The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  Jerryn flicked a glance towards the mighty portals at the top of the steps. “Aye, my lord, some time ago now. There’s nothing now to delay my departure.”

  “Then let’s away. South for a while, and then a slightly more westerly course. The Jarn Gap is our destination now.”

  “My lord.”

  Gawain and Allazar led the way towards the south gate, Ognorm and Reesen following, with Jerryn and the pack-horse bringing up the rear. Few in the town noted their departure, most folk scurrying about their business wrapped against the weather and heads down against the swirling gusts which drove cold and misty rain into eyes and faces. If the gate-watch were at all curious as to their identity and destination, they kept their questions well-wrapped in their scarves and were content simply to wave the travellers through the wall and out onto the southern track.

  Once off the cobbled road and onto the hard-packed track that led away from the inns and dwellings outside the walls, Gwyn stepped up to the trot, and that was the pace they maintained, swinging slightly east after an hour to pass around a small hamlet and its fallow fields. It was still drizzling when Gawain judged it too dark to proceed safely, and they made their night-camp, tending the horses before sitting miserably upon their saddles, cloaks drawn tight.

  It was only when Jerryn had eased the supplies from the pack-horse and given the animal the attention it deserved that he spoke, and surprised them with a question.

  “Shall I break out the stove and heat some soup, my lord?”

  “Ah!” Allazar beamed in the darkness.

  “Stove?” Gawain asked, “Soup?”

  “Aye my lord. I have a cavalry camp stove, and dried provisions. There’s water in the stream yonder. It’ll be fresh, we’re far enough from the town now for it not to be fouled.”

  “Will it not attract attention?”

  “Not on a night like this, my lord.”

  “True. Well, yes, if you have some way of firing the stove, and without it drawing attention. Not fuelled by ellamas oil and pyre-brick, is it?”

  “The elvish stuff Captain Byrne told me of? No, my lord. The Greys are trialling the use of charcoal biscuit pressed with wood-tar. It has an odd odour when burned in quantity, but with this drizzle it shouldn’t carry.”

  Gawain shrugged, and they watched with feigned disinterest while Jerryn set up what looked like a slender metal box in the middle of their small ring of saddles, and then went to fill a camp pan of water.

  “Charcoal biscuit pressed with wood-tar?” Gawain asked the wizard seated next to him.

  Allazar shrugged. “Wood-tar is quite flammable when heated. It remains to be seen how effective this device is. If I were you, Longsword, I would commence to eating your frak, it may be some time before the water simmers.”

  It actually took no longer than a wood fire would have taken to heat the pan of soup made with dried provisions. The fuel tablets Jerryn placed in the box glowed a cherry red once ignited with a dash of clear spirits from a bottle and a smack of a firestone on a boot knife. The aroma of the soup simmering soon overpowered the faint and waxy odour of the stove’s fuel, which was practically smokeless.

  “Stove,” Ognorm pointed.

  “Stove,” Reesen dutifully repeated.

  “Pan.”

  “Pan.”

  “’Ot soup.”

  “Ot soup. Ot soup, pan, stove. Wet orse blanky. Wet cloak. Wet boot…ss.”

  “Arr.”

  Jerryn shot an inquisitive look at Gawain, who shook his head sadly. “Don’t ask, Jerryn.”

  The officer smiled and nodded. “It won’t be long, my lord,” and he fetched five battered-looking tin cups from the pack and handed them around.

  “Cup fer ‘ot soup.”

  “Cupfa rot soup,” Reesen tapped the rim of his cup with a fingernail, adding: “Arr. Ot soup good.”

  “This device, my lord,” Jerryn asked quietly, taking Gawain’s cup and dunking it into the pan to fill it with steaming liquid, “The object of our quest. May I know what it is?”

  Gawain took the cup and blew on it, sipping the hot liquid tentatively. In truth, it was welcome, and certainly a comfort on a night such as this.

  “It’s a metal ball, about six inches across. An orb, made long ago and imbued with immense energy,” Gawain explained briefly as Jerryn filled each of their cups in turn. “It derives its power from sunlight, and is death to all who approach it in the daytime. It’ll need a night like this for us to recover it safely. Then, once it’s ours, we take it out into the Sea of Hope, and cast it into the depths forever.”

