The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  "Do you believe in these old myths? Giants, and gods, and Ramoth?"

  Rak smiled, and shrugged. Often, in the evenings when they made camp and huddled around the fire for warmth, Traveller had steered the conversation to the Ramoths.

  "I do not.” Rak sighed. "But I suppose I can see the attraction for those that do."

  Gawain looked horrified. "You can?"

  "Of course. What man is ever truly content? Those who toil in the fields or at the looms will envy a king his castle and his luxury. A king will protest the weight of the crown that circles his head, and envy the simplicity of life enjoyed by those that toil in the fields or at the looms.

  "You have travelled, and met the three races of man. Have you met any yet, man, dwarf or elf, that would not better his lot?"

  "You and Merrin seem perfectly content." Gawain offered.

  "We are. But not perfectly. In Juria, we yearn for home. In Tarn, I yearn to serve not only my king and my homeland in Juria, but to bring back Raheen's dream of alliance. The seven kingdoms are become six with the loss of Pellarn to the empire, yet still we talk of seven, refusing to admit the loss. I would have them all back, and standing together side by side."

  "That is a worthy ambition."

  "It is. But there are few who would agree. Would it not be easier then, for one with ambition to pin his hopes upon a myth? To believe the lies of the Ramoths, and thus pass the responsibility for the dream to some ancient god? To say "Ramoth will make this happen if I make way for him?”

  "Madness."

  "I agree. But there are those of little strength all too willing to allow some imagined ancient power to fill the void between wanting and having. Willing to believe that a few chants and the jingling of tiny bells will bring them fruits without labour."

  "Even among your people? You said the Ramoths would find no followers in Threlland."

  "We are a practical people. We have mined ore in these hills for countless centuries. From us comes the steel that has shaped this world of ours. It is difficult to believe in giants and ancient gods when you tunnel in the darkness in these highlands.

  "And in truth, Traveller, in all the holes we have dug, we never have found a single giant 'healing his wounds', nor an ancient god snoring against the day of judgement."

  "You haven't dug in the Dragon's Teeth though."

  "Once we did, so it is told. But no ore was found. Only hard rock and pain."

  "And Morloch?"

  "Morloch is another creature altogether. That he exists I have no doubt."

  Gawain was shocked. "In truth?"

  "In truth. We have our whitebeards and their mumbling magic. Is it so beyond your ken to imagine another whitebeard, but one with evil intent?"

  Gawain admitted it was not.

  "Our perch is as lofty as Raheen itself, here in the Black Hills, and we see what we may see."

  "We are in Threlland? Now?” Gawain looked around for some feature which might mark a border. There was none.

  "Aye. And Tarn, and home, is on yonder slopes, far off yet, but my heart sings to see them. Look, Traveller, there below the clouds. Those are the western slopes, and there you'll always find a welcome at the mention of my name."

  "You said you see what you may see, from those heights."

  "I did."

  "What do you see?"

  "A blackness, sometimes, beyond the Dragon's Teeth. A darkness that seems to draw light into itself. And we have seen these Ramoths, marching south across the farak gorin, in ones and twos. They can only come from one place."

  "The Teeth."

  "Aye. Or beyond."

  Snow fell the next day, and once the snowfall began it seemed unlikely to stop. It was bitterly cold, but Jurian brandy and good humour, and the obvious high spirits of the dwarves, kept the chill from their bones.

  Even Merrin seemed to glow with an inner light once they were in sight of their homeland. Gawain smiled too, knowing how he would feel when the time came to guide Gwyn's unerring hooves up the rocky incline of the Downland Pass, and home.

  They were met by dwarvish riders two days out of Tarn, and there was something of a celebration in the greetings that were exchanged. The riders stayed in camp with them overnight, and then hurried ahead to bring news to Tarn of Rak's return. It was clear that Rak was something of a celebrity in his home town.

  Tarn, when they reached it in almost blizzard conditions, was blazing with lighted torches and great bonfires set to guide their way through the incessant snowfall. Amid the enthusiastic shouted welcomes that greeted them in the snow-blown town square, Merrin went into labour, and she and Rak were rushed off to a large stone-built house vaguely discernible through the strengthening flurries.

