by GJ Kelly
Gawain grabbed up the Dymendin staff, marvelling at its extraordinary weight, and ran back to the fallen wizard.
“Allazar, don’t move,” Gawain ordered, seeing the wizard’s head lolling.
Again, Gawain checked for broken bones, and finding nothing obvious, dared with Ognorm’s help to roll the wizard onto his back.
Allazar’s eyes rolled, pupils oddly dilated in spite of the brightness of the day. Gawain waved his hand over the wizard’s head, its shadow passing across Allazar’s eyes.
“Dwarfspit,” Gawain grimaced as Ognorm knelt at the wizard’s other side. “I’ve seen this before, the wizard’s head has taken a blow, we need to get him to a healer, quickly.”
“His poor ‘orse is dead, melord, though we can use the pack-‘orse Jerryn brung?”
“Allazar can’t ride. I’ll carry him…”
“I’ll be carrying the wizard, melord, if there’s anything at all needs lifting and shifting, I’ll be the one who does it.”
Gawain noted the set of Ognorm’s expression, and nodded. “Hold him gently then, and keep his head as still as you can.”
“Arr, melord, you can count on me.”
And with that, Ognorm slipped the bloodied mace through his belt-loop, slid his immense and powerful arms under Allazar’s back and legs, and lifted him gently from the ground as easily and tenderly as a mother might lift and cradle an infant.
Reesen reined in nearby, bow at the ready and his gaze turned to the hills in the east, while Jerryn, slinging his crossbow over his shoulders, dismounted and led Ognorm’s horse forward, whistling for the distant pack-horse to come.
“Head due south,” Gawain ordered, “With as much haste as Allazar’s safety will permit. Callodon is too far, we’ll head for Harks Hearth, but must make the gates before nightfall. I’ll catch up with you shortly!”
Nods of agreement, and while Ognorm mounted, cradling the wizard in his arms, Jerryn led the pack-horse back to Gawain before moving off on Ognorm’s left flank.
“Mithal?”
“Isst, Reesen?”
“Dark man, far, walk. East.”
Gawain shielded his eyes and looked towards the hills.
“No Graken,” Reesen added.
“Vizarrn?”
“Isst, miThal, vizarrn am Morloch.”
“Mitak, Reesen,” Gawain acknowledged, and the Ranger moved off to catch up with Jerryn and the others.
For a moment, Gawain stared long and hard towards the east. There was a dark wizard on foot. A Graken-riding black-eyed bastard who served Morloch. An old and familiar rage seemed to bubble deep inside, a dark yearning to leap on Gwyn’s back, charge headlong across the scrubby plains and into the hills, there to split that Morloch-spawned evil in two. Then he swung his gaze to the south, his companions diminishing as they rode towards the horizon, Allazar cradled in Ognorm’s arms. Trembling, Gawain screwed his eyes shut, and with deep breaths, quelled the rage that had been building dangerously within…
Gawain retrieved Allazar’s packs and saddle-bags from the wizard’s dead horse, and added them to what few provisions remained on the back of the pack-horse. The Dymendin staff, its heft like iron, remained firmly in Gawain’s grip, and he laid it across his legs and his saddle. It was far too heavy for him to hold upright and rest on his boot as the wizard always did when on horseback. Clearly, the circles of Raheen did not intend for Gawain, or anyone else for that matter, to wield the staff as easily as did Allazar.
He looked again to the east, straining his eyes, looking for any sign of movement which might be the demGoth Graken-rider. Leaving such evil at large in gentle lands was abhorrent to Gawain. But he also remembered Tyrane’s description of Harks Hearth and the one law which even Brock himself could not overrule, and Allazar was injured, possibly quite seriously. The demGoth would have to wait. According to the map of the lowlands Gawain carried in his head, there was nothing beyond those hills except the immense body of water that was Lake Arrunmere, source of the grand River Sudenstem which marked Arrun’s southern border with Callodon.
The dark wizard could wait, he told himself again. Allazar could not.
When Gwyn and Gawain caught up with the others, the pack-horse following dutifully, Gawain was astonished to see them moving at the trot. Ognorm had risen slightly out of the saddle, his powerful thighs straining and absorbing all shocks and motion while the horse moved beneath him. Allazar lay frighteningly still in the dwarf’s arms, looking suddenly small, and terribly fragile.
