The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  "Longsword! The dark riders?"

  Gawain turned.

  "What about them?"

  "Ordinary steel will not penetrate their armour! It is charmed!"

  Gawain smiled grimly. "It matters not. My arrows are tipped with stone, and my blade is far from ordinary!"

  Allazar stood helplessly by the stables, torn between going with the young man, north, and going east as he'd been asked. Finally, he nodded, and Gawain turned, and Gwyn broke into a gallop.

  Allazar remained a moment longer, frowning. There was only one kingdom in all the southlands where foresters tipped their arrows with hand-made stone points. But that was long ago, and they were all gone, annihilated in an instant by Morloch's Breath…

  oOo

  13. Black Riders

  Gawain rode steadily north, taking an arrow-straight route up the middle of the Jurian plains. He'd already passed to the east of the miserable town of Ferdan and paused a moment, remembering.

  Almost a year ago to the day he'd made camp by the southern tip of Elvendere, and had met Elayeen. Memories tugged him this way and that. Almost a year ago to the day Raheen was alive and basking in glorious summer sunshine.

  To the north-east, the gentle slopes of Mornland, and Threlland beyond. Rak and Merrin, and the infant Travak. To the west, Elvendere, and the elves that dwelled in the great forest. Dwarves and elves. Of all the kingdoms, only Elvendere had escaped the curse of the Ramoth, and Gawain wondered why.

  There seemed to be no point to it all. The Ramoth were despised, and were it not for the whitebeards, and were it not for the utter destruction of Raheen, then in time all the kingdoms would have declared "enough is enough", and put the Ramoths to the sword, or cast them out.

  Ancient gods did not exist. Perhaps Morloch did, but in what form and where, no-one knew. Sometimes Gawain's head throbbed with the thinking. Why destroy Raheen, and not Elvendere or Threlland? Why, with so much dark wizardry at their disposal, why this slow and insipid invasion of shaven-headed chanters? Gawain himself had proven at Juria how weak fifteen years of peace had left all the lands. It would be a simple matter for a small but dedicated band of ignoble invaders to rip the crowns from severed heads.

  It was surprising that the Gorian Empire hadn't done so already, given the lamentable lack of any military presence this side of their vast border.

  Gwyn snorted, and Gawain looked up. Riders, approaching at the canter, scattering steers before them. There was something about them that sent the briefest of shivers the length of Gawain's spine. A darkness, that seemed to draw light in, as if…

  There were six of them, in line abreast, and Gawain had an arrow strung in his right hand and another ready in his left when Gwyn began cantering forwards to meet them. They were still half a mile away when Gawain spotted yet more, closing in from the east, and then a hasty glance towards the west revealed more. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed that his retreat was unblocked, but he had no intention of running.

  But good, practical, military sense bred into him through years of regal training demanded he take action. Riding straight into the oncoming force would be military madness, for even if he prevailed he would be bracketed by the riders coming at him at a slow canter on the left and right.

  He grimaced, and Gwyn charged off to the west, heading for Elvendere and the sun, low in the sky but still an hour or two from setting.

  Six Black Riders, coming at him head on from the direction of Elvendere. Plus the first six from the north, and now presumably another half-dozen about a mile behind him. Gwyn charged on, closing the gap between them fast. Still the black riders cantered, seemingly oblivious of the danger.

  Gawain let fly his first arrow as soon as the range closed, and his second was in the air before the first one struck. The first shaft missed its intended target though, and slammed instead into the broad chest of the horse it was riding. The animal went down, throwing its rider hard into the sun-baked grassland.

  A third shaft was in the air when the second hit, this time exactly where it was supposed to, dead centre of the rider's chest. Gawain was momentarily stunned when a strange whistling screech went up, and then the rider seemed to explode with a jet of black light shooting from the top of its armour where the head had been.

  The third shaft struck home too, and again the stone point sliced neatly through armour to the creature within. Again, that chilling screeching whistle, and the blasting shaft of black light that shot upwards from the body.

