by GJ Kelly
When all was in place and secure, the boy nodded a quick bow, and made for the tack-room, but Gawain held out a hand to halt him.
“Thank you, Lyas, for all your care for my horse-friend. I’ve said this before, but perhaps you don’t remember. One day, you’ll have a horse of your own, and I know that horse will receive no finer care than you have given mine.”
Lyas beamed, and he bowed, and then ran to the tack-room where a smiling stable-master nodded his gratitude before closing the door.
“It’s time for me to go, E.”
“I know. You will take care?”
“Yes.”
“Will you return?”
Gawain gazed down at her, his eyes fixed on hers and both of them remembering another parting, their first, long ago, in the great forest of Elvendere.
“Will I be welcome?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want me to?”
“Yes.”
“Then, as soon as I am able, I shall return.”
Elayeen nodded, and suddenly lowered her gaze. “This time, miheth, there will be no athroth agonies for me to bear when you are gone. There will be only the pain of our parting, only the sharp ache of your absence, only the fear of knowing you go into danger, without me.”
“I know,” Gawain whispered, and every part of him yearned to reach out, and cradle her face in his hands, and kiss her. “We have endured much since the Jarn Road. We shall endure this, too.”
She looked up at him, her eyes damp and searching. Then he closed the distance between them a little, and reached forward, the fingers of his right hand hovering a hair’s breadth over her heart.
“Keep good watch about you, E. Don’t let down your guard. Stay safe, for my return. Throth-bound or not, my heart yet beats in your breast.”
“Isst, miheth,” and her hand reached out, her fingertips a butterfly’s touch upon his heart.
And then she turned, and left the stable, and walked alone back to Rak’s house.
It was a small group who watched the four riders clopping across Tarn Square for the northern way and the winding route down to the plains. Rak, Merrin, Elayeen and her friends Meeya and Valin. There was no waving, no calls of farewell, no outward sign at all to attract much attention on that blustery and bitter cold morning. The riders themselves didn’t look back, which was as it should be.
Once on the plains in the foothills of Tarn, Gawain paused, and looked to the west. The cairn honouring The Fallen of the Battle of Far-gor was scarcely visible on the horizon.
“We are leaving them all behind us,” Allazar sighed. “And going forward into new peril.”
“It’s an old peril, really,” Gawain announced. “Morloch is at the root of it, after all.”
“Do we ride for Ferdan, Longsword?”
“No. No, we’ll pass well to the east of Ferdan and head straight for Juria Castletown. Steady pace, no point tiring ourselves or the horses.”
“Aye. I’ve taken the liberty of informing Serre Ognorm that Reesen cannot speak the common tongue very well. He’s agreed to try to help expand the Ranger’s vocabulary during our journey.”
“Good, thank you, Allazar. Well, let’s put some miles behind us.”
They set off again, Allazar to the left and slightly behind Gawain, with Reesen and Ognorm riding side-by-side at the rear.
“’Orse,” Ognorm suddenly said, pointing at his horse.
“Orse,” Reesen replied.
“Saddle,” Ognorm announced, pointing at the saddle.
“Saddle,” Reesen parroted.
“’Orse an’ saddle,” Ognorm announced, gesticulating.
“Orsen saddle,” Reesen repeated.
Gawain flicked a glance over his shoulder, first at the wizard, and then at the elf and the dwarf of their rearguard.
“’Ammer,” Ognorm held his hammer up.
“Ammer,” Reesen responded. “Ammer orsen saddle.”
“Arr! Well done, mate!” Ognorm enthused.
“Arr! Welldun mate,” came the inevitable reply.
There was a short silence as they trotted along, Gawain smiling to himself and shaking his head ruefully.
“’Orse, ’orse, ‘orse, ‘orse, four ’orses,” Ognorm pointed happily, holding up four fingers. “One, two, three, four, four ‘orses.”
“Orse, orse, orse, orse, four orses,” Reesen smiled, looking distinctly pleased with his progress as the four rode onwards, leaving the heights of Tarn behind them, adding: “Ammer, orsen saddle, arr, well dunmate.”
