The Longsword Chronicles: Book 01 - King of Ashes Read online

  Prologue

  "I am called by many names. To some, I am simply "Traveller.” To others, "Longsword,” or "DarkSlayer,” or both. Some even call me friend, but they are few in number and decreasing as the years pass.

  "I have another name, one which my father gave me and by which my family, and my people, knew me. But they are all dead now, and have been these many long years. This name I will tell you now, for it no longer matters, though there was a time when I kept it secret even from friends, and for a time, even from the one I came to love…

  "I am Traveller. I am Longsword, DarkSlayer. I am Gawain, son of Davyd, King of Raheen, and this is my story."

  The DarkSlayer, as told to the Bard-Chronicler Lyssa of Callodon.

  1. Traveller

  The kingdom of Raheen rests atop a plateau overlooking the Sea of Hope, at the southernmost tip of the land. Famed for its horses, which have graced many a fine cavalry, and famed for its impregnability, for it has never been invaded. Of all the seven kingdoms, Raheen has endured longest, and in relative tranquillity. The less said about the Gorian Empire in the west, and its lamentable history, the better.

  Gawain, second son of King Davyd of Raheen, was tending to his own horse Gwyn when a page approached in great excitement, and informed the prince that the King requested his presence in the Great Hall at once.

  "Please tell my father I'll be there shortly,” Gawain answered softly, brushing tangles from Gwyn's fine blonde mane.

  The page nodded, and departed. King Davyd would understand the delay, for there is no duty more solemnly undertaken than caring for one's horse in Raheen. The bond between horse and rider is formed at such an early age, and is a mystical thing.

  Gwyn herself was gangling colt when she had chosen Gawain. The young prince had been sitting on the banks of a sluggish stream, being taught how to fish by an old man, when he'd almost been bowled into the water by a sudden and unexpected shove in the back. He'd stumbled, regained his balance, and turned to find himself staring into the blazing blue eyes of the colt, and thus the bond was formed.

  "You've been chosen, your Highness." the old fisherman had smiled. "Honour to you."

  "Aye,” Gawain had replied, almost struck dumb with awe, "Honour indeed!"

  That was two years ago. Now, at just over eighteen years of age, Gawain possessed complete understanding of Gwyn, and she of him. Reins were virtually superfluous to the Raheen, a bonded horse knew its rider's intentions long before a rein could be tugged this way or that, or heels kicked or knees pressed.

  Gawain finished brushing Gwyn's lustrous mane and stepped back admiringly. The horse whinnied approvingly.

  "Elve's Blood and Dwarfspit, you're ugly.” Gawain said softly, shaking his head in mock sorrow.

  Gwyn turned her blue-eyed gaze to him, and snorted before walking slowly, head held high, back to her stall.

  "I mean it!" Gawain laughed. "Ugly as a sack full of worms. Hideous. I don't know why I deign to ride such a grotesque beast."

  Gwyn ignored him, as usual, and with a final chuckle Gawain left the stables and strode across the cobbled courtyard to the castle Keep. Now that his duty was complete, it would not do to keep his father waiting.

  The Great Hall was cavernous, even when filled with people, which it wasn't now. It was early evening, court business was over, and even the ceremonial guards on duty beside the massive oaken doors had gone off duty, leaving the mighty iron-braced portals ajar.

  Gawain's boots echoed eerily as he strode towards the thrones, past rows of benches and low tables, all unoccupied. Clearly whatever was about to transpire was a matter of considerable gravitas, in spite ofthe absence of courtiers or ambassadors or subjects of any station. Just his father, his mother, and his older brother, seated in their rightful places, and Cordell, the Lord High Chamberlain. None of them were smiling at Gawain's approach.

  In fact, he thought, they looked really rather serious. He stiffened his back, and studied Cordell's eyes for any hint of what was to come. It was no good trying the same with his family, they'd long since learned the secret of regal inscrutability, as had he himself.

