The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  "Well met, Threllandmen, and honour to you." Gawain said to them from the saddle.

  "Well met, Serre, and honour to you." One gasped.

  "This is Tellek?"

  "Aye Serre, this be Tellek."

  "I have a friend here, an honourable miner by the name of Martan. Know you his house?"

  Mouths gaped. "Aye Serre, tis yonder at the end of the street, and its door is of green and blue."

  "Thank you."

  "Serre..?" one miner called as Gwyn began clopping away towards the house they'd indicated.

  "Aye?" Gawain called.

  "Serre...in truth...Martan's wounds?"

  "What of them? Is he not yet recovered?"

  "Oh, he is recovered well enough, Serre...but we was wondering..."

  Eyes were downcast, sheepish, and at length the speaker, who was slightly drunk, found his courage again. "Were they truly from battle with Morloch's monsters? And not the quaking earth or the tumble down the scree?"

  Gawain backed Gwyn along the street, so that he towered above the men. The tavern door was open, and a dozen more pairs of eyes gazed out and up at him, awaiting his reply.

  Gawain cocked his head, and regarded them all for a moment, before he spoke with years of regal Raheen training: "Beneath the Teeth, in a chamber cut by Morloch's dark brethren, there stood the great lens of Ramoth. Between it and us, there were some fifty vile acolytes, enraged at our trespass. From behind us, there came more, and two of Morloch's black riders.

  "Martan of Tellek, a hammer in each fist, pounded the first of these before my eyes. He took the monster's mask clean off, and smashed the thing between the eyes with a blow so fierce only Morloch's dark wizardry kept the creature upright. And while I did battle with it, and the other that followed, Martan fought with the Ramoths..."

  Gawain paused, remembering, noting the wide-eyed awe, ale forgotten, in the dirty faces gazing up at him. Then he continued:

  "I saw Martan go down, under a throng of the shrieking followers of Ramoth. I saw them beat him mercilessly, and kick him, and dash rocks upon him, yet in spite of his grievous wounds, floored, he fought them. His hammers smashing shinbones and legbones, and," Gawain elaborated a little, for it did no harm to do so, "all the while he cried 'For Threlland! For Threlland!' Yes, his wounds were got in battle, and though it was I who fell like an infant down the scree after, Martan of Tellek, a hammer yet in hand, rode it to the bottom, and would have slain the Ramoths waiting there were it not for my stumbling in his way.

  "And on the farak gorin, in sore pain and near death, Martan of Tellek handed me the last of his water and frak, and bade me leave him, that I might live to see another dawn. I do not know your history, Threllandmen, but I tell you this, in truth... I know none more courageous in all the Black Hills, and I am proud and honoured to call him friend.”

  The miners stood agog, eyes brimming with tears of pride, as Gawain nodded a final acknowledgement, and Gwyn set off once more to the house with the blue and green door.

  It was a youth that answered when Gawain rapped upon the door, and the youth's chin dropped on seeing who it was on the threshold.

  "Honour to you, friend," Gawain announced. "I am told this is the house where I can find Martan of Tellek?"

  The youth nodded, dumbstruck, and opened the door wider, pointing to his left. Gawain stooped under the lintel, though the hilt of his sword rapped the woodwork as he stepped inside. Martan was sitting by the fire, his eyes bright, and on seeing Gawain, he struggled to his feet with a cry.

  "Longsword! Well poke me in the eye and call me bitchrock!"

  "Martan." Gawain grinned, and extended his hand. "I heard you were dead."

  Martan laughed, and clasped his arm. "Funny that, Serre, I 'eard the same said of yerself a few times!"

  "How are you, in truth?"

  Martan's eyes clouded briefly. "Well, Serre, or rather healed, I should say. I grow weary of sitting by the fireside, truth to tell. Sometimes I wonder..." the old man trailed off.

  Gawain nodded. "I would not have left you on the farak gorin."

  "Aye. I know."

  "Besides. Make the most of your fireside. I have need of you, my friend."

  Martan's eyes lit up. "The Teeth again?"

  "Not quite, but close enough. May we talk?"

  "Aye. Piter!" Martan called to the youth still standing holding the door wide open. "He's my brother's boy, Serre, and a little slow. Piter! Close the door and get you to the kitchen and fetch two tankards! Then make yerself scarce, our talk ain't for young ears."