  Jerryn sipped his own soup, thoughtfully. “And this thing is near Jarn?”

  “Close by, deep in the forest near the borders of Juria and Callodon, and what was the Old Kingdom.”

  “Will we be journeying first to Callodon, then, to notify King Brock?”

  “Yes. Callodon Castletown is on the way to the Jarn Gap. We’ll need to arrange for a ship and a trusted crew, and for a discreet escort across southern Callodon to one of the harbours on the coast once we have the Orb. And I don’t want to take the horses into the forest again. It was bad enough the first time. We’ll leave them in care of friends from Callodon while we go in on foot. Is there anything else you want to know?”

  “No, my lord, not this night.”

  Gawain nodded. “It’s good soup, thank you.”

  “Ot soup good,” Reesen interjected.

  “And not a hint of fish in it,” Gawain smiled in the darkness.

  “My lord?” Jerryn frowned.

  “Sorry, just remembering battle-camp at Far-gor.”

  “I was sorry not to be there with you all.”

  “You had your duties as Defender of the capitol. Willam did offer me your services, you know. I declined, knowing how well-regarded you and your service to the Crown were at home.”

  “Not so well-regarded now, my lord, as I daresay you may have noticed.”

  “Allazar has mentioned matters of protocol.”

  “Yes,” Jerryn sighed. “His Majesty, King Willam, was to have made an announcement to all in the Hall. It was to have been a dual celebration, a celebration of peace through victory in the north, and a celebration of betrothal. He was slain before the announcement could be made and ratified in accordance with custom and protocol. So much more than our king died that night. There is nothing, now. Nothing but duty.”

  “So I understand. We have much in common, Jerryn, as you will doubtless discover on our journey south together. Duty, it seems, binds all our lives together, and duty has brought each of us to this night, and to this place.”

  “There’s a saying at ‘ome in the Ruttmark, melord, my father used to say it. ‘Choices is things you get to make, duty’s a thing you can’t but do.’ I used to think it was daft, ‘til I found meself marching side-by-side with me mates, off to war.”

  Allazar sighed. “Duty. It is at once a nebulous thing, intangible, and a word that lives ever in the realm of poets and philosophers. Yet nothing is more clear, or tangible, and nothing so demanding, for those who hear its call. It drives men weeping with pride to their doom, and leaves behind, weeping with pride at that doom and filled with envy, the lesser men who hear it not.”

  There was a short and thoughtful silence.

  “Orse-poop,” Gawain sighed, breaking the spell, and evincing a chuckle from all but Reesen, who simply smiled.

  “Then here’s to ‘ot soup and duty, says I,” Ognorm announced quietly, holding forth his steaming tin cup.

  “Aye, hot soup and duty,” Gawain agreed, and the toast was made with the dull metallic ring of the cups over the camp stove.

  On New Year’s Eve, they passed quietly through the vineyards two days south of Castletown and crossed the stream where Allazar had encountered Gawain and given warning of Morloch’s Black Riders, almost killing his horse to do so, back in the summer of Gawain’s second year in the lowlands. Gawain recognised the place even if Allazar seemed not to.

&nb
sp; The weather alternated between northerly gales and lashing rain, and northerly winds and blustery rain, interspersed with occasional dry but cold days that scarcely allowed clothing to dry. For the sake of the supply of fuel for Jerryn’s stove, hot soup was limited to those nights when the weather permitted the stove to be lit and to function effectively. Duty, of course, remained unaffected by the inclement weather.

  Gawain took a slightly more westerly route once on the open plains, electing to pass well clear of the D’ith Hallencloister near the tri-border area between eastern Juria, southern Mornland and northern Arrun. As much as his curiosity concerning the Hallencloister nagged him to pass close enough to see for himself the despised whitebeard citadel and capitol, caution and common sense won the day. If the Hallencloister had indeed fallen to Morloch’s minions, Gawain needed to stay well clear of it, at least until the Orb of Arristanas had been secured and safely disposed of. Not until they were well clear of the wizard’s citadel did Gawain swing slowly back to a more southerly course.

