The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes

by GJ Kelly

  Gawain glanced up, counted, and then moved off, picking his way back through the acrid landscape until, an hour later, he reached the mound where he'd left his companions. He stood for a moment, temporarily robbed of all comprehension. They were gone. All of them. The horses, too.

  oOo

  35. The Hunted

  Gawain knelt, and scanned the ground. Small puddles had formed in the shallow indentations that the horses' hooves had left in the spoil, and here and there he could see faint impressions of boot-prints. All of them seemed to be heading off to the west, towards the hills that had been sliced open and left to rot.

  He frowned, and his eyes darkened. He scurried up the mound, but there was no trace of Allazar or his sopping blanket. No sign of anything. He clambered back down again, and studied the ground once more. Then with a final glance around, he dashed across an open stretch of slag-rock to a shallow crater, and worked his way cautiously around its low rim. Where the ground was softer spoil, the indentations of muffled hooves could just be made out as a trail of tiny rain-filled pools. Further around the rim, on the western side of the small excavation, the trail wound its way towards another high mound of spoil.

  Gawain crouched low, surveyed the route, and loped off. Behind the mound he found more tracks, and further on he froze. Approaching the trail he was following were another set of tracks, deeper, and more clearly defined. He stooped, and stared at them. Shod hooves, the horses heavy, the prints deep. Three horses, in line abreast, had approached from the south, intercepted the trail left by his friends, and were following them just as Gawain was.

  He worked his way through the shattered landscape, always on the trail. He imagined it must be Sarek that was leading the way, for the trail wound and threaded its way through mounds and craters so that natural cover always lay between them and the high-walled enemy encampment falling further behind in the east. The rain began to fall heavier, and Gawain paused beside a large boulder to cut a strip from a lump of frak in his pocket. He had no water, and the small lump of frak was the only food in his possession. Apart from his weapons, all his other supplies and belongings were on Gwyn's saddle.

  Whoever was following his companions, or rather hunting his companions, had maintained a steady pace. The deep prints left in the spoil were evenly spaced, and the word 'relentless' flashed in Gawain's mind. Allazar must have spotted an enemy patrol approaching, and Sarek must have deemed it safer to abandon their temporary camp rather than risk discovery so close to the enemy stronghold. But the plan hadn't worked, and the patrol had cut across their trail.

  Gawain swallowed his frugal meal, and loped off, keeping low and moving as fast as he could without making too much sound. Slowly, the trail swung north, heading out of the Barak-nor towards the farak gorin. But at this rate of progress, it would be dark before they reached the relative safety of their last campsite on the slopes. And, of course, the three pursuers would know that too. Gawain had no idea how close the hunters were to their prey, and he knew that his comrades were tired, and thus likely to make a critical error of judgement in their haste to flee this dreadful land. What he didn't know was why his friends hadn't simply set up an ambush, as they had been taught, and eliminated the threat that was so relentlessly tracking them.

  A sudden sense of alarm stole over Gawain, and he paused, scanning the landscape. The trail was bearing north, parallel with the hills. He frowned, and his jaw clenched. They were heading straight for the trench that had barred their progress during the night, the trench that had not been shown on Sarek's map. He increased his pace, his features set grimly.

  An hour later, the sound of a horse whinnying stopped Gawain dead in his tracks. Frantic, he clambered up a mound of slag-rock, and froze. Three of Morloch's black riders sat on horseback, staring at the trench, their heads swivelling left and right, eyeing the length of it. Gawain smiled grimly, and slipped an arrow from his quiver. Then he paused, and understanding stole over him, and with it a deeper respect for his comrades. To slay the black riders here in the Barak-nor would be folly. The death-blasts of liberated aquamire would be seen, and probably heard, by the watchmen atop the rim of the enemy stronghold. He eased the arrow back into its quiver, and watched.

