by GJ Kelly
“She was alone, perhaps waiting for someone, I knew not nor cared. She was standing on the wooden boardwalk, and thinking herself alone, suddenly smiled a smile brighter than sunshine, and began to play hop-skip, dancing on the planks of the boardwalk and trying to avoid the cracks between them. I can still see her now, in my mind’s eye.”
Jerryn sighed, and took another sip of beer. “Finally she saw me, standing there gaping like an idiot, wooden sword in my hand dangling and forgotten. For a moment, she stared at me, a strange smile on her face, as though we two were alone in the world for a moment, and shared a secret. Then she poked out her tongue and ran off around to the front of the shop and indoors.”
Gawain smiled, picturing the scene.
“For days, I took to waiting on the corner of the alley, even shunning the best of my friends, hoping to see her again. Finally, when eventually I plucked up enough courage to go into the shop to ask for her, I rounded the corner with a handful of wildflowers I’d picked, and there she was, hand in hand with some witless oick I later discovered was the son of a roofer. She saw me, she saw the flowers, saw the pain in my eyes, and laughed, and poked out her tongue before dragging the oick past me and into the alley, there to ruin forever my memory of the place I imagined only the two of us had ever shared.
“I survived the pain of that first heart-break, of course, though at the time it seemed like the end of my world. But given a choice, I’d suffer the pain of that first and unrequited love a thousand years than endure a day with the agony I know now. Death would be far kinder, I think.”
“Or the distance and danger of a quest to far hostile lands?”
Jerryn nodded. “Though, you need have no fear for my reliability, my lord. I have a purpose now, and it is an honourable one indeed. No longer having to bear witness to the spectacle of noblemen crawling out from under their rocks to court my queen, I am free to remember myself, and to be myself. I’ve no intention of becoming just another name on the wall, my lord, but you of all in these lands deserve to know my motives for joining your quest, and for my loyalty.”
“Neither were in doubt, Jerryn. And yes, though I feel guilty and ashamed for saying it, this long distance from my queen makes a dull ache of the stabbing pain I felt while close beside her yet being able to touch her not. My brother once told me that love is an illness. If that be so, then perhaps, for men at least, distance, adventure, and a perilous quest are at least potent medicines, though doubtless not the cure.”
“They say that time is the cure. I don’t believe them, but perhaps my catastrophe is still too fresh, and the memory of the splendour of love and hope still too bitter a pill to swallow,” Jerryn took a deep breath, sat upright, and straightened his tunic emphatically. “But enough of melancholy, lest we become like old men, gazing into the foggy past at the bottom of our tankards while dreaming of days that never were as fine a portrait as memory paints.”
“Careful my friend, lest your hair suddenly turn white. You could have just said, ‘bah, here’s to beer and the chance to drink it without consequences.’”
Jerryn laughed, raised his tankard, and though Gawain doubted that a smile would ever reach the serious eyes of the Jurian officer again, announced: “I’ll drink to that, my lord.”
“I too. Where we’re going, it likely won’t be long before we find ourselves earnestly yearning to be here again, listening to Melany-Gwynne o’ the Hearth and her telling of The Tale of Emmaleen and Torhansen. Cheers.”
“Aye, cheers.”
“And on that note, I must take my leave. I promised I’d relieve Ognorm at the infirmary with enough time left in the night for him to drink at least three hogsheads of the fizzy water he’s so disappointed with.”
Jerryn chuckled again. “I don’t know why he complains about it so much. I told him all the ale here in Callodon, once rigorously examined, has then been passed by wizards. It’s why we Jurians have never seriously tried invading the place.”
Gawain grinned, drained his tankard, and took his leave of the Major.
At the infirmary, Allazar was sitting on his bed with his feet up, recounting some adventure or other to Ognorm, the dwarf blinking and gazing somewhat sceptically at the wizard’s tale, which ended abruptly when Gawain entered and strode purposefully towards them.
“Evenin’, melord, and good to see you!”
Gawain flicked a glance at the wizard and smiled. “Off you go, Ognorm. Jerryn’s expecting you at The Chattering Magpie.”