  The five companions endured the weather well, and the travelling was made in good spirits. With each mile further south from Juria’s Keep, Jerryn’s mood became lighter, his eyes brighter, and the freedom and openness of the plains seemed to fill him, leaving no room for an excess of sorrows.

  Gawain felt it, too, and recognised it. It was the relaxed joy of travelling, of being neither one place nor another, many miles yet from danger, and many miles away from the sharp pain of broken love and yearning. That sharp pain was reduced now to a dull ache, senses filled instead with the mundane business of the journey. Gawain was Raheen and made for horsemanship and wide open spaces. Jerryn too felt the liberation of vistas unbroken by walls or buildings, and of far horizons and limitless skies.

  It had taken the three of Raheen some six weeks of hard travelling to reach the vicinity of the Jarn Gap from Ferdan, but that had been in summer and the journey was made in haste. Now, six weeks after leaving Juria’s walled castletown behind them, they were passing the Dun Meven hills that marked Arrun’s south-western border with Callodon, and had already been in Brock’s land for some days. Gawain swung their track further west once the hills were behind them, heading for Brock’s home, and Callodon Castletown.

  And not once did Reesen give warning.

  Until, in the late afternoon of the fourteenth day of February, a bitterly cold but bright day and with signs of cultivation on the southern horizon, the Kindred Ranger suddenly stood in his stirrups, gazing almost due east…

  oOo

  22. Harks Hearth

  “Mithal! Graken! East go west. Slow!”

  “Dwarfspit! What range?”

  “Far?” Ognorm translated.

  “Three mile far, miThal.”

  “Anybody else see it?” Gawain asked, stringing an arrow.

  “Alas,” Allazar replied, shielding his eyes.

  “No, my lord,” Jerryn grunted, heaving on his crossbow’s cocking-lever.

  “Nope,” Ognorm announced, flexing his shoulders and stringing an arrow. “Pointy, Reesen, high, low?”

  “Low,” and Reesen pointed a rock-steady finger towards the higher hills slightly north of east. Then he uttered a stream of quiet elvish.

  “The Graken is following the terrain, Longsword, staying about fifty feet above the ground.”

  More elvish, and then Allazar gripped his staff and turned a worried gaze towards Gawain. “It appears to have seen us, and is altering course directly towards us.”

  “There’s no cover here. Spread out, and let’s run. If it thinks we’re fleeing in fear it might drop its guard and close in for the kill. When it’s in range, Allazar, kindly shred the bastard. Hai, Gwyn!”

  The horses kicked through to the run, but Gawain held them short of a full gallop. He wanted to bring the Graken and its rider in range of Allazar’s lightning-tree, not to outrun the creature.

  “I see it now m’lord!” Jerryn shouted over the heavy thudding of hooves, “It’s closing slowly!”

  “Ride on!” Gawain cried, and flicked a glance over his left shoulder, the dot in the east lengthening to a hyphen against the bright blue of the cloudless sky. The Graken was climbing, gaining altitude for a dive…

  They thundered towards the fields on the southern horizon, patchworks of brown and green, tilled earth and fallow fields. The land here was all gentle, rolling hills. Nowhere to hide from death on the wing.

  “Gaining fast now!” Jerryn shouted, and another glance revealed the Graken’s grotesque and unmistakeable form, leathery wings beating, the dark wizard on its back sitting forward in the high-backed chair of its saddle.

  “Ready Allazar!” Gawain cried, horses snorting now, sensing the urgency and perhaps even the evil in the air.

  Allazar swung the white Dymendin under his arm, holding it like a lance, leaning forward over his horse’s neck and gazing to the east, judging the range…

  “It’s going be’ind us melord!” Ognorm shouted, and sure enough, the Graken swooped…

  But not over their heads. Instead, it dived at a point perhaps a hundred yards behind the line of the five running horses, almost touching the ground, wings stretched wide. Gawain caught a glimpse of the Graken rider’s plain steel mask, its three simple holes for eyes and mouth angled directly towards him, and behind the high-backed saddle, a large bundle or sack of something, food perhaps or supplies. But then Graken was flashing behind them, and Gawain had to swivel around in his saddle to track it.

  “It’s heading to the west!” he shouted, but there was no need. All of them were tracking the Graken’s course, the horses running free and following Gwyn’s lead on open ground clear of any obstructions.

