The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  Inside the compound, the Ramoths had made one slight change. When Gawain pressed his ear to the low door, he heard, after a few moments, a slight shuffling of feet. He grinned cruelly, and slipped his shortsword from its sheath, held it above his head, and stepping to the side of the doorway, rapped on it three times.

  Sure enough, the door swung quietly open, and a shaven head, stooping low, emerged…only to be parted from its accompanying shoulders a heartbeat later.

  Gawain stepped over the body, sheathed his blade, and crept up the spiral stairs…

  There were two more robed acolytes at each side of the doorway when Gawain strode into the room, and felled them both. The emissary, a woman, was kneeling in front of the black table at the foot of her bed, and at the sound of her two servants being slain she looked up, surprise wide in her eyes.

  Gawain's nostrils recoiled at the sickly odour of incense that smouldered in a bowl on the table, and as the woman stood he strode forward, longsword in hand.

  "You!" She gasped.

  "I. Who else."

  The eye-amulet hanging between her breasts cracked, and began to open. Gawain decided to wait.

  "Ramoth sees you." the emissary said.

  "Good. I told him I was coming. Perhaps now he'll start to believe me."

  And he brought the longsword down, practically cleaving the emissary in two from shoulder to hip.

  He left the tower and the long huts blazing in the still night air, pausing at the tree line to watch the conflagration and listen to the screams of its victims. It would shine like a beacon for all the inhabitants of Jarn to see. While they cowered in their homes and hovels, dreading Morloch's Breath, he, Gawain of Raheen, would breathe a fire of his own, and from the funeral pyres of towers and long huts, he would spread the ashes of Ramoths as they had the ashes of Raheen.

  With his face set grim, and his stony heart hard against the destruction that lay behind and waited before him, Gawain turned Gwyn east, towards Callodon's castletown, and the largest Ramoth encampment in the kingdom.

  Three miles along the road east, and with the sky still glowing in the west, Gwyn snorted. Riders were approaching, and fast. Gawain simply halted in the middle of the road, drew the longsword, and waited.

  They were carrying torches when they hove into view some distance off, and Gawain could see flashes of gold in the guttering light they gave off. They were Callodon guardsmen, and they began slowing their gallop a few moments later. Gawain had removed the blackening cloths, and although the night was moonless, there was a grey cast to the low clouds…except behind him, where they flickered a dull reddish orange…

  Eight riders, he counted, waiting patiently, sword still in hand, its point almost touching the ground and still as light as a feather.

  When they drew up, they held their torches aloft, horses fidgeting nervously, harness and sheathed weapons jangling.

  "Is it him?" a voice asked, tremulously.

  "I don't know!"

  "It must be. Look at the sword."

  Still Gawain and Gwyn waited, motionless.

  "You there…Serre."

  "Yes?" Gawain answered.

  "It's said, that is to say, reports have been received…"

  "Dwarfspit, Erik, let me. You there, be you the longsworded stranger seen at Stoon, where the tower of Ramoth was burned?"

  "I am a longsworded stranger. And I was at Stoon. Just as I was at Jarn, a few hours ago."

  "Dwarfspit and Elve's Blood!"

  "Take care, guardsmen of Callodon, " Gawain said softly, but all the more menacingly for it, "lest you offend me."

  "You slew the emissary of Stoon? And fired the tower?"

  "And the emissary of Jarn. And fired the tower."

  The eight riders glanced nervously at one another, and then their gaze rested on the one called Erik, who blanched in the pale torchlight.

  "Well then, stranger. We have our duty to perform, though we may die for it."

  Gawain cocked his head, and flexed his right arm, remembering the words spoken by Tallbot of Jarn, so long ago.

  "What is your duty, guardsman?"

  There was a pause. Nervous hands crept towards weapons. Horses jigged nervously and Gwyn's tail thrashed.

  "We are to take you to Brock of Callodon, our king."

  "Am I in custody then?"

  Fingers closed around hilts.

  "Will you come?" Erik suddenly asked.

  "I will suffer no man to draw steel against me. If you bid me come to your king, and if your blades remain sheathed, then I shall sheath mine, and come."

  "In truth? Your word on it?"

  "My word on it."

  "Erik! What good is his word?" someone hissed.

