The Longsword Chronicles: Book 05 - Light and Shadow

by GJ Kelly

  “And Berek says we have nothing to fear from the Emperor?”

  “He does. And on the few occasions when my stomach has kindly allowed my mind to consider matters other than the keeping of my breakfast, I’ve pondered that. The fighting in the forest has deprived this ‘Lord of Simatheum’ of three dark wizards already. Add to that the destruction of Salaman Goth and Jerraman demGoth in the summer, and I’d say he’s been dealt a powerful blow. If his ultimate aim is the taking of the Imperial throne in Zanatheum, I doubt he’ll wish to waste men against us here in the east simply through spite. Morloch would, yes. But this Maraciss isn’t Morloch.”

  “You always did feel that the taking of Pellarn was premature, my lord.”

  “Yes, I did. And I truly believe it was a stroke of luck for us all that it was. All except for the Old Kingdom, that is. If not for the jealousy and ambition of Maraciss, all our lands might well have faced Morloch’s armies on two fronts, and we could not have hoped to have survived such a war, feeble as our strength was, and still is. And that is something else I have not mentioned to our friends of the west. Allies they may be, and yes, perhaps friends now, too. But the same cannot be said for those they serve, and I don’t want them returning home with information which may avail those who might one day be enemies.”

  “Assuming his Majesty honours your word on the matter of their return home, my lord,” Tyrane shuddered, and drew his cloak tighter. “In a battle between honouring your word and his own vow, I cannot say which would emerge victorious.”

  Gawain smiled, and nodded. “Yes. That would be a dilemma indeed.”

  “Heave to!” Balhaggan’s voice boomed over the weather deck, “Heave to!”

  The deck became a flurry of action, sails being furled here and adjusted there, and the wake below the two men standing at the transom faded as the ship slowed. Gawain glanced to his left, and saw the flat-topped mountain of Raheen standing proud above the northern horizon. Balhaggan approached, and saluted.

  “My lords. Yonder lies Raheen, and thirty miles of water ‘twixt your land and my keel, as ordered. The ship is hove to, and when you’re ready, I’ll have the men piped below decks for your privacy.”

  “Thank you, Captain,” Gawain acknowledged the salute.

  “Please have the chests brought up from below,” Tyrane added, “And a trestle made ready amidships as earlier discussed, Captain.”

  “I shall, my lords. By your leave.” And with another salute, Balhaggan attended to his business.

  “Amidships?” Gawain smiled, “You’re becoming a sailor, Tyrane.”

  “Alas, it’s only one of the very few nautical words I’ve learned whilst aboard.”

  Ahead of them, on the starboard side, a trestle table was erected so that one end sat upon the bulwark, its inboard end resting on legs folded out from underneath the flat board.

  “I think they use it for burials at sea,” Tyrane said softly. “The deceased is laid atop the table, and then once farewells have been made, the table end raised and the body tipped overboard. I do not think wizards are able to perform the rites aboard a wooden vessel, even if there were any serving in the navy.”

  Gawain nodded. “And those two chests?”

  “Ah. One of lead, its lid shackled with elven chain and lock. The other, a heavy wooden chest, secured by three locks. From your description of the Orb and its casket, we were able to guess at the sizes needed. The wooden chest fits snugly within the leaden chest, and the Orb casket should fit comfortably within the wooden one.”

  “Excellent. Then let’s fetch the men of the Orbquest, and end this.”

  “Aye.”

  The decks were cleared by the time the seven survivors of the Orbquest climbed the gangway to emerge through the fantail hatch topsides, though Balhaggan stood at the wheel, his back to proceedings, unable completely to abandon his command according to the rules of the sea.

  Force of habit had them all surrounding Ognorm, though the dwarf now carried the casket in his arms rather than slung over his back. Its loose length of elven chain had been wrapped around the lid and fitted to the mooring-spike clasp, and when they reached the trestle, Ognorm laid the casket on the deck and with three swift blows of his hammer, closed the end of that clasp, securing the chain in place permanently.

  The men gathered around him and watched, expressions solemn, while he lifted the casket and placed it into the wooden chest, and closed the lid.

  “There are three locks, my lord, and three keys for them, here.” Tyrane handed the keys to Gawain.

