The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  Gawain's heart skipped a beat. "It is that bad?"

  "I seen worse, but we got the farak gorin to cross, then twenty mile through snow to the slopes. No water, and just a lump o' frak twixt us and the yonderlife. I reckon, Serre, I might just sit a-while, and watch while you go."

  "Take care not to offend me with such talk, dwarf." Gawain said firmly.

  "In truth, Serre, no offence was meant. But I know my pains, and can barely stand, much less walk. Take the frak, and leave an old man with 'is dignity? And if you'll pardon me for taking the liberty of offerin' advice, don't be eatin' no yellow snow on the way 'ome."

  Gawain's heart broke for a second time, and he stooped to pick up his cloak. With a sweep, it was around his shoulders, and the longsword slung in place. Martan stood proudly, offering the small lump of frak that was all that remained from his supplies.

  Gawain stared at the old man for a moment, and a flush of anger swept through him. Suddenly, the world was tinted black again, and Martan looked shocked.

  "I wish you wouldn't do that Serre, it's most alarmin' I must say."

  "Do what?"

  Martan raised a hesitant finger, indicating Gawain's eyes. "That."

  Gawain slipped his knife from his boot, and stared at his reflection in the polished steel. His eyes were aquamire black, as Morloch's had been. No whites, no pupils, just a swimming blackness, the same as his sword. He sheathed the knife, and stared at Martan.

  "I am Gawain. Son of Davyd. King of Raheen. No man offends me twice. And I do not leave a friend to die."

  Martan's eyes brimmed. "Oh Serre..."

  "You may not speak that name to a living soul, nor to me. It is too painful."

  Martan nodded, and Gawain swept him up into his cloak, and started walking.

  oOo

  23. Reunion

  It was night when Gawain reached the end of the farak gorin, and sank to his knees on the snow-covered grass of Juria. Martan was sleeping, and let out a single groan when Gawain laid him on the cold earth and wrapped him in his cloak. The night was clear, the moon and stars bright, and it was bitterly cold. Breath plumed from Gawain's mouth as he breathed on his hands. Twenty miles from Threlland, as best as he could tell. A long way, carrying a dying friend.

  At that thought, Gawain glanced down at Martan, and was relieved to see faint wisps of breath in the cold night air. With a sigh, Gawain began scraping away a small clearing in the snow, exposing the grass beneath, and then he withdrew a handful of arrows from his quiver. Some were broken, probably from the tumble down the scree at the Teeth. But it didn't matter. Those elven shafts that were intact, he snapped into pieces anyway.

  As an afterthought, he left three in the quiver. Who could tell how many black riders yet roamed the lands, looking for him or another of Morloch's enemies? He turned his attention back to the heap of carefully-laid shafts, and then began shredding the goose-feather fletching over the heap. When he was satisfied, he drew his knife, and began striking it with a flint arrowhead. Sparks flew, and after a little more effort, a small patch of goosefeather tinder caught a spark, and glowed, and with gentle breaths, Gawain blew the ember into flame. Soon, flames licked and crackled at the broken arrows, and then the fire caught.

  Gawain sheathed his knife, and Martan stirred, his eyes open.

  "Well poke me in the eye, if that don't be clever."

  Gawain grinned. "Some old traditions come in useful from time to time."

  "Aye." Martan agreed, smiling, and closed his eyes.

  After the tunnels under the Teeth, night on the Jurian plains seemed bright as day. The fire burned splendidly, but Gawain knew it would be short-lived. The heat it gave out was welcome though, and kept the chill at bay. While Martan slept, Gawain stood with his back to the fire, surveying the gloomy horizon and the vast white blanket of snow that stretched in all directions. Then, from the south-east, something caught his eye.

  Lights, tiny, like the distant glowstone lamps carried by the Ramoths into that dread chasm. Dozensof them, snaking through the gloom. Gawain smiled. Torches. He thought about waking Martan, but decided against it, and so he waited, his arms folded across his chest for warmth. As the fire died to embers, the ground began to vibrate, and a distant rumble thundered across the plain towards them.

  Martan's eyes snapped open. "Another quake?" he gasped.

  "No, friend Martan. Rest easy. Help is approaching."

  "Ah."

  Hoofbeats, thundering closer, dozens of torches glaring in the night, faint cries, drawing ever nearer.

