The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  “Take my pack, my lord. It has food and brandy, some spare clothing that might be useful. Take my lamp, too. Just leave me with my crossbow and bolts, I have my own bottle of comfort to keep me warm while I wait.”

  “We’ll carry you to the other side of the field, my friend. You can enjoy the sight of those evil bastards suffering as you yourself have before you riddle them with Jurian steel.”

  Jerryn grinned. “Ah my lord, that’s cunning! I would not have thought of something so obvious, and so devious.”

  “I’ll carry you, mate, not we. If there’s any lifting and shifting to be done…”

  “You have the Orb…”

  “Orb don’t weight bugger-all. Neither do you, and here comes Reesen, so begging yer pardon melord, it’ll be me and me mate goes across next.”

  Gawain could only nod, and watch with pride and immense sorrow as Ognorm lifted the stricken Major from the ground as gently as a parent lifting a child, and when the elf began leading the way through the bulb-field, let out a shuddering breath.

  “I’ll take the Major’s pack, Serre,” Prester announced, “We can sort it out on the other side.”

  Gawain nodded, and Prester took up the pack, and discreetly stepped away from the king and his wizard.

  “The demGoth, if demGoth it be, will simply burn a path through the field as soon as they become aware of it,” Allazar sighed.

  “Perhaps Jerryn will shoot the black-eyed filth before such a path can be made.”

  “Perhaps.”

  “We are close, Allazar. So vakin close! One more night in this miserable forest, and the next evening will see us on the plains of Jerryn’s homeland. I have killed him with my dullard stupidity. I have killed my friend of old.”

  “You could not have foreseen this, Longsword. Do not torture yourself thus. Jerryn was proud and honoured to join our quest, and knew all too well the risks. He had his own reasons for this adventure, as you well know.”

  “At Harks Hearth I told you I should read your book, and you agreed I should acquaint myself with the creatures we’re likely to face. I didn’t. Vakin Dwarfspit, Allazar, I squandered the time I could have used wisely. If I’d known of such things as these vakin Spikebulbs I could have foreseen and avoided this catastrophe!”

  “Then the fault, if any, is mine, for not recognising the possibility even though I know all the book’s contents…”

  “You don’t command here, Allazar, and as you so often remind me, you have no military strategy. I do, and have. I tell you this, wizard. No, I command it. When we are clear of this ‘spitsucking forest and running for Porthmorl, you will ensure I read the book. And if I refuse or offer some feeble excuse, you know whose name to whisper to remind me of this command.”

  Reesen strode towards them, stooping to retrieve his pack and the bow he’d discarded in shame, and with eyes filled with sorrow and the rising anger he felt for all things dark wizard-made, led them along the winding way back through the field to the safe ground beyond it.

  There, Jerryn was made comfortable behind the gnarled and exposed roots of a mighty darkwood, in a position affording him a good field of view to the west. He sat with his back to the trunk, facing east, and facing his comrades gathered around him. There was nothing anyone could say, all of them knowing the inevitable consequences of such a devastating injury. Carrying the stricken man would only prolong the agony of a wound inexpertly treated, and would exhaust the men doing the carrying, and slow them down. But for the Orb, of course, it would be different. But for the Orb, and the strength of the enemy, which even now Reesen’s Sight declared to be a mile away, regrouped and drawing nearer, and but for the shadow-creature, which would doubtless appear once more as soon as the sun set.

  One by one, each of member of Orbquest knelt to clasp Jerryn’s arm, give a firm nod, and then turn hastily away before tears could rob either man of dignity.

  “Get a few o’ the thrukken bastards for me, Jerryn, me old mate, get a few fer me, eh?”

  “I’ll do my best, Ognorm. Get the Orb to the sea, and take this, here take this…” Jerryn reached in to a pocket and drew out the ordinary pebble he’d fished from the stream. “Take this, my friend, and when you throw the Orb into the sea, cast this in with it, too, so I can be there with you all at the end!”

  “I will, mate, I will, by the Hall of the Fathers on Crownmount, I swear it!” Ognorm clenched the pebble in his fist, and wiped his eyes, and stood to walk away and stand by the others.

