by GJ Kelly
“Good night, Longsword.”
Gawain found her almost where he had left her, though she was sitting facing the door when he knocked and entered the room. She lowered her head a little, directing her gaze towards his chest. Clearly, Elayeen’s eldengaze could ‘see’ his eyes, and she didn’t want to fix him with that awful stare. He remembered the day when she had ‘seen’ the darkness tracking them in the forest on the road to Jarn.
“I can see your eyes now, and your mouth. They are like holes torn in the light that is you.”
“Hurrah. Can you see well enough to get up on your bloody horse?”
And he remembered the last time she had spoken to him with her own voice, moments later.
“I’m sorry, G’wain, the sight of the Eldenelves is powerful …”
“Clearly. But while you and the wizard are behaving like children with new toys, you might remember that there are eighteen Gorians and twenty four men of Callodon looking on. There were of course twenty seven when we left the foot of the Pass but two of them died during our first day on the road. If you can see something dark, then perhaps you can help destroy it. But not if you’ve left your weapons abandoned in the mud somewhere and the rest of us are all too busy to help find them for you.”
He bolted the door, his back to her, and unslung the Sword of Justice from over his shoulder, propping it against the wall at the far side of the bed from where Elayeen sat motionless. Gawain unbuckled his shortsword and hung it from the bedpost, pulled off his boots, and laid down on the bed.
“Did I do this?” He asked softly, gazing up at the ceiling in the gathering dark. Elayeen had no need of lamps, objects to her were merely vague shapes in the grey backdrop of her world, a world lit only by the light of living magic shining within all creatures of nature’s making. She made no reply.
“Was it the harshness of my words on the road that drove you to this? Have you abandoned me, miheth, because I berated you for leaving your bow in the dirt?”
“I am the Sight,” the rasping voice of Eldengaze scraped at his nerves like flint on steel.
Gawain let out a shuddering sigh and rolled over onto his side, his back to her. He screwed his eyes tight shut against the tears that welled unbidden and beyond his strength to stem.
“Good night, Elayeen,” he said softly, “I love you.”
oOo
2. The Walker
Gawain had risen not long after the glare of late summer’s dawn found him laying fully clothed and alone on the bed. Elayeen was sleeping in the chair by the window, or seemed to be, and Gawain had been more than content not to wake her. He’d quietly dragged his boots on, armed himself, and softly left the room. He’d found Rollaf and Terryn, the two Callodon guardsmen who had hunted the Kraal with him in the southern forest, already at breakfast, and after a quiet greeting left them to it to attend to his duties to Gwyn in the stables.
By the time he returned to the inn, breakfast was in full swing and he was the last to arrive. Elayeen sat at the far end of a small chain of tables that had been pushed together to accommodate everyone. Kahla sat beside her, watching attentively and talking quietly. Allazar sat next to the wizard Arramin, the former with his lustrous white Dymendin staff propped against the wall behind him, the latter with his fresh-cut and faintly comical silvertree sapling propped likewise. Simayen Jaxon was speaking quietly with Tyrane, and Rollaf and Terryn were politely being ignored by all of them.
“Good morning,” Gawain muttered, sitting at the end of the tables directly opposite Elayeen, and he supposed that the place had been set and left intentionally for him. If any of them noticed his rumpled clothes, clothes he’d obviously slept in while their own were fresh-laundered and crisp, they gave no sign.
A chorus of greetings from all the others save one, and then a kitchen maid appeared with a plate of fried eggs, bacon, mushrooms, tomatoes, sausages and potatoes. Gawain eyed it briefly, considering the fresh cut lump of frak in his pocket, a lump taken from the cake he’d transferred scant minutes ago from Allazar’s saddle bags to his own. But then the smell of the food fired his appetite and he dug in, knowing it could well be the last decent cooked breakfast he might enjoy for some time to come.