  The boy slammed the door, rushed to the kitchen and hurried back with two tankards before Gawain could take the seat offered him by Martan. Then the lad was off out the door as if Morloch himself were chasing him.

  "I despair of that boy, Serre... However, sit you and warm, I've a bottle here somewhere."

  "I have some here too." Gawain held out a small sack. "I did not know how well you had recovered, and thought this might aid you."

  "For me Serre?" Martan looked stunned.

  "Aye."

  Martan took the sack and opened it, his face cracking into a broad grin. Two great cakes of frak, a bottle of Jurian brandy, and a bottle of Mornland port wine. Martan sat, and clearly his ribs still ached from the flicker of a grimace when he did so, and he sniffed the frak, and broke into a cackle.

  "The true stuff, Serre! None of yer tourist frak this, all spice and soft, but real frak! Why, Serre, we'll make a dwarf of you yet!"

  Gawain grinned. "The shopkeeper tried to sell me some pretty stuff that smelled sweet as fresh Arrun olives."

  Martan grimaced. "I trust you put 'em right, as clearly your purchase shows you did. And port wine, and Jurian brandy! I do not deserve such gifts, Serre."

  "No, you deserve far more. Especially when I tell you why I yet need your aid."

  Martan became serious. "Why then, we'll open the port, and drink a little, and then you'll tell yer loyal subject what is required of 'im.” Martan uncorked the bottle, filled the tankards, and they sat back to drink.

  "Is your Lady well, Serre? A merchant passing when the roads cleared spoke at the tavern."

  Gawain gazed into the fire. "She is not yet herself."

  "Well then. I shall raise me mug to her health Serre, in the hope it shall speed her recovery."

  Gawain smiled. "So shall I, with the same hope. And you, truly you are recovered?"

  "Truly, I still ache a little. But the healer says the bones've knitted an' all danger's passed. Tis a minor discomfort, no more."

  "Good. For now, it's your brains I need."

  "A question of mining?"

  "Aye. You saw the steps they'd carved in the great rip."

  "Aye. Mad bastards all of 'em." Martan shook his head in awe.

  "If there were ten thousand mad bastards, Martan, all attacking the slope of the teeth, how long before they break through?"

  Martan's eyes widened. "All in one place?"

  "Yes."

  "Ten thousand you say?"

  "A guess, nothing more."

  Martan sat back, and sipped his port. "Ten years, maybe fifteen, to broach a pass, if the Teeth be narrow where they work."

  "How long do you think it took them to carve those steps?"

  "Dunno. But the workin’s I saw, the fresh ones, the second set o' steps they was cutting? I'd say if they started them when the Ramoths first appeared in the land, then it must've taken the mad bastards maybe ten 'ard years to cut the first lot in."

  "Then if they started attacking the Teeth at the same time, they might almost be through?" Gawain gasped.

  Martan shrugged. "Nah, ain't that easy. They'd have an easy route up their side, not so easy coming down on ours. Ain't like they can cut a tunnel clean through the Teeth."

  "They already had. We saw it, and walked the length of it on our side of the rip. It was only the rip that held them back."

  "Aye, there's that. But the tunnel's collapsed for sure after that quake."


  Gawain considered for a moment, then sighed. "Well. They are coming, that much is sure. When, we can only guess. But come they shall."

  "You'll pardon me for saying so, Serre," Martan grunted, topping up their tankards, "But you and me 'ad an 'ard enough time against fifty o' the sods. Don't reckon we'd fare too clever against ten thousand of 'em."

  Gawain grinned. "In truth. But I'm hoping you can manage it on your own. With a little help from some close and trusted friends that you may know."

  "On me own? That'd be somethin' to tell about on a cold winter's night at the tavern!"

  "Aye."

  "How then?"

  "Have you ever tunnelled through bitchrock?"

  Martan gasped. "Bitchrock? Kick me up the arse and call me Morloch as I sails beyond the moon!"

  Gawain smiled grimly, and briefly explained his plans. Martan stared attentively, and then gazed into the heart of the fire.