Gawain rode ahead, signalling for Jerryn to take charge of the pack-horse and to move to Ognorm’s right flank, while Reesen kept watch on the left. Their progress was faster than Gawain imagined it might have been, but for the sake of Allazar’s safety, slower than he would’ve liked. But he’d seen other riders fall at speed, and in his early days, had even come a cropper several times himself, the headache lasting for days. Haste, he knew, could kill as well as cure.
They rode across tilled and fallow fields, and though there were huts here and there doubtless containing agricultural tools and implements, there were no dwellings to be seen. Onwards, at the trot, heads swivelling, Ognorm astonishing them with his strength and endurance. The sun was sinking fast in the west when, finally, they crested a rise, and ahead, perhaps a mile and a half, they saw the high walls of the fortified town and winter store houses of Harks Hearth, exactly as Tyrane had described to Gawain on the Canal of Thal-Marrahan.
By the time they reached the cobbled but muddy track leading to the main gates, the sky was blood-red, the sun setting behind the western hills beyond which, some four days ride, lay Callodon Castletown. And the main gates were closed.
“Open the gates!” Gawain shouted, as they came to a halt some yards before them.
“Bugger off ‘til morning, we got rules!” came the reply from a surly looking guardsman on the crenellated wall.
“I know your rules, Guardsman of Callodon! It is not yet nightfall! Open the gates! We have an injured man here and a dark threat nearby!”
“The rules is, if I can’t see a white thread when I hold it up, it’s nightfall, and I can’t see no thread!”
“The sky is still red, you dolt! Open the vakin gate or I’ll climb up there and open you!”
“Oy! What’s all the shouting?” another voice behind the wall asked.
“Gate’s are shut, Sarge. Some mouthy goit with what looks like a dead wizard, a dwarf, an elf, and a Jurian wants ‘em opened.”
“The sun has not yet set! Open the gates in Brock’s name!”
The second face appeared, peering over the battlements, and blanched.
“Oh by the vurken Teeth it’s Vex himself! Open the gates! Open the gates you idiot!”
The first face promptly disappeared, and as the last rays of the sun lanced through the gaps in the western hills, the gates rumbled, and a crack appeared between them.
Gwyn surged forward, the remainder following slowly. Inside, Gawain spotted a face he recognised, the Sergeant of the Guard who had ordered the gates cracked.
“Erik, well met. Is there a healer here? The wizard Allazar is hurt!”
“Aye, my lord, there is!” the astonished sergeant announced, halfway down the steps from the battlements, and turned his face towards the gloom of the town and the lamplighters scurrying hither and yon. “Whitesleeves!” he screamed, “Whitesleeves t’ the gates!”
Gawain dismounted as those very gates closed with a solid thunk which rumbled underfoot and spoke of great weight and strength. From around the corner of the guardhouse, stretcher-bearers and a white-sleeved healer arrived at the run, and Ognorm gently laid the stricken wizard upon the litter.
“Hard fall from a horse!” Gawain called.
The whitesleeves waved an acknowledgement, and the stricken wizard was borne away, Ognorm following in answer to a nod from Gawain.
“There was a dark wizard on foot, some miles back. Do you have Kindred Rangers here?”
“Aye, my lord,
one, elf by the name of Kern. Makes his rounds on the walls soon, good bloke he is, too.”
“Kern, good, miThal,” Reesen agreed, resting his bow on his boot, Jerryn beside him.
“Erik, this is Reesen, and Jerryn, friends of mine. Get Kern up on the wall and keep a good watch. Jerryn, this is Erik, Sergeant of the Callodon Guard. I first knew him when he was a corporal, as honourable then as he is now.”
“Serre,” Erik saluted.
“Jerryn, see to our horses and gear, and above all else, keep this white stick safe. In fact, best pass it to Ognorm, tell him not to let go of it, and tell him to remain by Allazar’s side, no matter what.”
“Aye, my lord. And you?”
“Reesen and I are going hunting.”
“Hunting?” Erik gasped, “My lord, the sun has set, this is Harks Hearth, we cannot open the gates now until sunrise, not even for you!”
“Reesen and I can use ropes to descend the wall. Once we leave, we won’t approach the walls until dawn, so if you see anything out there in the meantime, it won’t be us.”
