The Longsword Chronicles: Book 03 - Sight and Sound Page 6

  At once, Kahla and Jaxon rushed forward, taking a startled Elayeen by the arms and practically carrying her around the slippery pavements and into the pool, the others close behind except for Gawain.

  “Hai, Gwyn, take the horses south down the road, quickly! Usshti, go, Gwyn!”

  The great Raheen charger bobbed her head and let out a brief and urgent whinny, turning away at once, thundering off between the ruins of the boarding-halls and down the avenue to the south leading the small herd of horses. No sooner had the horses begun their charge, Gawain began his, crashing into the nearest pool and wading through the water towards the knot of people in the centre.

  Gok!

  Gok!

  Gok!

  The spread widening.

  “Shoot the one on the road, Elayeen!” Gawain cried, “Shoot the one on the road!”

  Elayeen, standing almost knee-deep in the pool, her bow held horizontally to keep the string dry, drew and loosed the shot in one fluid motion, and had another longshaft nocked to the string before they thought they heard the thud of the first striking its target.

  Gok!

  “Allazar! Next to my lady! Arramin, to me! Back to back all!”

  “The flankers still move south, to west and east. The one on the road approaches.”

  “Shoot it again!”

  The thrum of Elayeen’s bow answered Gawain’s demands.

  Gok!

  “Another hit!” Tyrane announced, and aimed, and loosed his crossbow.

  Gok!

  “I see the shafts!” Allazar gasped, his voice rich with the sudden excitement of battle, and he waded forward, up and over the wall of the pool to stand alone in the next, his Dymendin staff at the ready.

  “My vision is blocked,” The voice of Eldengaze protested, coldly.

  “Look to the east!” Gawain demanded, and Elayeen did as she was commanded.

  “I have it fixed. It approaches.”

  “Shoot when you can!”

  Gawain grabbed Arramin’s robes at the back of the old wizard’s neck and heaved him forward and over the wall in the next pool, the two of them standing alone side-by-side between the unseen threat advancing from the west and the rest of the group.

  “The light you spoke of, wizard!”

  “My lord!”

  Arramin thrust out the sapling hastily hewn from the side of the Jarn road almost a week ago, water dripping from its ends, and began chanting, almost musically, under his breath. A cone of light, barely visible at first in the sunshine at the centre of the baths, shone forward and brightened, and Gawain saw that it did indeed illuminate the gloom of the forest a little across the clearing. He stood, arrow poised for throwing.

  Gok!

  “Tireandanam!” Allazar screamed, and a now-familiar sizzling and crackling accompanied the surge of white lightning loosed from his staff. From the corner of his right eye, Gawain saw the blast shooting towards the road north.

  Gawain thought he heard the thrum of Elayeen’s bow and the sound of crossbows released behind him before the noise of Allazar’s blast drowned it, and then he saw a distinct shimmering at the edge of the clearing to the west in front of him, and the splash of water where some unseen foot had trod.

  He hurled his arrow and strung another, gaping as his first seemed to stop dead in mid air.

  “Get down!” Allazar screamed, and there was a great splashing behind Gawain’s back and then another sizzling blast of white fire.

  A plume of water surged up from the second pool to the west of them, misty droplets revealing for the span of a heartbeat a terrifying shape, and Gawain hurled his second arrow, and it too came to an abrupt halt some thirty paces away.

  “Ti…Tireandanam!” Arramin cried, and a streamer of lightning, thin and ragged and distinctly elderly-looking lurched from the end of his sapling, the wood and water at the end of the makeshift staff hissing and spitting.

  The streamer struck something.

  Gok!

  For the briefest of moments, the Kiromok was visible to the naked eye, perhaps thirty feet away, perhaps less. Tall, taller than any man Gawain had seen, impossibly broad of shoulder, long and powerful arms ending in three-clawed hands good for nothing except killing. Powerful legs, muscles bulging, skin grey and swimming with aquamire. The head, grotesque, tiny in comparison to the rest of the body, twin aquamire-black eyes, flaring nostrils, and a lipless gash for a mouth.

  It seemed paralysed in the water, long arms stretched out to the sides, its reach tremendous, and where Arramin’s delicate streamer of lightning danced on its flesh, a familiar purple glow began to stain the mottled skin.

  A yard-long arrow slammed into its chest, then crossbow bolts, and then Gawain’s sight of it was robbed by an immense tree of lightning blasting from behind and to Arramin’s right.

  Gawain blinked back the zigzagging colours that stained his vision, and heard a hissing sound, and saw Arramin’s stick floating on the pool of crystal-clear water before him, the end charred black, a thin plume of steam rising from it.

