The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  Yet no Ramoths ventured near. No Black Riders thundered remorselessly through the forest. It was puzzling.

  What was irritating, intensely to Gawain, was the constant shadow of the whitebeard that followed Elayeen whenever she was in Gawain's company.

  They spoke long as they walked around the forest province. From Elayeen, Gawain learned a little of Elvendere's history, and more of their language. From her, he learned how near to death he'd lain for so long.

  He told her of his memories, of fire and ice, and pain, though he spoke not of the comfort her beauty provided when his eyes had flashed open in delirium. She smiled, and said that the ice must be from the medicine they called "Eeelan t'oth," a powerful medicine prepared by the elven healers to reduce fever and pain.

  "Did I speak, in my madness?" Gawain asked on one of their walks.

  "Yes. A little." she replied, blushing.

  "What did I say?"

  She paused, and gazed up at him. "You called my name. Many times."

  "Did I say nothing else?"

  "Nothing else." And then she looked away, with that same sadness in her expression.

  It beat on the stone of his heart and would've shattered it, given enough time. But always the sword on his back, and Gwyn, and the similarity between Elvendere and the Forest of Calne in his homeland reminded Gawain who he was, and what he had become.

  Soon Gawain too used the ropes to descend to the glade from his room in the trees. And when the scars on his leg were little more than red and puckered welts, it was increasingly obvious that his health and strength were fully recovered.

  Elayeen knew it, and so, it seemed, did the whitebeards, for they grew even more attentive in their surveillance. Gawain could cheerfully have slaughtered them, and it was only the serenity of Elvendere and his fear of offending Elayeen that prevented him from doing so.

  Once, he saw other elves with black braids in the hair, the same as Elayeen's. They were a couple, elf and elfin, strolling hand-in-hand through the woods, laughing with one another. Gawain frowned, and then a cold fist seemed to squeeze the last of the blood from his frozen heart.

  It must mean, he thought, that Elayeen was married. In Callodon, it was the custom for married men and women to wear silver bracelets on their right wrists. In Juria, they wore gold rings. Perhaps here in Elvendere, they wore lustrous black braids in their hair.

  The elfin, holding his arm as ever while they walked, seemed to sense the coldness rushing through Gawain, but misunderstood the reason for it.

  "You are leaving soon?" she gasped, staring up at him, her eyes wide with fear and sorrow.

  "Yes," he replied, gazing away into the trees. "I must. Autumn fast approaches, and I must be in Threlland before winter's grip."

  She paused, and in spite of the warning cough from the ever-present watching whitebeard, she took both of Gawain's hands in hers, and stared down at them.

  "Will you return?"

  "Will I be welcome?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you want me to?"

  "Yes."

  "Then," Gawain said, gently letting go her left hand and tilting her chin up, "If I am able, I shall return."

  A single tear slipped down her cheek, and she blinked.

  "Soon?"

  "If I am able." He said again, and she smiled sadly, and looked away.

  Next day, early, tearful children watched as Gawain saddled Gwyn and made his preparations to leave. Gan stood by, arms folded, quietly watching as elves handed Gawain bags of provisions for his journey.

  When all was packed and ready, Gawain patted Gwyn on the neck. "Go on, you daft lump. Go say goodbye to your friends."

  The horse nodded, and strode forward, bobbing her head at the small group of children in the middle of the clearing. Gawain scanned the gathering of elves, but Elayeen was nowhere in sight.

  Gan strode forward, and held out his hand. "Good journeys, friend Traveller. You are always welcome here."

  "Thank you, Gan-thal. You and your people have been kind, and I am proud to call all here mi frith."

  "You are learning."

  "I have had a patient teacher, my friend. I had hoped to see Elayeen before I go."

  Gan looked pained. "It would cause her much pain. She is become Ithroth…"

  "Gan-thal! Nai!" a familiar voice called.

  "I swear by my sword," Gawain muttered coldly, still clasping Gan's hand but staring at the wizard, "one day I will cleave that bastard whitebeard clean in two."

  Gan shuddered. "They serve Elvendere."

