The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound Read online

  “In spite of all that, perhaps when you are next able, you might discuss the matter of the west with him. If the enemy in the Empire is stronger and more sophisticated than any of your kind know, we could be in even deeper trouble than we are already.”

  “Indeed.”

  Gawain yawned, towelled his feet and drew his dry boots on.

  “Tired, Longsword?”

  “Yes, Tyrane and I have the night watch, remember.”

  “Of course. In all the excitement I had forgotten.”

  “So had I, but it’s catching up on me now. There’s still much to do though. We need to appoint an escort for Arramin, they’ll need to journey east around the bottom of the slope, then north, and catch up with us somewhere along the way.”

  “Is the way easy?”

  Another yawn, and then a shrug while Gawain heaved his other boot on. “It looks to be, though there is a curious depression in the forest not far north of here.”

  “A depression?”

  “Yes, like a deep bowl.”

  “A sinkhole?”

  “A what?”

  “A sinkhole. It can sometimes happen that an underground stream or river scours away the earth above it, until a point comes when the roof of the subterranean flow can no longer support itself. It collapses, leaving either a hole or a bowl-shaped depression. It depends on the depth of the underground channel.”

  “Oh. Well then, yes, it could be. Filled with trees though.”

  “Perhaps very old. And if so, it might explain why the elves cut a road in the rock on the western side of the ridge when the canal was built. If a sinkhole appeared during the construction of the canal, they would wish to avoid it at all costs.”

  “Well, as long as Arramin skirts it, his journey should be without hazard. There are signs of streams and perhaps rivers too, which might make the going soft in places.”

  Allazar nodded, drawing his dry robes about him and tying his belt. “A sinkhole might have forced an underground flow to the surface there. Who do you suggest as escort?”

  “To be honest, I would prefer to do it myself, but I imagine that’s out of the question. For one thing, Elayeen would doubtless demand to come along, and then so too would you, and we’d all end up on horseback.”

  Allazar chuckled. “Yes indeed.”

  “One of the scouts I think. Terryn, the woodsman. He’s not much for talking but he’s good. I’ll ask Tyrane.”

  Gawain slung the longsword into place, and then paused before gathering his wet clothes. “When she commanded Gwyn and the horses into the trees, how did she sound?”

  “Alas my friend. She spoke as Eldengaze.”

  “Dwarfspit. I had hoped…”

  “I know. I am sorry.”

  “You hear it too, don’t you? That awful quality in her speech.”

  “Yes. Why do you ask?”

  “The others don’t. I asked Tyrane. To their ears, Elayeen’s voice sounds as it always did, sweet and lilting. Tyrane believes it’s a curse upon our ears, inflicted by Salaman Goth, a dying act of spite.”

  “No,” Allazar said softly, “It is doubtless an artefact of the Circles, meant for you and I only to hear.”

  “I guessed as much. But why, Allazar?”

  “I do not know. A sign perhaps, of ancient intent and power, or perhaps it is merely an unintended consequence of our exposure to the Circles. Only time will tell.”

  Gawain nodded, gathered up his wet clothes and laid them out on the roof of the aft deckhouse to dry, waiting while Allazar did likewise.

  “You know,” Allazar said softly as they stepped ashore, “Arramin has taught me the operation of the great lift. He said it would be wise, in the event anything untoward should happen to him.”

  “Are you suggesting we take Arramin up in the lift and leave you below to operate the wheel?”

  “By the Teeth no, Longsword. In the first place, the wizard Arramin would never allow it. In the second place, I would not welcome the responsibility of all your lives, even though I made copious notes during his instruction. No, I mentioned it so you would know a little more of the calibre of the wizard of Callodon.”

  Gawain watched as Rollaf emerged from the tree line across the grassy clearing, Gwyn and the horses following behind him. “Could that dark-winged beast really have brought down a horse?”

  “Alas yes. The Razorwing is accurately named. Not just birds would’ve fallen to its need for food. Any larger animal using the canal to drink would be prey for the creature, as well as for the Kiromok.”

  Gawain shuddered suddenly. “Let’s move quickly, then, and be on our way.”

