The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  Gawain stood. "It is simple. If the Teeth are impassable, then the Ramoths cannot be coming over them. If not over, then under. Or through."

  Rak nodded.

  "And you, Allazar. I shall meet you before sunset, up at the point, overlooking the farak gorin."

  "I shall be there. But Longsword, I cannot go with you to the Teeth."

  "We shall talk later."

  Gawain left them in the garden, and went to his room. It was as he remembered it, and the bed of soft furs and skins reminded him of Elvendere. But he must set all that aside now, as he set aside the longsword, propping it against the wall before he sank onto the bed and closed his eyes.

  Rak was out when he awoke later in the afternoon, and after a hasty but satisfying lunch of bread and cold meats prepared by Merrin, Gawain left the house by the back door, and made his way to the point. Allazar was already there, sitting on a boulder, gazing at the Teeth, and at the farak gorin.

  "You look like a frightened child." Gawain announced softly, and Allazar span around.

  "Longsword! I did not hear you approach."

  "I have been too long in Elvendere. They walk softly there.” Gawain sat beside the wizard, and followed his gaze out across the wasteland below them.

  "See those dots, darker than the rest of the farak gorin?" Allazar remarked.

  "I do."

  "They wait for you."

  "Three black riders on foot are no trial worthy of the name. They are slow, weighed down by their armour. They will make but short work. But that is not what frightens you, is it, whitebeard?"

  "I wish you wouldn't call me that, Longsword. I am your friend, and I have a name."

  "You are a wizard. Just because I haven't killed you yet doesn't make you a friend. Tell me about that." Gawain nodded towards the Teeth, where an occasional shimmering blackness could be seen.

  "It is said to be an illusion, caused by refraction..."

  "I don't care for whitebeard lies. I know different, as do you. You remember the tower at Juria? The poison? Aquamire, you said. And you said it was aquamire that gave the black riders life. When I slew those riders, great jets of blackness blasted from them. The same blackness I saw when Morloch appeared. The same blackness I see now, shimmering faintly from the Teeth."

  Allazar fiddled with the hem of his sleeves, and gazed off into the distance.

  Gawain waited a few moments longer, but his patience had limits, and this was important.

  "Tell me, wizard, or offend me. The latter is a course I do not recommend."

  Allazar nodded, but would not meet Gawain's eyes.

  "Aquamire. I shall not tell you how it is prepared. I cannot. It is too vile, too evil..." the wizard sighed, and seemed pained beyond description. "There is an energy in all living things. It is difficult to describe. Wizards use this energy, manipulate it, divert it, transmute it...it is difficult to describe. Observe..."

  The wizard stood, and plucked a leafy twig from a nearby tree. The leaves were edged with reddish brown, autumnal shades. Allazar held the twig, and began a gentle chanting, his free hand making patterns in the air. As Gawain watched, the leaves seemed to grow lush, greener, and the tints of autumn were driven back from their edges like a tide receding.

  Allazar let out a huge sigh, and handed the twig to Gawain. "That was tiring, and took much energy. With aquamire, I could drive autumn from the entire tree. With enough aquamire, I could drive autumn from all Elvendere. Or raze that mighty forest to ashes."

  "Like Raheen."

  "Like Raheen."

  "Then while you and your brethren this side of the Teeth have to be content with party tricks, Morloch bathes in a lake of this aquamire and lays waste to entire lands. With so much aquamire there, I would have thought I'd have to fight my way through hordes of wizards to get to Morloch, not watch them scuttle away from such power."

  "You do not understand! It is poison! You saw the effects of tiny doses on Juria! It consumes! It consumes your very soul! Do you not realise how hard it is for me not to rush across the farak gorin? To ally myself with Morloch just for one taste of that power? Do you not remember the vile apparition, how the aquamire had eaten away that creature we call Morloch?"

  Gawain remembered all too well. Morloch was hideous to behold.

  "That is why I cannot go to the Teeth. Seeing the aquamire shimmering thus...you have no idea of the pain it brings."

  A small suspicion, barely a germ of a thought at first, began to grow within Gawain, and he studied the wizard's bowed head. "How then can Morloch be so drained of energy, when we see it clearly from here, shimmering and flickering from time to time above the Teeth?"