  "Longsword?" Martan grunted.

  "Aye, Martan?"

  "I shall keep your name safe."

  "Thank you."

  "No. You 'ave an old man's thanks, Serre, and I swear by me ancient 'eart, you have at least one loyal subject you can call yer own, in me."

  The cries and halloes were clearer now, horses snorting a counterpoint to their galloping hooves. Gawain knelt by Martan's side, and rested his hand on the old man's shoulder. "And you have a friend."

  "Ho there!" A gruff voice cried.

  Gawain stood, and looked out at the line of blazing torches advancing in the darkness.

  "Here, Threllandmen. Hurry, a brave and noble countryman requires aid."

  Riders spurred their mounts forward towards the sound of Gawain's voice, and when they were close enough, great gasps ran the length of the line.

  "Longsword! By the Teeth, it is he!"

  The Threlland patrols, despatched by Rak in the name of the King a week after the two men had left Tarn, rushed to dismount and gather around. Martan was gently handled, wrapped in blankets, and born away by half the riders. Gawain donned his cloak, and gratefully accepted a bottle of Jurian brandy from a dumbstruck Threlland captain.

  "How fares Rak, and Threlland?" Gawain asked, revelling in the liquid fire that coursed through his body on drinking the golden liquid.

  "Both fare well, Serre. We thought you dead."

  "So I heard when last I came to your land."

  "Thrice we have heard it."

  "Thrice?"

  "Aye. Once, when the Callodon whitebeard came a-calling and the Ramoths declared you dead. A second time, weeks ago, when it was said you perished at the hands of the Ramoth, at a tower in southern Juria. And again, when the Teeth were blasted."

  "Ah. At Juria? Weeks ago?"

  "Aye. The Ramoth Emissary on the eastern slopes declared it had been seen by their dark magic. the Jurian Ramoths had set a trap, and cut you down for all to see."

  Gawain sighed, and closed his eyes, remembering the tall fair-haired soldier in Juria. His plan, it seemed, had succeeded in part, explaining why Morloch had seemed so complacent at the Teeth.

  "Are you well, Serre? Are you injured?"

  Gawain opened his eyes. "No, captain. Just tired, and in need of friends. I would like to see Tarn, at sunrise."

  "Then we'll ride, and have you there safe by dawn."

  At Tarn, Gawain left the patrol with his thanks, and their assurances that Martan was well-attended by healers. The sky was greying by the time he slipped quietly around Rak's house to the stables, and released the bolts on the stable door. Gwyn rushed forward, and Gawain grabbed her ears.

  "Hush, nag, or you'll wake the town. Come, you ugly brute, we've a small trip to make."

  The horse bobbed her great head excitedly, her tail swishing madly as Gawain grasped her be-ribboned mane and swung himself up on her back. No need of reins, no need of saddle. Gwyn clopped quietly out onto the track that led up to the point overlooking the farak gorin, where Gawain dismounted and made a fuss of her.

  Then, as dawn broke, man and beast turned towards the sun, and waited, and remembered.

  Rak found them there an hour later, standing quietly side-by-side, gazing out across the vast white expanse to the snow-capped mountains.

  "You look well, for a dead man, my brother."

  Gawain turned, and smiled. "I am tired, Rak. So very tired."

  Rak nodd
ed, and there was a profound sorrow in the dwarf's eyes.

  "You know?" Gawain asked softly.

  "I do. I was in Juria with Allazar when the decoy was slain by the Ramoth. Merrin did not know of our plans, and I deemed it best that no-one should. When she heard word that you had been slain there weeks ago, she thought it true, and opened the letter you left for Travak."

  Gawain nodded. He could understand the error. Morloch had believed it to be true, why should not a gentle mother?

  "Forgive us, your Majesty..." Rak began, but Gawain cut him off with a gesture.

  "No, say it not. I would not be King of ashes. It hurts too much to think of it, even after all this time passing."

  Rak's eyes watered. "I understand. What name do you go by now? The patrols speak of Ramoths quaking in their towers, dreading the coming of The Longsword Darkslayer."

  Gawain paused a moment. "In time, perhaps my own. But not now. Not yet. My heart no longer beats ice, but blood, and is too fragile to bear the pain of a name last spoken by my family. But though I carry this blade, and ever shall, the Longsword that Brock of Callodon and Allazar named is gone."

