by GJ Kelly
“Thank you, melord,” Ognorm sighed, the sound filled with profound relief.
“That doesn’t mean you’re free to go and get yourself killed or anything.”
“Arr. I’ll do me best not to, melord.”
There was another long silence.
Gawain had never seriously considered dying, not until the Battle of Far-gor, and there, surrounded by his friends and side by side with Elayeen, it had been little more than a passing thought, brushed aside by the duty they’d all of them felt; to take as many of Morloch’s with them as they could for the sake of the south.
Before Elayeen, while he was slaughtering the Ramoths, he hadn’t cared one way or the other. Since Elayeen, everything was different.
Now, though, Elayeen was far to the north, and the honesty of Ognorm’s desire simply to be remembered seemed suddenly to force the possibility of failure upon them all.
“The sword must go to Elayeen,” he blurted, surprised by the sound of his own voice in the dark, and surprised by the words themselves as well as for the sentiment. And then he added hastily, almost embarrassed, “In the event that, for some unknown reason far beyond my ability to imagine or conceive, I should be unable to hang on to it myself. For some reason.”
There was another silence.
“I should like my name never to be graven on the Wall in the Guards’ Hall, at home,” Jerryn announced. “I do not wish forever to be a question in the mind of any who might see it there and wonder who I was, and how my name came to be there. I wish for my name to end when all the hearts who have ever known me cease their beating.”
“The white staff cannot be allowed to fall into the enemy’s hands. I would rather it were destroyed, or flung into the sea with the Orb that is our quest than allow any hands but the most trusted to possess it.”
“Nai intheeren Arathalaneer,” Reesen said, his voice firm. He may not have understood all that had been said, but he clearly understood the gist.
“Don’t sing the Arathalaneer,” Allazar translated softly, and after a brief conversation in elvish, added: “It is the song of the fallen thalangard, reserved to honour those who die in service to Elvendere’s crown. Don’t sing it for him.”
“Dunno the words, Reesen mate, no need to worry on that account,” Ognorm assured his friend earnestly.
There was another long silence.
“Well there’s a jolly end to a jolly night on the town,” Gawain sighed, and drew the blankets tighter around him.
Breakfast was a solemn affair, the day dawning dull and windy, though dry. After they’d all eaten, Allazar assured them he felt no ill-effects from his recent fall other than a bruised hip and stiff shoulder, neither of which would prevent his travelling. So, while the wizard attended the infirmary for his last examination by the healers, the remaining four companions busied themselves with the horses, and prepared to leave Harks Hearth.
Gwyn seemed delighted to be leaving, bored with her confinement in the warmth and comfort of the stables, and Gawain made a suitable fuss of her. He also paid close attention to Allazar’s new mount, a dapple grey mare of quiet and studious temperament, perhaps four years old. Iven had suggested her, and he had chosen wisely. The mare would be ideal for the wizard, though whether the reverse would also be true remained to be seen.
Finally, when that very wizard arrived smiling happily and with a token declaring him fit to travel, and with the pack-horse laden with fresh supplies, it was time to leave the safety and comfort of Harks Hearth behind them. They left without ceremony, save for an exchange of salutes with the Captain of the Hearthwatch, a nod of farewell for Erik, Sergeant of the Guard, and a quiet call of “Vex!” for Ranger Kern, standing on the battlements above the open gates and signalling ‘all clear without.’
Outside the gates, they turned due west, and Gwyn kicked up to the canter on the start of the four day ride to Callodon Castletown.
oOo
29. Arrangements
Brock was not pleased. He’d met them on the steps of his Keep himself, shaggy black hair billowing this way and that in the blustery wind, arms thrown wide and grinning with genuine delight at the sight of Gawain and his companions riding across the courtyard in the early evening twilight. Now, in the warmth of his private apartments high within that mighty Keep, he scowled.
“And this thing, you say, has the power to wreak destruction upon any city in these lands?”
“It does,” Allazar asserted, fulfilling his promise to lend weight to Gawain’s words. “And it is for this reason, your Majesty, we are anxious to end the threat of its existence as soon as possible.”