  "You do not understand. It would take a lifetime of education to impart such knowledge."

  "You are not much older than I, I think."

  "You cannot possibly know how old I truly am. Suffice to say, that everything Morloch does requires aquamire. All his plans, whatever they might be. Even his very life is dependent on it. You have seen those who become too acquainted with strong spirits? How they yearn for it, how the desire for it consumes them?"

  Gawain nodded.

  "Aquamire is worse. It becomes life itself. The black riders live only through the aquamire coursing through them. It is through that, and by its magical energies, that Morloch controls them. Those down there? Everything they see, Morloch sees, if he wishes it. When they fight, they do so at his command. That is why Threlland's patrols may pass close by unhindered. That is why the Ramoth can pass freely."

  "And Ramoth, this ancient god they proclaim? What of his power?"

  "I know not. I do not know even if this Ramoth exists beyond the prattling of his followers. But if he does, then aquamire is the source of his power too."

  "Tell me, wizard. What is it?"

  Allazar sighed. "It is a black oily liquid, much like molasses in appearance. That is all I will tell you."

  "How is it made?"

  "I will not speak of that. Can you not guess? Will you press me to voice what you have already glimpsed?"

  "You said that all living things possess some magical energy."

  "I did."

  "Then this aquamire..."

  Allazar drew in a long shuddering breath. "Jurian brandy begins with the grape, ripened by the sun."

  Gawain's eyes widened in horror. "Then aquamire has been distilled from..."

  "Do not say it, Longsword, I beg you. Do you know how many grapes must be pressed for a single glass of Jurian brandy...Do you know how long it takes for the brandy to mature...Look yonder, at the Teeth. See the occasional shimmering of it, and you begin to grasp the full horror of what Morloch has done to Raheen."

  Gawain stood, his legs unsteady, tears flooding unbidden. Tears of horror, tears of rage, streaming down his face, as he walked several paces towards the Teeth, his back to the wizard.

  "I have pleaded with my brethren to strike at Morloch now, before that vile brew has time to ferment, while Morloch gasps for breath, so much of his old power spent. When I saw Raheen, I knew we must strike. But they will not listen to me. I am young, by their reckoning. They tell me I do not have their wisdom."

  Allazar sighed, sorrow making his voice quaver as he continued.

  "For so long, the brethren have been quietly working, trying to keep these lands safe. They thought Morloch all but powerless, trapped as he is beyond the Teeth. The mountains, you see, are rich in minerals which disperse and refract a wizard's energies. Morloch cannot cross them, and his power cannot penetrate them. So I was taught. So the brethren believed. How could they know, how could we know, that the dark one would find a way to penetrate the wall that has protected the southlands for so long?

  "When Raheen was blasted, the brethren recoiled in terror. Too late they realised Morloch's reach, and now they are afraid. When you came, Longsword, when you lit the fires of hope in men’s hearts, you lit the fire of hope in my own. I cannot harm the races of man, and my powers are as nothing compared to Morloch. But you,
with nothing more than a warrior's skill, have done more harm to Morloch than all the brethren have achieved in more than three centuries."

  "How do I destroy a creature of such power?" Gawain asked softly, wiping his eyes, still gazing at the Teeth.

  "You cannot. He is beyond the reach even of your long sword. What lays between you and the Teeth is as nothing compared with what lays between the Teeth and Morloch. That is why I urge you not to go. You are needed here, Longsword. By all the races of man. And by me."

  Gawain shook his head slowly. "If a bloodfly stings you, you may kill the bloodfly. But the nest, and its queen, remains. There is the nest. There is where I must go, with or without you."

  "Longsword..." Allazar sighed, "I would follow you anywhere but there. You do not understand. What powers I have are useless there. Morloch would sense my presence immediately, and I do not believe I could resist him, and aquamire...In the blink of an eye, you would find an enemy at your side, not a friend."

  "Then tell me how this aquamire can be destroyed."

  "It cannot be. Just as you cannot destroy sunlight. It can only be liberated, or transmuted."

  "I will find a way. Just as I will find a way through or over the teeth. I shall rid this land of the Ramoth. I shall rid the world of Morloch. If I am able."