  "Traveller, then?"

  "Aye, brother. Traveller is meet. For travel I believe we must, soon."

  "Soon?"

  "After winter's grip." Gawain sighed, turning to the Teeth. "Morloch may yet live, but a greater threat awaits all the southlands, and even now attacks the Teeth relentlessly, hoping to force a breach. Should they succeed, should that dam burst, all the lands shall perish, unless they stand together as one."

  "Then your father's dream, and mine, yet lives."

  "Yes. And we must prevail, or every land shall be wasted."

  "Then we shall prevail."

  Gawain turned again, waves of weariness washing over him. Rak strode forward, took him by the arm, and led him down from the point, and to home.

  Gawain slept for two days and nights, and when he awoke it was to birdsong. Clean clothing and new boots had been left at the foot of his bed, and he dressed quietly. Outside the window, more snow had fallen since he'd retired to his room, but the day had dawned bright, with the promise of clear skies.

  Habit more than desire caused him to pick up the longsword and sling it over his shoulder, and he left the room intending to make straight for the kitchen, but was interrupted by happy giggling from the main room. He walked in, and found Rak seated by the fire, and Merrin sitting on the floor playing with Travak. The infant had a toy wooden horse, and someone had painted in bright blue eyes. Gawain smiled.

  "Well met, friend Traveller." Rak said quietly, smiling.

  "Well met."

  Merrin smiled, though her eyes betrayed her pity for Gawain's dread loss. "Look, Travak, your uncle is here!"

  The toddler grinned happily, picked up the little wooden Gwyn, and stumbled across the room, holding it out for Gawain to see. He bent, his back and knees protesting, and smiled at his namesake.

  "Hello Travak."

  "Gwyn!" the boy giggled, waving the toy horse, and then rushed back to his mother's arms.

  "You must be famished." Merrin said, and rose, with Travak on her hip.

  "I am, in truth." Gawain smiled back.

  "What would you like for breakfast?"

  "Anything but frak."

  Rak and Merrin laughed, all tension evaporating.

  "Although I must say I have a taste for it. But after so long of nothing but, I'd happily eat grass."

  "I think we can provide much better fare." Merrin smiled happily, and left the room.

  "Sit, or are you inclined to stand after so long a-bed?"

  "No, I'll sit.” Gawain unslung the sword, and eyed it ruefully before propping it apologetically against the hearth.

  "You are rested?"

  "I am, thank you. How fares Threlland?"

  "The land, or the crown?"

  "Both, since both are known well to you."

  "Ah," Rak looked sheepish. "Forgive us. But my Lady and I are not given to ostentation."

  Gawain smiled. "Nothing to forgive. Both are well?"

  "Aye, and thriving. You missed a fire yesterday."

  "A fire?"

  "Aye. Safe to say, there are no Ramoths in our land this day, and never shall be again."

  "Word is spreading, then?"

  "In truth. Winter hampers its progress a little, but word is spreading. Wizards are proclaiming the death of Morloch, and with no fear of Morloch's breath, towers are being fired across the southlands."

  Gawain's eyes flashed aquamire black, and he knew it. Rak looked momentarily startled, but just as quickly regained his composure. "Whitebeards. Fools. Allazar was right, Morloch spent his Breath long ago. And now they would celebrate, instead of forming council and binding Morloch forever. Idiots."

  "It is early, my friend. There is time enough surely to acquaint them with the truth?"

  Gawain sighed, and the quiet words dampened his ire. The dark tints in the periphery of his vision evaporated, and Rak visibly relaxed.

  "Yes, there is time." Gawain agreed. "But I know more of whitebeards now than I did before. Much more. They are not to be trusted, Rak, on any account. The time must come soon when they must take orders from kings, not give orders to them."

  "And Allazar? Is he not to be trusted?"

  "No whitebeard can ever be truly trusted. If you had seen across the Teeth as I have..." Gawain trailed off, and watched the flames dancing in the hearth.

  "Allazar comes. He should arrive by nightfall. Word has it he left Juria's court the moment the Teeth shook, and has killed two horses in his haste to come."

  "Then for that alone he offends me."

