The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  “Save your breath, gentlemen,” Gawain called softly from the front of the circle surrounding Ognorm. “We have a long, long way to run.”

  oOo

  44. Dirty Deeds

  Some two hours after noon all trace of the fog had burned away, though here and there in darker places mist still lingered close to gnarled roots and fallen trunks. Gawain called a halt at a broad and fast-flowing stream, and while containers were filled and food eaten, pondered the woods around them.

  They’d passed within sight of two more of the large buildings and their curious water-wheels, though both monuments to elven engineering had been further to the south of their track. If indeed they radiated like spokes from a wheel, their sighting was perhaps only to be expected, though no sign of them had been seen on their journey in to Calhaneth from due east, and none from the southern avenue when they’d made their first journey to the city in summer the previous year.

  The enemy pathfinders, according to Reesen, hovered at the extent of his Sight, about a mile or thereabouts, sometimes fading further away, but never any closer. Berek explained that this was because the enemy were not simply pursuing, but laying a safe course through the woodlands for the main force to follow, as well as frequently looping to ensure they stayed roughly parallel with the tracks the Orb party was leaving in its wake.

  “I don’t like that expression on your face, Longsword, I have seen it far too often in the past not to know it. What are you planning?”

  Berek and the men of Goria looked up from filling their canteens, surprised perhaps by the familiarity in the wizard’s tone, but also that any conversation was being had at all. They’d run for hours, as silently as they could.

  “I do not like being pursued, especially by a handful of silvercoin mercenaries the like of which killed good men like Tallbot of the Jarn Guard, and Fenner of Juria’s.”

  “If they’re pathfinders, Raheen, they’re liable to be more than simpleton blades for hire.”

  “All the more reason to shake them from our tail, Imperator. I mean to go hunting.”

  “Mithal hunt, Reesen hunt,” the elf announced, and stepped forward to rest his bow on his boot. He blinked, and for a fleeting moment, Gawain saw Reesen’s pupils snap, as if to say and don’t even think about denying me.

  “Prester,” Berek said softly.

  “By your command,” the Gorian shortbowman acknowledged.

  Gawain glanced first at the Imperator, then at the praetorian testing the tension of his shortbow’s string.

  “You didn’t think you’d be going without one of us, Raheen,” Berek gazed back, expression blank.

  “No, perhaps not,” Gawain grudgingly admitted. “We’ll move quickly, ambush the enemy pathfinders, then catch up with you. You’ll have to carry our packs in addition to your own though, which’ll slow you down a little. I don’t want the hunters weighed down.”

  Rucksacks were slipped from shoulders, weapons checked, glances exchanged.

  “I do not like this, Longsword,” Allazar complained, “The risk you take will buy us little time, our course by now is as clear to the enemy as to us. What do we gain by it?”

  “We gain by making it clear that we are not to be coursed like hares or stalked like wide-eyed fawns through this miserable woodland. They mean to force our pace and wear us down. I mean to bring their scouts to a dead halt and make the remainder think twice about hurrying to meet us in battle. We’ve enough on our plates with the shadow-creature to worry about.”

  Allazar seemed entirely unconvinced, but made no further protest.

  “Keep going east, steady as you can. We’ve about four more hours ‘til sunset and the return of the shadow-creature. The three of us will rejoin you long before that, all being well. Remember, the Orb must reach the plains. Nothing else matters.”

  Five solemn nods greeted the sombre reminder of the greater danger darkness would bring.

  “Let me go in your stead, my lord,” Jerryn announced quietly. “Your leadership is needed here, with the Orb.”

  “Thank you, Jerryn, but no. I am well-versed in the thoroughly dishonourable tactics we’re about to employ and have no qualms about employing them. Keep Ognorm and the Orb safe, all of you. Go, and try not to shoot us by mistake when we catch up with you.”

  Then, with a nod to Reesen and Prester, Gawain set off, loping north of west, arrow strung in hand and his cloak swirling behind him.