Gawain stole a glance at Kahla, and noted the glances that she herself was stealing at Jaxon, though the former leader of the Gorian refugees seemed blissfully unaware of her interest. She was a little taller than Elayeen, black hair cropped short in what might be considered a boyish style here to the east of the Eramak River. Dark brown eyes ever watchful of Elayeen it seemed, and a soft, round face. She had a strong physique too, and that together with her weather-tanned complexion was doubtless thanks to her years of enforced labour in the fields of Armunland in Goria.
It was a complexion Jaxon himself shared, and the squat and powerfully-built former slave and farm-labourer seemed the model for all the Gorians in the party of eighteen who had survived the escape from bondage to seek sanctuary in Raheen. It was Jaxon who had cheerfully announced that the pedestrians slowing the caravan’s journey along the Jarn road would gladly run for miles, and it was Jaxon who had been first to strip off his trousers and stride into the quagmire on the flooded road to get the wagons across. There was an air of hardness and cheerfulness about them both which left Gawain in no doubt that any complaints concerning conditions along the way to the Kings’ Council in Shiyanath, in north-eastern Elvendere, would not come from the two Gorians.
In fact, Gawain thought, pulling a hunk of bread from a loaf on the table and squishing it into the yolks on his plate, the only person likely to make any complaints was the elderly and bookish wizard Arramin, historian of Callodon, and wizard of the D’ith Sek. And perhaps Allazar if or when the supplies ran out and frak became the order of the day.
Rollaf and Terryn, wiry and tanned from long years outdoors, would be in their element in the forest. What was it the sergeant had said of them? One of ‘em a poacher before he took his majesty’s gold and black, the other the son of a woodsman. Good lads, both of ‘em. Good lads indeed, Gawain knew from Allazar’s description of their ruthless and speedy disposal of the Gorian guardsmen who’d been escorting the Kraal through the forest.
Then there was Tyrane, another good man of Callodon, a much-respected officer, trusted by Brock himself. Tall, rangy, experienced and with a keen military eye. The only thing that could be said to let him down, and which otherwise kept him from promotion to the general staff, was his apparent lack of imagination.
When the breakfast was finally cleared save for mugs of warm spiced wine and the remains of a couple of loaves, and the innkeeper and his staff had taken the hint and left the room, all eyes swung towards Gawain, though Elayeen’s were fixed on his chest. He gathered his thoughts, took a sip of his breakfast wine, and then addressed them all.
“There are nine of us here, bound first for the city of Calhaneth, which the wizard Arramin has described as a ruin. My lady and Serre Jaxon have told us that no-one ever goes there since its destruction a thousand years ago, though in truth it seems no-one can say why. Whatever the reason, it’s my intention that the nine of us shall arrive together in Shiyanath.
“We’ve also learned from Jaxon that we can expect few if any surprises from Imperial forces in the forest of the Old Kingdom, even though technically it’s under Gorian control. It seems the Old Kingdom superstitions are being used as an effective weapon by the resistance in Pellarn, so even the Gorian Guard don’t venture far into the woodlands.
“Nevertheless, we’ll proceed with caution. There may well be traps set by allied forces, intended to forestall any Gorian invasion. My lady and I have encountered them before, so we’ll need to be careful. If there’s a reason why no-one ever goes to Calhaneth, we’ll find it and deal with it. Then find this Canal of Thal-Marrahan to take us on to Ostinath in Elvendere.
“Our journey is urgent, the need is for haste but the watchword is caution. We travel as a group, no one of us ever alone out of sight of others. The lady Ka
hla has kindly offered to assist my lady along the way, for which I, and she, are both grateful. Once we’ve readied the horses and checked provisions, we leave the town through the north gate, and where the road swings east away towards the castletown, we continue north into the forest. I understand, wizard Arramin, we bear slightly west of north?”
“Yes, my lord, though by no more than perhaps fifteen degrees of a north-needle. The books speak of an old road which ran from Calhaneth to the south, traces of which we may yet find.”
“Traces? After all this time?”
“Indeed yes, my lord. The elves of old were masters of the woodland then as now. Their roads were lined with carefully managed and planted darkwood trees, which live to a very ripe old age.”
