The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  On the crest of the hill, Reesen paused to scan the land around them, but saw nothing. For another hour they moved cautiously and in silence, until finally, Reesen squatted on his haunches on the top of a rise, and pointed slightly south of east.

  “Far?” Gawain whispered.

  “Nai, miThal,”

  Gawain nodded his head towards the unseen demGoth, and Reesen set off, winding his way around the smaller hills and staying in the shadows of the dips and valleys. At length, the elf paused, and squatted on his haunches, eyeing Gawain.

  “What?” Gawain asked, suddenly suspicious.

  “Vizarrn,” Reesen whispered, making a curving motion with his hand to indicate that their prey was on the other side of the hill where they now paused.

  “Good. We go. We kill.”

  Again there was a strange expression on the Ranger’s face. It seemed to flit between doubt, worry, and perhaps most surprisingly, pride.

  “Now,” Gawain insisted, and the command brooked no further argument. He crouched low, and made his way up the slope, the elf slightly behind and some ten feet to his left. At the summit, Gawain lay flat on his belly, and inched forward.

  The demGoth was lying motionless beside a blister of gorse which served as a wind-break at the foot of the rise, and to Gawain’s eyes appeared as little more than a black oblong, darker than its gloomier surrounds. The land was relatively flat for half a mile, dotted with gorse and long grasses, and away to the east, the last few hills that blocked their view of Lake Arrunmere. Gawain pondered his route to the dark wizard, and whether or not to leave Reesen here, with a clear shot at the motionless enemy less than a hundred yards below them.

  He was still pondering how best to pick his way through the gorse when Reesen gave a sudden gasp of surprise and horror. Gawain barely had time to utter one of his own when he saw what looked like an enormous, grotesque spider, the size of a dinner-plate, bursting up from beneath the soft and rain-soaked soil twenty feet in front of him before it immediately began scuttling rapidly up the slope straight towards his face.

  Gawain had started rolling to his right and was trying to push himself upright when Reesen, still lying flat, swept his longbow above the grass like a scythe, striking the creature a hefty blow with the sound of a bat hitting a hardwood ball. The crab-like creature emitted a piercing, high-pitched hiss of rage, regained its feet, and at once resumed its scurrying rush towards Gawain, armoured legs and claws clicking.

  Reesen’s assault with the bow had given Gawain time to draw the longsword, and as the pale shape of the scuttling beast accelerated and then poised as if to spring into the air, Gawain brought the blade down hard and fast, the aim true. There was a small and familiar jolt of something when steel struck the creature’s heavily armoured and aquamire-infused carapace, and then with a nauseating popping sound and a flash of purple flame, the creature burst apart.

  “Aknid of Gothen!” Gawain hissed, just as a loud whump! of a concussion from ten yards further down the hill showered them both with dirt and clods of grass. The demGoth was on his feet, steel mask glinting dully and facing them, a rod clasped high over his head, glowing darkly.

  “MiThal!” Reesen cried, and dove into Gawain, knocking him flat as another pair of black spheres flew overhead, falling to explode harmlessly on the western slope behind them.

  “Run!” Gawain cried, twisting free of Reesen’s grip and launching himself down the south-western slope, putting the crest of the hill between them and the dark wizard.

  Two more black spheres floated over the summit, landing harmlessly well to the north of them, and then they stopped running, and listened to the silence of the hills. Minutes passed, hearts beating fast and loud.

  “Elve’s blood and Dwarfspit!” Gawain hissed. “Aknid of Gothen!”

  “Aknid of Gothen?” Reesen asked softly, scanning the skyline.

  Gawain held his hand out and make a spider-like motion with his fingers. “Aknid of Gothen.”

  “Arr,” Reesen nodded his understanding, and repeated softly to himself, “Aknid of Gothen.”

  Gawain moved off, trending towards the south, around the hill, sword in one hand, arrow strung in the other. Reesen followed a few yards behind, the Sight piercing the gloom, watching for any sign of the dark wizard, and for more of the crab-like watch-keepers that had so taken them by surprise.

  When, finally, they rounded the hill and could see the flatlands below, Reesen announced softly:

  “Vizarrn am Morloch, east,” and pointed. “Slow. Leg bad.”

