The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  Light and Shadow

  Copyright © GJ Kelly 2013

  All rights reserved

  The moral right of the author has been asserted

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  Prologue

  “Have you ever not quite woken up, and found yourself in that twilight world between dreams and wakefulness, and then with a rising sense of terror, wondered where you were? And then, just when panic numbs your blood and you think your heart has stopped, a familiar sound, or a sensation, or a scent, will draw you into wakefulness, and all is well? Well, we were caught there, in that twilight world, and it was a struggle to get out.”

  The DarkSlayer, as told to the Bard-Chronicler Lyssa of Callodon

  1. Farewells

  Whatever hopes Gawain and Elayeen may have held for peace and quiet in Tarn after the Battle of Far-gor were quickly dashed, at least for the first week following their arrival in lord Rak’s hometown. There were feasts and celebrations which saw days and nights blur from one event to another with little chance for sleep between, and in truth the relief and joy at surviving the battle were real, and the celebrations understandable given how close all lands south of the farak gorin had come to destruction.

  “We were lucky,” Gawain complained again, his eyes aching from too long without sleep, and his head reeling from too much beer.

  “Bah,” Eryk announced, taking another long draught on a tankard of dark Threlland ale while musicians played and the throng danced in Tarn Square in spite of the cold night air.

  “No,” Gawain asserted, his speech slurring, “We were finished. All of us. But for the far-gor collapsing, that army would’ve swallowed us whole. But for Martan and his eighty-two good old boys, and those engineers surveying the path of that underground river a thousand years ago…”

  “But for you, Raheen, and bah to yer modesty again, says I.”

  “No,” Gawain insisted, and eyed the dregs of the ale in his tankard suspiciously. “I had no idea… I had no idea he had so many… I thought…”

  “I think, Longsword, it’s time that the commander of the victorious kindred army had some rest, lest he become overly tired and emotional.”

  “Heh,” Eryk of Threlland chuckled over the din of the music and the throng, “Tired and emotional! Trust a wizard to use three words when ‘drunk’ would do!”

  “Allazar’s right though,” Gawain closed one eye to get a clearer look at the king sitting next to him, “But don’t tell ‘im I said so…”

  Eryk belched, and laughed, and waved his tankard, calling for more ale, and while he did so, Allazar discreetly helped Gawain to his feet, and led him across the square towards the crowded inn, and the room they’d once shared there so long ago. Derrik the landlord, slightly inebriated himself, spotted them as they entered and hurried to help as they began trying to ease their way through the crowd around the bar. Lifting Gawain’s free arm over his neck, the innkeeper nodded to the wizard, and together they managed to get the drunk and exhausted young man up the stairs and into bed.

  “Where’s E?” Gawain protested, his head lolling while he tried to survey the room, “Where’s Elayeen?”

  “Our lady is at lord Rak’s house, with lady Merrin.” Allazar soothed, dragging one of Gawain’s boots off, “Which is where you’ll be again when you’ve had a good sleep and are more presentable. I’m not taking you back to lady Merrin’s house in this condition.”

  “Oh. Yes… lady Merrin’s house… We were lucky Alzallar. I was wrong. ‘Bout Morloch. He fooled me, Azlallar, he fooled me… did you see the way she shot that old whitebeard?”

  “I did, my friend. We all did.”

  “Shot ‘im clean through like that Salmalan Goth… clean through…” And then Gawain’s head lolled back onto the pillow, his eyes rolled back in his head, and he slept.

  “Yes, Gawain,” Allazar whispered sadly, stone-cold sober, his face filled with concern. “Shot him clean through. And never have I seen such a cold and callous execution as we all witnessed there, on the shore of the farak gorin.”