  "You will not be able."

  Gawain turned and stared down at the wizard. "Then I at least shall die trying. Better that than see the world thus."

  Allazar's blood ran chill, and he was about to speak when movement caught Gawain's eye, and he looked over the wizard's head. Rak, and an elderly dwarf were approaching.

  "Well met, friend." Rak called as they approached. "This is Martan, of Tellek, a village but a short ride from Tarn."

  "Well met, and honour to you." Gawain nodded at the old man. He must have been well into his sixtieth year, and was considerably shorter even than Rak.

  "Honour to you, Serre." Martan grunted, his voice strong and belying his advanced years. "You have need of an old miner, I am told?"

  Gawain nodded. "One who knows the Teeth."

  "Then I'm yer man, Serre. There's none living as know 'em like I do. Were, but they're long gone now."

  "Perhaps with this wizard's aid, you can draw me a map? I should like to know where any old workings might be found."

  "A map, is it? Don't know much about maps. I'll take you there, Serre, seen as it'll be much easier that way."

  "I must travel alone, Martan. The way ahead of me is dangerous."

  Martan looked crestfallen, and then ruffled like a proud old rooster. "I'll take you there, Serre. These bones ain't so old as they'll slow you down none. Not on the farak gorin, and not at the blasted Teeth."

  Gawain eyed the old man, and then glanced at Rak, who, to Gawain's surprise, nodded solemnly.

  "Very well. But death likely awaits us there."

  "My age, Serre, death likely awaits at every turn. When do we leave?"

  "At dawn."

  "So soon!" Allazar gasped.

  "Unless there is anything else of use you are able to tell me that'll take days in the telling?"

  Allazar thought desperately for a few moments. Then he sadly shook his head.

  Martan beamed. "I'll be off to the inn then, Serre. I have my belongings below, such as they are. Until dawn then. Wrap up warm an' all Serre, it gets cold at night on them blasted rocks."

  "Until dawn."

  Martan bowed to Rak, and then hurried off down the track to the town below the point, a spring in his step that hadn't been evident before. Gawain looked at Rak, who shrugged his shoulders.

  "He is an old miner, Longsword. They will not let him work at the mines any more, and since the death of his wife, his only family is a brother and nephew with whom he lives. That someone should need him at all, even for a perilous quest, has given him new life, and respect."

  "He knows the Teeth, in truth?"

  "In truth, Longsword. His bones may be old, but his mind is sharp as a blade."

  "Good."

  "And what of me, Longsword. You will not take me. I trust it is because my services are truly required elsewhere, and that it is not through friendship you deny me this quest?"

  "Your services are needed, friend. Though I'll admit I'm glad of it, for if they weren't I might be forced to deny you from some gentler reasons, both of which await you at home."

  Rak smiled. "Then what must I do?"

  Gawain grinned. "Something to keep the Ramoths occupied whilst I am busy at the Teeth."

  "Longsword, I have a duty to my king...I may not..."

  "You need not. That is not my intent. You have friends at Court in Juria. Know you an officer there by the name of Jerryn?"

  "A captain, of the Royal Jurian Guard. His name is familiar."

  "Good. I should like you to send word to him. He will know you?"

  "I believe all at Juria will know me, at Court."

  "Good. There is a soldier in the Guard. Tall, with fair hair. Much like myself."

  Allazar rose to his feet. "A decoy?"

  "Captain Jerryn has no love of the Ramoths. Neither does Juria's crown. If Jerryn can persuade this unknown soldier to go about with a long sword strapped to his back, to harry the Ramoths by night..."

  "Then the Ramoths, and perhaps even Morloch himself, will believe you at large in Juria. A clever plan. But," Rak frowned, "I do not see why this simple task falls to me, and not to the wizard."

  "Allazar does not command much respect in Juria. Or anywhere else for that matter, it seems. And Captain Jerryn is an honourable man. It will take great tact and diplomacy to persuade Juria's crown to permit this ruse, not to mention persuading the tall fair-haired soldier into playing his part. It must be convincing."

  "You may rely on me, my friend. I shall send a fast rider to Juria immediately, and when you leave for the Teeth tomorrow, I shall leave myself for Juria."