  Gawain was the last to kneel and take Jerryn’s arm.

  “I’m sorry my lord, for delaying you all and causing this grief.”

  “I’m sorry too, my friend… is there any word you would have me take home?”

  “No! No my lord, no word, no stories or tales... I died with my king, my lord, I died that day with my king, in Juria. Just remember, I beg you, my request at Harks Hearth... Do not let my name be carved upon that dread wall in the Guards’ Hall, I beg you!”

  “My word on it, my friend, my word on it…”

  “Go my lord, I know my duty and I would do it. Nothing matters… nothing matters but the Orb’s destruction, nothing and no-one, don’t let me delay it any longer.”

  Gawain nodded. “Honour to you, Jerryn of Juria, my friend of old. May we both vex Morloch one last time.”

  “Honour to you, friend Gawain, King of Raheen, and speed your journey.”

  Gawain stood then, tears welling, and slammed his hand to the faded emblem on his breast in salute, before finally turning away.

  Prester stepped forward. “By your leave Imperator, Serre, I would remain with this friend for as long as I can, and aid his final battle. My bow will be of some use, and I can catch up later.”

  Berek glanced at Gawain and gave a slight nod.

  “Thank you, Praetorian,” Gawain announced, softly. “But see that you leave when Major Jerryn commands it. Your bow may well be of use to your Imperator again on your journey home.”

  Prester saluted, and then with Reesen in the van once more, the Orbquest, sniffing and with teeth clenched, and with their vision slightly blurred, began again their run to the east, leaving two of their number preparing weapons and making themselves ready for battle.

  oOo

  51. An Optimistic Outcome

  They ran hard, driven by grief and anger, sorrow and grim resolve, and then, some twenty minutes later, they ran with a fierce rage, the sounds of distant fighting urging them on in the one direction none of them wished they were taking, away from the battle. When they paused briefly at a stream to refill water skins and canteens, Reesen announced he could see no lights to the west, but that, they agreed, likely only meant that the bulb-field, together with Jerryn and Prester, had slowed the enemy enough to put them beyond Reesen’s range.

  They ran hard for another two hours before Gawain called them to a slow walk, and then it began to rain. Hard rain, unimpeded by the canopy, though here and there buds could be seen on branch and twig preparing for spring. They ate without appetite, expressions fixed, each alone with their thoughts though the group marched steadily in close formation around Ognorm.

  Gawain remembered Jerryn’s honour at Juria the night he and Allazar unearthed the reason for Willam’s illness, high in the Ramoth tower. Remembered the grim smile of gratitude and satisfaction on the officer’s face when told that the Ramoth Emissary had been left alive within the chamber atop the foul structure. And the satisfaction with which flaming barrels of oil were kicked over, and the conflagration begun…

  He remembered too, all the times the tall and capable officer had served with honour and courage; the tales told by Allazar of Jerryn and Fenner laying waste to the eastern Ramoth towers while Gawain and Martan crawled beneath the Teeth. Remembered the Jurian selflessly leading a quiet rebellion against the vile cult sent by Morloch to cow the southlands before the intended final assault from the north. Doubtless, too, Jerryn had served Hellin with honour, organising the defences of Juria while all other
s were at Far-gor.

  Now, Jerryn was doubtless dead, and doubtless had fought with honour and courage to his last breath, to preserve all lands from the Orb of Arristanas, while the Sword of Justice had remained sheathed over Gawain’s shoulder, and the King of Raheen had run for the plains.

  Gawain felt the cold rage growing, an old and familiar friend. But for the Orb, and but for the shadow-creature, the black-eyed iron-masked minion of Morloch behind them would’ve been cleaved in two in the dark of night and the wreckage of his body left steaming in the dead surrounds of Calhaneth. Well. The famed Raheen blade might yet taste the foul and reeking innards of the demGoth before the plains were made. Prester would be able to describe the enemy’s true strength when he rejoined the quest, if the praetorian hadn’t died alongside the wounded Eastlander he’d chosen to stand beside during those final moments.

  “One light, come fast,” Reesen announced softly, and nodded towards the west.