  The riders were clearly confused. The tracks left by muffled hooves had led in this direction, and though the heavier rain had washed almost all traces away, the hunted must have come this way. Yet there was no sign of the prey. One of the black riders backed his horse away from the edge of the trench, and the horse was protesting. Gawain held his breath. The trench could be jumped, but to have done so in darkness when they had stumbled across it during the night would have been madness. In daylight, it would be a brave deed. The black rider continued backing his skittish horse, his intention clear. The other two riders simply sat in their saddles, looking for another means of crossing the gap, or perhaps looking for any spoor on the ground which might indicate that the prey had gone around the obstacle.

  The skittish horse whinnied again, fighting the bit, and the rider spurred it mercilessly, forcing it into a headlong charge towards the trench. It ran, desperately, and launched itself into the air. But the weight of the black rider's armour was too much for it. Gawain watched aghast as the poor beast slammed into the trench wall on the far side, unseating the rider who flailed and clutched at the edge before slipping from view and crashing into its depths, following the stricken animal.

  The two remaining riders eased forward and gazed down at their comrade, and then turned away. Gawain pressed himself as flat into the slag-rock as he could, watching as the two surviving riders abandoned their comrade, and turned their horses west, ambling along the edge of the trench, clearly intending to go around its distant end. Gawain smiled again. When the riders were lost from view, he slithered down the heap of slag-rock, and loped off to the east, and the quicker route around the trench.

  Hours later, tired and thirsty, Gawain heard the creak of a bow, and threw himself to the spiteful ground. Then he heard a familiar snuffle from behind a jagged heap of glazed rock, and when he stood he found himself staring at Elayeen, and the shaft levelled at his chest. Instantly she lowered her bow, and relaxed the string, and her tired eyes brimmed. Gawain watched as the ground seemed to move around her, and one by one his friends appeared from beneath their slag-covered blankets.

  He walked across to them, seeing the relief in all their faces. "Not bad." He admitted. "Not bad at all.” Then he stared at Elayeen, and smiled. "You had me, my Lady."

  She smiled back, and sniffed, and wiped her eyes. "Mithroth..." she began, but then simply gazed at him.

  Sarek offered a waterskin, and Gawain drank deeply.

  "Longsword," Allazar whispered, "There are black riders..."

  "Two. One is trapped in the trench. The others headed west to go around it."

  "Ah."

  "There is no time for talk, or rest. The riders will pick up the trail sooner or later, and we must be clear of this blasted land before we can do anything about them."

  Tired heads nodded, eyes red-rimmed with exhaustion, and they began rolling their blankets in readiness to ride once more. Gawain corked the waterskin, and then smiled as a sudden wave of relief washed his eyes blue. On a sudden impulse, he reached out, and slipped his hand around the back of Elayeen's neck, drawing her to him.

  "You had me, my Lady." He said softly, his voice rich with a mixture of surprise, and pride. He kissed her tenderly on the lips, and then drew back.

  Elayeen smiled up at him, blinked, and then stooped to pick up her blanket. Moments later they were all in the saddle, and though bone-weary, pressed on through the devastation that was the Barak-nor, keenly aware that a dark enemy pursued them still.

  When night fell the acrid and vile wound that was the Barak-nor gave way to softer Threlland earth, and the rain finally stopped. Gawain dismounted and ripped the muffling from Gwyn's hooves before climbing wearily back into the saddle. The others followed suit, and though muscles ached and pro
tested, none voiced their discomfort as Gawain urged them on and around the point that marked Threlland's north-eastern tip. Still he pressed on, for another two hours, until they reached their former campsite, and Gawain reined in.

  "We rest here. If the black riders pursue us still, they may safely be despatched without fear of their death-blasts being noted by the enemy."

  In silence, weary legs led wearier horses higher up the slope, tethered them, and then sopping wet bedrolls were dumped on soft Threlland soil. Gawain cut another lump of frak from the cake in his saddlebag, and stuffed it into his pocket. Then he cut a strip, and ate, chewing gratefully as the spiced and smoky flavour erupted in his mouth.

  "Longsword?" Allazar whispered.

  "Aye."

  "We...when I saw the riders approaching..."

  "My brother," Rak sighed, settling on his blankets, "It was our decision to abandon you, not the wizard's."

  Gawain sat next to Elayeen, and offered her a slice of frak. She took it hesitantly, and then slipped her arm through his.