  Was that the slightest hint of anxiety in the crow's feet around old Cordell's eyes, Gawain wondered, and then started desperately trying to remember if he'd done anything to warrant a punishment…

  But it was too late. Already the benches and tables gave way to the Circle of Justice, wherein stood the sword. Accused and accuser, in disputes brought before the king, would stand to each side of the longsword which stood in the exact centre of the polished marble floor, its tip buried a full two hand-spans in the cold and lustrous stone. Petitioners took station before it, so that this potent symbol stood betwixt them and the ultimate power that the throne represented. Gawain, a prince of the realm, stood likewise, encircled by the strange symbols etched in the floor, some ancient wizard language laid down long ago in history, so long ago that not even today's whitebeard wizards understood their meaning.

  "You summoned me, your Majesty."

  "I did. Is your duty complete?"

  "It is."

  "Good."

  There was a pause. No-one's eyes would meet Gawain's, it seemed, even though he stood six feet and two inches tall, the pommel of the longsword between him and the thrones barely reached his breastbone.

  King Davyd shifted. The thrones, of inlaid marble, were not the most comfortable of seats, in spite of their luxurious velvet cushions.

  "Lord Chamberlain," he announced, "If you would."

  Cordell cleared his throat, and Gawain directed his gaze firmly at the elderly statesman.

  "Your Highness," he began, his sonorous voice resonating through the hall. "You have reached the age of majority these two weeks past. And now has come the time which must be endured by all sons of the Royal House of Raheen."

  Gawain was stunned. He was second in line to the throne, surely the ancient traditions did not apply? He hadn't given it a first thought, let alone a second one!

  "Father?" he asked, softly.

  But King Davyd simply drew in a breath, and let it out in a sigh as Cordell continued.

  "Thus it has been, thus it is, and thus ever shall. By Royal Decree, Prince Gawain, son of Davyd, you are henceforth banished from the Kingdom of Raheen, not to set foot on its most treasured soil until a period of one year and one day has passed. This, in the King's name, this, in sight of the sword, this is judgement."

  "Be it so ordered.” King Davyd announced, though his voice was tinged with sadness.

  "Can this truly be so?" Gawain asked. "Is my brother ill?"

  "No brother, I am not.” Kevyn answered firmly.

  "Then am I not entitled to know the reason for this judgement?"

  "Gawain," his mother said quietly. "It is custom. Your brother shall be king…"

  "Not for some considerable time I hope." Kevyn mumbled sincerely. None could imagine a day so dread as the death of their father.

  "Thus, on his majority, he was banished for a year and a day, to learn the world, and its ways. So too must you be."

  "As you well knew.” Davyd grumbled.

  "I knew it not, father.” Gawain stepped forward around the sword. "Or I would have cherished these two weeks past. If I had known…” he trailed off. How could he have known? Kevyn was four years his senior. Gawain remembered, could it have been four years ago? He remembered his brother's departure, seated proud upon Jakar, a magnificent black stallion, riding off towards the sole route out of Raheen and down onto the plains of Callodon below.

  "When the sun rises tomorrow, Gawain of Raheen, it must not find you in our land.” Cordell announced, and with a
bow, and a final sad smile, turned, and left the Great Hall by way of the king's door.

  "You've about an hour to make ready.” Davyd said softly, standing, and striding the three steps down to the Circle of Justice. "You should make the most of them."

  "I'm sorry father…If I had known…” A lump was forming in the back of Gawain's throat.

  "No matter. You will return to us in a year and a day. And regale us with tales of adventure and startling heroism, just like your brother did."

  With that, Davyd hugged his son, smiled, and made to turn away. Then he checked himself, and gazed at his second-born. "I have always been proud of you. I know you will do well. Remember who you are, and be true to yourself, and to Raheen."

  "I will, father.” Gawain said, with as much princely strength as he could muster.

  His mother kissed him, but said nothing. She simply smiled, her eyes betraying her love and her sorrow and her pride, and then she took Davyd's arm, and left.

  "Well, G'wain. Off you go."

  "Thanks Kev. Thanks for telling me."

  Kevyn shrugged. "You know the traditions as well as I."

  "When have they ever applied to the second-born?"

  "Now, I suppose. Why, don't you think you can survive a year and a day in the downlands?"