  “Indeed yes.”

  Tyrane and Terryn helped with the horses while Jaxon busied himself laying out the ladies’ wet clothes on the roof of the forward deckhouse. For their part, Kahla and Elayeen stood in their now-customary position forward, hair still damp and glistening in the shafts of sunlight lancing through thickening clouds overhead.

  Rollaf carried a sack of cooked goat aboard, and though it smelled delightful, the bag seemed very much smaller than the animal had been while alive. Two horses remained on the dockside, saddled, and looking a little sad and confused, much like the elderly wizard standing beside them.

  Gawain stepped off the barge, and slowly, with the exception of Elayeen and the two Gorians, the others joined him beside Arramin.

  “So, now comes the ascent,” Gawain announced quietly. “When the barge is safe beyond the lock gate and in the staging pool above, I’ll signal you with the speaking-tube.”

  Arramin nodded. “I shall shut down the wheel and leave it as we found it, my lords. It will take a little time, the bearings must be cooled of course. Then when all is secure, I shall be at the guardsman’s disposal.”

  Terryn nodded, and seemed perfectly content with his role as escort for the old wizard.

  “You’ll have to take care near the sinkhole I spotted, up to you whether you choose to go upslope around it, or swing east. But be careful. You’re both far too valuable to us to be lost.”

  “I’m sure we shall catch up with you all soon. Well before the next wheel, my lords,” Arramin smiled.

  “Which is where, exactly?”

  “Some four days hence, if there are no delays to the vessel’s progress.”

  “Hopefully there won’t be,” Gawain muttered.

  “Indeed, my lords, indeed.”

  “From what I saw up there, the elves cut deep into the ridge in places to keep the canal level. It might be that there are no paths there broad enough for your horses to pass, it’s difficult to say. But hopefully you’ll catch us up long before that. Terryn, it falls to you to find a safe path back to us.”

  “Aye, milord.”

  “Well then, if there’s nothing else?”

  “You will remember to close all the gates behind you, my lord? I should very much like to leave the wheel operational. It is quite a wonder, and I should like to leave it to posterity in working order.”

  “Yes, we’ll remember. Besides, who’s to say it won’t be needed again.”

  On a sudden impulse, perhaps born of the comradeship that sharing horror and hazard instils within a group of travellers bound together on common purpose, Gawain held out his hand to the elderly wizard, a gesture which both surprised and delighted Allazar. He shook Arramin’s hand, then Terryn’s, and there was a brief round of farewells and handshakes before those ascending stepped back aboard the barge while those two who remained cast off the mooring chains and made their way to the blockhouse.

  It took much less time to pole the barge out to the wheel than it had earlier in the day, and it was Rollaf who eased past the two ladies and opened the caisson gate while Gawain and Tyrane poled them into the vast tray. When all was secure, Allazar gave a wave, and with a clank and brief shudder, the wheel began to turn.

  “Feels strange, leaving them below,” Tyrane muttered.

  “Aye, it does. We’ve journeyed far together, and endured much
. This is only our fourth afternoon out of the city in the south. I still hear the screaming in my head before sleep, the sounds, and the names. I would not have left them alone here.”

  “Terryn’s a good lad. They’ll catch up soon enough, not as if this thing travels particularly quickly.”

  “True enough.”

  With that, they climbed on the walkway and looked across at the scout and the wizard as the caisson slowly emerged from the water of the mooring pool, water teeming unseen from below. Arramin gave a brief wave, and leaned against his staff.

  “At least the old fellow has seen something from his books that won’t give him nightmares,” Tyrane said over the rumbling of the mechanisms and hissing of cooling water jets.

  “Only because he’s not obliged to travel in this thing,” Gawain muttered, shooting a glance up as the caisson axle squealed again.

  Fifteen minutes or so later, the wheel locked into position, and Gawain and Tyrane stood to the walkways at the prow with the poles while Rollaf struggled with the gates. Below, Gawain saw Arramin emerge from the blockhouse to stand with Terryn, their faces peering upward. He waved at them, and received a wave in return before a breeze sent a cloud of mist and steam billowing, obscuring them. They poled through, secured the caisson and aqueduct gates behind them, and then moved the barge through the lock and into the staging pool.