  Closing the gap to the enemy pathfinders took worryingly little time, for as fast as Gawain loped towards them, they were loping towards him. It was true, though, that the enemy were slowed by their frequent need to mark the trail, and to ensure that there’d been no deviation in the Orb’s course due east. They’d only been running ten minutes when Reesen signalled that the range was closing, and the enemy dead ahead.

  Some of the darkwood trees in that part of the forest were old, their trunks immense, chasms and rifts in their bark home to mosses and lichens and, this far from the city centre, insects of all kinds. The age of the growth also meant a broad spread of boughs high up in the canopy, and thus broad gaps between the trees themselves.

  Gawain slowed to a halt, and with hand-signals, indicated that Prester and Reesen should spread out and find cover. Reesen of course moved silently and nimbly, and Gawain had been surprised to see Prester moving well for such a large and powerful man. The shortbow the praetorian carried looked to be of laminated wood and horn, and its draw so long and heavy that Prester wore a grooved thumb ring to aid in executing the shot, and he tested that draw briefly before nocking a shaft to the string.

  They were ready, lurking in the silence, backs to the trees they were concealed behind, listening for the enemy’s approach. Gawain eased his quiver of arrows further forward from under his cloak to his right hip, and drew another arrow, holding it ready in his left hand. Reesen signalled, three hundred yards. Gawain relayed the signal to Prester, receiving a nod in reply.

  To give them their due, the enemy were moving well enough, though with far less caution than either of the three waiting in ambush had expected. Perhaps, Gawain thought, the hunters were not expecting their quarry to double back upon them, since no ambush had been laid from the time the last maroon had been launched. The pathfinders, and indeed the main force, would know that those fleeing east numbered only eight, and there was nothing in the trail to suggest that those eight were anything other than untrained resistance fighters from Pellarn; doubtless the black doves sent by the dead demGoth contained details of the disguised force which had attacked him before he died.

  ‘One’ came the signal from Reesen. One hundred yards, and closing quickly, the pace they set themselves a good one for their role. Gawain waited until he judged the sound of the enemy’s footfalls to be some thirty yards, then silently beat a visible count of three with the strung arrow in his right hand before leaping from behind the tree.

  It took a moment for him to mark his first target and hurl his arrow, and less than a heartbeat later the thrum of two bowstrings, one distinctly higher pitched than the other, accompanied the sound of his arrow’s impact dead centre of the pathfinder’s chest.

  By the time he’d transferred the longshaft from his left hand to his right and strung it, the two survivors were bringing their crossbows to bear, one loosing, accidentally or foolishly in haste, far too early for the shot to be effective. The second, tall and rangy, dropped to his knee to take careful aim, but at Prester. Perhaps the pathfinder recognised the praetorian uniform, and judged Prester the greater threat, but the error cost him his life.

  Gawain’s second arrow slammed into the pathfinder’s chest just below the neck, and Reesen’s two inches below that a heartbeat later. Prester simply ducked back behind his tree, the enemy’s bolt, released by a spasm of the dead man’s hand, sent whistling harmlessly through the woodland. Then the praetorian stepped from cover, shortbow drawn, and shot the remaining pathfinder through the heart.

  All five of the enemy were hit, and t
hey’d only managed to loose two shots between them. Four were dead, but the first one hit, by Gawain’s arrow, still lived, and was crawling, perhaps by instinct, away from his fallen crossbow, back towards the west.

  The sound of the longsword being drawn was little more than a hiss of steel against well-oiled hardwood, but still it was an ominous and alien sound in the stillness of the forest. A black and lustrous stain swam deep within the steel, moving as if alive, and it immediately drew Reesen’s attention, the elf instinctively stepping back a pace.

  Gawain simply strode forward, hard of eye and of heart, and just as he had in the eastern hills outside Harks Hearth when the demGoth had been downed by Reesen’s arrow, he brought the blade down on the pathfinder’s neck, severing the head.

  “What now, Serre? Back to the others?” Prester asked quietly, thinking the blow a simple coup de grâce and eyeing the dead around them with a degree of professional satisfaction.

  “No, we’re far from done here,” Gawain whispered, and with his features set grim, began hacking at the decapitated corpse, cleaving limbs from trunk and splitting the latter wide open.