  “Then let it be our friends Berek, Loryan, and Prester, who take these keys, and on behalf of him they serve and those who fell in the forest of Pellarn, secure this chest. Let the keys remain with them, as proof to him they serve that their duty was done, with honour.”

  Trembling Gorian fingers took the keys, eyes damp but backs ramrod straight. Each man stood before the chest in turn, knelt on one knee, inserted and turned their key, and then returned to their place at the trestle. When all three men had pocketed their keys, Ognorm lifted the heavy wooden chest and the casket it contained, and eased it into the thick-walled lead chest. The lid was closed, and a heavy elven steel chain shackled tightly in place by an immense padlock. Ognorm bent at the knees, and heaved the chest up and onto the board.

  “This key secures the lock,” Tyrane announced, and handed it to Gawain.

  He studied it for a moment, the key made of elven steel, rustproof and enduring like the lock and the chain, odd rows of teeth jutting from the end of the shaft which would engage the many levers within the lock itself.

  Then he pushed the key into the lock, and turned it, three times. Once the key was withdrawn, he tested the lock to reassure himself and those watching that the chain was secure, and then he took his place at the side of the board, beside Allazar. Ognorm stood at the end of the table, ready to heave it up, and thus consign the Orb overboard.

  On one side, Reesen, Allazar and Gawain. At the end of the table, Ognorm, with Tyrane watching over his shoulder. And on the other side, Berek, Prester, and Loryan. All were waiting for Gawain to speak, when Ognorm suddenly drew in a breath, and turned a damp and pleading gaze towards Gawain.

  “Begging yer pardon, melord, but I made a promise to our friend,” and with that, he drew a pebble from a pocket inside his tunic, and reached forward, gently nestling the small stone on the lid of the lead chest against the chain which held it closed.

  The sight of Jerryn’s ordinary pebble sitting atop the Orb burst bubbles in throats, and the world blurred as eyes watered. All the suffering they’d endured in that miserable forest, all the fighting, the terror of the shadow of Calhaneth stalking them, the misery of endless running pursued by mouldering death and dark wizardry, all came flooding to the fore…

  It took long moments with teeth clenched and shoulders stiff, and a hasty wiping of eyes and noses, before dignity was once again restored to all of them. Gawain closed his eyes, keenly aware of his comrades all around him, and keenly aware of the presence of the tall, honourable, and very proper Jurian Major among them, and his sacrifice at the forefront of their minds.

  “Oaths were taken,” Gawain began, his voice soft and tremulous at first, but growing stronger as he continued, words whipped away towards Raheen on southerly breezes. “Oaths were taken, in far lands and near, to bring about the end of a threat greater almost than any other this world has known. And here we stand.

  “Names were spoken, in far lands and near, men, dwarves, elves and wizards called to service for the protection of all lands and all people, near and far. Homes and friends were left, and in stealth and without fanfare and with no expectation of honours or reward, all set out with fixed intent to do this thing. And here we stand.

  “Oaths were taken, and here we stand, we few who know the truth of what was done and why, and who was lost along the way. Names were spoken, in far lands and near, let them be spoken here again, in honour, here where their oaths shall be fulfilled�
�”

  Gawain glanced across at Berek, the big man’s eyes watering, and nodded. The Imperator Praetor of the First Zanatheum Cohort fixed his gaze upon the leaden chest, and then spoke, softly.

  “The men of the First I named in the Golden Hall: Parman, Chork, Eryl, Amayan, Brimor, Brayan, Mikel, Fryan, Stivan, Terrik, Thross, Kupa…” Berek sighed, and drew a breath before continuing, “… Marayan, Skal, Mahk, Uryan, Dak, Elliyan, Duryan, Barayan, San, Nerryn, Iyan, Farayan. They did their duty. Honour to them.”

  “Honour to them,” came the refrain, heads low.

  “Those I named stand with me,” Gawain announced softly, “All are here who set out on this quest save one who named himself, in the Great Hall of Juria, before his queen. I name him now, with pride and with sorrow, for he was an honourable friend, and a loyal servant of Juria. Jerryn, Major of the Royal Jurian Guard. Let not his name be etched nor graven upon any memorial, it was his wish that his name die when all hearts who knew him cease their beating. He did his duty, to quest and to queen. Honour to him.”

