by GJ Kelly
“Thank you,” and then on a sudden impulse, Gawain added, “Do you have any loofeen? I heard about it from General Karn, but haven’t tried it yet. He said it was good with hot water.”
Sarek smiled. “Yes we do, and yes it is. Although, I suspect it’s something of an acquired taste,” the Major crossed to a table, and from a shelf beneath it produced a small bottle of dark brown syrup. He poured a spoonful into each of two mugs, and continued speaking while he fetched a steaming kettle from its hook above the fire. “There’s more than a few of our rangers carry a small bottle in their packs, especially now winter’s arrived early. It’s not exactly a miner’s staple, they don’t like to make fires underground to heat water, and cold loofeen is really rather unappealing. But above ground and with a kettle, it’s warming, and a small comfort for rangers out on patrol or on fixed watch.”
“How many rangers do you have now?”
“We were thirty strong before Corporal Jak was killed. Forty one now with the elves, though I suspect they’ll operate independently under Serre Valin’s orders once they’re settled. Here, be careful my lord, it’s hot.”
Gawain accepted the mug of steaming dark loofeen, and waited while Sarek took his seat before sipping the hot drink. It was a little bitter, but not altogether unpleasant, and it had a distinctive aroma. Gawain could picture General Karn, occasionally and surreptitiously sniffing his old bottle of loofeen while remembering the birth of his children.
“I can warm some spice wine instead, my lord?”
“No, no, it’s fine, thank you, Sarek. Actually, the taste is rather growing on me. I was just remembering… never mind. I read your reports at Ferdan. I was sorry to read about Jak, and so too was General Karn.”
“Those who were there were greatly affected by it. All of us were utterly unprepared for such an attack. To go down fighting an enemy is one thing, but to be killed by such a horror… it was a sobering lesson for us all.”
“The Kindred Rangers will be a valuable asset in that regard. I didn’t know Valin and Meeya were remaining here in Threlland though.”
“So they said, my lord. I believe, though I’m not entirely certain yet, that Serre Valin’s intentions are to use Tarn as a base, and to keep watch over the northern reaches as far as that place they call the Beacon Gap, north of Elvendere. At the moment though, he and his lady have taken lodgings on the eastern side of town, to be a little closer to the HQ.”
“Yes, so I understand. I thought you had much greater numbers in the Rangers, from the reports I read.”
Sarek nodded, and sipped his drink. “We did, but most of them were volunteers from the various inland town guards, those who could be spared and who were willing to provide strength and support here. The real Rangers were those who’d undergone the training you inspired. They served as patrol leaders, with the main body of the patrols being the volunteers. After the Battle of Far-gor though, the volunteers disbanded, and went home for the celebrations. We’ve only the hard core Rangers now, but they should be enough to keep an eye on things.”
“I’d still keep trying for recruits though, my friend. The enemy has wings at their disposal, after all. You heard about the Grimmand they dropped behind the lines south of Ferdan?”
Sarek nodded, his expression sombre. “I did, and your point is well made. When first we met, I was greatly disturbed by the discovery of that foul army lurking out there in the Barak-nor, as well you know. I’ve no intention of allowing Threlland’s guard to be let down again. Besides, there are doubtless rogue wizards still at large throughout the lands south of the Teeth. I’d rather our Rangers encounter those bastards well away from our borders than allow them free passage to wreak havoc within.”
“Indeed,” Gawain agreed, warming to the fire and the drink, and genuinely happy to renew his acquaintance with Sarek. “Though I’ve never been entirely sure about the true extent of the threat they represent. Reports at Ferdan concerning these rogues were vague at best, and most seemed largely to be hearsay, third- or fourth-hand. Sometimes a rumour is all it takes to create havoc. We only had personal experience of one, at the battle.”
“Yes, we heard the tales of that treacherous vermin, and how you ended his miserable existence. The home guards still insist on all unknown wizards exposing their torsos for inspection, even though some of the reports we’ve received say that the rogues aren’t adorned with strange marks or writings. It makes everyone wonder how to tell them apart, the good from the bad.”
Gawain shrugged, and sipped his drink before replying. “It’s easy really. Don’t trust any of them. It works for me and always has.”