  Reesen and Prester gazed in horror and disgust as Gawain stooped and drew the shortsword the pathfinder had carried. He rammed it point-first into the soft woodland floor, then picked up the severed head, turned it face west along the path marked out by the scouts, and jammed it onto the sword’s hilt.

  “Retrieve the arrows and bolts you loosed, and tear the others apart likewise. Scatter the remains. I want the enemy to witness carnage, and know fear. If nothing else it might make them a little more reluctant to harry us in haste.”

  For Reesen’s benefit, he pointed to the mess he’d made, and then at the remaining bodies, before stooping to pick up a leg, hurling it back the way the pathfinders had come.

  Still, Reesen and Prester stared, shocked and clearly disgusted.

  “These were men, Serre, Simanian traitors yes, but men…”

  “We have to stop them in their tracks!” Gawain hissed, anger rising. “Darkness is falling, we can’t hope to face the shadow and a dark wizard’s horde both! If we can persuade them that the group they’re hunting are wild barbarians worse than the Meggen they might hold their pursuit until daylight! Now, get to work!”

  Reesen understood a command when he heard one, and set about the grisly business, grim-faced. Prester, however, grimaced as though he were about to vomit, but set about his work with furious energy, even to the extent of hurling entrails up into the lowest boughs of a tree.

  When the gruesome butchery was done, and a wide area stained and strewn with gore, Gawain nodded, and sheathed the blood- and aquamire-stained longsword. The three of them were blood-spattered and appalling to behold, which seemed oddly to bind them closer together rather than repel with the horror of the spectacle they had created.

  “Simanian regulars, Serre,” Prester whispered, holding out a piece of a tunic bearing an embroidered symbol. “They’d have been in service to the Goth-lord Maraciss at the city. Once upon a time, men of the Simatheum guard, most likely.”

  “And the rest, coming up from behind them?”

  Prester shrugged, and glanced to the west. “Darkweasel, maybe two or three regulars for his personal guard, rest will likely be Osmathenen penny-blades.”

  “Osmathenen what?”

  “Sorry, Serre. Western mercenaries. Most of ‘em come from Osmatheum and the western provinces up near Namanland. Penny’s a small copper coin. The Guard call those mercenary scum ‘penny-blades’, on account of you get four of ‘em for a silver quartermark. It’s a bit of an insult, Serre.”

  “Understood. Reesen,” Gawain spread two fingers and pointed west.

  “Nai, miThal,” came the immediate reply.

  “The main force is more than a mile away, then. Come, we’ve done all we can here. Back to the others, though we’ll clean up a little at the stream where we left them, lest they mistake us for well-dressed Meggen.”

  They washed at the stream, flushing gore from hands, face and hair, and did their best to remove the worst of it from boots and clothing too. But it was a brief and hasty effort, all of them anxious to catch up with the Orb party. Reesen’s Sight still showed the western way clear of enemy lights, which was encouraging; Prester declared that it was probably unlikely the enemy would attack in darkness anyway, and would likely be moving slowly to conserve their strength and energy for a daylight assault tomorrow.

  By the time they caught up with their five companions, not much more than an hour had passed since they’d separated at the stream, and great was the relief on Allazar’s face when signals were exchanged and the two groups safely reunited.

  Drinks were taken in the pause, and noting the state of their clothing, a somewhat concerned Berek demanded Prester report how many of the enemy had been engaged.

  “Five pathfinders, Imperator. Simanian regulars. Shot before they knew what hit them.”

  Five pairs of eyes regarded their comrades’ blood-spattered clothing in disbelief.

  “We left a mess to slow the enemy,” Gawain announced, “And dissuade him from pressing home an attack this night.” Then, on seeing the horror of realization sweeping over their faces, he added: “And we’ve about three hours to find somewhere defensible if we’re to survive the shadow-creature’s attentions and not end up a pile of mould ourselves.”

  The reminder of what was likely to happen to them all when darkness fell had the desired effect on hearts and minds.