  "Good.” Gawain eyed them both critically. "It may be that I do not return from the Teeth. But perhaps by means of such impostors, you may yet keep the beacon of hope alight for ordinary men. If I can cross the farak gorin knowing that the responsibility thrust upon me has been well-tended, I can face the perils awaiting me with conscience clear."

  "The work you have started, we shall finish." Rak said solemnly. "And my hand on it."

  "And mine, if you'll take the hand of a wizard."

  "I shall, though it's a novelty for it still to be attached to an arm when I do so."

  There were few preparations to be made after that. Gwyn was severely unimpressed that she was to be left behind in Tarn when Gawain visited her in the early evening for a final grooming. But the dreadful sharp cinders of the farak gorin would cripple the horse. The coloured threads and ribbons braided into Gwyn's mane and tail were a lingering reminder of Elvendere, and Gawain left them in place. If Allazar and Morloch were right, perhaps Gwyn would choose to return to the forest of her own accord. Rak agreed, though with great reluctance, that should his friend not return before winter's cruel grip, then Gwyn would be turned free, to go or stay as she pleased.

  Allazar remained quiet, torn between his desire to aid Gawain, and his dread of the Teeth, and aquamire. Merrin prepared a pack filled with food and blankets and warm clothing, and with tears in her eyes, presented him with a gift. It was a long black cloak, lined with fur, with an ornate clasp at the neck.

  "It will keep you warm in the mountains." she said, as Gawain admired it. It had clearly been made by hand, and he had no doubt that it was Merrin's that had stitched it so patiently.

  "Thank you." Gawain said, and then frowned at its weight when he slipped it around his shoulders. Though lined with fur, it should not have weighed so much. "It is heavy?" he remarked.

  Rak grinned. "You noticed. Beneath the fur it is of Arrunwove arrowsilk."

  "By my sword!" Gawain gasped, "This is too expensive a gift, I cannot accept..."

  "You have no choice." Merrin smiled.

  Arrowsilk, woven by Arrun
craftsmen, was a prized fabric, taking a full year of painstaking work to produce sufficient for a cloak of this size. It would stop even a crossbow bolt fired from ten paces.

  "It must cost a king's crown for such a gift." Gawain announced, drawing the cloak tighter around him.

  "The silk was a gift from my uncle," Merrin announced. "To express his gratitude to the Traveller who led us safely home, that Travak might greet the world. My uncle wanted to ensure that Travak's namesake should enjoy the same protection as we did that night so long ago. I was going to make a doublet of it, but Rak suggested a cloak might be more appropriate, given your journeys."

  "Then please tell your uncle I am grateful. And please accept my thanks for this gift."

  "You may tell my uncle yourself, when you return from the Teeth."

  "I shall, if I am able."

  Then Merrin bade Gawain an early goodnight. She would not say goodbye, and would not rise with the sun to do so either.

  Before she left to shut herself away in her room with Travak, Gawain took her and Rak to one side.

  "Do you still have the gift I left for Travak?" he asked softly.

  Merrin's eyes widened. "Of course! It is kept safe as we promised it would."

  "Then," Gawain paused a moment, "If I do not return, I shall not hold you to that promise. If I am not returned by midwinter's day, open the letter. It will explain much that I cannot now."

  Puzzled, and tearful, Merrin said that she would, and then left.

  Rak, Gawain, and Allazar sat quietly, sipping wine by the empty fireplace. Gawain's new cloak lay neatly folded beside him, and the longsword stood propped against the hearth.

  "I hope that Martan gets a good night's sleep tonight." Gawain muttered.

  "He will." Rak replied softly. "And you?"

  Gawain shrugged.

  "I shall not." Allazar mumbled.

  "Will you stay long in Threlland?" Rak asked the wizard.

  "I had thought to accompany you to Juria. But I think I shall remain a while longer."

  Gawain eyed the wizard. Sometimes, he thought, this whitebeard could be both bane and salve. Whitebeards. But for them, the land would be at peace. There would be no Morloch, and there would still be a Raheen. But from time to time, a small part of Gawain recognised something honourable in this wizard, nursing a goblet of wine, staring at an empty fireplace as if seeing flames.