  Welcoming hands and voices led Gawain and his steed to a nearby stable, and safe inside Gawain set about his duty to his horse. It had been a long time since she'd been properly scrubbed and brushed, and the young man's hosts were slightly perplexed that he seemed to prefer his grooming chores to their company.

  Eventually though, his duty done, Gawain allowed himself to be led to the inn and a hot meal in company with the Jurian merchants. He was given a room at the inn, and lodged there for two days and nights before Rak himself appeared, joyfully proclaiming the birth of his first-born son.

  The inn erupted, and ale began flowing. Amidst the back-clapping and the shaking of hands and clenching of arms, someone called out "What will you name him, Rak?"

  "Aye! The name Rak! What's his name!"

  "Is he well? And Merrin?"

  Laughing, and accepting a tankard of ale thrust into his hand, Rak shouted "He is well! And my beloved also, though it was a hard birthing. Both are resting."

  "The name! The name!" cried others.

  Gawain, almost having to stoop under the dwarvishly low ceiling, smiled down at his friend, who was suddenly and proudly staring up at him. A hush fell over the assembled company, and then Rak spoke.

  "We have named him Travak, to honour our brother."

  All eyes swung up to Gawain, and heads nodded approvingly.

  "Travak, in our language," the innkeeper explained, handing Gawain a tankard, "means 'he who journeys'."

  "Or he who strives, or quests." Another said quietly.

  Gawain felt his heart swell. Nothing in his eighteen years of regal training had prepared him for an honour such as this. He raised his tankard, smiled at Rak, and said:

  "Honour to Travak, son of Rak and Merrin, of Tarn, in Threlland."

  A mighty cheer went up, echoing the toast, and ale flowed long into the night.

  When Gawain awoke next morning, head throbbing painfully, he found himself in a strange but comfortable room quite unlike his at the inn. He dimly recalled Rak inviting him to stay at his house, and the two of them stumbling, laughing, through the snow in the early hours of the morning, noisily attempting to keep as quiet as possible.

  When, a few days later, Merrin and Rak proudly presented their son, all wrapped in warm swaddling, Gawain could not hold back the tears which suddenly welled in his eyes. The tiny life cradled gently in its mother's arms reminded him of spring, and home, and family, and he knew he must leave Tarn soon.

  "I would give Travak a gift." Gawain said, wiping his eyes.

  "You have, Traveller.” Merrin answered gently, "but for you, he would not have seen this world."

  "But I would like to. Rak, do you have quill and ink?"

  "Yes, of course…" Rak look puzzled, but took Gawain to a small oaken desk, and politely left him there, writing for some moments.

  Finally, Gawain sealed the folded parchment closed with wax, and wrote the name "Travak" on the front before handing it to Merrin.

  "This is my gift for your son. When he is old enough, and if he has a yearning to live up to the name you gave given him in honour to me, give him this?"

  "I shall." Merrin replied, accepting the letter with a puzzled look, but as solemnly as the occasion seemed to dictate. "It shall remain sealed until then,
Traveller. Our word on it."

  "Thank you."

  Winter's fierce grip held the highlands in a choking white strangle-hold for four weeks, and the snow drifted as deep as Gawain was tall. No-one but Gawain seemed concerned at the passing of time, or that the track down to the lowlands was impassable.

  But Gawain knew that it had taken seven months to journey this far north, and though he had not ridden hard, he needed to leave soon to make the Downland Pass at the appointed hour, and not a minute later. Seeing Rak and Merrin and the gurgling infant Travak enjoying simple family life left Gawain yearning for Raheen, and he knew he could not stay away for a moment longer than was necessary.

  There was so much he wanted to tell his father, let alone his mother and brother. The knowledge that at least one ambassador of Threlland sought to resurrect Davyd's old dream of Alliance might be enough for his father to act again. King Brock of Callodon would certainly rally to the cause, and it might even be possible to gain an audience with Elvendere…though Gawain did not wish to take advantage of Gan's grudging 'gift'.