  "Of course I can. I'm not an idiot."

  "No you're not. Want some advice?"

  "You know I do."

  "So did I when I was banished. No-one gave me any. Good luck."

  "Thanks. Thanks a lot."

  Kevyn's face cracked into a grin. "You'll be all right. You know how I keep saying I let you win whenever we fight?"

  "Yes."

  "Well, on the grounds that you'll probably end up on a Gorian slaver within a month or two, I might as well admit that you always beat me fair and square."

  "You might mention that to father after I've gone."

  "Not a chance."

  Kevyn hugged his younger brother, clapped him on the shoulders, and headed for the door.

  "Oh!" he shouted, his youthful exuberance echoing around the hall. "I will give you one good tip before you go!"

  "What's that?"

  "Don't eat yellow snow!"

  And with that, Kevyn was gone, the king's door slamming behind him.

  Gawain sighed, and fought back the tears which pricked at his eyes. Banished. He should have seen it coming. He should have spent the last two weeks at home, with his friends and family, not gallivanting all over Raheen on Gwyn, camping out, enjoying the summer…But he had, and had lost the chance to prepare himself for the sudden absence now forced upon him.

  His hands rested on the sword of justice, and then he leaned his chin on the pommel. It was a good thing really, this banishment. All future kings had to endure it. Had to spend a year and a day abroad in the six strange kingdoms that lay below the plateau. It prepared them for rule, forced them to accept that there was a world beyond the sheer edges of Raheen. Made them come to terms with the differences between the races that populated the land. It was a good thing.

  Except now. Now that it was Gawain's turn to go. The Keep had been emptied. He should have known. The excitement in the young page's voice and attitude was obvious now. Apart from Gawain's family and the Lord High Chamberlain, that was the last Raheen subject who would speak or acknowledge Gawain's presence until the sun rose a year and a day from now.

  If Gawain survived. He drew the sword from its slot in the floor, and hefted it one-handed. Just. The point dipped alarmingly, and he instantly grasped the hilt in classic two-handed stance.

  Well, he thought, raising its tip high above his head. It'd take more than lowlanders to prevent his homecoming. There were no horsemen, no horses, that could match a Raheen. No archers, not even Elves with their famed curved bows, who could match a skilled Raheen arrow-thrower. No swordsmen, except perhaps the Household Guard of Callodon, and maybe the praetorians of the Gorian Empire, that could match Gawain. He hoped. Kevyn had said so, anyway.

  He studied his reflection in the polished blade. Short golden-blond hair, piercing steel-grey eyes, the strong jawline. It was a strong face, but young, and soon to be shown to the world beyond Raheen for the first time.

  He slipped the longsword back into its rightful place, and turned on his heel. He didn't have much time to gather his belongings, saddle Gwyn, and make the Downland Pass before daybreak.

  ***

  At the foot of the Downland Pass, just as dawn was breaking, Gawain and Gwyn turned to watch the orange bloom on the horizon, knowing only too well that high above, at home, the sun had been shining for the best part of an hour already.

  Gawain sighed as the first rays of day sliced through the gloom and warmed his face, and he closed his eyes, remembering The Fallen as he'd been taught by an old soldier so long ago. He'd been five, or six, he couldn't remember. It was the morning of his birthday, and he'd imagined that the day would bring a thousand magnificent Raheen stallions crashing down the castle walls in their haste to choose him…so he'd risen early, and gone out onto the battlements...

  There were no horses thundering across the plain, even when he'd stood on a bench to look over the parapet wall. Just a one-eyed old soldier, hoisting the flag atop its pole for the break of day. So the child Gawain had turned, and watched the horizon, waiting for dawn, and hoping for horses.

  The old soldier finished running up the flag, and then walked quietly over to stand beside Gawain. After a few moments, the boy had looked up and was surprised to see that the soldier had closed his one good eye, and looked for all the world like he was asleep on his feet.

  "What are you doing?" Gawain had asked, a little in awe of the soldier and the scars on his face.

  "There are those," the old soldier had said, "Who cannot see the dawn, your highness. I do this for them all."