“Understood, my lord.”
Jerryn looked aghast. “Serre, is this wise…?”
“There’s a dark wizard on foot out there. I’ll not leave that alive to bring misery and death to all those it may encounter in these lands. From what I saw of Allazar and what I know of falling from horses, it may well be a day or two before he wakes, and longer before he’s fit to travel.”
Erik ordered one of the gate watchmen to fetch ropes and take them up to the battlements, then turned to Gawain.
“My lord, what shall I tell the Captain of the ’Watch when he hears of your arrival? And the mayor?”
“Nothing to tell. We were simply en route to visit Brock at Callodon Castle with news from the north, when we encountered a dark wizard on the wing, and that’s all there is to it. But for that encounter, we’d be in night camp in the hills and still en route to Castletown. There’s to be no ceremony and no fuss, no word sent ahead. Our journey is to be a quiet one, Erik.”
“Understood, my lord.”
“Jerryn, should Allazar awake and be sound of mind before we return, explain our circumstances and tell him to rest until we get back.”
“My lord.”
“Reesen.”
“MiThal?”
“You. Me. Yargo.”
Reesen smiled a cruel smile, and nodded. “Yargo see, Yargo hunt. Yargo kill. Hunt vizarrn am Morloch?”
“Isst, Reesen. We hunt vizarrn am Morloch.”
With a final nod for Jerryn and a glance for Gwyn standing watchful nearby, Gawain mounted the steps and climbed up to the top of the wall, Reesen hard on his heels.
“Welcome to Harks Hearth,” he heard Erik say, the sergeant’s voice hushed and not a little awe-struck.
oOo
23. Ot Graken
It took seconds to abseil from the battlements to the ground, and seconds more before Gawain and Reesen were loping silently through the night, back the way they had come. Gawain flicked the occasional glance towards the Ranger running on his left, the elf scanning the way ahead. Stars were bright, twinkling through the high and wispy cloud that had tinted the sunset, and the moon was a bright fingernail approaching its first quarter low in the west. In the soft, silver-grey light, Gawain could see that Reesen was using the Sight, but at intervals, the elf’s face taking on a distinctly Eldengaze cast whenever his pupils snapped shut. It was unnerving, especially when Reesen returned the glances.
They ran at a steady, comfortable pace for an hour, before Gawain drew up to an easy walking stride, and took a long pull from his water skin before offering it to the elf.
“Nai, mitak, miThal,” Reesen whispered, and took a drink from his own skin.
The elf was something of an enigma. Gawain had no idea why Elayeen had selected him from all those Rangers who had elected to remain in Threlland after Far-gor. The fellow could barely understand the common tongue, and Gawain sincerely doubted that an opportunity to learn elvish while teaching Reesen the common equivalent was the reason for Elayeen’s choice. It made about as much sense as Gawain trying to teach everyone else how to speak Raheen.
Now, standing in the dim charcoal grey of a starlit night in the middle of open land, Reesen seemed a lot bigger and far more imposing than he had while on horseback or cloaked and hooded in a rain-washed and windblown night-camp. In fact, while they slaked their thirst and took a breather, Reesen appeared to be every inch as tall as Gawain, and powerfully built. The elf didn’t have the raw power and broad shoulders of the jovial Ognorm, but Gawain decided that ‘imposing’ was certainly an apt description for the brown-eyed, dark-haired former thalangard.
“Orse-poop,” Reesen whispered, and nodded towards a greyish mound on the ground a dozen feet away to the north. “Old orse-poop,” and his eyebrow arched, and Gawain could see the elf’s eyes creasing with humour.
There was more to the look than good humour, though. Reesen seemed always to be assessing Gawain, as if constantly judging him. Gawain wondered if he were being judged as a leader or thal, or as the man wed to Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ní Varan, daughter of Thal-Hak, the royal crown of Elvendere whom Reesen had once served. It was entirely possible that the former thalangard had once been Elayeen’s guardian, and he was certainly only three or four years older than Gawain…
“Isst,” Gawain replied with a smile, “Old orse-poop, two, three days old.”
“Arr, two three days old orse-poop.”
Again there was the twitch of the eyebrow, as though the elf knew all too well the absurdity of an elven former royal bodyguard speaking as a dwarf labourer to the king of a dead land, here in the dark in the middle of nowhere.