  "Have a care, guardsmen. I am easily offended. The Ramoths of Stoon and Jarn offended me recently. You see the results floating in the night breezes."

  Ashes were indeed drifting, even this far downwind of the blaze dying in the west.

  "Well then, stranger. If you will put up your blade, ours will remain in scabbard. My word on it."

  Gawain flipped the longsword over his shoulder, the tip unerringly finding the scabbard.

  "Then on. I would meet this Brock, who sits idle while his people suffer.” Gawain eased Gwyn forward, and he allowed himself to be flanked by the guardsmen before they set off at a fast pace, east.

  But they did not make straight for the castletown. On crossing a small bridge spanning a fast-flowing river, Erik swung his horse onto the more southerly of two tracks, and it was the northerly that led directly to castle Callodon.

  "Where is this Brock, then, if not at the castle town?" Gawain asked.

  "Yonder is our headquarters. Word will be sent to his majesty, who will doubtless come to us. It is not safe to talk openly of the Ramoths at Callodon Keep."

  Gawain fell silent, and thoughtful, pondering an uncertain future. However, it mattered not. He would have taken this route anyway. This fork in the road had only taken him a few more miles away from the Tower of Callodon. He could easily make up the time.

  The headquarters turned out to be little more than a ramshackle group of log cabins, and day was breaking when they reined in and dismounted.

  "Wait here, Serre, while I report to my commander."

  "Be sure, guardsman, to tell him of our bond. I shall keep to my word, if he honours yours."

  Erik looked up into the young man's eyes as the first light of dawn spilled over the land. Then he nodded earnestly, before hurrying off to the larger of the buildings.

  Gawain stepped away from the horses, and the group of nervous and inquisitive guardsmen, and turned to the sun, closing his eyes. "Raheen," was his new remembrance. All were The Fallen, now.

  Doors banged a few moments later, and Gawain opened his eyes, surveying the countryside with a disinterested eye. He didn't care for it. What did it matter that Callodon had trees, and fields, and the morning chatter of dawn chorus birdsong? Raheen was ashes.

  "That is he?" a loud voice almost laughed.

  "Yes, Serre."

  "Don't look like much to me, Serre," another voice rasped. "And why, Corporal, is that prisoner armed?"

  Gawain turned slowly, facing them. To his left, the group of seven guardsmen that had escorted him stood nervously, awaiting orders.

  In front of him, a well-presented officer, clearly the commander, with Erik beside him, standing on the stoop of the cabin. But five more guardsmen had emerged onto the grass, and the speaker, a bearded sergeant, scratched his chin, and turned to glare at Erik.

  "Well man?"

  "He gave his word, Sergeant, as I explained to the commander."

  "Oh did he indeed? Orders, Captain? Shall we disarm him?"

  "May as well. I doubt the king would be impressed to find a prisoner armed to the teeth thus."

  "Serre…!" Erik protested, but already the sergeant and four other guardsmen were advancing on Gawain.

  "Have a care, Callodon, let you offend." Gawain announced.

/>   "Oh really, well pardon me your high and mighty, but you are a prisoner of the King's Own Guard and that means you do as we say! Off with those weapons, now."

  Gawain remained still, and then sighed as the five advancing men drew steel. He drew his longsword, and flourished it one-handed, casually, as one might swat at a fly with a stick.

  "Come then, if you're so anxious to die."

  They backed away a pace, aware of the tremendous reach that the weapon gave the tall young man.

  "Serre!" Erik urged, "This man has left a trail of death in his wake from Stoon to Jarn! Single-handed!"

  The Captain hesitated, and the five guardsmen stared at the dead-eyed golden-haired youth who waited patiently for their advance.

  "He will put up his blade if our men do likewise! His word on it! Serre!"

  But the thundering of hooves drew everyone's attention to the far end of the dirt road. Everyone's except Gawain's.

  Horses whinnied, and came rumbling to a halt. Gawain fixed his cold gaze on the loud-mouthed Sergeant, who, staring wide-eyed away to his left, suddenly bobbed his head and seemed thoroughly confused.

  "Is that him?" a deep voice boomed.

  "Yes, Sire!" the Captain called, "My men have captured him as ordered."