  "Why can't they see the dawn? Is it because they got their eyes hurt like you?"

  "No, your highness. They are The Fallen. Old friends, and friends I never met. Those that were slain in battle, so that you and me might stand here free men, and watch the sun rise, and feel its warmth upon our faces in peace."

  Gawain had thought about it for a moment, and nodded seriously, and turned his young face to the dawn, and closed his eyes. It didn't seem right that The Fallen wouldn't be able to do that again, just so that he could.

  Now though, as Gwyn's ears twitched, Gawain opened his eyes and turned towards the sound. There were a number of inns on the well-worn track that led from the guardhouse at the bottom of the Downland Pass, and from their direction he could hear the faint sounds of stirring life.

  In an hour or so, the road would be bustling. Merchants and travellers seeking to make the long climb up to Raheen, and merchants and travellers beginning to make their way down. It would be wise for Gawain to leave before the bustle started, and Gwyn seemed to agree, for she set off at a trot heading north, away from the Pass, leaving the Sea of Hope in the wake of the dust her hooves kicked up on the sun-baked track.

  It was a week later, still in the kingdom of Callodon and still heading north, that Gawain came upon a farmer and his family, and their cart with its broken wheel.

  They were on a rutted road in the middle of a small forest, and the farmer was desperately attempting to lift the wagon and refit the wheel at the same time, while his wife and daughter looked on helplessly.

  At Gawain's approach the farmer ceased his futile struggling, and looked up nervously.

  "Good day to you, Serre.” The older man called.

  "Good day, Serre, and well met." Gawain replied politely, and Gwyn slowed to an amble, and came to a halt a little way off from the stricken family. "You've suffered a sad mishappenstance,” Gawain said quietly, eyeing the wheel and looking back along the track. He could see no rocks in the ruts. "Is the axle broken?"

  "No Serre, the kingpin slipped.” the farmer responded, sounding hurt, and eyeing Gawain's weapons uneasily.

  "May I help? Perhaps if I lift the cart, and
you replace the wheel?"

  "I would be obliged at that, Serre, if it's no trouble."

  "It's no trouble, I assure you.” Gawain smiled, and swung himself gracefully out of the saddle, ignoring the stirrups and jumping down athletically. Entirely for the benefit of the farmer's daughter whose flame-red hair was, to Gawain, the most stunning colour he'd seen.

  The cart was laden with sacks of what the young prince assumed was corn or grain, and although he'd hoped to raise it high enough with nothing but a gentle heave and a smile for the lass all the while, it wasn't so easy as that. In the end, he found the only way to lift the axle sufficiently was to get his back under the wagon and heave with all the strength in his legs.

  After much grunting and a deal of sweat from both Gawain and the farmer, urged on by the two ladies, the wheel was back in its rightful place.

  "Dwarfspit and Elve's Blood that was heavy work Serre!" the farmer ginned, breathing heavily.

  "Aye,” Gawain gasped, struggling to stand upright and convinced there would be a crease in his spine for weeks, "But it's done and sound, or it will be once the kingpin is hammered back in."

  "My name is Allyn,” the farmer announced, offering his hand. "Thank you, traveller."

  "Well met, Allyn,” Gawain replied, reaching out to clasp the man's forearm. "How did you know my name?"

  Allyn's smile turned to a frown, and Gawain grinned. "Traveller by nature, Traveller by name.”

  "Ah!” Allyn's frown disappeared in an instant. "Well met then, friend Traveller! Will you take a little ale? It's from my own hops and is better than some you'll find in Callodon's inns."

  "Aye, thanks, I will."

  And so they quenched their thirsts from a small keg hefted by Allyn's daughter. It was good ale, Gawain acknowledged, though it probably tasted the better for the red-headed smile that accompanied it.

  "Where's my manners!” Allyn exclaimed suddenly, noticing the way Gawain stole a glance over the rim of his cup as they stood by the repaired wheel. "This is my first-born, Lyssa. And this is my wife, Karin."

  "Well met, my ladies.” Gawain smiled, and revelled in one of the smiles he received in return. "Do you travel homeward, or to market?"