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

  “With the west of Elvendere threatened by the Empire, how much help can we expect Thal-Hak to give against Morloch’s armies in the northeast and northwest?”

  Tyrane suddenly realised the implications to his own homeland, and gasped. “Surely our new allies will not abandon us so soon?”

  But Allazar simply gazed sadly, first at Gawain, and then at Tyrane.

  “Elayeen said Elvendere could bring thousands of archers to the field,” Gawain asserted, “Surely some could be spared?”

  “We have yet to reach Ostinath, Longsword. We have no way of knowing the full extent of the western front Morloch has opened, nor any real understanding of the strength of the forces at his disposal. I fear we will not know how much aid we might expect from Thal-Hak until we reach Shiyanath.”

  Gawain caught Jaxon’s eye by the horses, and beckoned him over.

  “Serres?”

  “Jaxon, we’ve learned from our elven friends there might be a Gorian army mustering in the northwest. Can you tell us anything about that region?”

  “We are very far north of Armunland, Serres,” Jaxon gazed briefly towards the west, but of course saw only the forest stretching away to the horizon. “They used to say the Emperor’s reach was long, but they said his arm wasn’t long enough and his hand wasn’t big enough to hold the Meggenveld. We must be getting near there, or we will be soon.”

  “The Meggenveld?”

  “It’s a big land, there are no Tals there. Mostly the people live wild, the land’s not much good for crops and there’s nowhere to get slaves from, except in the elves’ forest, and no-one would dare to try that. The Emperor’s armies don’t like fighting in woodland, they prefer open spaces. In the Meggenveld, whoever is strongest is Tal until someone stronger comes along, and the winner takes the losers as slaves. They’re Meggens, Serres, they make their own laws.”

  “They’re free people?” Tyrane asked, baffled.

  Jaxon shrugged. “Not free like us. They’re only free if they win the fight.”

  “Wildings and barbarians,” Allazar mused, “It would’ve been the likes of those the Ramoth employed as guardsmen.”

  “What more can you tell us, Jaxon? How big is this Meggenveld, could they raise an army?”

  Jaxon looked sheepish, and Gawain realised that a man taken as a slave from Pellarn in boyhood and who had known nothing but the Simayen region of Armunland in Goria could hardly be expected to know everything about the Empire to the west.

  “Serres, all I know is, the stories talk about high mountains in the north, the elves’ forest in the east, and more mountains and rocky bits in the west. I don’t know how big it is, except that it’s big. The Emperor gets most of his horses from Namanland, the northern province they say is up by the mountains that can’t be crossed. Between Namanland and the mountains is the Meggenveld. Because the Emperor wants the horses for himself and his Tals, the Talguard are strong there.”

  “I’ve seen Gorian horses,” Tyrane announced, “Small, but sturdy animals.”

  Allazar scratched his chin. “If this Meggenveld is such a large expanse of wilderness, it would take riders to patrol and defend what must be the plains in this Namanland. The elf guard Ellas did not mention cavalry in the army said to be mustering in the northwest. Yet, we are still some seven hundred miles from Ostinath, and almost another six hundred to Shiyanath from there. It is possible that the force mustering northwest of Ostinath is in fact a rag-tag collection of wild men and mercenaries, these Meggens.”

  Jaxon shrugged and apology. “Since the darkness, no-one really knows anything for sure.”

  “Did the Meggens ever attack the Talguard, did you ever hear any stories or rumours about that?” Gawain asked hopefully.

  “No, Serres. Until the darkness came, no-one ever attacked the Talguard, except maybe in Pellarn.”

  “Longsword, whatever the nature of the army facing Ostinath, if army indeed there be, there is little we can do about it here…”

  Allazar was cut short by a familiar shudder from under foot, and a clunk, and then a sudden squeal from the wheel as it began to rotate, its direction reversed as Arramin attempted to lubricate the bearings.

  Gawain nodded, clapped Jaxon on the shoulder by way of thanks, and then strode away towards the horses, and Gwyn. He needed a little time to think.

  “Hai Ugly,” he said softly, patting his horse-friend on the neck.