  "They serve themselves, and ever have done. But I would not part from you or your people with anger in my heart. Fare well, Gan-thal mi frith, honour to you."

  "Honour to you, Traveller."

  "Please tell Elayeen to remember the words I spoke yesterday."

  Gan looked hopeful for a few moments. "May I ask what words you spoke?"

  "I shall return. If I am able."

  Gan nodded, and though the hope subsided a little, its embers remained as he watched Gawain call Gwyn forward, and then set off east through the trees.

  On his walk through the forest, Gawain stooped to pick up lumps of flint, and these he slipped into a sack on Gwyn's saddle. The three dozen arrows the elves had given him were tipped with steel, and if Black Riders lay between Elvendere and Threlland, they would be of no use. It would be a long journey, though not as long at that undertaken with the heavily-laden caravan in company with Rak. He would use the evenings to fashion Raheen stone tips.

  He felt eyes on him as he approached the eastern tree line, but he knew none belonged to Elayeen. At the fringes of the Jurian plain he paused, hoping that she might appear from the trees to bid him a final farewell, but no-one came. With a sigh, he gazed out across the plain, and then turned his eyes north.

  "Hai, Gwyn." He called softly, and mounted. "We must bid farewell to Elvendere, you ugly nag. It is time to remind Ramoth and Morloch that we yet live."

  Gwyn bobbed her head and snorted, seeming to agree. A slight noise caught their attention, and Gawain spun around in the saddle, hoping to see Elayeen behind him. But his heart hardened and his lips pressed thin and cruel.

  "What do you want, whitebeard?" He spat.

  "To see you gone from Elvendere."

  "Then watch as I go. And hold your breath for my return, for return I shall."

  The whitebeard grimaced. "I shall not hold my breath for so long a time. Where you go, there is no returning."

  "The same was once said to me about Elvendere, yet twice I have passed this way. You offend me, whitebeard. Take great care not to do it again."

  "What I do, I do for Elvendere."

  "What you do is nothing, and nothing good. I shall look for you on my return."

  The wizard smirked, but there was fear in his eyes as well. Gawain turned his gaze back to the plains. And after a final glance around the trees, they set off.

  oOo

  16. Morloch's Warning

  They were still within sight of Elvendere when Gwyn whinnied, and lost her stride, and slowed fretfully.

  Gawain scanned the horizon all around them. Nothing but the distant tree line that marked Elvendere to the west. Then a darkness began shimmering in front of them, some ten paces away.

  Gwyn let out a screeching whinny, and began backing away. Gawain unsheathed the longsword, staring at the small blackness that seemed to waver in front of them. Slowly it began to take shape, long and thin, and then the form began to crystallise.

  Gawain leapt from the saddle, and advanced cautiously in spite of Gwyn's warnings.

  The thing became a shape, and became almost a man. As tall as Gawain, dressed in blackness, a long black cloak, or perhaps a shroud, which shimmered. The head atop the vision was round, and loathsome. Completely bald, the skin stained and mottled with black blotches. Thin blackened lips, held in a perpetual sneer. And black eyes, no whites to them at all, no pupils.

  "You vex me." it said, shimmering, and Gawain swung h
is sword vainly, for he could see it was a vision, the landscape still faintly visible through the apparition.

  It laughed, mirthlessly. "Futile. You cannot harm me."

  "What are you?"

  "Know you not? In truth?"

  "I see a vile apparition, with bad teeth. I will not grace such dark imaginings with a name."

  "Imagining? Know you not what power I possess, merely to appear to you thus? No. You do not. Else you would cower, and beg mercy!"

  "Beg mercy, from a daylight shade? I would as much beg mercy from my own shadow."

  "I am Morloch. Now shall you beg."

  "Morloch!" Gawain spat on the ground. "Filth. I come for you."

  "Foolish. You shall never cross the Teeth. You are nothing. Yet, you vex me. Why?"

  "You offend me."

  Again the apparition laughed. "Futility. If the high noon sun should burn your skin, thus offending you, what then?"

  "You are neither sun nor moon. If Morloch you be, then you shall feel my blade."