  “Honour to him.”

  There was another pause, memories jostling for attention as the Melusine rocked gently on the swells.

  “Oaths were taken, and here we stand who took them. Let those oaths be fulfilled, here and now and in sight of the sun. Let this evil be ended. Let the Orb of Arristanas, corrupted by treachery, destroyer of lives, cities, and a future beyond imagining, end here, and now. Ognorm of Ruttmark, on behalf of all lands, near and far, commit this thing to the deep, and send it out of all reach and knowledge of the kindred races, for as long as the seas shall cover the earth.”

  Ognorm sniffed, and nodded, and bent at the knees, and then tilted the table up. Slowly at first, and then with greater speed, the Orb of Arristanas slid over the bulwark, and with a splash and a shower of seawater, disappeared into the depths of the Sea of Hope, taking Jerryn’s pebble with it. In moments, nothing remained of its passing, not a ripple, nor a bubble; nothing save the memories of those who had cast it forever beyond reach of man and Morloch.

  oOo

  61. Port Wine

  Arms were clasped, shoulders slapped, embraces made, and though relief was tangible and smiles on all their faces, the mood remained solemn, for tears were in all their eyes, too.

  At length, with the board taken from the bulwark and laying on the deck, the men stood, quietly, side by side, gazing away to the north and the mountain of Raheen, sunshine sparkling on the crests of waves.

  “Tyrane, would you fetch Captain Balhaggan? We should return his ship to him, and his crew to their stations.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  The men of Goria stood with hands on the rail, proud and tall, their duty done, their future uncertain.

  “M’lud,” Balhaggan’s gruff voice announced from behind Gawain’s right shoulder.

  “Captain. Our first task is done, my compliments to you and your crew.”

  “Thank you, m’lud, I’ll be sure to have the first officer pass it on to the men. Set course for Porthmorl?”

  “No. Our course is northwest. We follow the coast again, to the mouth of the Eramak, there to put men ashore.”

  “The Eramak! That’s hostile waters, m’lud, you sure you want to be venturing there? Even at this time of year Empire ships are sighted off the coast of the Old Kingdom.”

  “The Eramak, Captain, if you please.”

  “Aye, m’lud, nor’ west it be, though I’m obliged to note the course and bearings in my log, King’s Orders or no.”

  “I’ve no objection to that, Captain. Your estimate of when we’ll arrive?”

  Balhaggan grimaced, eyed the sky and the shore and sniffed the air, then shrugged. “Six days, with fair winds and no surprises. Maybe a bit less.”

  “Thank you.”

  The Captain saluted, and as he made his way aft to the poop deck and the wheel, piped a short blast on a small tin whistle, a clarion for the crew who emerged from the hatches moments later and scurried about their business.

  “His Majesty won’t like it, my lord,” Tyrane sighed. “You’re risking one of his most prized ships and captains to put men he considers sworn enemies ashore on their own soil.”

  Gawain smiled, and when he saw the immense astonishment and gratitude shining from the still-damp eyes of the men of Goria staring at him, shrugged.

  “Our oaths we kept, and ended when we sent that foul thing to the bottom. But I made another promise, another oath, and I mean to keep it. Whatever consequences there may be for me when finally we return to Callodon and Brock’s Hall, I’ll deal with them then.”

  Tyrane nodded, and smiled. Allazar sniffed, and turned away to wipe his eyes, mumbling something about salt spray stinging.

  Gawain turned to face Berek, and his men. “There’s been an honourable truce between us since we shared the terror of the shadow aboard a barge in Calhaneth. I gave you my word, safe passage through eastern lands and back to the west. The keys you each have I hope will suffice to convince your Emperor that your oaths to him were fulfilled, should he be an imbecile and not trust to your word alone. It’s my hope all of you arrive safely back home, and that he doesn’t reward you with more mouths to feed than you can afford.”

  They smiled at that, and nodded. Berek looked Gawain straight in the eyes, and touched his heart briefly in salute.