“So,” Gawain nodded his thanks, “When we cut across the traces of that road we simply follow it to the ruins. And whatever awaits us there. Understand this, though. If there’s something dread lurking there which threatens our cause or jeopardises our need to reach Shiyanath in haste, then we may abandon the route immediately, head east out of the forest and onto the plains of Juria, thence north to Ferdan. Are there any questions?”
There were none.
“Very well. Serre Jaxon, if you and the lady Kahla wish to bid farewell to your friends, now is the time, while provisions and horses are checked.”
“We’ve already said our goodbyes, my lord,” Jaxon replied quietly and a little sadly, though Gawain thought he saw a hint of excitement about the man’s eyes.
“Very well then. We’ll muster outside the stables shortly, and make final preparations.”
With that, Gawain stood, drained his breakfast wine, and headed up to the room to collect his fresh-laundered bedding and clothes. He was already on his way out of the room as Elayeen and Kahla appeared at the head of the stairs, such was his haste to leave the inn of The Horse’s Head, and Jarn, behind him.
Tyrane had the packhorses out of stables and was checking off items on a list as bundles, bags, sacks and saddlebags were hung, tied and strapped in place by Rollaf and Terryn. Gawain gave them a brief nod and continued on into the stables to saddle Gwyn and attend to his own meagre provisions.
“You’re still ugly, Ugly. And I’m afraid it may be a while before you get good grass and hay.”
Gwyn turned her bright blue eyes on her chosen mount, and Gawain would swear from the flaring of her nostrils that his horse was sniffing in disgust at the prospect of plodding through a gloomy forest.
“You think that’s bad, wait ‘til you see this canal the whitebeard spoke of. A great water road he called it. If it’s still there. And we go along that all the way to Elvendere. You remember Elvendere, Gwyn, where the children put ribbons in your mane and fed you apples and grass and oats?”
Gawain paused a moment, remembering his time in Gan’s province, being nursed by Elayeen while he recovered from the Elve’s Blood poison smeared on the crossbow bolt a Black Rider had put through his leg. Elayeen had become throth-bound to him then, and a pair of Dwarfspit bastard elfwizards had forbidden everyone, including Elayeen and her brother Gan, so much as to mention her feelings for him, much less tell him of the bitter-sweet mystery of the throth. It had almost cost Elayeen her life.
Boots on flagstones drew him back to the gloom of the dusty stables and he finished securing his packs. He didn’t have much, really. A change of clothes, boots, the arrowsilk cloak Lady Merrin of Tarn had gifted to him which also served both as blanket and bedding when necessary. A quilted bedroll, frak, water skin, arrows and a bag of flint points. And the small pack of needles, thread, bandages, silvertree powder, elven unguents, and bottles of Eeelan t’oth and Jurian brandy he hoped he’d never need. Well, except for perhaps the Jurian brandy, he conceded. All in all, it wasn’t much more than he’d had when first he left Raheen to begin his banishment two years ago.
When all was secure, he rubbed Gwyn’s nose, and whispered “Come on then, Ugly, let’s see who we can frighten with your hideousness today.”
Outside in the sunshine the small group of people and horses were assembling, men checking their equipment and steeds with quiet purpose. Tyrane, resplendent in his crisp uniform complete with gleaming helmet, was making a second check of one of the packhorses, meticulously touching each sack and bundle with the end of his pencil before marking it off on his sheet. All was quiet activity, save for Elayeen standing off to one side, her bow clasped lightly in both hands and resting on her boot, her head swinging this way and that.
Nearby, Kahla and Jaxon were talking to each other, nervously it seemed to Gawain, and darting occasional looks towards the Callodon guards and the professional ease with which they went about their preparations for travel. Even Allazar and Arramin seemed enthusiastic about their impending departure into the unknown, and were carefully checking their own mounts and supplies.
Gawain, satisfied that his own frugal needs were well catered for, strode over to the Gorian couple.
“Something wrong, Serre Jaxon?”
Kahla seemed positively embarrassed, and Jaxon sheepish, fiddling with the hilt of the battered Gorian shortsword Tyrane had returned to him, a small token of freedom and of trust, a sincere gesture on the captain’s part and well-received as such for Jaxon’s. “My lord… the Captain presented two horses there, and said we’re to ride them.”