  "Your prattling bores me. You are nothing. Vex me no more, nothing, or feel my Breath."

  "I shall feel your breath, Morloch, as you gasp your last, I shall be there, twisting the blade in your foul guts!"

  The apparition shimmered, and began to fade.

  "I warn you, nothing, you shall not cross the Teeth. Set foot on the farak gorin, and I shall destroy you."

  Then the blackness shimmered once more, and was gone.

  Gwyn stepped forward a pace, her bright blue eyes confused, looking around.

  "You saw it too then, Ugly? I thought I was mad." Gawain muttered, studying the ground around them. There was no sign that anything other than the breeze had tickled the grass, let alone stood upon it.

  "Dark wizardry". Gawain mumbled with a sigh, and mounted.

  But he could not deny the pounding of his heart nor the sweat that ran at his temples. He had not known such terror since the day he and Gwyn crested the Downland Pass at Raheen.

  With a cry, he gave Gwyn free rein, and they thundered across the plain, fleeing from the dreadful spot.

  That night, when he made camp, he set about making his stone arrow-points with a haste that bordered on desperation. The evenings were drawing in, and he was still some days' fast ride from the region where he'd first met Rak and his party. A year ago, with time on his hands and no desire to rush from adventure to danger, he had allowed Gwyn to amble on their journey north. Now he had a dread purpose, and wanted to waste no time reaching Tarn. Once there, he would await Allazar's arrival if the wizard hadn't already reached that gentle dwarven town before him, and then set off for the Teeth.

  Somewhere there must be a pass, or a route across the mountains. How else were the Ramoth emissaries entering the southlands?

  Morloch must be there. And Ramoth. Cut off the snake's head, and the body dies. So Gawain hoped. If he could destroy one or the other, or both, then all the lands would be free. Justice and vengeance for Raheen would serve also to liberate the downland kingdoms.

  Why he now considered the other lands he did not know. Perhaps his time in Elvendere, in serene surrounds and gentle company, had left a mark upon his heart, smoothed some of the edges as he was smoothing the razor-sharp points while he fitted them to elven shafts.

  Perhaps. Elayeen haunted him, and called forth memories of happier times in Raheen. His first kiss, the first time he'd held hands…he cut his finger on a shard of flint and it served to bring him back to the present.

  He must forget Elayeen, and Elvendere. At least for now. He could not face black riders, or Ramoth, or Morloch, if a part of him feared death, if his courage failed him. And it would if he permitted foolish youth and yearning to tug at his conscience. He must be like the black riders he had faced. Single-minded, relentless, utterly careless of death.

  He finished fitting the cruel stone points to his arrows, and then drew the longsword, to clean it. In the failing light, he noted strange black stains on the blade, deep within the steel, and they would not rub away. No matter, they did not dull the edges of the weapon, which remained sharp and straight.

  He remembered Raheen. As it was before his Banishment, and as it was now. The coldness in his chest spread like the chill of elven Eeelan-t'oth, cooling his blood, freezing his heart, darkening his visage. The terror he had felt on seeing Morloch's apparition was swept away by his resolve.

  I am Longsword, he thought, realising that everyone in Elvendere had called him by his old name, Traveller, a name from a bygone time, a bygone life. And I come for you, Morloch. I shall vex you until the very moment I destroy you.

  He thought more about Morloch's warning as he continued north-west. Why had it been issued? Gawain knew little of wizardry, dark or otherwise, but imagined it must take a great deal of power to transmit such an apparition such a vast distance. In all his travels and all his years, he had never heard of whitebeards appearing thus, except in dreams.

  More, how did Morloch know that Gawain yet lived? Could the black riders somehow communicate with their dark creator? It didn't make sense. If that were true, then Morloch could have appeared at any time while Gawain recovered in Elvendere. Why wait until he had left that place?

  Gawain could find no ready answers, only more questions. They buzzed around inside his head like angry hornets, and in the end he had to dismiss them all, and take comfort in the fact that Morloch had appeared at all.