  The Graken lifted, uttering a piercing shriek, tilting its wings to swing around to the south, slowing abruptly as it wheeled around and up, two hundred yards directly ahead of them, perhaps two hundred and fifty feet above the ground. Black, smoky spheres began dropping either side of the creature’s neck, falling from the ends of a long rod the demGoth rider held outstretched before him.

  “Allazar!” Gawain screamed, “Bring it down! Bring it down!”

  Earth began erupting ahead of them where those smoky black spheres struck the ground, and Gwyn swung to the right. An arrow flashed white in the sky overhead, and Gawain saw it strike the Graken in its left side near the wing root. Then a streak of white lightning obliterated his view of the creature, leaving only the thundering of hooves and the whump-whump! double concussions of the black fireballs to assail his senses.

  There was a brief and horrible squeal, a sound Gawain recognised immediately, the sound of a horse going down. A glance over his left shoulder, and his stomach lurched. Allazar’s horse was tumbling horribly on the verdant earth. Allazar was rolling like a rag doll on the grass. The Graken, several hundred yards north of them now, was already beginning slowly to wheel around again.

  “Allazar!” Gawain screamed, rage and something else bursting through him, “Allazar!”

  Gwyn dug in and swung hard to the east, and the others followed suit, their horses making a wider arc as they raced back to the fallen wizard. Allazar was lying motionless on the ground, his famed Dymendin staff sticking up at an acute angle, at least eighteen inches of it buried in the soft and rain-soaked earth some two dozen yards behind him.

  Gawain, of course, reached him first, dismounting nimbly as Gwyn came to an abrupt halt in a shower of dirt and clods of grass.

  “Allazar! Allazar!” Gawain knelt by the wizard’s head, and well-trained hands moved swiftly over grubby robes, now stained and streaked green and brown with grass and dirt.

  Allazar groaned.

  “Don’t move! Don’t move Allazar!” Gawain insisted, continuing to check for broken bones as first Reesen and then Jerryn blasted past them, heading north.

  Gawain turned to follow their track as Ognorm reined in and dismounted, arrow strung ready in hand. Reesen loosed an arrow, which seemed to burst clean through the Graken’s left wing, an
d Jerryn loosed a bolt, which struck the creature low in the belly. The demGoth rider leaned forward, making himself a smaller target, and the Graken flapped lower, building speed, heading towards the downed wizard.

  Reesen got off another arrow, hitting the beast in the belly as it flew over his head.

  “The staff!” Gawain shouted, realising that there could only be one reason why the Graken was coming towards them so low, and so slow. The demGoth had seen the white Dymendin sticking up from the ground, abandoned…

  Gawain and Ognorm sprinted forward.

  “Vex!” Ognorm screamed, hurling his arrow at the same moment Gawain hurled his, “Vex!” he yelled again, dragging his mace clear of his belt. Both arrows struck, Gawain’s hitting dead centre of the Graken’s chest and Ognorm’s catching one of the beast’s lizard-like fore-legs.

  Gawain hurled one more arrow, which flew harmlessly past the demGoth’s head, the rider leaning wide of the saddle, a rod of Asteran in his right hand, his left extended to make a grab for the Dymendin. As Gawain’s arrow flashed past his head, the demGoth jerked back instinctively, heaving on the reins as his did so.

  Gawain simply dived headlong, his weight crashing into the staff and dragging it down to the ground beneath him, safe from the dark wizard’s grasp.

  “Vex!” Ognorm screamed again, and swung his mace, taking a mighty leap from the ground as he did so, smashing the iron-headed weapon into the leading edge of the Graken’s left wing as it rose up and flew over them.

  Gawain felt a fine mist, like drizzle, and was astonished when he found his hand smeared with black blood after wiping his face. He heard the Graken shriek in pain, saw it wheeling away towards the hills in the east, saw the flash of arrow and bolt streaking towards it from Reesen and Jerryn still on horseback and charging briefly in pursuit.

  The Graken laboured to gain height, fleeing towards the east, shrieking in pain and misery, and then, when it was a mile or more from them, its left wing seemed suddenly to rise up, limp, fluttering like a torn sail, and it began to spin, descending rapidly and out of control, and was lost from view behind a rise in the hills.