  Gwyn gave no reply, other than to continue ripping grass from the eastern slope. It was a little richer here than it had been on the banks further south, and the horses were making the most of it. They too had heard the sound of the wheel before, and knew what it meant.

  Gawain sighed. He could almost feel Gwyn’s frustration and contempt for the barge and the great water road. It had been a desperate necessity in their flight from Calhaneth, and then, when the horror of that place had subsided a little, a novelty. But the novelty had quickly worn off, and although travelling at around a hundred and twenty miles a day was invaluable to those whose journey demanded haste, metal and rough grass were poor reward for creatures yearning for wide open spaces, and Gawain was one of them.

  And now Morloch had struck at the western provinces of Elvendere. It had been hard enough persuading crowns to the council at Ferdan when the threat had been only from the north, from two small armies encamped beyond the farak gorin at the foot of the Teeth. Crowns and their councillors had seen across the Teeth though, and had elected to stand together and face the threat. Not that they’d ever had any real choice but to do so.

  A breeze carrying the scent of pine washed gently up the slope from the east, and Gawain seemed to hear a familiar voice screaming from a distance in his memory…

  Know this, king of nothing, know this! All the horror and dread I shall unleash upon your festering world is the wages of your sins against me! Did you think I could be destroyed so easily! Did you think some feeble relic left by decrepit weaklings made dust before your reeking forebears were conceived would be enough! I am Morloch!

  More squeals from protesting metal at the wheel seemed to punctuate the memory of the bile spat from a vision of Morloch so long ago on the Jarn road. So long ago? No, not really, Gawain thought. It only seemed so long ago because of Calhaneth, and the sounds etched indelibly on his consciousness there. The apparent passage of time was just a trick of a horrified mind, rebelling, pushing everything back, attempting to bury the awful memory of the sounds of a city in its death-agonies and consign it to a dim and distant history. Two weeks ago, they were in Jarn.

  Two weeks ago they knew only that war in the north was inevitable, and that the Council of Kings wanted Gawain to lead the allied armies of the north. If indeed armies there were, for it seemed the bulk of whatever forces there were assembling at Ferdan were, in the main, volunteers. Now they knew, or thought they knew, the meaning of Brock’s cryptic ‘Urgent’, a word tacked on to the end of an already urgent message. Morloch had opened a western front, against Elvendere.

  Did you think I could be destroyed so easily!

  Gawain stood beside Gwyn and surveyed the scene towards the wheel, still slowly turning amid a fug of steam and misty spray billowing from below.

  Elves. Him they regarded with sullen resentment and suspicion. Elayeen they regarded with undisguised fear. Allazar, it seemed, commanded respect, his staff and robes, even robes grubby with travel, symbols of power and authority subtly implanted in elven minds for who knew how long? Gawain remembered the two elven whitebeards in Gan’s province and the power they had wielded; Elayeen would have suffered a miserable death, and neither she nor her brother would have given a hint of the reason why, all because whitebeards had commanded their silence.

  The rest, Tyrane and Kahla and Jaxon, and the scouts before their departure with Arramin, had been contemptuously ignored by the elves. Ignored once the Callodonian crossbows were no longer cocked, bolted and pointed in their direction, of course.

  Did you think I could be destroyed so
easily!

  Gawain grimaced. Yes, he thought, after the sword and circle, for a time, I did.

  For a time, it had felt good to have smashed Morloch back beyond the Teeth. It had felt to Gawain as though he had indeed smashed Morloch in the teeth, pounded that aquamire-stained head into the rock with the pommel of Raheen’s Sword of Justice. But then had come the shock of Elayeen’s blindness, and Allazar’s apparent insanity.

  There will be no breach at the Teeth, not for at least another thousand years. Morloch is bound again. Yet there is no joy in this victory. There is only pain, and loss, and no justice for any of us here.

  Yes, that was what he’d told the ghosts of all the great Kings of Raheen gathered beyond the cracked and empty thrones in the cracked and empty Great Hall. But even then, it had felt like victory.

  Did you think some feeble relic left by decrepit weaklings made dust before your reeking forebears were conceived would be enough!