  “We could adjust our course towards the south, Longsword, and hope to find another of those machine-houses. Stone and steel would certainly provide a more substantial barrier than thin air between the trees.”

  “And rob us of precious time to the plains and our waiting horses. We don’t know for certain that more of those strange buildings exist this far from the city’s outskirts. We didn’t see any on our inbound journey.”

  Gawain took another swig from his water skin, his eyes narrowed as if closed, but noting the wizard’s crestfallen expression and the creeping worry in the faces of those around him, all them waiting for his decision. He gulped the water, then wiped his mouth with a blood-stained sleeve before screwing the stopper tight on the half-full container.

  “East,” he announced, “In haste, and we’ll re-assess our situation as needs demand along the way. Two more hours to cover as much ground as we can, then an hour of what’s left of the day before sunset to ready our defences. Ognorm, are you fit?”

  “Arr melord, no need to worry about me.”

  “I worry about all of you,” Gawain said softly. “It’s why I will not hesitate to do whatever is necessary to see the Orb safe to the sea, and us with it, no matter how dishonourable others may think my deeds.”

  A glance at Reesen received a slight shake of the head; there were no lights, dark or otherwise, within range. Gawain took his pack from Berek, and after a few moments of adjusting pack, cloak and sword, they began running again, urged on by the inexorable lengthening of their shadows ahead of them.

  oOo

  45. A Lot of Bother

  Sunlight flickered occasionally behind them through winter-bared treetops while they ran, and as it sank lower and the shadows ahead began to merge, Reesen signalled that he was slowing, and pointed south. When the group had stopped, breathing hard and sweating profusely, the elf made a simple announcement:

  “House, small.”

  Mist was beginning to form in the shadows, clinging an inch above the leaf litter.

  Gawain peered through the trees, and caught a glimpse of the ‘house’ Reesen had seen. He nodded towards it, and they altered their course, moving cautiously, until they came to an extraordinary series of ruins; long lines of low white-stone walls were laid out before them, a series of rectangular formations that might have been swimming baths, or fish ponds, but which were now filled with a quagmire of sodden forest debris.

  Allazar thrust his staff into the leaf litter and tried to scrape s
ome of the mulch away, using the Dymendin as a broom, and then the staff struck metal; a pipe, of elven steel. More exploration revealed a series of the pipes, all leading towards a small, suckerweed-shrouded blockhouse.

  “What is this place?” Loryan whispered, “And why do no trees grow here?”

  “These were perhaps pools of some sort, and probably stone-lined, in the manner of the docks,” Allazar replied, “And thus all growth has been held back, save for the weed you see. They seem still to retain rain water, or groundwater. I do not know their original purpose, nor that of the pipe-work crisscrossing the beds. We are far from the city here, I think whatever this place was, it must have been considered unsuitable for siting near habitations.”

  “We’ll explore the building, see if it’s suitable to defend against the shadow-creature throughout the night.”

  “Take care to walk on the wall between the ponds,” Allazar warned, “The bottom beneath the quagmire is likely quite deep. I do not recommend falling in.”

  Single file, they moved cautiously to the blockhouse, and to their surprise found at its western end a steel door, firmly closed and held shut by a latch-handle similar to those they’d encountered along the canal. Once, it would have stood atop a short flight of steps, but the forest floor had risen to cover the first few inches of the portal.

  “Wait,” Gawain hissed, as Allazar reached for the handle. “We do not know what lurks within. Stand back, and stand ready.”

  There was a hasty shuffling as men moved aside and a long way back from the door, the wizard poised with sparks dancing atop the staff. Gawain stood to the side of the portal, reached across, and yanked on the handle. It clicked, but nothing else happened. He heaved, jerking the heavy steel door against the debris at its foot, and it moved a little, though not much.

  With a sigh, Gawain shouldered the door shut again, and drew his shortsword to scrape away several inches of debris from the top step, and then from his place at the side of the portal, opened the latch once more. Hinges squealed in protest, but when no shadow-creature burst forth from within, he heaved the door wide and peered into the gloom, opening his miner’s lamp and motioning the others forward.