  When, after the sun had shone warmly for three consecutive days, Gawain walked into breakfast looking serious and sad at the same time, Rak suddenly looked up.

  "You are leaving." he said simply.

  "I must. The worst of the snow is over, and I have a long way to go."

  "Where do you journey, my friend?" Rak asked, his voice deep with concern, and Merrin's eyes were wide with anxiety.

  "South.” Gawain answered, noting the relief in their faces. "In four months, I must be in Callodon."

  Rak sighed, and nodded. "At least the worst of my fears have been allayed."

  "Fears?"

  "I had thought you might be on a fool's errand. North, to the Teeth."

  "No. I saw them yesterday afternoon, from the peak. I saw the farak gorin, where even now the snow melts surprisingly quickly…” Gawain's voice trailed off, and he stared away, out of the window.

  "And?” Rak promptly gently.

  "And I saw a darkness beyond, as you described. As if something there would draw the very sun from the sky."

  Rak nodded. "The whitebeards in Threlland Keep say it is merely an illusion, created by distance and heat, as a candle's flame does."

  "The whitebeards say many things. I sometimes think that if only we would stop listening to them, the world would be better place."

  oOo

  7. Homeward

  A small crowd gathered in the square the next morning, waiting to see Gawain off. Word of his deeds on the Jurian plains had of course spread throughout the town shortly after his arrival, and so great was the respect in which Rak was held there, Tarn did indeed feel as welcoming as any place could be away from home.

  Gwyn was laden with supplies for his journey, and Merrin had seen to this personally. The poor horse, stabled for so long, looked to be sagging in the middle with the weight of food hung on the saddle. But she didn't protest. She knew their next destination as well as her mount, and her tail swished, anxious to be homeward bound.

  The goodbyes were dwarvishly short. A clasping of hands or forearms, a clap on the back from Rak, and a polite kiss on the cheek from Merrin while Travak gurgled and grinned toothlessly in her arms.

  Gawain's heart was at once heavy, yet light. He was, and would have said if asked, glad to go, but sorry to leave. He paused at the end of the cobbled road leading out of the square, and turned Gwyn for what might be the last look at his friends, and the town of Tarn, in Threlland, which we call the Black Hills. And with a final wave, he turned once more, and rode out onto the track that led down the slopes, towards the lower hills of Mornland, and Juria beyond.

  The going was slow at first, heavy snow-drifts still had some melting to do before the earth beneath could be trusted at anything more than a fast walk. But when he reached the river border-crossing between Mornland and Juria, and with the weight of supplies diminishing each day, he let Gwyn set her own pace.

  After so long in stables, and remembering the vast open plain, Gwyn broke into a canter, and then with a joyful whinny, began to gallop. Snow flew from her hooves as she thundered southwards, scattering cattle before her.

  For a few fleeting moments, Gawain thought about Ferdan, and the southern end of Elvendere to the west, and of Elayeen, but Raheen was in his blood, and Gwyn's, and their track remained unrelenting, due south.

  The great Raheen mare would've run all day and all night, homeward bound. On a number of occasions they did just that. But the need for rest demanded sleep and food, and though the snows had melted without trace by the time they were halfway across Juria's flatlands, there was still a long way to go, and it would be madness to lame Gwyn at any time, let alone now.

  Gawain avoided other people whenever he could. Time was pressing. Spring was everywhere, it seemed, and had come earlier than expected this year. With the lengthening of the days they both knew that the Banishment was soon to be at an end. Home was waiting, and Gawain had seen all he had wanted to see of the lowlands and its peoples.

  In moments of quiet reflection before sleep, he considered his Banishment, and all he had learned. There was a world, Rak had said, and it was true that each kingdom was but a part of it. Most in Raheen had never left that hallowed homeland, had never felt the need. Few from the lowlands visited Raheen, and those that did were mostly merchants who came, traded, and left with profit, and had no time for anything else.