“By the Teeth,” Gawain whispered to Allazar. “Elayeen will kill me when we get back.”
oOo
19. A Certain Sadness
Gawain set a course perhaps ten points west of due south, a line which took them far enough from the river border crossing with Mornland not to be seen by the guards posted there. With no army, wagons, or foot-soldiers to slow them, and with the northerly wind at their backs, they made good time, passing so far to the east of Ferdan that they would have had more chance of glimpsing the village of Sernen on the Mornland coast than the lacklustre Jurian town near the great forest of Elvendere.
They were kind to their horses too, dismounting frequently and walking while the animals grazed or drank. But though the mood was light-hearted and Ognorm availed himself of every opportunity to teach Reesen new words in the common tongue, all four felt the gravity of the duty they’d imposed upon themselves tugging them onwards, and they ate on the move, camping only when it was too dark for safe travel.
It was the evening of the twenty-eighth of December, after making just such a camp half a day’s ride north of Juria Castletown, that the light-hearted and jovial banter was brought to an abrupt halt. Low clouds scudded overhead, and though the rain had stopped around noon the skies seemed miserably pregnant and utterly cheerless.
“Orse blanky,” Reesen said, happily adjusting the blanket on his mount after dumping the saddle on the rain-dampened ground.
“Arr!” Ognorm agreed with enthusiasm. “Green an’ black ‘orse blanky.”
“Greenen black orse blanky. Greenen black boot, greenen black boot, two greenen black boot…ss.”
“Arr! You got it!”
Gawain flicked a glance across Gwyn’s back at the silhouette of the wizard, who was chuckling quietly while attending his own steed.
“It’s not funny, Allazar,” he whispered, “Elayeen really will kill me. He was once a noble thalangard officer in service to Elvendere’s crown, now listen to him.”
“Serves you right, Longsword, for abrogating your duty. You were supposed to be learning elvish from him too, y’know.”
“Well that’s the nice thing about being a king, I get to delegate. I also get to decide whether I want to learn a foreign language or not. Besides, I’ve got a wizard who can speak elvish and a piece of paper from Valin which’ll do in a pinch.”
“Then when our lady sets about you with a blunt object, I shall remind you of the faith you placed in your kingliness, your piece of paper, and your poor starving wizard.”
“No, there’ll be no fire and no spit-roast rabbit,” Gawain grinned, laying out his bedroll. “You’ll have to do better than that. Besides there’s no kindling anyway.”
“The lot of a wizard in service to his Crown is neither glamorous nor to be envied, and will surely end either abruptly by the sword or slowly, starving in a ditch far from the comforts of civilisation.”
“A quote from that imaginary codex of yours?”
Allazar sniffed. “The Book of Zaine is the Codex Maginarum, Longsword, and no, it is not a quote from that revered tome. It is not a quote at all, though perhaps it should be; I made it up myself, just now.”
“You should put it in your pocket Pangoricon for posterity then. Perhaps under O, for Orse-poop.”
“MiThal!” Reesen suddenly announced, snatching up his bow and pointing urgently towards the southwest, “Dark! Wings!”
Gawain dropped his saddle-bags and moved c
lear of Gwyn, whipping an arrow from his quiver and stringing it hastily. “How far?”
Allazar translated into elvish, and then translated Reesen’s reply. “Half a mile, Longsword, moving west to east and now heading away, turning south.”
“Graken?”
“Isst, miThal. Graken.”
Minutes passed slowly, wind stirring their cloaks and the long grasses around them. Eyes strained, but in the darkness, only the Sight of the Kindred Ranger could possibly see the creature of aquamire winging its silent way through the night.
Finally, Reesen let out a long breath.
“Gone?” Gawain asked.
Allazar translated.
“Arr, gone, miThal.”
“Thank you.”
“Arr, well done, mate,” Ognorm added, arrow in one hand and slipping the handle of his Meggen’s mace back through a loop in his belt with the other, before giving Reesen a comradely slap on the shoulder.
“It swung due south?” Gawain asked, and Allazar confirmed the direction the Graken and its rider had been taking before it was lost to Reesen’s sight.