Brock nodded his understanding, rising from the comfort of his chair to stand by an immense fireplace, leaning on the mantle and gazing into the embers.
“I had hoped, my friend Raheen, to fête the victorious Commander of the Kindred Army as he deserves, and not simply provide a brief respite on his journey into peril. Our last parting was not as I would have wished it, either. All Callodon owes you a debt greater than any which can ever hope to be repaid. You should have seen the celebrations when news of victory in the north arrived, Raheen. You should have seen them. We flew the Red and Gold beside our own colours for a month, and never have we known such pride on seeing another’s flag. Not since the fall of Pellarn have our two colours flown side by side thus, though then they were at half-mast.”
Gawain nodded, and drained his flagon of warm ale, his throat dry after explaining the nature of their quest, and a summary of Arramin’s discovery. “I wish I had. Perhaps when we’ve disposed of this new threat you might run up the colours of my land again, if only for a moment. I haven’t seen them flying from a pole for a long time.”
“Aye, perhaps I shall,” Brock agreed, then took a deep breath, kicked a half-charred log closer to the heart of the hearth, and retook his seat with a sigh. “What do you want of me, my friend, to aid you in this quest of yours?”
“A good ship and a trusted crew to take us out to sea, where we intend to consign the foul device for all time. An escort, to see us safe from the forest to that ship, and to watch over our horses and wait for us while we’re about our business in that forest.”
“You don’t want half the Westguard to accompany you?” Brock gasped.
“No, we’re looking to go in and get out quickly and quietly, without drawing attention to ourselves.”
“Hmm. This thing, this Orb, it isn’t guarded then? At Ferdan, old Arramin spoke of creatures that couldn’t be seen when last you were in that place.”
“It is its own sentry,” Allazar announced, “Destroying all life foolish enough to approach its emanations when there is sufficient light upon it. The Kiromok and Razorwing that Master Arramin described to you at Ferdan were destroyed, and since the battle in the north was won, it is our hope and belief that they’ve not been replaced.”
“I’d still feel better if there were more of you.”
“It’s theft we’re about this time, Brock, not battle. Besides, the Black and Gold will oversee the destruction of the Orb from the decks of the ship, and also guarantee its protection all the way from the forest to its watery grave.”
“If it were anyone else suggesting a venture as mad as this with so few men I would laugh and insist on raising a regiment specifically to accomplish this goal. I still have misgivings, even though it’s you, and yer White Staff going with you. You sure you don’t want Tyrane, and those two scouts you commended so highly?”
Gawain shook his head. “I gave them my word I’d never take them to that city again. I’d hoped never to see it again myself, too. But if they should volunteer to provide escort or help with arrangements for the ship, I’d be honoured to journey with them once more. They’re good men.”
“Aye, your letters of commendation filled my heart with pride, and joy, on learning the calibre of the men in my colours. I’ll respect your word, and shan’t press them into service. I’ll have a quiet talk with Tyrane, though, and see what he has
to say about the arrangements. You’ll rest here tonight, of course?”
“Yes, though by your leave, Callodon, without fuss or fanfare. We pushed hard from Harks Hearth and the weather wasn’t kind. A hot meal and a good night’s sleep will do the five of us the world of good before the final push west tomorrow.”
“You’re not planning on resting up at Jarn, then?” Brock grumbled, and took a large draught of ale.
“No,” Gawain looked thoughtful. “No, we’ll head slightly north of west. When we get to the forest, we’ll be able to head directly to the city, due west. I don’t want to alert Jarn to our presence, and I don’t want to follow the same path we took before. It’s why I want to leave the horses on the plains. They’ll be of no use to us in the forest and it would not be kind to take them in there. I’d prefer to leave them in the care of good men.”
“You’ll have ‘em. I’ll make the arrangements with Tyrane when you retire.”
“They’ll need to keep the horses fresh for a quick dash to the port and the waiting ship once we emerge with the Orb, so will need supplies.”