  "We could not leave Gwyn." Allazar sighed.

  "You made a wise decision." Gawain assured them. "And you all did well. Now sleep. Gwyn and I shall take first watch."

  "I shall take second." Sarek announced quietly, laying down, and in moments his breathing told he was asleep.

  "I the third." Valin sighed, and he and Meeya wrapped themselves together, and slept.

  "Mithroth?" Elayeen whispered.

  "My Lady?"

  She laid her head on his shoulder. "The wizard did well today. Had he not sighted the riders so far off, we might not have evaded them."

  "You all did well."

  "Lord Rak is gracious, and would shield me from your ire. It was I who proposed we abandon you. "

  "You?"

  He felt her slight nod through the arrowsilk cloak. "The others were for hiding nearby. I said that we must leave you. That it was important for all the lands that we carry news of the enemy to them."

  "You would sacrifice me, then, and thus yourself?" Gawain whispered.

  Again she nodded. "I knew you would find us. Find me. Rak agreed, and then the others. Meeya wanted to stay, to aid you. And then Valin, and Allazar, and Sarek too. But I commanded all to abandon you."

  Gawain sighed, and turned slightly to face her, gently tilting her head so he could see her eyes. Then he reached into her cloak, and as she caught her breath, he smiled and withdrew the darkening cloth tucked into her belt.

  "You are a royal crown, my Lady," he whispered, spreading the cloth over her hair, "And you were right to make such a decision, and so command."

  "A royal crown no longer. I am faranthroth." she smiled weakly as he tied the cloth beneath her chin.

  "A royal crown, Elayeen. And you remind me who I am. Of late, I seem to have forgotten that. Now sleep. I shall keep watch."

  Elayeen nodded, and Gawain lifted her hand, and kissed it. Then he stood, and walked away into the darkness.

  It was strange, and strange aquamire flickered through him as he gazed out across the farak gorin, shimmering in weak moonlight that pierced a crack in the low clouds. Strange that Elayeen should recall to him his own royal heritage. As he stood and stared, tired but filled with duty to keep watch over his sleeping comrades, he felt a twinge of unexpected shame. This morning, in the Barak-nor, he had forgotten his dawn Remembrance. He had forgotten much, it seemed, since his dark rage upon the Point above Tarn.

  As he surveyed the landscape, an arrow strung and in hand should the two black riders round the tip of Threlland, he remembered; Raheen, and the reason for the Sword of Justice upon his back. Morloch, and the reason for their presence here on the desolate northern slopes overlooking the Teeth and the river of nothing. Breezes wafted in, chill and bitter, from the Teeth, and Gawain cocked his head. He no longer heard Morloch's laughter.

  Perhaps the joke had indeed been on him, these last weeks. He had seen with his own eyes the dreadful power of aquamire, and strange or not, it was in him. Had he succumbed to it, then? Were the elven wizards right when they claimed Gawain was Morloch-cursed? No, he thought with conviction. That was too far beyond the pail. But of late, Gawain had shouldered the battle against Morloch alone. Was that the arrogance of aquamire, that one man could truly believe himself the sole defender of all the southlands?

  Elayeen had commanded in his absence. A threat had been sighted, and by Allazar of all people, and while others would have stayed in hiding, or remained to aid Gawain against the threat, Elayeen had commanded they abandon him to his own devices. A regal decision, and a worthy one. She had been right; the knowledge they all possessed must reach Eryk of Threlland, and all the other crowns in the south. What meant the life of one longsword warrior when the fate of all the southlands hung in the balance? That Elayeen was throth-bound to the warrior she abandoned spoke volumes, and filled Gawain with both pride and shame. Pride, that in spite of her own kind declaring her faranthroth, she yet thought of their safety above her own. Shame, that he had doubted her, doubted any of them.

  Even the thalangard, dispatched by elven wizards with instructions to destroy the DarkSlayer, had opened their eyes, witnessed truth, and would have remained in the Barak-nor to aid his escape. Doubt, Gawain now knew, was as powerful an enemy as his old allies against the Ramoths, fear and terror. Both were insidious, both consumed and weakened, eating away at the insides like a maggot in an apple, leaving the outside looking fresh while the core rotted.