“Yes. Following a track slightly east of Castletown, Longsword.”
“Where in sight of the sun is it headed then? Beyond the vineyards south of the town there’s little more than open plains, all the way to the hills of Dun Meven in Callodon. A few farms perhaps, a hamlet or two.”
“The Hallencloister lies that way.” Allazar said quietly.
“You think the Hallencloister in Morloch’s hands?” Gawain gasped.
“In truth, I don’t know what to think. I never imagined we would encounter a Graken this side of Elvendere, not since victory at the Far-gor. Not so soon.”
“They put a Grimmand onto the plains south of Ferdan from the back of one of those things. On a night such as this, they could pass through the skies entirely unseen, except for the Rangers. And we’re half a day north of Juria’s Hall, so any Rangers on duty there would not have seen it. It could’ve crossed Elvendere, then looped around Castletown and even now might be heading back west to reach Gorian lands before daybreak.”
“Or continuing south, to its master’s lair. Whether to the Hallencloister or elsewhere, how are we to know?”
“We cannot know. The Graken hardly leaves a trail that might be followed. Not even that famous elf hunter Elayeen spoke of, what was his name, Yargo, could track that beast.”
“Yargo?” Reesen suddenly announced, and Gawain swung around to look at the powerfully-built elf.
“You know the story? Of Yargo?” Gawain asked.
Reesen stared at him, brown eyes barely visible in the dark. Then he looked up and around, his pupils snapping to pinpoints. “Yargo see Graken. Reesen see Graken. Yargo, see Graken… hunt Graken… kill Graken. Reesen hunt Graken, miThal?”
“Nai,” Gawain asserted. “Allazar, please tell Reesen I don’t require him to hunt the Graken. Just to keep watch for it.”
“Very well,” Allazar nodded, and translated the order while Gawain turned around and stared hopelessly into the darkness in the direction of Castletown.
“I wish I knew what this means, wizard. With Morloch drained beyond the Teeth, his army destroyed, and the west most likely in the hands of dark wizards jealously guarding their own domains, I wish I knew what this Graken means.”
Allazar sighed. “I do not know precisely what this means, Longsword, but I do know it means nothing good. We can’t begin to guess what manner of evil retribution Morloch now plans for these lands in the aftermath of Far-gor. One thing I do know is that I am glad indeed the Kindred Rangers are scattered about the lands, to keep watch for such evil.”
“Yes. Perhaps word of their existence and their duty hasn’t yet reached Morloch’s ears. Perhaps the southlands will have a period of advantage in that respect, at least for a short time.”
“Perhaps. But for now, we should sleep. Tomorrow we must warn Hellin of Juria of this new threat to her lands.”
“Assuming that the Rangers there aren’t already aware of it. This may not be the first visitation the creature has made near the Crown’s hall. Reesen, first watch.”
“Isst, miThal.”
“You can unstring your arrow now, Ognorm.”
“Arr, melord, though I hope you won’t mind if I keep it ‘andy anyways.”
“No, I won’t mind,” Gawain smiled in the dark, flipping his string back into position around his wrist and replacing his own yard-long shaft into his quiver. He’d been pleased when he’d seen the dwarf make ready for throwing as soon as Reesen had given the warning; there was something almost Raheen about it.
Sleep was fitful, and the small party on the plains felt a tangible sense of relief when dawn lightened the sky and made their bleak surroundings visible to ordinary eyes. Breakfast, such as it was, was hurried, all of them were anxious to be on their way. It was cold, damp, windy, and far from welcoming, and thinking of the warmth and comforts which awaited them in the Jurian capitol half a day’s ride west of south made for additional haste when they broke camp.
Broken cloud, white, lumpy and low, seemed to be racing them to the high-walled town Gawain had visited several times before, once when he and Allazar had stolen into the Ramoth tower there, torturing the emissary within for the ingredients of the poison which had almost cost King Willam his life. Thinking of that, and the Graken with its dark rider the night before, added a sense of urgency to the journey, and Gwyn reacted to it, kicking up through the trot to the canter. No-one protested the increased pace.