“Arr,” Gawain agreed, smiling again, and finally deciding that he liked Reesen, added: “Welldun mate. Ready?”
“Isst, miThal. Ready.”
And so on into the night they loped, breathing freely, running comfortably, and both of them enjoying it immensely.
It was bitterly cold, and the blustery northerlies which had swept the skies clear of rain for the past day and a half bit hard into their eyes and faces, numbing lips and cheeks, burning lungs. They had to take care on the tilled expanses of land, soil turned over by the ploughs to drive last year’s stubble deep, but soon they were on the scrubby prairie northeast of Harks Hearth, and picked up the pace. Undulations in the land about them grew steadily steeper, and when they took another break for rest and water, Gawain knew they were closing on the hills where Reesen had last seen the demGoth.
How the dark wizard had survived the fall on the Graken, Gawain did not know, nor why the foul creature was heading east when last seen. Not that it mattered. What mattered was finding it, and killing it. Concentrating on that kept his mind from Allazar, and the memory of the wizard’s fall. There’d been those who’d survived such tumbles in Raheen, who’d seemed perfectly well and suffering nothing worse than bumps and bruises and hurt pride, only to collapse suddenly, a day or two later, dead as doornails…
A swirling gust brought with it a hint of an odour, and both Gawain and Reesen turned their faces to the wind and sniffed. It was gone in an instant, though the fleeting scent seemed familiar.
“Not orse-poop,” Gawain whispered.
“Nai, miThal,” Reesen agreed, whispering back.
“See anything?”
“See? Nai. Close, pointy.” And Reesen lifted his right arm to point at a particular hill silhouetted against the ocean of stars to the northeast.
Gawain glanced behind him over his left shoulder. The lower horn of the moon’s crescent was scraping the western horizon. They’d been running steadily for a good three hours since leaving Harks Hearth. He took a final pull on the water skin, stoppered it, and glanced at the elf. This time, they ran a little slower, and far more cautiously than before.
Twenty minutes later they paused, the familiar and thoroughly unpleasant odour on the breezes, this time stronger.
“Graken. Dead
.” Gawain whispered, remembering the oily stench of burnt aquamire.
“Isst miThal. Ot Graken.”
Without another word, they set off again, Reesen’s head swivelling, until they drew near to the crest of a low hill, and dropped to a crouch, easing forward to peer down into the dip beyond, careful not to silhouette themselves against the night sky.
Below, Gawain could see something, though he had to look slightly away from it to see it better for what it was; a large darkened area, with a curious angular shape off to one side. It was the stink of burned aquamire which told Gawain it was the remains of the Graken, and that the shape was the remains of the high-backed saddle which had partially survived the conflagration.
“See anything?”
“Nai, miThal. No light. No dark.”
Staying low, they moved forward, down the slope, and to the remains of the Graken. Whatever it was that had been in the bundle tied to the back of the saddle had burned, though in the starlight Gawain could see the remains of tiny burnt and blackened pips, like apple seed. He reached out to pick one up between thumb and forefinger, but before he could touch one, Reesen’s hand was on his wrist, the grip vice-like.
“Nai, miThal. Not good.”
“Vizarrn Allazar must see, Reesen,” Gawain announced, but the elf simply drew Gawain’s hand back from the blackened mess.
“Nai, miThal. Dark. Reesen speak vizarrn Allazar.”
There was something slightly apologetic in the elf’s expression, but also something of a challenge. Gawain glimpsed it, and considered breaking free of the Ranger’s grip, but before he had a chance to tense his muscles, the Ranger’s eyes blinked. In that fleeting moment, Gawain felt the Sight of Eldenelves brush his senses, and then it was gone.
“Nai, miThal,” Reesen whispered again.
Gawain conceded with a nod, and the Ranger released his grip, and then pointed to the east, up at the high hill before them, the hill upon which the demGoth had last been seen. As they set off again, Gawain stifled the irrational anger rising within him, and determined that before leaving Harks Hearth, he would have Allazar ascertain precisely what orders Reesen had been given by Elayeen. That mixture of apology and challenge in the elf’s look before the Sight had momentarily robbed Reesen of all expression had seemed to say “Sorry, my lord, orders, but go ahead and try, I dare you.”