  At the end of that week of happy chaos, when hangovers finally cleared and the wreckage of the celebrations was at last swept away, the gales and rains came, flushing drains and cleansing cobbles. It was hard rain too, the kind Captain Tyrane of Callodon preferred; ‘the kind that bounces off your helmet and doesn’t sneak its way under your cloak like misty muck does.’ He was the first to leave, taking Rollaf and Terryn with him, and a dozen of the new ‘Kindred Rangers’, elves of the ninety-five who had survived the battle. Most of those elves had already left, travelling south with survivors from Mornland, Arrun, Juria and Callodon.

  Those new Rangers, possessed of the Sight of the Eldenelves passed to them by Elayeen, were outcast as far as Elvendere’s Thallanhall was concerned, and reviled, never to return to their homeland on pain of death. But as far as all those who’d stood together beneath the flag of the kindred were concerned, they were deeply respected, and admired for the sacrifice they had made. They would be made welcome in all lands, as friends, and not just for their new oath of duty to Gawain and Elayeen, to serve the kindred races of Man by keeping watch for all things dark wizard-made.

  The elves themselves, moved to tears in many cases by the generosity and friendship of those who had stood behind them in the face of the ToorsenViell and Toorsengard, wore the symbol of the Kindred Army on their tunics with great pride. And they, perhaps more than anyone else save for Elayeen, understood the profound nature of their new allegiance and their new duty.

  “Must you leave so soon, Tyrane?” Gawain asked, “I know Rak would be more than happy for you to winter here.”

  Tyrane nodded. “Though the war’s not over, m’lord, the battle’s done. I and the lads wear the Black and Gold, and we’ve all been a long time away from the land we call home.”

  “I know,” Gawain sighed, and nodded, “And I know Brock said you were mine for as long I needed. But for now at least the need is past, and I won’t keep you from your homeland.”

  “Thank you,” Tyrane smiled, though sadly. “And it’s a long way back to the Guards’ headquarters. Besides, King Brock will doubtless want to know all that happened, and I don’t think Lieutenant Hillyer is much of a story-teller. He’ll get there at least ten days before me, too.”

  Gawain nodded again, he and Elayeen and Allazar standing in the shelter of the sloping roof of the inn’s stables. Then he took a bulky packet of letters from under his cloak. “You’ll give this to Brock for me?”

  “I shall, from your hand to his, and no other between, my word on it.”

  “As well as letters of commendation, it explains about Arramin remaining here, in Threlland’s libraries. I suspect the old boy’s already read every book in Callodon, and he seemed genuinely excited at the chance of rummaging through the dwarven ones. I’ve said in the letter that I need him to check some historical thing or other… a feeble excuse just in case anyone should object to Arramin’s remaining.”

  “I doubt they will, m’lord. And we’re pleased for the old boy. The lads’ll miss him, already do since he left for Crownmount with King Eryk and General Karn.”

  “Then this is goodbye,” Gawain sighed, eyeing the captain and the two scouts, and glancing at the elves waiting patiently on th
eir horses in the teeming rain. “We all owe you so much…”

  Tyrane shook his head. “You owe us nothing, my lord. We’d have followed you anywhere, and with pride in our hearts.”

  “Anywhere except that one place.”

  “Yes, anywhere except there.”

  “You still have all those notes and papers?” Gawain nodded towards the bulging saddlebags on Tyrane’s horse.

  “I do. And in the dark hours of winter and when my duties permit, I intend to make of them a book, and in it, all the details of the Battle of Far-gor. With luck, it’ll be of some use to the Guard, should the need ever arise again.”

  “Make many copies, my friend. Without your keen eye for detail and your planning, we could never have survived the first engagement.”

  “I shall.”

  “And besides, the good folk of Port Yarris and all the other villages should know how vital the supplies they sent were to the outcome of the battle. Who could’ve guessed that jars of pickled fish would’ve been so essential to our defences?”

  There was a long pause then, Gawain and Allazar and Elayeen standing close together, cloaked in sadness, and Tyrane, Rollaf and Terryn likewise.

  “Farewell, my friends, and safe journey home,” Gawain announced, fighting against the lump in his throat, “This time it really is an ending. Never forget that Raheen counts you friend, and never hesitate to call upon Raheen should you have a need.”