Sarek smiled. “Aye, my lord, I believe you’ve mentioned it.”
“I suppose it’s possible I may have done,” Gawain grinned, stretching his legs towards the fireplace and crossing his right boot over his left. “But it doesn’t hurt to remind people now and then. I tell Allazar much the same thing quite frequently.”
“The White Staff of Raheen, or so he’s known here now, since Far-gor. The men of the infantry who served there have told of the mighty tree of lightning he raised to bring down one of those winged beasts you mentioned.”
“I know. I’ve been quietly trying to change his new moniker by telling every Threllandman I hear using it, that it’s ‘White Stick of Raheen’. I’m not having much success though.”
“I doubt you will, in truth, though they may smile to think of it. But the infantrymen also speak in awe of the two wizards who stood to the fore against those Kraal-beasts. Stood alone in the no-man’s land, ‘twixt dread and immense dark-made creatures, and the men of Threlland. The names of Allazar and Imzenn will live long in the hearts and minds of dwarves, my lord.”
“And so they should,” Gawain agreed, quietly and solemnly. “So they should.”
There was a long and companionable silence, the logs in the hearth hissing, rain lashing the windows and wind rattling the door, before finally Sarek drained his mug and spoke.
“Will you be staying for dinner, my lord? The cooks make a hearty stew and with the patrols out they’ll be glad of an extra mouth to feed.”
“Thank you, yes, I shall. In fact, if you’ve no objections, I’d like to stay a night or two?”
Sarek’s eyebrows arched in surprise. “I have no objections at all, my lord, I’d be delighted. May I ask if there’s a special reason for your visit? Not more enemies lurking in the foul wastes of the Barak-nor, I hope?”
“No, at least none that I’m aware of. If there were, I rather suspect your men stationed at the cloven hill would’ve mentioned it long before now. No, I thought I’d pay a visit, compliment you on your work with the Rangers, and see if there was anything I could do to help. I’ve been going quietly mad these past few weeks, I believe lord Rak thought it might help my sanity.”
“Then you’re doubly welcome, my lord. Any advice you might give would be gratefully received, especially concerning those dark creatures the enemy has in its possession.”
“We may have something much better than my limited knowledge on that subject, sooner or later. Allazar is compiling a book describing the dark-made creatures we hope never to encounter, and describing how they may be destroyed. The Kindred Rangers will likely be the most valuable allies the southlands can hope for in that regard. Treat them well, Major, treat them very well.”
“Aye, my lord.”
“But don’t let down your guard for their presence. They can see dark-made danger, but they still only have one pair of eyes, and as we know, not all enemies are wizard-made.”
“True enough, but since the victory at the Battle of Far-gor, I doubt many traitors will risk exposure now, not while there’s no longer any possibility of them ending up on the winning side. It’s one thing to wreak havoc behind the lines when you have an army marching to aid your cause, another when you’re alone.”
“That might be true if we were talking about enemies other than Morloch. But he is all evil, and weakened or not, filled with
hate. I’ve no doubt he’ll lash out, for spite if for no other reason. I’m glad I came, Sarek. It’s refreshed my perspective a little. After being immersed in victory celebrations and such obvious relief as there is in Tarn, talking with you has reminded me we need to keep our guard up, now especially while all others are breathing sighs of relief and looking forward to peace once more.”
Gawain remained a week at the Rangers’ Headquarters, reviewing their training regimes and providing basic instruction in arrow-throwing, though the dwarves preferred the crossbow for accuracy. It was only when he made mention of Ognorm of Ruttmark’s record Ferdan throw that dwarven eyebrows raised and they took notice; after that, those not on patrol took to practicing with great gusto during breaks in the weather.
But Gawain knew that while the work and camaraderie with Sarek’s small but important force was important, he was in fact using it as an excuse to remain away from Tarn and Rak’s house, or rather from Elayeen. And he also knew he couldn’t hide himself away forever.