  The lowlands were dangerous lands, he knew that for himself, though it had been said often enough in Raheen. Brigands, thieves, and villains were abundant here. But so were good honest folk. Were the dwarves truly "a suspicious lot"? Were the elves worthy of the derogatory term "elvish", used more often than not to mean insular, inward-looking, aloof and isolationist? And could not the same be said for Raheen, graced by good fortune through simple geography?

  True, Gawain had recourse to resort to the use of weapons more times in the lowlands than ever in Raheen. Once would have been more times than ever in Raheen. But now he knew why so much emphasis had been placed on combative skills during his upbringing. Everyone from his father down to the humblest Raheen commoner knew that one day each prince of the realm would be Banished for a year and a day, in the downlands, to live amongst lowlanders, alone. Gawain’s mistake had been to imagine the tradition applied only to the first-born.

  But there were honourable people here, below Raheen's towering plateau. Men like Tallbot, a simple officer in the protectorate of Jarn, proud to be in the service of Callodon and willing to lay down his life in the defence of Jarn's humblest citizen. Men like Rak, a dwarf in race and, compared to Gawain, in stature, but a towering figure compared to most around him even in Juria's court. Even farmers, like Allyn, who spoke out against the Ramoths for good people, and did his duty by standing up for Gawain with Jarn's protectorate guard.

  And all this was now under dark threat. Not from the west, not from the despised Gorian empire, but from the north, and these strange shaven-headed Ramoths, and their tales of ancient gods and dark magic, their jingling bells and their stony-eyed snake symbols.

  As Gawain rode steadily south, and the days became longer, he knew he must take up his father's old dream. The seven kingdoms, though six in reality since the loss of Pellarn, must stand united against the Ramoths. The whitebeards, who preached tolerance through some irrational fear of some mythical dark wizard, whose name was used to frighten children into being good, must be ignored. No king must be persuaded to suffer his people to endure the Ramoths' insidious scourge.

  Gawain's determination rose with each black tower he passed in his passage south. There were more of them than he remembered as he followed the main merchant's road towards Juria's castletown, and yet more as he crossed the border into Callodon. It seemed that no large town had escaped this slow and insidious infection.

  Twice, as Gwyn thundered down the road, he saw Ramoth guardsmen brutalising bystanders. Twice he reined in, and twice he sat astride his steed with
weapons drawn until the Ramoths beat a retreat. Nor did he receive any thanks. Instead, the victims scuttled away like terrified animals, rushing for the cover of some dark doorway.

  In Callodon it grew steadily worse. Ramoth guardsmen openly patrolled the roads, armed and intimidating. Callodon guardsmen kept their weapons sheathed, and looked the other way. Gawain was stunned.

  At Jarn, he found the main square of the once-thriving market town all but empty. The inn was closed, its windows boarded shut. And when, although so close to home, he stopped to ask after Tallbot of Jarn, he received nothing more than a shake of the head from a frightened woman who scurried off down the street, terrified.

  It was as though some dread plague had swept through the town, and all were dead or dying. The small building which had served as the Protectorate of Jarn's headquarters was closed. Gawain knew not what to make of it.

  On the way out of town though, he caught sight of a gaunt young man, beckoning urgently from a doorway. Gawain dismounted, and cautiously approached.

  "You don't remember me, Serre?" the sallow young man asked nervously.

  Gawain started, shocked when he realised that this was the same young man who, less than a year ago, had stood framed in the inn's stable doorway, full of youthful vigour.

  "I do, Serre. How is your grandfather, and what has come to pass in Jarn?"

  The young man, who seemed old beyond his years, caught his breath, and sobbed. "My grandfather is dead, Serre, these six months past."

  "My heart grieves for your loss, Serre, in truth." Gawain said softly. "Yet speak, what of Jarn? When last I passed through here, the town was alive and bustling."

  "It lives no more Serre! I fear none of us will!"

  "Why? Dwarfspit, Serre, where is Tallbot, of the protectorate? I would speak with him."

  "Tallbot is dead. Slain."

  Gawain's patience with the young man was wearing thin. "Slain? By whom? Speak, Serre! Speak!"