  “Leg bad?”

  Reesen smiled grimly, and tapped his left thigh, fingers miming a bad limp.

  “Far?” Gawain returned the smile, and nodded at Reesen’s bow, holding up his own arrow.

  The elf shook his head. “No far.”

  Again, that familiar anger and thirst for vengeance seemed to spread through the younger man. But he quelled it, with great difficulty. Now was not the time to rush headlong into danger. The stern-faced ghost of Captain Hass appeared suddenly in Gawain’s mind’s eye, shaking his head disdainfully and barking Assess! Assess! Assess!

  Gawain remembered Elayeen standing on the guardhouse roof in Ferdan, watching as the Condavian approached, and her commands to the elves standing on the walls. He didn’t need to look at the paper Valin had prepared for him. “Sheenene.”

  Reesen’s eyebrow twitched again, but he presented his bow, and nocked a shaft.

  “What?”

  The elf paused. Then announced softly, “Sheene,” drew the string, held the aim, and loosed the shot into the night, watching the hobbling enemy with the Sight rather than the flight of the shaft as it disappeared into the dark. He clucked his tongue in self-disgust, and Gawain shrugged.

  “It’s windy.”

  “MiThal?”

  “Windy,” Gawain repeated, pursing his lips to blow while waggling his finger to represent swirling gusts.

  “Windy, arr,” Reesen agreed.

  “Sheene?”

  Reesen held up one finger. “Sheene. One elf. Sheenene, two three four many elf…ss”

  “Well, vakin orse-poop to conjugating elvish verbs,” Gawain replied, and set off again, crouching low, and once on the flatter land, staying low, using the shrubs as cover.

  If Reesen was at all concerned about the danger, it didn’t show. What did show, and what Gawain noticed, was an intense concentration on the elf’s part; first using the Sight to locate the demGoth, and then his own vision to pick his way through the foreign terrain. How difficult or tiring it was to switch between the two, Gawain did not know.

  He did know that the dark wizard they were pursuing possessed power far beyond the last one of his creed Gawain had hunted in the woodlands around the Jarn Road. That miserable individual, a humble parGoth, was a puny child compared to this one. This one had launched catastrophe at them from close on a hundred yards away, and almost succeeded in destroying them, or at the very least seriously wounding them… and hence the great caution with which they closed the gap between themselves and their prey.

  This wizard was also injured, perhaps seriously, from the Graken’s fall. Injured, and desperate, and with nothing to lose but his life. Gawain, on the other hand, had far more to lose than that. They were approaching the rise that marked the end of the flatter land, hills looming in the darkness ahead. He stopped, abruptly, and squatted behind a thorny shrub. Assess! Assess! Assess! Yes, thank you, Captain Hass.

  “See vizarrn am Morloch?” he asked.

  “Isst miThal,”

  “Far?”

  “Nai.”

  Gawain pondered a moment longer. There was a slender chance of taking the demGoth alive. Of learning what manner of evil Morloch had planned for the southlands following defeat at the farak gorin. There was also a much stronger possibility that Gawain or Reesen or both might be injured in the attempt, or worse. And the Orb of Arristanas was a far greater threat to the world than a single dark wizard could ever hope to be, and certai
nly of much greater importance than any thirst for vengeance Gawain might feel.

  There was a sudden whooshing sound, and Gawain threw himself flat, Reesen following suit. High behind them, a light burst in the sky, bright and cold, hovering, flickering, and then it began to descend, moving rapidly against the wind towards them, marking their position.

  There was another whump! and the sound of dirt spattering the ground a dozen yards east of them. The dark wizard, injured, was likely weakening, but still capable of deploying powerful mystic weapons. Gawain caught a glimpse of his prey hobbling towards the rising ground ahead of them as the light overhead flickered out.

  “Sheene!” he ordered, grimly. Whether by a Ranger’s arrow or Gawain’s sword, dead was dead, after all.

  “MiThal.”

  This time, when Reesen loosed the shot and tracked the dark wizard, there was no grimace or grunt of self-deprecation. This time, there was only a grim smile, and intense watchfulness.