  "Do not judge him harshly, Traveller. He laboured hard on your behalf, and risked all many times. Twice I myself saw him close to death, chanting magic to keep the decoy from sight entering Ramoth compounds."

  Gawain sighed, and was about to answer when Merrin entered bearing a tray laden with hot food. Gawain smiled, and rose, and then sat to a welcome meal.

  Merrin sat on the floor by Rak's legs, playing with Travak while Gawain ate. But at length, she looked up, and asked "Are we truly safe, Traveller? Will we see Travak a man?"

  Gawain paused, and considered a moment, keenly aware of the longing in her eyes. "For now, yes, I believe so." He answered. "I cannot answer for the future, but for now, in truth, I believe we are safe."

  She smiled, and went back to playing with Travak.

  "How long before they breach the Teeth?" Rak asked, and Gawain looked up from the remains of his meal in surprise.

  He found both Rak and Merrin looking to him for an honest answer.

  "In truth, I do not know. Years? I would need to speak with Martan, for his opinion."

  Rak nodded. "We have much to do then, in the time available."

  "Aye. Much indeed."

  Later, Gawain was grooming Gwyn in the stables when a messenger arrived bearing news that Allazar had arrived, and awaited him in Rak's main room. Gawain nodded, and went back to his duty. Gwyn had been well-tended, but duty was duty, and he'd missed her company and watchful blue eyes. At length, when she shone in the lamplight, Gawain stepped back and admired her.

  "By my teeth, but you are an ugly old nag."

  Gwyn bobbed her head happily, and then with a haughty snort, walked to her stall. Gawain chuckled, and left the stable.

  When he walked into the main room and saw Allazar, he stopped dead in his tracks. The wizard looked haggard, drained, and his hands trembled.

  "Longsword!" Allazar gasped breathlessly, "You live!"

  "I do, whitebeard, which is more than you should for such poor treatment of horses."

  "You live. It matters not whether I do. You live!"

  Gawain strode forward, unable to resist the profound relief that shone from the wizard's eyes, and reached out his hand. "I do, and so shall you, a while longer yet I hope."

  Allazar grasped Gawain's arm, and wept. "When I saw the aquamire fire, I thought..."
/>   "Morloch lives."

  Allazar wiped his eyes. "Aye, I suspected as much, and so I have advised the brethren. But a toothless dog is no threat, they say, and celebrate."

  "Idiots."

  "Aye."

  They sat, the four of them. Merrin, Rak, Allazar and Gawain.

  "I have seen across the Teeth." Gawain announced quietly.

  Allazar gasped. "In truth?"

  Gawain looked across at the wizard, his eyes sparkling aquamire. "You doubt me?"

  "By the...no, Longsword, I doubt you not!"

  Gawain turned his awful gaze to the fire, keenly aware that Merrin's hand had slipped into her husband's. Slowly he calmed, and the blackness faded. "I saw thousands of black-clad men and women, attacking the Teeth with their hammers. Can you imagine the remorseless futility of it? They would break down mountains with hammers. They die where they stand, and others clamber upon their fallen bodies to bring fresh assault to bear on the rock.

  "I saw their works, beneath the Teeth. How many thousands had died carving steps into the chasm's walls I do not know. Even with the steps in place, only one in five survived the journey across that dread divide."

  Gawain paused, remembering, and shook his head. "That is Morloch's army. Relentless, single-minded. That is the true threat we face."

  "Then it might be centuries before they breach the Teeth." Allazar muttered.

  "No." Gawain asserted. "Allazar, you would not speak of aquamire, and how it comes into being. I saw it. How long, Allazar, would that foul lake have taken to ferment?"

  Allazar shuddered.

  "How long?" Gawain pressed, eyes flashing black again.

  "Five years, perhaps eight."

  "Then that is all the time we have?" Merrin gasped.

  Gawain shrugged. "I do not know. I only know that the Teeth are a dam, holding back a black tide that will sweep down across our lands and destroy them utterly. Once they breach the Teeth, we are doomed, unless the kingdoms unite."

  "And Ramoth?" Rak asked quietly.

  "Ramoth is destroyed."

  Allazar leaned forward, eyes wide. "Ramoth was real? You slew a god?"

  Gawain chuckled. "No. Ramoth was an invention of Morloch's. A decoy, used just as we did that poor Jurian soldier who posed as the Longsword warrior."