  They were too close now for Gawain to try another arrow. Instead, he ducked as he saw a crossbow levelled and fired at him, and was drawing his sword as the bolt whistled dangerously close past Gwyn's flanks. With a sudden burst of outrage, Gawain realised that these foul creatures had not been aiming for him, but for his horse!

  Gwyn realised it too, and bellowed with a rage of her own. And then they were into them, Gawain's sword flashing. The long blade took the head clean off the rider passing down Gawain's right side, and when the blade struck a powerful jolt of something shot the length of his arm. He nearly lost his grip on the sword for a moment, but as Gwyn powered into a turn and the whistling screech from behind them told of another downed rider, Gawain managed to grasp the hilt firmly enough to deliver a smashing blow to the armoured creature struggling to regain its feet after being tumbled from the dead horse.

  Another powerful jolt of that something when the blade struck home, but this time Gawain was prepared for it, and was sheathing the longsword and drawing another arrow from his quiver as Gwyn finished the turn.

  He let fly, the shaft hitting the right-hand of the two remaining riders square in the back. A burst of black light, the curious screeching, and the shattered remains fell from the horse.

  Incredibly, the sixth rider was turning slowly, and still at a canter. Gawain strung another arrow, brought Gwyn to a standstill, and almost as if he was at target practice, let fly. The Black Rider had turned, slowly, carelessly, and met the speeding arrow chest-on. Gawain had just enough time to study the creature before him in detail before the screeching, whistling death-blast shot another black shaft skyward.

  They were grotesque, but almost laughably so. Clad in black armour, which seemed to draw in the daylight, and wearing large and ornate painted masks. Perhaps enough to frighten a child or a simpleton, but not a warrior.

  In the distance, Gawain could see the six riders who'd approached from the north still cantering towards him. If this was the best Morloch could do, then Allazar had indeed nearly killed a perfectly good horse in trying to give a warning. They were slow and cumbersome in their armour, and with Gwyn's superior speed and agility, they were no match for Gawain.

  He let his horse regain her composure after the charge, and casually strung another arrow, ready for throwing. As he advanced slowly to meet them though, something caught his eye on the ground by the remains of one he'd killed. Or destroyed, for he couldn't tell if there were men within the armour or not.

  The crossbow laying beside the body had been fired, but still had three shafts clipped to its stock. With a rising sense of alarm, Gawain eased Gwyn to a halt. The tips of the bolts were black steel, streaked with red. Elve's Blood. Almost as deadly as the rarer sap from the even rarer Dwarfspit tree.

  Gawain shuddered, and glanced up at the advancing riders. Closing remorselessly, and all of them with crossbows cocked and held ready in one hand, while the other held reins…

  Again Gawain eyed the crossbow. Of wood, it would not outrange a Raheen arrow. Probably. He eased Gwyn forward, waited until the riders were in range, and then hurled his arrow, then another, and then turned Gwyn back towards Elvendere at the gallop. Two of those high-pitched death-sounds told of his aim, and after putting a safe distance between himself and the four remaining riders, he turned again.

  This, he knew, was going to be a cat and mouse game that might last all day. Or until he ran out of arrows, whichever came sooner. Then to his horror, as he prepared to launch another volley of a
rrows at his pursuers, he saw through the gap in their ranks; their comrades advancing from the east had increased their pace and were speeding towards him!

  He hurled two more arrows, watched them strike their mark, and watched as crossbow-bolts tipped with evil Elve's Blood arced towards him, and fell harmlessly short.

  Eight. Eight Black Riders. He turned Gwyn towards the distant tree line of Elvendere and rode fast while his fingers counted the shafts remaining his quiver. Six.

  Again he brought Gwyn to a shuddering halt, and again hurled two arrows at the approaching menace. Two more hits, one death-screech and black light-blast. The other shaft hit the horse, which lurched and threw its rider. But already the six riders from the east had closed the distance, and rode over their fallen comrades. Crossbows twanged, and this time the shafts landed dangerously close to Gawain. As he turned Gwyn towards Elvendere once more, he saw the thrown rider get to his feet, and start walking towards him. Allazar was right. These creatures were relentless.

  The stop-start gallops Gwyn was forced to make were tiring her fast, but she could sense her mount's concerns and charged on. Gawain only had time to loose one arrow each time he stopped and turned, and a rising sense of desperation gave power to his arm and sharpened his aim.