  Gawain went ashore, opened the door to the signalling hut, and heaved the bell-lever.

  “Hello?”

  “All in order, Arramin,” Gawain called down the speaking-tube.

  “Wonderful! Wonderful, my lord!”

  Gawain smiled sadly. “Catch up soon.”

  “I hope so, my lord! Good luck!”

  “Good luck to you both.”

  “Farewell!”

  “Farewell.”

  Gawain paused for a moment, but nothing further was heard from the tube. With a sigh, he stepped out of the hut, and closed the door.

  Back aboard the barge, with Allazar at the controls and Rollaf and Jaxon on the poles, they locked through the north gate and into the broad and now-familiar blue-stone canal. The gate was closed, the chains started, and once the barge mechanism was engaged, Tyrane and Gawain retired to the aft deckhouse to sleep. Theirs had been a long watch, and the care of all aboard was passed to those on day duty.

  It was the deafening roar of rain on the steel roof of the deckhouse that dragged Gawain from sleep, though before he cracked open his eyes and eased the darkening cloth from over his head, he thought for a moment he was back at the western falls of the River Styris in Raheen such was the din. His clothes were dry and neatly folded on the metal bench to the right of him, and Tyrane still slept to his left on the other side of the deckhouse. A pile of horse-blankets and three saddles lay on the deck-plates between them, doubtless stowed there under cover of the roof by the day’s watch when rain had seemed imminent.

  Ahead, the horses looked miserable as the rain teemed, and when Gawain stood, his scraped knees protesting and fresh scabs splitting painfully, he could barely make out the group of companions huddling in the forward deckhouse.

  The downpour was as heavy as he’d seen anywhere in the lowlands, and made all the more uncomfortable for the lack of cover travelling along the canal on the ridge above the forest. Gawain’s stomach suddenly tightened and he counted the horses; Arramin and Terryn hadn’t caught up with them yet. A glance up, and another behind out of the portholes revealed a solid blanket of filthy grey sky, great shreds of cloud hanging down towards the ridge in the south where the rain seemed to drag them from the heavens. The storm was moving west, but slowly.

  Here, as the barge rumbled and clanked as it picked up another chain, the canal was level with the ridge, and bare expanses of rock were barely visible through the teeming rain either side of the blue-stone tow-paths. A few spindly trees and shrubs, and patchy clumps of tough grass offered little comfort for man or beast, and the rain was too heavy for him to see much more beyond.

  Gawain drew a soggy lump of frak from his pocket, still damp from its immersion in the waters of the aqueduct some twenty miles or so behind them. He’d slept for about four hours, or so he judged. Tyrane stirred, and suddenly whipped the darkcloth from his eyes and sat bolt upright.

  “It’s just the rain,” Gawain called over the roar of the downpour on the roof.

  Tyrane blinked, gathered his wits, and stood, only to stoop and roll up his bedding. Gawain did likewise, there was no chance of either them sleeping much now. With bedding stowed on top of the benches in case of flood, the two men sat, Gawain chewing frak and Tyrane nibbling on a square of rather stale-looking flatbread.

  “Someone’s coming!” Tyrane called, and nodded towards the forward deckhouse.

  Someone was, cloaked against the weather, easing through the horses. Once beneath the shelter of the roof the someone threw back the hood of the cloak, and there stood Jaxon in Rollaf’s forage cape, holding out two mess-tins, which steamed a little.

  “Goat stew, Serres, still warm from cooking. It’s a bit tough, but the second warming will soften it some.”

  They took the proffered tins, eyeing the brownish stew and sniffing the aroma. Hot food, welcome as hot food always is in foul weather.

  “Thank you!” Gawain called, and Jaxon produced two spoons. “Is all well?”

  “All’s well, Serres,” Jaxon called back, “Except for the rain, and our two friends not yet returned. Serre wizard Allazar says it’s too early yet, and ground will be softer below because of the rain!”