  "Well now Serre. You'll pardon me for saying so, but such works would need skilled miners, and plans, and great care. I'm but an old man, and can't command such. And the men would need to come off their usual work. You'd need the King's Works to plan such, and administer the purse and so forth."

  "Not if they were men such as yourself, my friend."

  Martan's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Ah! I begins to suspect, if you'll pardon my saying so, a somewhat mischievious undercurrent."

  Gawain nodded. "It cannot be official at this stage. I have yet to speak with Eryk of Threlland. It may be that the crown does not share my concern for the southlands, nor believe in the pressing nature of the threat."

  "I see. So, you would 'ave a bunch o' discarded old souls like meself workin' in secret?"

  "I would not have put it so, but yes. The Ramoths may be slain, but on this side of the Teeth, I am certain Morloch still has his spies. When I looked into the lens, I saw many things, and I do not believe all that I saw came from Emissary eye-amulets. In truth, in Elvendere, a wizard wore a small dark lens with which means he doubtless communicated all to Morloch. Such spies may yet prosper in Threlland's castletown."

  "Ah. So, if you tells the crown all, and of these plans of yours, then the enemy may very well take steps against us?"

  "That is my thinking."

  "Then p'raps the way you suggest has much merit. Certain sure, I know plenty o' miners such as meself, forbidden the workin’s through age and infirmity. We can do as you say, Serre, in truth, but it'll be slow goin'. There's none of us can cut ten times our length in a day, not no more."

  "Five times your length in bitchrock would be a miracle."

  Martan smiled. "Well now, Serre, I'm not so sure. I know of no workin’s as gone beneath the farak gorin afore. Could be, no-one's ever thought of it afore, or thought it too much 'ard rock and pain. But this I'll say, I'll give it a go, and pick such men as I know are trustworthy."

  Gawain drew a small pouch from inside his tunic, and handed it to Martan. "This may help."

  Martan opened the purse, and gasped in shock. "Gemstones! What be these for?"

  Gawain shrugged. "You and your men will need equipment, tools, frak...all manner of things I imagine."

  Martan frowned sternly, and took one small red gemstone from the pouch, and handed the rest back. "This'll do against food an' such. Tools we all 'ave, us being miners. And as for equipment, we have our brains and our 'ands, Serre."

  Gawain accepted the purse. "I meant no offense, my friend."

  "Aye Serre, I know. But this be plenty. The men I'm a-thinking of are such as meself, and will be proud to work again, and cut rock, and would do it for nothin' but the pride and fun of it. Besides, it'll be a real test, this dig. Normally, when we digs, we make it strong. You're asking us to dig, and make the workin’s weak! Now that, if you'll pardon my saying so, is a feat worth a ballad or two if we succeeds!"

  Gawain smiled grimly. "Take care though, Martan. I do not want the bitchrock falling on your heads.”

  "No Serre, have no fear. We'll dig it like you wants it."

  "And can it be done in secret?"

  Martan drew in a thoughtful breath. "Aye. I reckon so. It'll take a few days to round up all them I can rely on. Then p'raps a day or two of testing the way. Bit o' careful planning...I should say that within a week we'll commence our first shafts northbound. Then, it depends on the bitchrock itself."

  "Can you send word to me, at Tarn, or wherever I might be? I would know of your progress."

  "I can make such arrangements, Serre. You leave it to me. I know what you want, and what you want, you'll get. Might take longer than would be expected of a Threlland digging crew, but bearing in mind it's old bones doing the diggin', it can't be helped."

  "Just be careful, my friend. I trust your experience and that of those you choose. But I would not leave you on the farak gorin, and I do not want to leave you under it."

  Martan chuckled. "Aye. It'll be as you say, Longsword. Safe, until you say the word. And then, the word given, if Morloch's black army sets out across the farak gorin, they're in for a very nasty end."

  Gawain smiled grimly. "Aye. A nasty end indeed."

  They drank, and ate frak by the fire. Piter, and Martan's brother Steffan, returned home some hours later, and though Steffan gaped and would've done so all night, he was fresh from the mines, and retired to his bed, Piter taking the hint and following close behind. Gawain and Martan sat quietly, chewing frak and sipping port wine, long into the night, until both fell asleep in their chairs.