  Gawain stood, slipped his own arrow back into its quiver, and flipped the string around his wrist.

  “Done?”

  “Done.”

  Slowly, cautiously, and with a longshaft nocked to Reesen’s string, they picked their way through eighty yards of low shrubs until they reached the demGoth lying face down, an arrow standing as if saluting proudly from the centre of its back. Without hesitation, Gawain swung the longsword, and cut the dark wizard’s head clean off, before giving it a contemptuous kick and watching as it rolled clear of the body.

  Then, sword sheathed, Gawain squatted on his haunches, and with the dead eyes of the demGoth staring through the crude holes in the plain steel mask as if watching him, searched the body.

  There were no pockets in the thick windings of the robes, no papers, no weapons other than a small boot knife and the short rod lying on the ground by the headless corpse. Nothing but a shoulder-bag, of plain canvas, similar to the kind Allazar himself carried.

  Gawain opened it, cautiously, Reesen watching fretfully as he did.

  “What?”

  “Dark, miThal, not good. Not good. No dark light... not good.” Reesen’s lip curled, though more in disgust than in fear of a threat.

  Inside, there was a notebook, small and compact, a pencil, a phial made of dark brown glass well-sealed with a tight stopper and perhaps containing a liquid, and a half-eaten sandwich of coarse bread and some kind of meat, wrapped in a square of grubby cheesecloth. Gawain slipped the bag from the body, and then over his own left shoulder. The similarity between the enemy’s bag and Allazar’s filled Gawain with a sudden sense of disgust, and his stomach grumbled.

  “There’s no Eye of Morloch,” he muttered, and for good measure, ripped the robes asunder and searched the body again. Nothing.

  “I yov Morloch?”

  “Aye,” Gawain asserted, and then smiled grimly at his own pun before miming some kind of ball and necklace, and pointing at his eyeball.

  Reesen stared at him, and sniffed. “Aye. Arr of Morloch.”

  “Bloody cheek,” Gawain mumbled, out-punned, and with a last look at the remains of the dark wizard, nodded towards the southwest. “Nice shot, by the way. Welldun mate.”

  Reesen’s eyebrow twitched in the gloom by way of a reply, and then they set off for Harks Hearth, walking at a steady pace. Dawn was still a long way off.

  oOo

  24. Scrambled Eggs on Toast

  “Welcome back to Harks Hearth, my lord,” Gawain was greeted at the open gates by a one-armed officer crisply-dressed in the Black and Gold. “Iven, Captain of the ’Watch,” and with that, the officer snapped a smart salute with his remaining arm, the empty left sleeve pinned neatly to his chest.

  “Captain, well met.”

  “It’s Lieutenant, actually, my lord. The title is an old one and independent of actual rank in his Majesty’s Guard. There’ve even been sergeants who have held the post.”

  “My apologies,” Gawain smiled, and introduced Reesen.

  “Erik told me you and your party were en route to Callodon Castle when you were attacked. I’m glad we’re able to assist. The White Staff is as well-known here as you are, and he’s being well cared for.”

  “Is he awake yet?”

  “Not yet, my lord. According to the briefing I received just before sun-up, he slept well through the night. The whitesleeves don’t seem overly concerned. I trust your mission was successful?”

  “It was, thank you. You’ve no need to take any additional precautions. There’s one less dark wizard on the wing to trouble Brock’s people.”

  “Thank you, my lord. Come, you must be tired and hungry. Your horses are well-tended, and we’ve arranged quarters for you in the guardhouse. The infirmary is adjacent the guardhouse block, though it’s not very large. We don’t often have a need for the healers here, beyond occasional workplace accidents.”

  Iven led the way through the gates and towards a stone-built building standing opposite stables set against the north wall. Gwyn snorted a greeting, and Gawain returned it with a wave.

  “Jerryn and Ognorm?” he asked.

  “Serre Ognorm remains at the White Staff’s bedside and refuses to be moved. Major Jerryn was taking breakfast in the guardhouse when last I saw him. Here we are, my lord…”

  Iven swung open the guardhouse door, and led the way, holding the door open for Gawain and Reesen and closing it behind them. Jerryn was seated at a table by the window, wiping egg-yolk from his plate with a slice of bread. He looked tired, and Gawain raised a hand to signal him back into his chair when the officer made to stand.