  "Captured him? Doesn't look like it to me! Looks more like he's captured you!" And then the deep voice broke into rumbling laughter.

  "You there," the voice said. "Longsword! Put up yer blade, man, and let's talk like civilised people, eh?"

  Gawain turned his head, and noted the speaker for the first time.

  He was a large man, thick-set, with a powerful barrel chest and heavily-muscled arms. A great black beard billowed from his chin, and there was humour in the flushed face and dark eyes that shone in the morning sun. The cloak he wore was black and gold, the colours of Callodon, and a band of gold circled his head, struggling to contain unruly black hair.

  "Come on, longsword, haven't got all day!" he bellowed cheerfully, hands on hips.

  "You are Brock, of Callodon." Gawain said, lowering his blade, but keeping it directed at the Sergeant. The gesture did not go unnoticed by the gathering.

  "I am. And you, longsword, what are you called?"

  Gawain paused a moment before answering. "Some call me Traveller, but Longsword is as good a name as any."

  "Suit yourself. Longsword it is then. Will you put up, or kill us all?"

  Gawain shrugged, utterly indifferent. But sheathed the blade with a speed and deftness that was so casual as to be breathtaking given the size of the heavy weapon.

  "All's well then, Captain, call yer dogs off. And fetch us some breakfast, there's a good man. What are you lot doing standing around?” This last was directed at the seven former escorts that had ridden in with Gawain.

  "They were my escort, Callodon. Of all here before your arrival, excepting their corporal there, the most honourable."

  "Honourable, eh? How so?"

  "They kept their word, and their blades sheathed."

  "Is this so, Captain?"

  "The corporal did mention something of the sort, Sire."

  "And you decided not to honour the word given on your behalf, eh? Speak up man!"

  "I…"

  "Enough. Go get the breakfast. Corporal, you and yer men patrol the area. You I can trust to ensure we're not spied upon."

  "Sire!" Erik beamed, and hurried off to detail the patrol.

  "Now then, Longsword of…?"

  "Recently of Threlland."

  "Threlland? Yer as much a dwarf as I, and more a giant. So be it. Come then Longsword. You've done a busy night's work at Jarn, if my reports are to be believed. Let's sit and break fast."

  Gawain paused, noting that as the general soldiery that had escorted the king dispersed, a robed man with neatly clipped white hair stood some paces behind the king. Gawain's eyes narrowed, and he glowered.

  "Take no notice of Allazar. He follows me around like a puppy everywhere I go."

  "I have no truck with whitebeards.” Gawain said forcefully.

  "I have no beard.” Allazar replied. "And I sympathise."

  "He's something of a radical, is wizard Allazar. Even the other wizards don't like him much. He's as trustworthy as any man in these troubled times, Longsword, and my word on it."

  Gawain studied the wizard for a moment longer. "Then tell him to unfold his arms, and expose his breast."

  "Elve's Blood! That's a strange demand for a stranger to make of a king's wizard! Why should I so order?" Brock gasped, surprised.

  "Because if he doesn't, I'll cut his arms off myself and expose not only his breast but what lies beneath it."

  "Dwarfspit, I'm beginning to think I may have made a mistake in seeking you out! Are you a madman?"

  But Allazar simply unfolded his arms, slipped the robes from his shoulders, and stood naked to the waist as Gawain had demanded.

  "I stand corrected," Brock mumbled, "Yer both mad."

  Gawain nodded, and turned on his heel, walking towards the table were food was hastily being laid out.

  When they were seated, Brock, Gawain, and Allazar, the King of Callodon became serious.

  "You burned out the Ramoth emissaries in both Jarn and Stoon."

  "I did."

  "Why?"

  "Because nobody else would do it." Gawain announced pointedly, and Brock flinched.

  "Nobody else has cut off my head and served it on a dinner plate either. Does that mean you will?"

  "You haven't offended me. Yet."

  Brock paused, a slice of ham poised by his lips. "And the Ramoth did? Offend you?"

  "I had it from a Callodon farmer named Allyn, a year ago. The Ramoths offend all decent people, everywhere. Except, it seems, the whitebeards, and the kings they command."

  "You go too far, friend." Allazar chided. "Wizards do not command kings."

  "Not in bloody Callodon they don't, that's for certain!" Brock grunted.