It was teeming with hard rain in the third week of November when Gawain saddled Gwyn, and took his leave of Sarek and the barracks, though as he confessed to the Major before beginning the two-hour ride back to Tarn, he’d have preferred to journey east out to the cloven hill than west back to town. He wanted to look down from the heights upon the Barak-nor, and espy the eastern end of the farak gorin. Perhaps even to see the rip in the land and the great granite nub of a mountain Martan of Tellek had described to him in the gloom of a Jurian supply tent, weeks ago.
But west it was, and at a gentle pace, taking the back roads and tracks through the trees rather than the main thoroughfares. A couple of hours later, he led Gwyn into Rak’s stables, and helped Lyas rub her down before leaving the horse to the care of the apprentice and trudging up the muddy path to the house.
oOo
7. Shock
Gawain shook the rain off his cloak under the wooden porch above the back door, and scraped his boots on the mud-butler beside it before entering the kitchen, where he froze, momentarily surprised, before closing the door against the gusts and rain behind him.
Allazar was leaning on his staff in the hall doorway, his face sad. Elayeen sat with Merrin and Rak at the table, and standing before the large fireplace, dripping wet and making a puddle on the stone floor, was a rider of the RJC, grey cloak thrown back to expose the grey cavalry uniform, and the emblem of the Kindred Army on her tunic.
“My lord Commander,” she said, and saluted, “I am…”
“Cherris, once of the north-west mid-range, under Captain Byrne. I remember you from Ferdan. You fought with us at Far-gor.”
“Yes, my lord,” the rider replied, blinking in surprise, and there was a brief silence while she smiled in genuine appreciation of being remembered.
Gawain stared at her, long chestnut brown hair shining wet and plastered to her neck and shoulders, her slender throat pale and glistening. Her tunic, shirt, and britches were soaked through, and clung to her, emphasising and revealing her figure, and though the last time Gawain had seen her she was coated in dust, sweat and grime from a hard ride, today’s rain had washed her face clean, leaving it fresh, and pretty. She’d clearly ridden hard once more, the scent of horse and leather a delight to Gawain’s nose if no-one else’s.
“You brought word to us at Ferdan of the Condavian’s approach, before we marched for the north.”
“I did, my lord, and…” Cherris paused and shivered, and drew her wet cloak about her, “…and again I fear I bear ill tidings.”
Gawain noted the sudden sadness in her deep brown eyes, eyes which held his a moment longer before she averted her gaze to the floor.
“Willam of Juria is dead,” Allazar sighed.
Gawain was stunned. “Dead? Dead how? When?”
“My king was killed, my lord, by a rogue wizard of the D’ith, named Tabais. It was the 25th day of October. There were celebrations when news of the victory at Far-gor arrived, and in the Great Hall, during those celebrations, the traitor struck. The traitor was destroyed by Mahlek, First of Juria, but not before our king was killed.”
“Willam…” Gawain sighed, staring at the puddle on the floor and remembering… and then he turned his gaze to Cherris again.
Small wisps of steam were rising from her sopping cloak, the heat from the fire behind her beginning to drive out the moisture. But she shivered again.
“Lady Merrin, can’t we find something warm for Rider Cherris? And a hot bath perhaps…”
“Alas my lord,” Cherris spoke softly, but urgently, “I am grateful for your kindness and that of this house, but I must continue on to the Castletown at Crownmount, and give my ill news and a letter to his Majesty, King Eryk. The letter has passed from my queen’s hand to mine, and must pass to his and no other in the between.”
“Won’t you rest, even for a few hours?” Gawain pressed, stepping a little closer.
“I cannot my lord. I took the northerly route instead of the flooded river crossing at the Mornland border, and delayed here in Tarn only because I was given word that you were here, and I did not think Queen Hellin would deny me an hour or two to pass word of her father’s death to you directly. But I cannot stay. I have a duty.”
“Hellin is now Juria’s crown?”
“Yes. In accordance with Juria’s traditions, the crown passed to her the day after her father’s death.”
“Then the coronation has already taken place?”
“It has, my lord. My lord Commander, if there is nothing else, I have a duty…”
“Of course,” Gawain nodded, and stepped back. “Thank you, Cherris, for your service to the kindred at Far-gor, and for your duty here. Speed your journey to Crownmount.”