  “It’s true our honour-bond ended when the box went into the sea. But we were bound by respect if nothing else to remain true to the truce we agreed. We’ll honour you once more, Gawain of Raheen, and keep this truce, and when we watch you sail away to the east, our feet dry on Empire soil once more, we’ll keep alive the hope that you and all here return to your homes and your hearths, in peace. I am Berek, Imperator Praetor of the First Zanatheum Cohort, and though I speak also for my men, I do not doubt I have no need to where this honour-bond is concerned.”

  “Aye,” Prester and Loryan announced, standing tall in their humble garb.

  Sails unfurled, orders were shouted, men worked diligently all about them, and the Melusine dipped her prow as if in salute to the honourable men aboard, and picked up speed, heading northwest.

  For four days and nights the Melusine sailed quietly and steadily along the coast of Pellarn, and apart from a couple of small fishing smacks, little more than sails on the north-eastern horizon, even Balhaggan had to admit there’d been no surprises.

  They saw little of the coast, and when they did there was little to see, and nothing of the fishing villages and harbours of Pellarn that Gawain vaguely remembered from his geography lessons. Not that he’d paid much attention to them at the time. He’d thought of asking to see Balhaggan’s charts, but decided against it; the ship’s captain was obliged to follow Gawain’s orders, but it was clear from the demeanour of the men aboard that they weren’t happy sailing into hostile territory. It was just as well, Tyrane had said in confidence, that the captain and crew knew nothing about Berek and his men, nor their origins.

  Now, on the eve of their arrival in the region of the Eramak, Balhaggan had the ship hove to, preferring to approach close to the Gorian coast in daylight, the better to sight an enemy. Gawain refrained from mentioning that daylight would also allow an enemy to sight the Melusine, but knowing nothing of seamanship or nautical battles, remained silent.

  It was a clear night, stars beginning to twinkle as twilight turned to dusk, and Gawain and Berek stood together near the bows, gazing out at the distant horizon and the undulations of the land just visible against the iron-grey wash of the sky.

  “Tomorrow, with luck, you’ll be ashore. Will you wait for a ship to take you back to Zanatheum?”

  “I don’t know. That’s a question I’ve only recently begun considering. The Goth-lord Maraciss knows his forces lost the Orb. He’ll doubtless still be looking for us on the west bank of the Ostern, or in the hills around the coast near the region you call the South-halt. I do not doubt that he has his spies in Zanatheum just as we have ours in Simatheum. It’s a
lso possible he may have learned of our plans to carry the device to the Eramak and to take ship there.”

  “You’ll all need to be careful, then. Armunland belonged to Salaman Goth, so said our friends who fled that province. And that means it now belongs to Maraciss. I’m sorry I can’t take you further north than there.”

  “It’s further than any of us ever believed we’d find ourselves, Raheen. You Eastlanders are truly nothing like we imagined.”

  “We’ve all learned much about each other on this journey of ours, Berek. I would that history did not make enemies of us, especially since now we face a common threat from Morloch and his minions.”

  “History is what it is. There is much about your ways and beliefs which we find alien and thus abhorrent. Doubtless you will say the same of ours.”

  “True. Yet we stood together, and fought together as allies. Perhaps one day others of our lands will do likewise, in friendship.”

  “Perhaps. Will trouble find you from this Brock of Callodon, for the keeping of your word to us?”

  Gawain shrugged. “I doubt it. Certainly not as much trouble as you’ll all doubtless face on your long journey home.”

  “It’s a big land, and with the Goth-lords rising, we’ll have many allies to aid us along the way. Maraciss holds Simatheum, but others are rising around him who regard his southern city with envious eyes. When word reaches them that he’s failed to obtain what he and the darkweasels believed to be a devastating elvish weapon, Maraciss will likely find himself far too busy to bother with three Imperial guards.”

  “I hope so. And Pellarn? What will become of Pellarn?”

  Berek shook his head. “I do not know. It was to have been sacrificed in a show of the Orb’s force and the Goth-lord’s power, of that I’m certain. Now that the wealthy and powerful have abandoned it, I cannot say. Perhaps the Resistance will rise up and reclaim the land for their own, who can say? It is one thing to conquer a land, quite another to hold it when all who dwell therein resist your will.