  By the time the forest loomed a hundred paces away, Gwyn was exhausted, and Gawain had but one arrow left. Two riders were bearing down on him, their horses near death yet still coming on. Crossbows twanged, and the shafts fell short yet again. The creatures behind the leering, garish masks seemed slow to learn. But Gawain was not.

  He dismounted, and as Gwyn turned to face the enemy with him, he pushed her away. "Go, ugly! Go! I command it!"

  The horse, lathered in sweat and breathing hard, stared blue-eyed at her chosen mount.

  "Go Gwyn, please! We are all that remains of Raheen…one of us must survive! Go you hideous brute!” and again he shoved her massive head away.

  Gwyn snorted, ribs heaving, and swayed a little, but remained motionless.

  "Well then…" Gawain said softly, and with one eye on the approaching riders, loped away south, putting distance between himself and the advancing riders.

  They were slowing, and as their crossbows raised to fire again, one of them went down, the horse buckling, dead, beneath the weight of the armoured rider. Just as Gawain threw his arrow…

  His shaft crossed the harmless flight of the crossbow bolt, and carried on to fly through the spot which, had the poor horse chosen not to expire at that moment, would have been occupied by the black rider.

  Gawain sighed, and drew his longsword, and seeing Gwyn still gasping for breath but trying to force her exhausted legs towards him, began running south again.

  The one remaining rider's horse staggered and lurched onward, and another crossbow bolt sang as it whistled past Gawain's head. He heard the noise of the animal going down, and then turned. Both riders were dismounted, one still pinned beneath his dead steed, arms flailing, struggling against the dead weight of the beast and the weight of his own armour.

  The other was on his feet, cocking the crossbow, advancing slowly towards Gawain. In the distance, a short way off, the solitary third dismounted rider, striding purposefully but clumsily towards them all.

  Gawain charged towards the creature with the crossbow, legs pumping, longsword in hand, trying desperately to close the gap between them. An ordinary man might have panicked in the face of Gawain's charge. An ordinary might have fumbled with the crossbow. The black clad creature with the garish mask was no ordinary man.

  Gawain heard the string click into place on its sear, saw the glint of dark steel as a bolt was removed from the clip and fitted in place in its slot. He was still too far. The creature raised the bow, and when Gawain was sure he was about to fire, he dove to the ground, rolling, and heard the twang of the string and the whizz of the shaft. There was no impact, he felt no pain. Regaining his feet and his momentum, he charged onward.

  The armoured figure had already cast aside the crossbow and was drawing its blade. This close, Gawain could see that even this weapon was streaked with red. Elve's Blood. A poisoned blade to match the poisoned arrows. Not very honourable.

  Gawain struck on the run, the great longsword slashing downward, slamming into the creature's shoulder and dragging a great furrow through the steel chest-plate. But the thing did not die. No blood emerged from the wound. No bones had been broken. The blow from the longsword would've cleaved an ordinary man in two, had done so in the past. Against ordinary men.

  The thing counterattacked with remarkable speed, forcing Gawain to parry the blow. Oh how he rued his remarks to Allazar! The thing fought relentlessly, thrusting and parrying, all the while driving Gawain back towards the trees.

  Gawain grew more and more desperate, and more and more tired. The other black riders had fallen to his blade so easily...but then he realised his error. He feinted, dodged, and swung the longsword in flashing flat circle, the blade just above his enemy's shoulder.

  The jolt of something seared through Gawain's arm as the garishly-clad head flew from the creature's shoulders, followed by the eerie death-blast. This close, the sound was intense, and distressing, and the black blast of light that shot from the thing's neck was almost dazzling.

  Gawain staggered back as the body toppled forward to the ground, and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. The whistling sound was still ringing in his ears when something hit him in the thigh and made him start. He looked down, and saw the black feathered fletching of a crossbow-bolt sticking out of from his right thigh, and he groaned. The creature pinned beneath the dead horse had freed himself sufficient to cock, load, and aim his weapon.