  “My lord,” Tyrane nodded, teeth clenched against his emotion.

  And then the three men of Callodon snapped a salute, and before anyone could offer an arm or an embrace, turned sharply on their heels, and marched out into the rain and to their horses.

  When they’d mounted, rain streaming down their faces and masking the tears which had threatened to rob them all of dignity, Gawain saluted, Elayeen curtsied, and Allazar bowed. Together, the three of Raheen watched as the men of Callodon and a dozen Kindred Rangers left Tarn.

  Nor was it the last sad parting to be made in the aftermath of the victory celebrations. The four surviving Riders of Raheen, together with Jaxon and Kahla, were the next to leave, and that too was an emotional farewell, made all the more so by the fact that it was Gawain’s suggestion that the Riders return to Arrun.

  They’d protested, of course, the four men of the Red and Gold, but Gawain had silenced their objections with a regal hand. Someone, he’d said, had to tell Maeve of Castletown what had happened at the Battle of Far-gor. Someone had to carry the sad news of the loss of Rider Arras, and his horse-friend, Chandarran. And someone had to be there to help Maeve teach her children the ways and customs of Raheen, and its long and proud history.

  Besides, Gawain had said, there were few enough Raheen steeds in the world, and though all had lost their families and friends to Morloch, there were yet Riders in the lands south of the Teeth, and still with their horse-friends. Life could go on, and Raheen could go on too, in hearts and minds if not by bloodline, and though the horse-friends were old, perhaps they still had enough in them to sire new bloodstock. The same, perhaps, could also be said of the Riders themselves. And the people of Arrun were a gentle folk, and the men of Raheen and their steel might yet be needed.

  As for the couple from Goria, they’d learned that Arrun was a gentle land, and from what they knew of it, it seemed most of all like that Imperial province, Armunland, where they’d spent most of their lives. Threlland and its high hills and mountain peaks were alien to them, and since the Riders of Raheen had made a promise to teach them how to throw arrows, and how to ride well, and since they were also now free people of Raheen…

  Gawain had smiled, and so too had all the men from Raheen. The two former slaves were filled with such enthusiasm and passion for life since fighting for their liberty on the long road from Goria, it was difficult not to be fired by sparks from the flames of their lives. And so the Riders had, reluctantly, agreed to return to Arrun, to keep alive what traditions of Raheen they could, to guard Maeve and her children well, and if all went well with them, to begin again, perhaps even to raise horses in that soft and verdant land.

  Their deepest sadness, though, was evinced by Gawain’s quiet instruction that they should no longer wear the Red and Gold, except in open battle. It would, Gawain had said, mark them for Morloch’s vengeance, and Morloch would not suffer defeat at Far-gor lightly, and certainly not without seeking to lash out at the victors.

  But depart they did, with ample provisions, and though their eyes were rimmed by sorrow and the memory of the loss of Arras, hearts were filled with pride, and joy, too; there were yet Riders of Raheen abroad, and the King, his lady, and his wizard yet lived.

  There was one more farewell, of a kind, to be made before any amount of peace could be hoped for. Martan of Tellek, fêted throughout Threlland together with his small army of once-discarded pensioners, was going home to Tellek, where he hoped to end his days in peace and quiet at the tavern, regaling all with tales of his time beneath the Teeth, and tales of his time beneath the farak gorin.

  On the Point of Tarn, overlooking that very land of nothing, Rak had built a substantial open-faced hut complete with bench seats, and ringed by sharp defences to protect against Razorwing attack. “Arramin’s Cabin” it was called, for it was in this cabin that Arramin had spent his long and lonely watch, guarded by Rollaf and Terryn, serving as the kindred’s very own Condavian.

  Here, on a dull and damp day nearing the end of October, Gawain now sat with Allazar, Rak, and Martan of Tellek, gazing in shock and disbelief at the panorama before them.

