watch over the town until Ranger Nuriyan arrives, but rest assured, he’ll likely be here before your own return upriver.”