  “Prester?” Loryan asked, but the elf simply shrugged by way of reply.

  “We’ll walk slowly until he catches up,” Gawain decided, “Unless Reesen sees a horde behind that one light. Whoever it is, he’ll be a lot more tired than we are when he finally arrives.”

  Some twenty minutes later they heard the footfalls, and turned, and waited with weapons ready. But it was indeed Prester who was loping towards them, sweat-soaked and rain drenched, his cloak still rolled and tied under his backpack. He slowed to a walk, breathing hard, and bent at the waist, hands on his knees, then took the canteen of water Loryan held out for him with a grateful nod.

  When he’d drunk his fill and his breath slowed a little, he nodded an acknowledgement to Gawain and Berek, and handed the canteen back to Loryan.

  “There’s at least ten less than there were, Serre, and we reckoned on about twenty-two to start with. Ironmask and four regulars, rest are penny-blades. Jerryn and me nailed three of ‘em just before they got to the trap-field, turned ‘em back into cover behind the trees. Those three were regulars, shielding the darkweasel. Before we could nail that bastard though, a threken penny-blade got between Jerryn’s bolt and the target.

  “Kept them pinned for a few minutes, then the ironmask must’ve ordered a head-on attack after that, because after a few minutes more, four of ‘em came charging towards us. We let ‘em run into the traps. Three went down, spiked, the fourth turned back and Jerryn shot ‘im off his feet.

  “We kept them tucked up behind the trees for a while, and by the Spire, the Major could shoot that crossbow of his! He got two more when they tried to shoot back at us. Then the ironmask started lofting those black fireballs our way, into the trap-field, showering us with dirt. Some of them Spikebulb things even landed near the tree where we were in cover, blew them clean out of the ground.”

  Prester sighed, and paused, and shook his head, sadly, but when he spoke again it was with undisguised admiration.

  “Major told me to leave, then. The fireballs were cutting big holes in the trap-field and getting closer, enemy preparing for a charge down the path the ironmask cut. Saw that darkweasel bastard make some kind of black shield around the stick he was carrying, deflected my arrow, then he launched two more fireballs at us. Jerryn got a penny-blade standing close to the ironmask, then ordered me in no uncertain terms to leave. Told me to say one word if I made it back. Vex.

  “Last I saw, over my shoulder, he was still shooting. Don’t know if he hit anything, probably did with his marksmanship, then there was a big concussion, couple of those fireballs. Didn’t see any more of him after that, and it went quiet.”

  Allazar was mumbling, quietly, and Gawain realised he was translating for Reesen’s sake. For his part, the elf stared silently away through the trees to the west.

  “Were you pursued?” Gawain asked.

  “Not close enough for me to be aware of, Serre.”

  “Reesen, any sign?”

  “Nai, miThal.”

  Berek looked thoughtful. “The ironmask has just the one Simanian regular to serve as bodyguard and enforce his will. Perhaps ten mercenaries, maybe a few less, who won’t be particularly keen to run blindly through the forest knowing there might be other trap-fields laying in wait. Major Jerryn has slowed them down, and bought us some valuable time.”

  Gawain nodded. “With help from a friend. We’ll keep walking, briskly though, until Prester has rested from his flight to catch us up. Thank you, Prester, for standing with Jerryn. You did what all of us wished we could have done, and would have, but for that accursed Orb.”

  The Praetorian nodded, slightly surprised by the nods of solemn agreement and gratitude in the eyes of Gorian and Eastlander alike, and then they set off, stepping out briskly. Reesen took to the right flank, where he could cast his gaze ahead for more traps, and to the rear, for signs of enemy pursuit, unimpeded by the lights of his comrades on the quest.

  It was mid-afternoon when they took their next rest-break, the ground becoming softer in places, springs and streams proliferating and swollen by the day’s rain. The weather had eased, though, skies slowly clearing, great holes in the cloud cover admitting welcome if weakly sunshine, and the wind dropped. Reesen had reported seeing scouts at the extent of his range to the west, and according to Berek, it was likely two or three recalcitrant mercenaries pressed forward by threats of pain or worse. Gawain received the news with a grim smile.