  “Well… poke me in the eye and call me a trouser-brick, if that ain’t beyond belief. Never would’ve believed it, if I weren’t sitting ‘ere seeing it with these old blobs.”

  Where once a vast expanse of brown and sparkling bitchrock stretched away to the Teeth in the north and the wilds of Goria in the west, now the vast expanse was rent asunder, a canyon fully eight miles wide winding its way the length of the farak gorin.

  Rak drew in a deep breath of chill northern air, and sighed. “I was here, with Arramin, and Eryk, and others too, when Morloch’s army was swallowed by that great collapse.”

  Martan took four wooden pots from his backpack on the floor by his feet, and began filling them with ale from the keg he’d brought to keep a promise made in the days before the battle.

  “We had seen the enemy advancing, and from here, as clear as you can see today, we observed the Army of the Kindred engage with the enemy vanguard.” Rak paused while he accepted the ale from Martan, and when they each had a pot of beer, there was a small and thoughtful tapping together of the rims, though no-one had the heart to suggest a toast.

  Far below, on the southern shore of the farak gorin, they could see the large and sombre cairn, the monument raised to the Fallen of the Kindred after the battle. North of it, for a mile or thereabouts, the familiar brown of the bitchrock, peppered with the bodies of dead Meggen left there to the elements. And then, the southern cliff of the as-yet unnamed canyon, broad, and deep.

  In places in that canyon they could see the silvery white of foaming water, an immense river, raging westward, boiling over the jagged remains of the roof which had covered and thus hidden its existence for millennia. Occasionally, when the swirling winds whipped in, they could hear its distant, muted roar.

  “We saw the Graken attack from the south, though the creature itself was small seen from here,” Rak continued, “But we could see the damage it did, the smouldering fires, the sudden fall of men and horses. From here,” Rak sighed softly, “From here it looked like holes appearing in the tents of the hospital, and the ranks of the cavalry.

  “Eryk was beside himself with rage. I have never seen him thus. He paced, his fists clenched, breath hissing. Then he advanced the edge of the Point, and stood clutching the halberd-poles of the Razorwing fence, screaming curses at Morloch and at the dark army advancing south. Then, when it became clear that the next wave of Meggen were rushing towards your lines in th
e aftermath of the Graken’s attack, Brant and Fellek had to physically restrain him, so intent was he on rushing down there to fight with you.

  “When something of his reason returned, and still held by the staff officers, he fell to his knees, weeping with helpless fury, and whispering curse after curse as the enemy drew closer to the line.

  “Then we saw two green puffs of smoke above the battle-camp. Something happens, my lords! Arramin shouted, pointing. And we watched, and then before our very eyes a great host of their army fell into a pit, and lines began to spread, north, south, east, west, and lines diagonally, joining all the other lines together, spreading like a web.

  “And like flies stuck to the strands of that web they fell with the bitchrock, the pattern clear for all to see then just as its remains are clear for all to see now, though then there were thousands of Morloch’s army there. It’s stopped! Eryk announced, and for a moment, it did. For a moment, that foul army, its centre ripped out, still marched onward either side of the web, leaping across the ditches that still run all the way to the west, and to the east beyond the Barak-nor.

  “And then,” Rak paused, and took a draught of ale, “And then we saw the line at the northern end of the web begin to widen. We began to feel the rumbling beneath our feet, and before our eyes the northern crack widened, becoming a gaping maw, cliffs new-formed shearing and tumbling to the depths, the maw widening, north and south, rushing, as though the farak gorin were a great beast, fresh awoken and yawning. To the south the cliffs fell away, the line rushing towards the shore, swallowing everything on its journey, and likewise to the north, though the only thing consumed there was the bitchrock itself.

  “And then silence. In the depths of that canyon, all was turmoil, foam and mist and spray and raging waters. Sinkhole! Arramin exclaimed, trembling with awe. And here we stood, gaping like the farak gorin itself. Were it not for the message which lit the wizard’s staff, we might have gaped, transfixed by the sight of it, for hours.”