Brock sighed, and shook his shaggy head. “For a thousand years this… this thing has sat there, destroying all who ventured too near, and none of us aware of its existence ‘til now. You’re sure it cannot be kept? You’re sure it cannot be used by us as a weapon?”
“It can be used as a weapon, your Majesty,” Allazar announced firmly, “By a madman bent upon the destruction of all life in our towns and cities. There is only one such madman, I hope, and he, for now at least, is bound beyond the Teeth.”
“All right, all right Allazar,” Brock held up an apologetic hand, “I was only asking, no need to bite my head off.”
“If it’s any consolation, Brock,” Gawain smiled, “I said something similar about launching it at the enemy at the Far-gor, and received similar stern wisdom.”
“Yes, well… I still cannot believe the device was sabotaged by elves themselves. The notion of a silent sentry, an immortal guardian, keeping all lands safe from Morloch and his minions, I can see the appeal of such a device. What did you call those traitors? Torsin?”
“Toorsen.”
“Bastards,” Brock shook his head again, “Mad, evil bastards. A pox on them all. I can think of no curse strong enough for the offence they committed, damn them all. An entire city destroyed, the survivors murdered in cold blood… and here we’ve been, all this time, believing elves the epitome of nobility, keeping their borders closed against us simply to prevent our miserable barbarity from contaminating their state of blessed grace.”
“They were betrayed from within, Brock, by wizards they trusted far too much. Just as we ourselves have been.”
“Aye, so you’ve said. I meant no offence to your lady, Raheen, nor to your new Rangers. Those who came to serve in Callodon are most welcome, and honoured. I’m glad your lady had the sense to send one with you on your quest, and grateful to him for the destruction of that masked bastard east of Harks Hearth, too. Forgive me. I’m simply stunned by the news you have brought, coming so soon after the treachery which took Juria’s light from the world. I liked Willam. Whatever differences we may have had, he was always courteous and reasonable, even in the face of my ire. I admired him greatly for that.”
“His loss is keenly felt by all who knew him,” Allazar agreed. “And Queen Hellin will, I am sure, take comfort from the knowledge that Callodon and Juria stood together in the north, in friendship and honour.”
“Yes, we did. I have already sent assurances that the friendship between our two lands shall not be diminished by his loss. Are you concerned for the border between our two lands?”
“Indeed no!” Allazar insisted, “I am more concerned by the dark threat in the west, and am somewhat anxious that victory in the north not be used as an excuse to lower our guard.”
“Well,” Brock announced, pouring more warm ale into his tankard and passing the pitcher to Gawain, “That’s not going to happen. Not with those Graken creatures flapping about the place as if they own it, and not while reports from Igorn continue to raise eyebrows here.”
“Something amiss in the west?” Gawain leaned forward, passing the pitcher of ale to Allazar.
Ognorm, Reesen and Jerryn sat apart, watching and listening quietly but taking no part in the conversation.
The King of Callodon nodded, and folded his arms across his immense barrel chest. “More reports of Gorian refugees, crossing the River Ostern, north of the marshes in the South-halt. They’re coming across in dribs and drabs, and seem inevitably to wind up in Jarn. There’ve been folk from the Old Kingdom too, who’ve surrendered themselves to the ‘guard claiming to be agents of the Pellarn Resistance.
“In truth, Raheen, I am doubly relieved by the victory at Far-gor; not only for the sake of all lands south of the Teeth and the destruction of Morloch’s horde, but also because it means my Westguard can now be reinforced, and with battle-hardened veterans at that.”
“Given what we know of the Empire, refugees fleeing the tyranny of dark wizards comes as no surprise.”
“I agree, but Igorn has his doubts about some of ‘em. Many are big men, fit, hard, and with a look suggestive of trained warriors rather than slave labourers. I for one am most grateful that the forest of Pellarn north of the Jarn Gap is broad indeed. We have no way of knowing how many have crossed the Ostern north of our ‘guards range.”
“And those claiming to be of the Pellarn Resistance, what news do they bring?”