Ognorm beamed happily. “Arr, well, off I’ll be, then. “
“Don’t worry,” Gawain grinned mercilessly, “I’m sure Allazar will be happy to finish telling his tale when next you’re on Stick-watch.”
Allazar sniffed, while Ognorm scurried up the long room and out the door.
“As it happens, Longsword, I am assured by Healer Callum that tomorrow I am to be discharged for a day’s exercise out of doors. I fully expect to be released from his care entirely any day now.”
“Good,” Gawain smiled sincerely, taking his seat. “The sooner we leave, the sooner it’s done.”
“You sound almost anxious to return to that dread city,” Allazar swung his legs off the bed, and frowned.
“Perhaps I am, in a way. Certainly there’s no shortage of hospitality here, but too much comfort dulls the edges of our senses, and spring approaches. Slowly, it’s true, but Longest Night is well behind us now.”
“Indeed. You seem a little less cheerful than I imagined you might be after a hearty dinner at the inn.”
“Jerryn and I compared notes.”
“Ah.”
“But, enough of that. He’s a good man, and as anxious as I to continue on our way. I have something I want to show you, now you’re up and about and your brains are slightly more hard-boiled than scrambled.”
“Hmm. Something to do with that masked Graken-rider, the demGoth responsible for my incarceration here?”
“Yes.”
“Ranger Reesen has spoken to me concerning that foul creature, and also described the burnt seeds you discovered. I’d hoped to surmise from that description what exactly it was the demGoth was about, but alas. The seed could be for any number of the foul plants the enemy might have at their disposal.”
“I’m taking some comfort from the fact that they were still in the dark wizard’s possession when we brought him down. Those pips were small, there could have been thousands in that sack. I don’t like to think what manner of crop might’ve been sown in these friendly lands.”
“Nor I. And the lack of an Eye of Morloch is both intriguing and disturbing. And what place was its destination? I had believed all Morloch’s minions in the west to be subject to his power, and thus recipients of his evil boons. For a dark wizard to act independently of Morloch’s will, that is troubling indeed.”
“Perhaps this will answer one of the questions?” Gawain sighed, drawing the demGoth’s canvas bag from under his cloak.
“Ah, Reesen spoke of this too. Strange. He described it as dark, but having no light. He found it very hard to explain, even in his own tongue.”
“Well, there’s not much in here. This,” Gawain held up the mouldering half-eaten sandwich, “Which I shall dispose of in a watchman’s brazier. This,” and he held up the nub of the pencil. “And that leaves two objects. This is the first, a notebook. I can’t read the writing, it’s as foreign to me as the symbols on the floor of my father’s hall.”
Gawain handed the notebook to Allazar, who opened it rather gingerly in the middle, and then snapped his eyes and the book tightly shut.
“This must be destroyed, promptly, Longsword. It is utterly evil.”
“What is it?”
“From the brief glance I had of it, it contains that information which my own book does not. Where my book describes the foul designs contained in Morloch’s Pangoricon, and how to destroy them, this…” Allazar handed the book back, his face a picture of disgust, “This contains notes on how to make those foul
, unnatural things.”
“So,” Gawain held the book lightly, turning it over and flipping through the pages, “Something of a cook-book, then, and these are the dark wizard’s recipes.”
“Please, Longsword, put it away, and destroy it. I cannot look at its content.”
“I don’t understand, Allazar? Can’t you read it, then?”
“Only too well. But I cannot read it, I must not read it!”
Allazar’s voice suddenly softened, and his expression took on an almost pleading quality. “You must understand, just as a thing once invented cannot be un-invented, a mystic chant, charm, or spell once learned cannot be unlearned. If the dark knowledge contained within that notebook should find its way into my head, it would fester, and grow, and corrupt me.”
Gawain was astonished. “But surely knowing how the enemy creates such things as the Graken and Kiromok would furnish us the knowledge of how to destroy such creatures, or prevent their construction in the first place?”
“No. It is not the same as you learning the use of a weapon or its manufacture. You know how to use a sword, or a bow, or how to throw your Raheen arrows with great skill and power. But you yourself command your arm, and none need fear you who have not offended you.