  "Aaah, Dwarfspit!" Gawain spat, disgustedly. To have come so far.

  Gwyn, seeing her chosen mount wounded and limping towards the black creature trapped under the horse, felt rage and anguish boil in her blood, and charged forwards. Gawain watched as she pounded across the sun-baked earth, whinnying a dreadful battle-cry of her own, and began trampling on the trapped thing.

  It didn't take long before another death-screech and a blast of black light mingled with Gwyn's furious whinnying. Gawain vaguely remembered that he'd been lacking in his duty to his horse; there must be stones in her shoes to penetrate that black armour.

  Gwyn screamed again, this time in warning. Gawain looked around, and saw a black shape looming towards him. The dismounted rider, who had so relentlessly walked from his dead steed so far away to the east.

  "Come then, you sack of black Dwarfspit Morloch pus, I'll not die alone!"

  Gawain, ignoring the burning pain in his leg that seemed to creep up from the wound, blocked the straight thrust his adversary aimed at his heart. Anger robbed Gawain of all finesse. To have come so close, and to be defeated by these creatures! Things of dark wizardry, not even men. Whitebeards made these! Rage ballooned and burst within him at that, and he smashed at the thing remorselessly. Blow after reeling blow, hammering it back towards the trees, smashing it time and again, shattering the thing's sword, yet still it tried to advance.

  Gawain smashed it once, twice, three times on the shoulder, massive pounding blows that drove the creature to its knees.

  "Enough!" Gawain cried, and with a mighty swing, cleaved its head clean from its shoulders even as shattered black gauntlets reached out towards him.

  The jolt and the blast of black light hit Gawain in the face and lifted him clean off his feet, flinging him backwards. Still he kept hold of the sword. As he lay staring up at the sky, blinking, he heard Gwyn's whinny, and from the sound of her footfalls on the hard ground, slowly moving towards him, she was lame in one leg.

  Gawain felt a wave of sorrow wash over him. Poor old Gwyn, who would care for her now, here in these lowlands? Who but a Raheen knew how to tend a horse, down here?

  She whinnied, long and low. Gawain felt tired, so tired, and it was a struggle to raise himself. He dug the point of the longsword into the ground, and heaved himself to his
knees, desperately looking around for Gwyn.

  Dark shapes were coming towards him in the gloom, yet he could feel the sun's warmth on his face.

  "Ahhhh!" he gasped, disgusted, and shouted at the advancing figures "Is there no end to you Dwarfspit bastards? Come then, see how a warrior dies!"

  Gwyn whinnied again, behind him as he struggled but failed to stand, still leaning heavily on the longsword.

  "Peace, friend." A lilting voice called. "We mean you no harm."

  Gawain tried to peer through the gloom, trying to focus on the dozen or more shadowy shapes. They were carrying things that were long, curved, and finally his fogged brain recognised them as longbows.

  "Eem frith am Gan-thal." Gawain heard himself say, and then mumbled again "Eem frith am Gan-thal." before he gave up the struggle to stand, and finally released his grasp on the sword.

  He thought he heard a high voice calling "See-eelan! See-eelan!" before hands reached for him and darkness closed all around.

  oOo

  14. Ithroth.

  The world was darkness and light. Fire and ice. Pain and beauty. Flashes of light, in which Gawain felt fire coursing through his veins, before a bright-eyed beauty poured liquid ice into his mouth and stole away the pain before darkness closed again.

  Occasional sounds, and occasional voices, during those brief moments of awareness. Strange, lilting voices, talking softly and speaking in a language he could not fathom.

  If this was the kingdom of death, it wasn't so bad.

  But there came a time when the flashes of light were more prolonged, and he almost remembered who he was before the liquid ice trickled into his mouth again, and the last thing he saw before consciousness faded were sparkling hazel-green eyes, wide with concern and sadness.

  Finally, a greyness crept upon him like a false dawn, and sounds, and warmth. He remembered who he was, and lay with his eyes closed, breathing softly, not daring to move or open his eyes lest the cool fingers brushing his forehead ceased their tender ministrations. Lest he open his eyes, and find yet more fire and ice, more pain and beauty, and more darkness enveloping.