  Yes. At least, that had been the hope. There was, after all, the matter of the armies still in the north, but with alliance between the lowland nations, if not real union, they could be dealt with. But then, at the foot of the Downland Pass, with wounds healing and hearts filled once more with hope, the Gorian refugees had come, seeking sanctuary, and with dark wizard-made evil walking unseen among them.

  And then, Gawain had known that it had not been enough. Just as he knew now that Morloch’s opening of a western front against Elvendere had been a master-stroke, and had likely been planned all along.

  Never underestimate a desperate enemy, your highness, Captain Hass of the One Thousand smiled, stabbing a sausage with his fork and holding it poised by his mouth, they have nothing to lose and everything to gain.

  And Morloch was desperate. Gawain recalled once more the visions he’d seen swimming in the great aquamire lens beneath the Dragon’s Teeth, visions of places he recognised, and others he didn’t. Of course, now he knew that not all of those visions were from the crusted aquamire ‘eyes’ carried by the Ramoth emissaries or treacherous lowland whitebeards. Now he knew some of those visions came from Morloch’s servants in the west.

  In the forest south of Jarn, tracking the Kraal-beast, Gawain had heard a Gorian guardsman berating a dark wizard, low in rank yet still dangerous:

  “Morloch,” Brayan spat something onto the ground, and brushed at the dirt on his bar of food, “You say that like he’s watching. You’re a miserable parGoth, only demGoths and above get to wear an eye and there’s some who say those eyes are too weak and too old to see much of anything now. And that charred ember of yours can’t see more’n a mile worth a spit.”

  But Gawain knew only too well those eyes could see clearly. Here, east of the Eramak River and south of the Teeth, the lowlanders were only now recovering from the scourge of the Ramoth, and that chanting rabble could hardly be described as a military force. In the west, Morloch’s strength had grown for years. It had started in the north, of course, closest to the Teeth, closest to the great lake of aquamire, that dread substance, source of Morloch’s power. And it had spread south through the Gorian Empire like black wine spilled on a tablecloth. Wine spilled by corrupt whitebeards secretly allied to Morloch’s cause in the west as well as the east. It probably hadn’t taken very long at all for the barbaric inhabitants of the Meggenveld to ally themselves with Morloch, either.

  Morloch had known of the Circle at Raheen. He had worked long and hard to keep Elvendere in isolation and had destroyed Raheen to prevent the ancient power locked within that mountain stronghold being released. But it’s a poor General who doesn’t plan for failure as well as for success, and Morloch had laboured over his plans for centuries.

  Morloch’s intentions were perfectly clear. He was coming not to conquer, but to consume, that much they all knew now. And since sword and circle had literally shattered beyond all hope of use his principle route into the southlands, he was simply, in his desperation for food, modifying his original plans a little. Gawain recalled the army lurking in the barren wastes of the northeast, and the ghastly scenes at the Barak-nor, scenes which had filled all those who witnessed them with horror and disgust. Though none of them knew it at the time, those scenes now represented the conflict with Morloch in microcosm. The armies in the barren wastes beyond Threlland needed food, and it was shipped to them by the wagonload. Likewise, if Morloch could not now come to where the food was, why then the food would have to come to Morloch.

  The western front, Gawain knew instinctively, would always have been opened, sooner or later, to divert and distract elves’ attention and deny the lowlands hope of elven reinforcements when the armies of the north marched across the farak gorin. The Council at Ferdan had merely made it sooner.

  oOo

  18. Snowballs

  Three times the northern Wheel of Thal-Marrahan was rotated before Arramin sent word up through the speaking-tube that he was satisfied it was safe for use. Gawain insisted that the Sutengard elves join them in the barge for the descent, a symbol, he said, of trust. The merest glance from Elayeen was all it took to ensure that Raheen’s request was met with full and prompt compliance.

  The view from the caisson was little different from that in the south, though here, broad and steep steps were cut into the northern face of the cliff, while those at the southern end were less well-defined and much narrower. Gawain glimpsed Rollaf and Terryn standing outside the door to the control blockhouse, looking relaxed but on their guard nevertheless, and a large detachment of elves stood at the dockside, looking up. Horses, too, and many of them, stood watching the wheel turn, and above the hissing of water jets Gawain and the horses aboard the barge heard a few equine calls of hello drifting up from the grassy area north of what had been the hostel.