  “Morning, my lord,” Jerryn sighed. “I’m glad to see you both returned.”

  “Thank you. The hunt went well, before you ask. How’s Allazar?”

  “Still asleep. I told Ognorm I’d relieve him as soon as I finished breakfast, but he won’t have it. It’s as though he’s stuck to the staff like glue, and the wizard’s bedside too.”

  Gawain nodded, rubbing his hands before an iron stove in the middle of the room.

  “I’ll relieve Ognorm myself as soon as I’ve warmed up a bit. Finish your breakfast Jerryn. Reesen, sit, eat, rest.”

  “MiThal.”

  “Lieutenant, did Erik mention my request that nothing be made of our passing visit?”

  “He did, my lord, and you need have no fear of formalities here. It’s my understanding from the whitesleeves that Serre wizard Allazar may be kept abed a number of days. I hope you and your party will find time to rest in the meantime. Harks Hearth looks imposing from without, but it’s actually quite a small community here within the walls. We call it a town because we have all the facilities and trades here you might expect of a larger community, but it’s not that big a place as you’ll see if you take a turn on the walls. Silos, barns, and warehouses account for most of the buildings. We don’t stand on ceremony, except to uphold the one law I gather you already knew about before arriving here?”

  “Yes, I learned it from Captain Tyrane, a while ago.”

  “Ah yes,” Iven smiled, “I know him. He was escort to his Majesty, seven years ago now, when the Wallguard refused to crack the gates. I’d not long been appointed Captain of the Watch, and it’s not a night any of us here will forget.”

  “I’m glad I didn’t forget it, either, for the wizard’s sake. And speaking of the wizard, perhaps you’ll lead me to him, Lieutenant?”

  “This way, my lord. Your quarters, by the way, are through that door, yonder, and the infirmary is out the back, this way.”

  The infirmary was a small building, long and narrow, and probably able only to accommodate eight or ten beds along one wall while leaving enough space between them and the opposite wall for healers and their assistants to move reasonably freely. There were only six beds here now, five empty and widely-spaced, and Allazar was in the furthest in the far corner, still sleeping. Ognorm, clutching the Dymendin staff with a fierce grip, jumped up smartly when Gawain and Iven entered.

  “I have duties, my lord,
I’ll leave you with your friends and with Healer Callum.”

  “Thank you, Iven, I’m grateful for all your assistance.”

  The Captain of the Hearthwatch saluted and took his leave, closing the door softly behind him.

  “The wizard sleeps, my lord,” the whitesleeves stood and explained softly. “And his pupils are responding normally now. The worst of the danger has passed, though we would prefer to keep close watch on him for two or three days once he awakens. There are bruises, of course, but no broken bones.”

  “He was lucky, and rolled well enough with the fall. His horse took the brunt of it, and was not so fortunate. Thank you. I’d like to remain here for a time?”

  “Of course, my lord.”

  The healer returned to reading a large and weighty tome at his desk, while Gawain beckoned Ognorm from the chair at Allazar’s bedside.

  “Melord, he’s not woke once since we got ‘im in here,” the dwarf whispered, his face a picture of concern.

  “Very well. You can leave the Stick to me now, Ognorm. Get some breakfast with the others in the guardhouse, and then get some sleep. I’ll remain with Allazar, and we’ll see how he is when he wakes up.”

  “Arr, melord. Take it that dark wizard ain’t going to be joining us for eggs on toast?”

  “Not even if Morloch himself were to stitch his head back on. Reesen put him out of our misery, and I made doubly sure. Go on, get some rest, and make sure Reesen does too. You’ve both earned it.”

  “Melord,” Ognorm smiled, and then quietly left the infirmary, beaming happily at the compliment.

  Gawain propped the Dymendin in the corner by Allazar’s bed, slipped off the longsword and propped it likewise, and then took off his damp cloak to wrap it like a blanket around himself as he sat in the chair Ognorm had vacated.