  "Yet you," Gawain accused, "Stand idly by, and do nothing, while your long-time neighbour and friend and ally, Raheen, is blasted from the land."

  Brock's eyes closed, and he swallowed hard. When he opened his eyes again, there was profound sadness in them, and in his voice.

  "I would have given my life for Davyd of Raheen. I would have given everything. Everything except Callodon. That is why we are powerless now against them. I cannot risk Morloch's Breath, I will not see Callodon's lands a wasteland."

  "You have seen Raheen?"

  "No. I could not bear to see it thus. I shall see it ever as I did in my youth, when Raheen and Callodon fought side by side to save Pellarn, when all others abandoned her to the Empire."

  Gawain looked off into the distance, south. The plateau was still faintly visible through the morning haze, far on the horizon.

  "That is why," Callodon continued, "I can do nothing. I cannot take actions which would bring Morloch's Breath down upon my people."

  Gawain ate without appetite, chewing the food as he mulled Brock's words.

  "I have said, Sire, and I shall say it yet again," Allazar said quietly, "Morloch sleeps. The energies he expended in destroying Raheen leave him feeble, and all but powerless."

  "Yes, well your whitebearded brethren don't agree with you, Allazar, and not for the first time.” Brock rumbled, on the verge of anger. He thumped the table. "Dwarfspit, d'you think I'd stay my hand for a heartbeat where these filthy shave-heads are concerned? Do you think I would allow anything at all that so much as looked like their foul black-eyed snake-symbols in all of Callodon if I could be absolutely sure that no harm would come of it?"

  "Why did you want to speak to me?" Gawain asked suddenly.

  Brock sighed. "To give you this.” And from inside his cloak, he drew a rolled calfskin, bound with a leather strap. He handed it to Gawain with a trembling hand.

  Gawain took it, undid the strap, and unrolled the skin to see a beautifully inlaid map of the kingdoms. Then his eye noted the small black spots, seared into t
he calfskin, probably with a hot iron.

  "What is this?"

  "Those marks show the positions of the Ramoths' filthy towers. All of them, between here and the Dragon's Teeth."

  "Thank you, Brock of Callodon. This is a fine gift indeed."

  "Gift? It's most likely your death-warrant. Never have I seen a youth so bent on bringing about his own demise."

  "There'll be at least one less tower in the land before I'm ready to pass." Gawain said firmly. "Watch the sky west of castletown tonight if you need proof."

  "I shall. This is a risk I take, Longsword. If you're captured, if they find I have given you this, then Callodon is dust."

  "I will not be captured.” Gawain said coldly, and with a certainty that made Brock shiver in the warm summer air. "How accurate is this?"

  "It is accurate." Allazar asserted.

  "Whitebeards made this?" Gawain sneered.

  "No. I did."

  Brock nodded. "On my orders. Before Raheen…Before we knew of Morloch's Breath."

  Gawain studied the map. So many burned dots. It would take a long, long time…

  oOo

  11. Juria

  When Queen Elspeth of Callodon retired to bed that night, she pleaded with her husband to come away from the window and sleep. But Brock refused. For hours he stood at the window, revelling in the cool breezes that tickled his beard. Only when he saw the western sky suddenly flare orange, and then glow a dull red, did he smile, and close the window, and retire to his bed.

  Gawain sat in the saddle, studying the map again, in the glow from the burning Ramoth camp a hundred paces away. There were four more between castletown and the border with Juria.

  In the distance, he thought he could still hear screaming above the roar of the flames and the crackling of burning logs. He rolled the map, tied it with the strap, and stuffed it under his tunic before turning Gwyn north again.

  So many black dots upon the map. It would take a lifetime to destroy them all. And it seemed that the honourable Callodon guardsman Tallbot had been right, so long ago. The Ramoths did have some dark means of communication. Although no army of Ramoth guards swept down upon him, they were becoming more alert.

  Four more towers lay in ashes by the time Gawain crested the hills that marked the border between Callodon and Juria, and each had been more testing than the last. Guards had been doubled, and now patrolled within their palisade perimeters as well as without. It did not spare the emissaries from Raheen vengeance, but it did prompt Gawain to reconsider his former and somewhat simplistic tactics.