“But for a wizard, Longsword, to possess such knowledge, such details… even in sleep they would be capable of doing great harm. If you could bring forth destruction with a thought, could you refrain always from ever thinking it? If you could bring forth evil in dreams and find it made manifest on waking, could you ever sleep again?”
Gawain held the book firmly. He heard the sincerity in Allazar’s voice, and if any further doubt remained of the necessity of destroying the book, he saw the fear in the wizard’s eyes.
“I’ll burn it in the brazier outside, with the bag and the food. There’s only this, though now you’ve spoken of the dangers of merely reading words on a page, I’m reluctant to show it to you.”
Allazar picked up the Dymendin, and held it loosely, as if for comfort. “Perhaps you could describe it, and allow me to judge for myself the nature of its threat, if any?”
Gawain shrugged. “It is a small phial, well sealed and stoppered, of brown glass. I cannot see the contents, but I think it’s a liquid.”
Allazar’s eyes widened, and he licked his lips, his grip on the staff tightening.
“Show me…” he whispered.
Gawain paused, and eyed the wizard closely while he dipped his hand into the canvas bag. The phial felt cold to the touch, and hard, and as his fingers closed around it, he saw Allazar’s breathing quicken, eyes fixed on the bag.
Slowly, the small bottle entirely encircled by Gawain fingers, he drew it out, watching the wizard’s expression as he turned his fist over, and uncurled his fingers.
At once, Allazar’s eyes snapped shut, and he seemed on the verge of tears.
“Take it far from here, Gawain, take it far from here, and cast it into fire!” Allazar whispered, and the remarkable use of his given name confirmed the King of Raheen’s suspicion that the phial contained that most evil of all substances. Aquamire.
“Please!” Allazar begged through clenched teeth, and Gawain shuddered at the desperation contained in the plea.
oOo
26. A Single Drop
It was late. The gates of Harks Hearth were shut, and would not be opened again until sunrise. Gawain waited fretfully outside the infirmary, the wizard paced fretfully within; the friendly guardsman dispatched to summon Jerryn from the warmth of The Chattering Magpie been gone a good ten minutes already.
In the watchman’s brazier nearby, the ashes of the demGoth’s notebook and bag coated the glowing coals which flared brightly in the bitter, swirling breezes. Gawain drew his cloak tighter about him, and patted once again the pocket in his tunic where the small phial of evil sat snugly, close to his heart…
“My lord!” Jerryn exclaimed quietly, but anxiously, as he approached out of the gloom. “Word came that you needed me, is something wrong? Has the wizard suffered a relapse?”
“No, Jerryn, nothing like that,” Gawain assured the worried-looking Major. “He’s within, restless but otherwise in no danger. Come,” he moved closer to the brazier, and thus further from the infirmary. “I have to leave Harks Hearth until morning. Ognorm’s been on watch with the wizard all day, and Reesen is sleeping. I’m sorry, Jerryn, but your turn to sit with the Stick and its Keeper has come early.”
Jerryn shrugged off Gawain’s apology for the unexpected duty. “Honoured to serve, my lord. But is it wise for you to leave alone? There may be any number of dangers without. I don’t think…”
Gawain forestalled any further protest by holding up a regal hand. “I have to leave, and it would be wisest for me not to say why, at least not here and now. I’m grateful for your concern, my friend, but I have a duty I can neither shirk nor delegate.”
“Very well, my lord.”
“Besides,” Gawain added, eyeing the heavens and seeing few stars, “No rain tonight I think, and with this overcast, no frost. I won’t be going too far, and will be outside the gates at sunrise. Keep an eye on Allazar, I don’t think he’ll settle again until he knows I’m beyond the walls.”
“Aye my lord. Though why he’d be relieved at your being alone and outside the protection of Harks Hearth at this hour, I cannot begin to guess. I’ll not press, though; at least the wizard’s care is not something you’ll need to worry about this night.”
Gawain nodded his thanks, and Jerryn favoured him with another concerned look before turning and going inside. When the infirmary door had closed behind the Jurian, Gawain grimaced at another stiff breeze, drew his cloak tighter, and went in search of a rope.