  It meant only one thing. Gawain's allies, fear and terror, had struck a chord within the dark wizard. In the weeks while Gawain had struggled with Death in Elvendere, something of importance must have happened in the land. Something important enough to rile the wizard lurking far beyond the Teeth. Gawain would ask Allazar when they met at Threlland. If anyone might know, then it should be he. He had, if he'd obeyed Gawain's request, travelled the eastern kingdoms after leaving Juria.

  There was, of course, always the slim possibility that the destruction of the black riders was what so galled Morloch as to force his appearance, and the expenditure of so much magic to do so. Gawain had expected to encounter more of them as he hurried across the plains, but he saw no-one save for Jurian herdsmen, who ignored him.

  One question remained though, and refused to be chased away. How did Morloch know where to find Gawain at all?

  oOo

  17. Friends

  At the border-crossing between Juria and Mornland, Gawain was greeted with the same awe and nervous attention he'd received when he crossed from Callodon into Juria, but this time no lancers thundered into view.

  Rather than simply crossing the river with the small groups of travellers and merchants, Gawain dismounted, and approached a worried-looking Jurian guardsman.

  "Well met." Gawain said quietly.

  "Well met, Serre." the guard replied nervously, anxiously looking to his colleagues for support. None came.

  "How fares Juria?"

  "The Crown?"

  "Aye."

  "He fares well, Serre. He is much recovered from his illness, last we heard."

  "I am glad. This is good news. And the land?"

  "The land? It is as was, Serre."

  "You have heard no news of any import?"

  "No Serre…uhm, about what?"

  "The Ramoths?"

  The guard glowered, and spat. "They still come through, in small parties, but their escorts increase. There is little we can do about them."

  Gawain nodded, but felt suddenly depressed. He had hoped to hear that Juria had slain every Ramoth in the kingdom, and that it was this that had so vexed Morloch.

  "Well. Thank you, guardsman, for your time."

  "Good journeys, Serre."

  Gawain mounted, and the guard stepped forward, hesitantly.

  "Serre?"

  "Aye."

  "You are he, Serre? The Longsword? The one who fires the towers and lays waste to the Ramoths?"

  "I am he."

  The guard looked suddenly relieved.

  "Why ask you?"

/>   The guardsmen looked sheepish. "We heard you were dead, Serre." One said.

  Gawain snorted. "Not yet. I still have much to do. You might mention it to the next Ramoth procession that passes this way."

  They grinned, and Gawain eased Gwyn forward into the river.

  There was no point asking the Mornlander guardsmen the same question. The two sides were friendly, and even before he crested the rise into Mornland, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the Jurian guardsmen wading across the river to share the news with their Mornlander counterparts.

  The land seemed somehow cheerless as Gawain rode on towards Threlland. Gone was the sense of wellbeing he'd noticed here before, when Karl and Rak had ragged him about Mornland cider and wine. Instead, the gentle folk Gawain passed looked more like distant kin of the Callodons at Jarn. Heads bowed, eyes filled with fear and suspicion, no cheer or greeting for a stranger.

  He did received a few strange looks from travellers and farmers he passed on the roads, and he assumed that word of his description had travelled ahead of him. In the middle of dense shrubland, he paused and drew out the map Callodon had given him. Perhaps he had time to light a beacon of hope along the way, and lift the spirits of Mornlanders a little.

  He considered it. If word had indeed spread that Gawain was dead, the Ramoth would be complacent in their arrogance, their grip tighter about the throats of the people. Yet Morloch knew he was alive. Perhaps it was the Ramoths themselves who spread such morbid rumours, in an attempt to quell any rising spirit that might range against them.

  On the other hand, if he slew a Ramoth Emissary, then his presence in Mornland would be known. Black riders might be sent against him here…

  He snorted in derision. Dangerous thinking. What did he care for black riders, or the Ramoths? If Morloch could find him in all the land, what did it matter if he stood before an eye-amulet at the top of a dark tower? Morloch was trying to use the same tactics as Gawain himself had employed. Fear, and terror. Well. Gawain was not afraid, and the terror he'd felt in Juria was short-lived. It was time to vex the dark wizard again, for the Mornland town of Jubek was but half a day's fast ride east of this hill, and there was a tower there needed attention…