“Aye, at least until we enter the forest. Once in there, I expect we’ll all find ourselves on foot most of the way to Calhaneth, if not all the way.”
“My lord…,” Jaxon looked utterly crestfallen. “My lord we do not know how to ride. It was forbidden in Armunland for slaves…” Jaxon tailed off, his shoulders sagging.
“Ah,” Gawain managed, his mind reeling for a moment. In Raheen, everyone could ride. It hadn’t occurred to him that the former slaves would be unable to sit saddle. “A moment, if you please?”
Jaxon nodded dejectedly, and watched while Gawain walked the few paces to the horses designated for their use.
They were fine horses, and bore the mark of the Callodon guard. Presumably, Gawain thought, Tyrane had taken them from two of the guards he’d detailed to remain in Jarn until the Court of Callodon had determined what was to become of the refugees. He spoke softly to the first, a chestnut mare, stroking her nose and tugging her ear, watching her eyes while he whispered. Then, he gave her a gentle pat on the neck; a check of shoes and hooves, saddle and tack, and another gentle conversation before he repeated the same ritual with the second horse, a grey mare. And then he returned to Jaxon and Kahla.
“These are good horses,” he announced, “And well used to life in the Callodon Guard. I’ve asked that they be gentle, so really all you need do is sit in the saddle and allow them to follow the horses in front.”
“Then we can still journey with you all, my lord?” Jaxon gasped, and it finally dawned on Gawain that their worry had not been of the horses, but of being left behind.
“Of course,” he smiled. “Though if or when we reach Ostinath, we’ll have to ride fast. But we’ll cross that bridge when we get to it. Come, I’ll show you both how to check the saddles, what’s what, and how to mount up and hold on.”
And with Elayeen casting her gaze about the northern road, wizards and men of Callodon busying themselves for their journey, Gawain patiently and expertly introduced a beaming pair of former Gorian slaves to their horses, saddles and accoutrements. The horses, used to endless drills and parades and formations, not to mention noise and a great deal of shouting, stood patiently, quietly listening to Gawain’s voice as he taught perhaps the most attentive students he’d likely ever have.
An hour later, Tyrane gave a brief nod of his head in answer to an enquiring look from Gawain.
“Hey-la!” Gawain called, and raised his hand, flicking his wrist twice towards the north road before climbing into the saddle.
He waited quietly, watching as Jaxon mounted precisely as he had been taught, and then looked towards Kahla as she accompanied Elayeen to her horse. Elayeen
handed her bow to Kahla, felt for the stirrup, and gracefully pulled herself up into the saddle. As soon as she was settled, she held out her left hand, two broken fingers fresh-bound by the whitesleeves Healer Turlock, who even now stood off outside the inn’s main doors with a small knot of guardsmen gathered to watch their departure. Kahla deftly touched Elayeen’s hand with the bow, and in moments, the weapon was slung in its customary position on the elfin queen’s back.
All around, the creak of leather as men mounted, the clop of hooves on cobbles as horses shifted their weight. Gawain couldn’t help but smile when he saw Kahla take a deep breath before she mounted the chestnut mare and then as she beamed happily on successfully executing the manoeuvre. Of course, he knew, for the Gorians, everything, every moment here in the freedom east of the Empire was an adventure. Now they would ride for the first time, and they cared not a jot what danger may await them ahead on the road.
Gawain drew Gwyn to the far side of the road, waiting while Elayeen moved to the head of the group, Kahla and Jaxon’s horses following immediately behind, the two riders clutching their reins as though their lives depended on it. Gawain and Allazar moved in behind them, followed by the wizard Arramin and Tyrane. Terryn and Rollaf brought up the rear, leading the string of packhorses laden with provisions. On the road, leaving Jarn and heading north with the sight of Eldengaze in the van, there was no need for advance scouts or much else by way of military caution save watchfulness. It would be in the forest where the two guardsmen would take the lead.