He had to provide still more reassurances though, this time to Erik, Sergeant of the Guard.
“The Captain isn’t going to like it much, milord,” Erik grumbled, tying a loop around a post bolted to the battlements. “This’ll be twice in a week someone’s gone over the wall, and that’s more than’ve done so in years.”
“I’ll apologise to Iven in the morning. I’m sure he’ll understand I mean no offence. He seems a decent sort.”
“Aye, milord, that he is. Lost his arm at Pellarn, riding with the Westguard out of the South-halt.”
“Then he rode into battle with The One Thousand of the Red and Gold, and for that, I envy him.”
Erik paused, then tested the knot he’d tied in the rope. “Aye, me too, milord. After Pellarn, he served with General Igorn’s staff, then here, then back with General Igorn. But with the battle in the north and his Majesty wishing to shore up defences around the Jarn Gap, he was transferred back to the Hearthwatch again, to use his experience organising the defences here, just in case.”
“And you?”
Erik shrugged, and smiled in the flickering torchlight. “After you and your party left Jarn, milord, we mustered at Headquarters and reported in. Half the lads were sent back to Jarn, the rest of us were dispersed. I got lucky, and was assigned here in support of the lieutenant. Couldn’t believe it when I looked down there the other day and saw you looking back up at me. Never thought to see you again, milord, not after Jarn. Glad I am, too, if you don’t mind my saying so.”
Gawain smiled. “We’ve both come a long way since first we met.”
“Aye, milord. I thought that first time was to be my last day.”
“Good men have a way of recognising honour when they meet it. So my father taught me,” Gawain clapped the sergeant on the shoulder. “I’ll wait well out of range of the Wallguard for sunrise when I return.”
“Be careful, milord. Hearthwatch can’t help those it can’t see, and it’s a dark night.”
“I shall,” Gawain assured the sergeant, and tossed the rope over the wall, abseiling silently down it moments later.
He returned the wave from the pale figure high above him, watched as the rope snaked back up the wall and over it, then turned south, and set off at an easy trot. This time, Ga
wain wasn’t hunting evil. This time, Gawain was… what? Destroying evil? Taking temptation beyond the reach of a wizard who feared he might succumb to the lure of the power that the phial contained?
Gawain headed southeast, towards an area of scrubby ground he’d seen from his walk upon the walls the day before. After a mile or more, he slowed to a walk, and then stopped to survey his surroundings as best he could. Low shrubs, short and patchy grasses, undulating and stony ground yet to be cleared for cultivation. Good for goats, perhaps, though there were none. He turned full circle, slowly, listening, losing himself in the emptiness and the darkness, and revelling in it.
He heard voices on the breezes, but they came from within, not without...
Take it far from here, Gawain, take it far from here, and cast it into fire!
He tapped his tunic again, hands and arms beneath the cloak drawn tight against the cold. The phial was still there of course.
I’ve never known such clarity of thought. Not only did I see beyond the Teeth in that dark lens, and all the visions swimming in it, it was as though I could see clearly into Morloch’s mind. All his plans, his intentions, his purpose. Now it’s all gone and I’m floundering around with a box full of worms, all of which mean something, or nothing. And I can’t see beginning or end of any of them. If I had more of that strange aquamire…
Gawain shivered, recalling Allazar’s fierce reply, back there at the Grimehalt, back before the Battle of Far-gor, where so many names now waited, mute and alone on the cairn, waited to be read by passing strangers, or passing friends…
Do not even think such evil, Longsword! Never! Such thoughts are the germ from which evil grows to take possession of men and wizards. Morloch waits for such idle curiosity to open doors for him!
Now, standing alone in the dark, Gawain wondered. Did aquamire really take possession of men? Willam of Juria had been poisoned with the stuff, but had survived to make a full recovery. That poison, an insidious mixture of aquamire with Dreadbane and Elve’s Blood, had been administered by a Ramoth emissary claiming the potion to be a cure for the King of Juria’s sudden ‘illness’. And though in truth the poison had been administered in small doses, it had been Allazar himself, at the time merely a humble D’ith pat once of the Hallencloister, who had provided the cure.