  Axles squeaked and squealed as they had in the south, and spray from the jets dampened hair and clothing before, slowly, the caisson dipped into the water of the mooring pool. Arramin waved from the glass-less window of the blockhouse, and Gawain and Allazar gave a brief wave back. At the bows, Jaxon opened the gates, and Gawain gave a gentle shove with a pole to ease them slowly forward.

  The elves aboard watched proceedings intently, clearly never having seen any of the barges put into motion before, and there were eight moored in the pond. Arramin was waiting with Rollaf and Terryn at the dockside when the barge bumped alongside, an elfwizard standing beside the elderly Callodonian.

  “Greetings, my lords,” Arramin exclaimed happily, “I’m delighted to report the mechanisms appear to have suffered no lasting damage. I am glad to see you all safely descended.”

  Gawain nodded as he jumped ashore, Terryn stepping forward to take the mooring chain from him.

  “I am Keeve, of the soolen-Viell,” the elfwizard announced. “Welcome to Elvendere.”

  “I am Allazar, First of Raheen,” Allazar announced unexpectedly, drawing the elfwizard’s attention. “The Crowns of Raheen have travelled far and endured much in answer to the call from Shiyanath. Your welcome, Keeve of the soolen-Viell, is appreciated, and in marked contrast the greeting we received above.”

  “For which I apologise,” Keeve inclined his head slightly, though his eyes never left Allazar’s.

  Gawain moved away from the wizards a few paces towards Elayeen as she disembarked with Kahla and Jaxon, and when she was safely ashore he turned to study the elven whitebeard.

  Keeve was young, or so it appeared. Not much older than Gawain or Elayeen, or so Gawain imagined. Thin, or so it seemed, but the free-flowing robes he wore were deceptive, and Gawain decided lean was a better adjective. Thin implied weakness, but there seemed nothing weak about the elfwizard while he and Allazar continued their diplomatic verbal fencing. White hair, of course, but the round features and piercing blue eyes were those of elfkind. And his expression was all perfect deadpan whitebeard arrogance.

  “Word has been sent to Ostinath of Raheen’s arrival,” Keeve continued, “I am certain it will be passed immediately to Shiyanath.”

  “
Excellent,” Allazar replied. “Then when we arrive in Ostinath in six days time I expect…”

  But Allazar was cut off by a ball of white fire which flashed from the canal to the north, over Elayeen’s head and Gawain’s left shoulder, to hover silently and brilliantly above Keeve’s forehead. The elfwizard reached up to grasp it with both hands, stretching it a little, and it promptly disappeared.

  “Ah,” Keeve announced, and Gawain couldn’t help notice how Arramin and Allazar were struggling to hide their astonishment, “Ostinath sends greetings. Since Master Arramin of the D’ith Sek has told us of the destruction of the dark creatures in the south, we are to abandon our planned expedition and are now to escort you to Ostinath with all haste. I am sure word will come from Shiyanath in due course.”

  “Then you will need instruction in the use of the barges,” Arramin announced, “I shall be happy to provide the necessary guidance. With so many horses and men you shall probably need two vessels to accommodate everyone.”

  Keeve nodded his acceptance.

  “We’ll leave as soon as the wizard Arramin has provided the necessary instruction,” Gawain announced, injecting his voice with regal command. “Our need is for haste. Once at Ostinath we shall require passage via the Threnderrin Way to Shiyanath. We shall need a fast carriage too, there are those in our party who cannot ride at the gallop.”

  “I shall pass your request to Ostinath, my lord, though I cannot give any assurances of free passage. We are to escort you to the Toorseneth. After that, I cannot say.”

  Keeve’s voice carried with it a hint of a sneer and more than a hint of a challenge, and the mention of the Toorseneth seemed to Gawain to carry the faintest whiff of a threat. He was framing a response when Elayeen removed the necessity.