  “Then let’s hope those scouts know fear with every step they take. I’ve had enough of running, and want them utterly useless when they encounter us.”

  “Longsword?” Allazar looked distinctly alarmed.

  “We’ll move forward until we find some firmer ground, and there we’ll prepare. We have three hours of daylight, or thereabouts, and much needs to be done.”

  “”The Orb…” Allazar began, but Gawain was abrupt.

  “Is my primary concern. But I’m tired of running, and the best way to deny the Orb to the enemy is to destroy the enemy, and that is what I mean to do. East, then, until we find firm ground on which to prepare for battle.”

  Twenty minutes later they found that firmer ground, atop a slight incline. Five hundred yards further on Gawain called a halt and described precisely what he required of them.

  “The Orb casket must be secured on the limb of that tree, just as it was last night. Without the rope to aid us, it won’t be so easy to get it up there, or to get it down again later. While Reesen and Ognorm are doing that, I want three bonfires prepared, one either side of the tree, and one behind it. Then I want an arc of torches slightly to the north of the bonfire. The shadow-creature will be weakened after so long away from the Orb and after travelling so far from its lair to get here. I don’t propose to feed that bastard any more, either. Reesen, lights?”

  “Three, west, slow, one mile, miThal.”

  “Thank you. Prester, you’re with me. We’re going hunting. Leave your pack here with mine.”

  “Serre.”

  “MiThal…”

  “Nai, Reesen. You and Ognorm get that casket up there. Berek, if you wouldn’t mind organising the rest? I believe you understand what I need.”

  “I believe I do, Raheen. It’ll be done.”

  “Don’t light the fires or torches. We’ll do that in darkness. Allazar, keep the Stick handy. Prester and I will be back in less than an hour.”

  And with that, Gawain and the praetorian dumped their packs, turned, and loped back the way they came, leaving a fretful wizard standing wide-eyed watching them go, while the rest hurried about their business.

  Twenty minutes later Gawain and Prester watched the three mercenary scouts creeping through the trees, and it certainly appeared as though Gawain’s hope that they knew fear with every step had come to pass; all were ashen-faced, and one even had a length of windfall bough with which he prodded the forest floor ahead of him as they went.

  The one with the bough feeling his way was the last to die; his hands were full and so represented the least threat when Gawain and Prester
simply stepped out of cover and shot the other two, arrows hitting their marks. Gawain sprinted forward, drawing the longsword as he went, and with a single mighty swing, cut the third man almost in two from shoulder to hip.

  The butchery that followed was crude and hasty, nothing more sophisticated than hacking with longsword and shortsword, enough to make a mess which Gawain hoped might delay the enemy’s advance a little longer, perhaps even until nightfall. Night was the shadow-creature’s domain, but it was also Reesen’s, and if the remainder of the Simanian force chose a night attack, it would likely be the elf who ended them all before the rest of the Orbquest so much as saw them.

  There was neither sight nor sound of the remainder of the enemy to the west, and though it was tempting to continue in that direction and ambush the main force, Gawain allowed caution and the need for the Orb’s protection to override his desire to avenge Jerryn’s death.

  At the casket tree, Berek seemed to have everything in hand and had grasped Gawain’s intent with military precision. Bonfires were being constructed, though the wood was wet from the day’s rain and would doubtless smoke. The casket was securely chained to a limb about twenty feet above the ground, and while Reesen and Allazar both stared at Gawain in reproach, Ognorm, carrying a bundle of wood, looked distinctly smug.

  “Lights, Reesen?”

  The elf snapped his gaze to the west, and shook his head. “Nai, no lights.”

  “Mitak. Ognorm, what are you looking so pleased about?”

  “Ah well, only came up with a blinder of an idea, dint I? Made a rope out of belts an’ a pair of trousers. Dint ‘ave to climb the tree or anything, just sent good old Reesen up there, then chucked him the rope! Make a good arborist, Reesen would, I reckon, given enough practice. You have any trouble, melord?”

  “No. Three less of the enemy to worry about. That leaves nine at most, with a dark wizard in their number.”