  “Aye!” Gawain acknowledged, and tested the stew. It was good, simple but good; dried vegetables in boiling water with cubes of grilled goat, a few herbs, and what looked like crumbs of stale flatbread to thicken it a little. He gave a hearty thumbs up, which was matched by Tyrane, and Gawain nodded towards the bench.

  Jaxon shook his head at the offer, and fumbled under his cloak, finally producing the small pack Gawain had never hoped to use but which had seen service already, in the aftermath of the Kiromok attack at the baths. Jaxon put it on the bench, pointed at Gawain’s knees, and then pointed towards the forward deckhouse.

  “Orders!” Jaxon called, though whose Gawain couldn’t guess. Instead he simply nodded, and turned his attention back to his stew while Jaxon raised his hood, drew the cloak tight, and returned to the bows.

  The simple fare seemed to give both Gawain and Tyrane a new energy, as though it were some mystic fuel they had consumed rather than a hastily prepared goat stew heated on a brazier aboard a barge. Gawain applied ointment to his knees, bound them with practiced ease thanks to his encounter with the Kraal-beast on the Jarn road, and after eyeing the bottle of Jurian brandy for a moment, closed up the pack. His saddle was one of the three in the middle of the deckhouse, and he stowed the pack there, he hoped for the last time on their journey north.

  There was a clunk, which they felt rather than heard, and Gawain realised that Allazar had slipped the barge from the chain. Visibility had now become so poor through the portholes in the forward deckhouse, the wizard had decided that the risk of proceeding blind was too great.

  Tyrane cleaned the mess-tins and spoons simply by holding them out in the stream of water teeming from the edge of the roof, and when that was done, the two men sat back against the bulkhead and dozed as best they could. Hours later, the rain eased to a fine drizzle, and voices could be heard without the need for shouting. The barge was back on the chain, and progressing at its normal steady pace.

  “Time to go forward, I think,” Gawain announced, donning his arrowsilk cloak and the longsword.

  “Aye, before the next downpour,” Tyrane agreed, and crossbow in hand and likewise cloaked against the rain, moved out on deck.

  It was gloomy, made darker by the clouds still scudding westward though broken now and showing patches of iron-grey sky above. Gawain eyed the heavens while he said hello to the horses one by one, trying to decide whether or not another deluge was imminent or whether it woul
d make sense to fetch the blankets for the animals. It was too dark and the terrain too uneven to risk allowing the animals a free run along the banks.

  “More rain, milord,” Rollaf announced, guessing Gawain’s train of thought as he made his way aft, “Another couple of hours’ worth to come I reckon.”

  “Aye,” Gawain agreed, seeing the distant flash of sheet lightning on the eastern horizon.

  “They’ll be all right. Guards’ horses them, used to all weathers, out on the plains.”

  Gawain nodded. “No sign of Terryn and Arramin, I suppose?”

  Rollaf shook his head. “Nah, too early I reckon. Terryn’d take it slow, won’t take any risks with the old wizard. Probably camped up for the night now, catch up with us tomorrow.”

  “I’ll be glad when they do.”

  “Us, too. G’nite milord.”

  “Good night, Rollaf.”

  Gawain was talking quietly with Gwyn when Kahla led Elayeen past him to the aft deckhouse, and they passed without a word or a glance, Allazar following close behind. But the wizard stopped beside the young man.

  “Well, Longsword, another night on the chains, and a wet one too.”

  “Aye. Good stew though, should keep us going.”

  “You can thank Serre Jaxon for that, he took charge of it. He’s volunteered to rest in the forward deckhouse, should you need extra manpower in the course of the night.”

  “Are we expecting more locks?”

  Allazar shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine. I somehow doubt it. About two hours after you retired this afternoon we passed through a part of the ridge where cliffs rose up either side of us, the banks were very narrow there. It must have taken elven engineers an age to cut a path through that rock. They did so to avoid locks, I think. No, I think Serre Jaxon is at something of a loss. The poor fellow has little enough to do and doesn’t enjoy simply being a passenger.”

  “With luck, all of us can be nothing more than passengers, and just coast along the chains all the way to the next wheel. And hopefully Arramin and Terryn back aboard long before then.”