Cherris stood smartly to attention, and after a lingering gaze at Gawain, snapped her right hand to the emblem on her left breast in salute. “Vex, my lord!” she said, her voice strong and proud.
“Vex,” Gawain replied, and watched her as she turned and gave a polite nod to those sitting at the table.
Cherris strode dripping from the kitchen, past Allazar up the hallway towards the front door, the wizard walking behind her to see her out, and Gawain sighed.
“Willam dead… I had expected Morloch to strike out in spite, but not like this. Not like this. He was a good man.”
“He was,” Rak said, rising from the table, and there was a curious hardness in his voice which drew Gawain’s attention.
But the diplomat did not hold his gaze, and stone-faced, helped his lady up and led her from the kitchen towards the living-room. Elayeen stood, staring at Gawain with an expression more of shock than sorrow, and without a word, she too left the kitchen, turning into the room they shared further down the hall.
When Allazar returned, he wore a stern expression.
“What?” Gawain demanded. “Rider Cherris brings news of catastrophe in Juria and you and the others stare at me like a naughty boy who’s just traipsed mud across a fresh-scrubbed floor.”
“Your Majesty…” Allazar began, but Gawain folded his arms and cut him off.
“Oh, so it’s ‘your majesty’ now is it?”
“Yes. I cannot believe I witnessed the scene which unfolded before me here just now. Not content with remaining away from your lady a full week when a night or two was the expected extent of your absence, but you stand there, there before the world and your lady’s eyes, practically devouring that unfortunate rider with your own! Have you taken leave of your senses? That rider made haste through gales and rain to bring news of the death of her king and you stood there gazing at her like a groom on the eve of his wedding day!”
Anger bubbled and broke deep within Gawain’s stomach, and his eyes narrowed dangerously. “That rider has a name, wizard, and so do I!”
From down the hallway they both heard the sound of a door closing, though which door they couldn’t say. But it was enough for Gawain. He flung open the back door, then strode two steps back across the kitchen to gra
b the surprised wizard by the lapels of his robes and dragged him bodily from the house, the Dymendin staff crashing to the floor behind them as they went.
Out, out into the rain, and wordlessly, Gawain dragged Allazar along the muddy path to the stables, flinging open the door and shoving the hapless wizard inside into the gloom. Lyas, brushing Gwyn’s mane, immediately put down the currycomb and fled into the tack-room, banging the door shut behind him.
“By the Teeth!” Allazar managed, but Gawain rammed the wizard up against the wall.
“You will be silent, whitebeard!” Gawain hissed through clenched teeth, his face inches from Allazar’s. “You dare to reproach me thus! You dare to accuse me thus! Have you forgotten who and what I am and what I do to whitebeards who offend me! Do you think you have travelled far enough in my company that you have the right to reproach me in so public a fashion? Do you!”
“Longsword…”
“I told you to be silent!” Gawain cried, thrusting the wizard against the wall again and then swinging him around, hurling him onto the straw-covered stone-paved floor. “Do you think you know me that well? Do you? You know nothing! Two and a half years, Allazar, two and a half miserable vakin years since I was banished to these southlands and in all that time what have I endured!”
Gawain paced around the wide-eyed wizard, and Allazar’s mouth went dry, remembering the last time he’d seen the King of Raheen do such a thing, at Ostinath…
“I’ll tell you, since you and everyone else is so busy vakin celebrating to bother thinking about it! A year spent in the reeking lowlands putting up with insult and brigandry and dealing with halfwit mice of men unable to stand up for themselves against a gang of imbeciles and hired thugs, while Morloch brought forth his plans and laid waste to my home!
“Then another year ridding these same lands of those chanting clowns the Ramoth and their mercenaries while kings and their guards sat on their worthless backsides doing the very nothing that whitebeards of your breed advocated! I crossed the farak gorin, I crawled through the tunnels under the Teeth and smote Morloch again and again and scant weeks ago once more I stood face to face with that ‘spitsucking evil down there at Far-gor! And all the while, the world pulling me this way and that and demanding a piece of me, heaping their hopes and fears upon my shoulders and placing all their faith in me to save them once again!