  Gawain sighed, and blinked back the strange aquamire. He had no need of it, not here and not now. Allazar had been right. He had become cruel. It was a cruelty born of arrogance, conceit, and a belief in his own power and invincibility. Now that the enemy had been sighted, Gawain knew that invincibility to be nothing but an aquamire fantasy, conceived beneath the Teeth when the lens of Ramoth had been smashed. The hunger and thirst he'd felt as he ran through the nightmare landscape of the Barak-nor testified to his mortality, as did the fear and revulsion he'd experienced gazing down upon the dark enemy in their stronghold. As did his tiredness now.

  Yet through it all, the small group of elves and dwarves, and a useless human whitebeard, had followed him into that nightmare land, had willingly taken up the foul arts of brigandry and subterfuge, and yet slept soundly, trusting him to keep watch over them with a dread and relentless enemy hunting them still.

  Gawain stiffened his back, and summoned the memory of his family. Forgive me, he thought silently, remembering his father's last words to him: "I have always been proud of you. I know you will do well. Remember who you are, and be true to yourself, and to Raheen."

  Gawain nodded to his father's memory. Lately, he had been true to nothing but his own anger and aquamire rage. Raheen had been completely forgotten, as had The Fallen. Rak had been right, too. The horror they had witnessed must be shared. It was too much for one man alone to bear. Gawain sighed, and kept his lonely vigil, wondering how long it would take for Morloch's black riders to regain their trail, and track them here. With luck, and with the rains they'd suffered, perhaps never. But he knew that was unlikely, and maintained it until Sarek relieved him.

  Elayeen was sleeping soundly when he lay down beside her and closed his eyes. He could hear her gentle breathing, and it eased him into a dreamless sleep.

  He awoke with a start in the darkest of hours, and sat up, reaching for his longsword. Gwyn had snuffled a warning. He glanced around the camp, saw that Sarek too was sitting upright, loading a bolt into his crossbow, and noted that the thalangard were missing from their blankets. Bows creaked, there was a thrum of strings, and then two aquamire death-blasts screeched through the still night air as stone-tipped elven arrows ripped through charmed armour and the creatures within.

  Gawain smiled grimly, let his sword lie, and lay back down beside Elayeen.

  "They are friends, mithroth." She murmured, her eyes blinking through sleep.

  But Gawain was already asleep.

  oOo

  3
6. Home, in Haste

  Urgency became their watchword, and there was little time for pleasantries as they sped their journey to Tarn. All were filled with a grim determination, and the darkest of resolves. In the relative peace of the gentler landscape all around them, the horrors they had witnessed seemed all the more obscene, and drove them relentlessly.

  Even when they were obliged to dismount and walk their horses, they strode purposefully, anxious to put as much distance between themselves, the Barak-nor, and Morloch's eastern army as they could.

  Sleep did not come easy, except for Gawain and Sarek, who were both long used to making the most of opportunities for rest whenever they arose. But Sarek seemed withdrawn, sombre, and much given to frowning darkly and polishing his blade. At first, Gawain was concerned, and believed that the hideous sights witnessed by the Threlland officer had warped the Captain's mind. But on the seventh day of their flight along the northern slopes, as dawn rose, Gawain remembered Raheen, and understood the dark burning behind Sarek's eyes. The enemy was in Sarek's land, and had offended him...

  That afternoon, as clouds evaporated to reveal an azure sky and the promise of spring to come, Sarek riding at point brought the column to an abrupt halt, and directed them to take cover in the trees higher up the slopes. It was done in moments, and as they waited with bows at the ready, Gawain couldn't help the grin that tugged at the corners of his mouth. All of them, including Allazar, were concealed from view like professional brigands; their faces streaked with mud as they peered along the track, eyes narrowed mercilessly.

  There was a rumbling of hooves, and from around the distant point, a Threlland patrol hove into view, twenty-strong, and riding with great purpose, oblivious to the ambush that lay in wait for them.