Brock looked sour, and took a swig of ale. “They could speak of two-headed demons breathing fire and eating rock, and who is to gainsay them? We’ve no way of checking any intelligence they might provide. In truth, the picture they paint is confused, some claiming that the Old Kingdom is ruled by Imperial governors, others that dark wizards and Goth-lords of old now hold the reins of power.
“Each story is different, though this they claim is because each so-called resistance fighter is from a different region to the others. Igorn doubts them all, and is wary of the numbers of these ‘refugees’ now scattered about the farms and fields around Jarn.”
“I believe you’re right to strengthen your defences in the west, Brock. You have friends in all other directions but there. I have my suspicions about the Empire and the taking of Pellarn, and what we learned from our Gorian friends last year merely strengthens my belief that the attack on the Old Kingdom was premature. But still, these are your lands, my friend, and you’ve held the South-halt well enough and long enough without me interfering.”
“Raheen never did interfere, my friend. It’s what I admired most about your father. With all the might at his disposal, he left well alone, yet stood poised and ready to aid the lowlands at a moment’s notice.”
Gawain nodded, and felt suddenly tired. He pinched the bridge of his nose and stifled a yawn.
“We have to concentrate our energies on recovering and destroying the Orb. After that, we’ll see. From my memory of the map Allazar provided me with on your orders so long ago, Porthmorl would be the nearest safe harbour to the Jarn Gap?”
“Aye,” Brock nodded, noticing the weariness stealing over all his guests in the warmth of the apartment. “It sits at the southern foot of a triangle formed between it, Castletown here in the west, and Harks Hearth in the east. Four days ride from each to the other. Deep water there, too.”
“So, six or seven days from Jarn, perhaps eight from the edge of the forest where we’re going.”
“Yes. Come, Raheen, you’re all in need of hot food and warm beds. I’ll show you up to the guest quarters and have the kitchens send something up. You’ll not be disturbed after that. In the morning, I’ll let you know what arrangements have been made.”
Those arrangements were outlined after an immense breakfast, Brock’s hospitality the equal of his own appetites. Tyrane was there, resplendent in his Black and Gold staff officer’s uniform, and Gawain’s greeting was warm and sincere. There was a hint of sadness in the
Callodon officer’s eyes though, a sadness Gawain understood all too well; they were going to a place Tyrane and the scouts had sworn never to set foot again.
“So, my lords,” Tyrane announced, when finally they gathered around a table covered in maps and documents. “His Majesty has provided details of your requirements, and the arrangements are well in hand. I’ve hand-picked four of the Guard to ride with you to the forest north of the Jarn Gap. They’re good men, my lord, and all served with the Heavies under Flag-Major Hern. They’ll take good care of the horses, you may be certain of that.”
“Thank you, my friend.”
Tyrane nodded, and continued his briefing. “Once you’ve arrived at your destination, they’ll withdraw from the forest, a mile or slightly less, there to make a travelling camp. It’s unlikely anyone will observe them here in this season, not many merchants journeying at this time of year.
“Two days after you leave Castletown, a second group of riders will leave the Guards HQ, bearing all the appearances of a routine long-range patrol. They’ll head for the forest and unite with the travelling camp a couple of days after you’ve entered the forest, swelling its numbers sufficient to provide safe escort to Porthmorl. They’ll have supplies enough to get you all from the region of the Jarn Gap to the harbour without the need for re-supply, foraging, or contact with civilians. They themselves will be resupplied two days after that, again from here in Castletown. There’ll be no contact with Jarn.
“There’s a coastal brigantine wintering at Porthmorl, the Melusine. She’s commanded by Captain Balhaggan, he’s been her master for thirty years and there are few who know the Callodon coast as well as he does.”
“Good man, you’ll like ‘im,” Brock concurred, “Rarely sets foot ashore himself these days though. His crew can be trusted too, Raheen. What navy we have is all volunteers, there are no pressed men or convicts among ‘em like in the Empire. There are four brigantines in service, but the other three are moored further south.”