Finally, tedious grasses began to give way to cultivated land, tilled soil, fallow fields, and habitations. Just before noon, the walls of Juria appeared over the horizon, and then the Keep of Castletown itself. Riders of the Grey short-rangers spotted their approach, and rode to meet them, challenge them, then greet them before providing escort all the way to the north gate.
Word of their arrival was rushed ahead to the Hall, and it was only after the rider bearing the message had sped away down the long cobbled road through the town that the smiling gate watch officer finally accepted Allazar’s assurance that he knew the way, and permitted them to pass unescorted. It was, the gate watch officer said, more than his job was worth to allow them to reach the Hall before word of their arrival had been given.
Neither Reesen nor Ognorm had ever witnessed the spectacle of a castle town before, and they were agog, heads and eyes swivelling this way and that. The wall surrounding the town was immense, and over the centuries had been reinforced, extended outward and inward, and were so thickened that now habitations and workplaces formed an integral part of their base.
Blacksmiths, wheelwrights, carpenters, coopers, all manner of tradesmen laboured in the workshops set deep into the foot of the great wall. And on the top, on a walkway broad enough to take a horse and cart in both directions at once, the Wallguard patrolled while other folk simply took exercise and fresh air high above the town.
Around them, as their horses clopped along the broad road towards the Keep and Hall, shops, businesses, and dwellings; the smell of cooking and the noisy bustle of daily life assailed their senses, a daily life spared destruction at the hands, teeth, and maces of Morloch’s northern horde.
Impressive the walls might appear to be, but Gawain remembered how easily he had once scaled them unseen. When the majority of Juria’s forces had been at the front line at Far-gor, leaving only civilians to guard the town, it was all too easy to imagine how the Meggen horde would’ve scrambled up the crumbling flint-and-mortar fortifications and descended upon the sleeping town, had the Kindred Army fallen…
“Is it me,” Gawain asked Allazar over the noise all around them, “Or is there a certain sadness in the air here?”
“Yes,” Allazar agreed, gazing around as if looking for the reason, “There does seem to be a lingering air of sorrow. Perhaps Willam’s death has affected the people far more than we might have thought?”
“Perhaps, but look, there’s the Keep, and its Hall.
And if I’m not mistaken, that’s our old friend, Jerryn, awaiting us on the steps. He’s a good man, I wouldn’t be surprised to learn he’s not soon to be Queen’s Consort, if he isn’t already. We’ll soon find out what ails Juria.”
“Oh!” Allazar sighed, and then turned to Gawain urgently. “Longsword, I advise that you do not mention Jerryn’s affection for Juria’s crown. I fear there are matters of Jurian protocol to be considered now that Willam’s daughter wears the crown. I will explain later, but best not speak of it at all.”
Gawain, puzzled and frowning, nodded his agreement to Allazar’s request as Gwyn slowed and came to a halt at the foot of the steps leading up to the entrance of the Keep. Jerryn strode down towards them as they dismounted, and called out a greeting as pages advanced to take charge of the horses.
“Well met, your Majesty, and welcome to Juria,” Jerryn announced, his uniform bright and crisp, but his expression deadpan and his eyes reflecting the odd sadness that seemed to hang heaviest in the air here near the Keep.
“Major Jerryn, my honourable friend of old,” Gawain announced, and stepped forward to clasp the officer’s arm. “I see there’s no sign of the tower and huts we burned that night, long ago.”
“No, all trace of that Ramoth curse is long gone, thanks to you. And to the wizard, Allazar. Word just arrived from the gate of your arrival, lunch was being prepared, but your visit has taken the Court by surprise. No-one expected you to pay your respects so soon, and in this bleak season.”
“There’s more to our visit, alas. Are you still Defender of the town? I gather you were responsible for all local defences while we were in the north?”
“I was, but no longer. That duty has passed back to the Commander of the Town Guard, now that peace reigns once more.”
“Then he’ll need to be advised that the peace is fragile, my friend. Ranger Reesen here spotted a Graken and a dark rider upon its back north of here last night.”