  Next morning, at daybreak, Gawain reaffirmed his instructions that the old miner should take great care, and then took to the saddle, bound for Tarn, leaving Martan of Tellek beaming and filled with great purpose.

  Gawain hurried Gwyn back to the inn at Tarn, but after a hasty conversation with Derrik the landlord, discovered that Allazar had yet to return from visiting Rak's house. Gawain dare not return Gwyn to Rak's stables, for that would mean passing too close to the house. His heart ached as he climbed into the saddle again, and he gazed across the square towards the dwelling wherein Elayeen rested. He sighed, and decided to take a back route up to the Point, so that he could overlook the farak gorin and the Teeth. He was just about to ease Gwyn forward when the rumble of hooves drew his attention to the road leading out of Tarn and down to the Mornland approaches. A Threlland guardsman was charging into town, and on catching sight of Gawain, began waving and reining in.

  Gawain turned Gwyn and trotted over to meet the warrior.

  "Well met, friend Longsword!"

  "Well met, guardsman...?"

  "Jak, Serre."

  "Catch your breath, Jak. Then tell me what drives you up the slopes with such urgency."

  "Elves, Serre!" Jak gasped. "Elves at the foot of the slopes!"

  oOo

  28. Thalangard

  Gawain's heart skipped a beat. "Elves? Here?"

  "Aye, Serre! Captain Sarek at once despatched me to fetch you, Serre, since your Lady be of Elvendere, and you knowing them, Serre."

  "How many are there? Have they spoken of Elayeen?"

  "They speak little, Serre, and mostly in their own language. They did speak your old name, Serre, Traveller, and your Lady's name Serre. There are two, a man and a woman, and the worse for wear I'd say, cold and wet."

  Gawain nodded. "Take me there at once."

  "Aye Serre, that was my intent and my orders."

  They set off down the road at the trot, as fast as the crunching snow would permit in safety. On the way, Jak continued his description of the elves' arrival.

  "We was on patrol, at the plains by the farak gorin, and were homeward bound when we seen the two elves on horseback. They looked like drowned rats, Serre, snow-soaked and cold, and scared as rabbits. There's ten of us in the patrol, and when we rode up, we seen the two of 'em reach out, and hold each other like we was Morloch's men about to breathe upon 'em."

  Gwyn threaded her way around a drift, and Gawain said "Go on, Jak, what next."

  "Well, we spoke t
o 'em Serre, and told 'em as not to fear, that we meant no harm. The woman elf..."

  "Elfin." Gawain corrected gently.

  "Sorry, Serre. The elfin, she says something. Don't know what it was, but it ended in your name Serre."

  "Eem frith am Traveller?"

  "That's it Serre! Then she says something else, with your Lady's name. We know your Lady being an elf and all, sorry Serre, elfin, so we thought we'd bring the two of 'em up to Tarn, but they won't budge! They dismounted, gave us their bows, and then just stood there in the snow! Nothing we can do will shift 'em Serre."

  "Are they injured?"

  "Don't think so, Serre. Just cold and wet and not looking too happy. When I left, the Captain was trying to give 'em brandy and food, don't know if they've taken it though. Like scared rabbits, the pair of 'em."

  They pressed on urgently, through the snow-clogged tracks and down the winding route to the gentle slopes where Threlland met Mornland. Gawain could see them in the distance, and Gwyn thrust forward, whinnying long and loud. Heads swung in his direction, the small group of Threlland guardsmen parted, and in the middle of the patrol, he saw two fair-haired elves, standing close to each other, dressed entirely inappropriately for winter, let alone the plains of Juria which they must have crossed.

  It wasn't until he was reining in that he recognised the bedraggled elfin, shivering and snow-wet and pale, standing arm-in-arm with the elf Gawain took to be her husband from the braid in his hair.

  "Meeya!" Gawain called, dismounting.

  "Longsword, you know these elves?" Captain Sarek asked.

  "I do, Captain. This is Meeya, once thalangard, an elven honour-guard, to my Lady."

  "They have refused our blankets and our food, Serre, and nothing we can do will persuade them from this spot."

  Gawain nodded, and strode forward. "Meeya, mifrith."

  "Traveller..." Meeya whispered, her teeth chattering. "Mifrith Elayeen-thalin?"