  “Oh dear me,” Arramin exclaimed softly, falling to his knees in the pool and holding his gnarled hands in front of his face, palms an angry red.

  At once, Gawain whipped his arrow cord back into place around his wrist, dropped to his knees and grasping the old wizard’s wrists, plunged the burned hands into the cool waters of the baths of Calhaneth.

  oOo

  5. Something Old, Something New

  “How is Arramin now?” Gawain asked Allazar, the two of them standing south of the pools and looking across them towards the northern avenue. Elayeen stood on the far side of the baths, barefoot on the blue-stone paving that bordered the pool nearest the avenue, her back to them, water softly caressing her feet while her boots dried in the sunshine nearby.

  “Kahla has applied that elven unguent of yours to his hands, and lightly bandaged them. A little of the Eeelan t'oth in a cup of water helped him into a deep sleep.”

  “I remember it well. Fire and ice. He’ll probably sleep until morning.”

  “Yes.”

  Gawain glanced over his shoulder at the small camp they’d made outside the ruins of the western boarding-hall. Arramin lay on a hastily-made but comfortable bed of blankets, wrapped in another against the shock of his burns, sleeping peacefully. Jaxon sat nearby watching over the wizard, wearing an expression of honest concern, and the small pack which Gawain had hoped never to use lay on the ground beside the wounded wizard.

  “Are you concerned about the delay, Longsword?”

  “Elve’s Blood, no! The old coot can sleep for a week and we’d still get to Shiyanath quicker than riding up the plains. Assuming he’s right about the canal, and he’s been right about everything so far.”

  Allazar smiled. “He didn’t do too badly for a wizard of the D’ith Sek, did he?”

  “How would you like your head, Allazar, one lump or two?”

  The wizard smiled, though with a hint of sadness at the sight of Eldengaze standing guard.

  “I know,” Gawain sighed, following Allazar’s gaze. “She robs me of breath, standing there like that. But I know what would greet me if I walked over there and told her so. It wasn’t so long ago she’d have been the first to Arramin’s side, tending his wounds. Now she is ice, too.”

  “Even so…”

  “No. I know what you’re going to say. But this is no place for futile gestures and gentle hopes. Eldengaze stands watch, not Elayeen, and she knows where I am should she need me. My concern now is for whatever else is out there.”

  “The Sight is powerful, we were lucky to have had it with us this day.”

  “We were lucky, and there’s an end to it. If Arramin hadn’t stopped that thing in its tracks long enough for you to finish it, we’d have been mincemeat.”

  Allazar nodded, clutching his staff with both hands and leaning on it. “In truth, although his white fire is very weak, it was strong enough to begin the aquamire reaction within that Kiromok. It would�
��ve been consumed even without my blast.”

  “So would Arramin. He’d have ended up like that laughable twig of his,” Gawain nodded to the charred and sodden sapling-stave, drying in the sun near the elderly wizards boots at the foot of his bed.

  “Perhaps,” Allazar conceded. “But he stood firm.”

  “Yes he did,” Gawain conceded without hesitation, and flicked another glance over his shoulder. “He’d have had no chance against that Kraal, would he?”

  Allazar paused, remembering the immense beast charging on the Jarn road, before answering softly. “A slim chance. He’d have burned his own arms off in the attempt.”

  “Is there nothing better for him to use than that sprig of green silvertree?”

  The wizard looked thoughtful for a few moments and then recited: “A stave of white oak may be hardened with a bleaching wash of Aemon’s Fire, which will also preserve the wood against decay and attack by insects.”

  “White oak?”

  “A staff such as those I’ve described were in common use in elder days, Longsword, or so it would seem.”

  Gawain looked around for the two scouts, and saw them to the east of the baths, squatting in the shade and eating. A few hand signals, and moments later Terryn was standing before them, his expression as placid as ever.

  “Terryn, your father was a woodsman?”

  “Aye, he were milord. A woodsman.”

  “Think you can find a white oak nearby, a stave the length of Allazar’s would be useful for the wizard Arramin should any more of those things be about.”

  Terryn eyed the Dymendin staff, and then nodded.

  “Take Rollaf, I don’t want any of us moving alone out of sight of the group.”

  “Aye milord.”

  Allazar looked anxious. “Won’t the noise of chopping wood attract unwelcome attention, Longsword?”

  Terryn reached into a canvass bag at the small of his back and fished out a small leather packet, from which he produced a three-foot length of dull wire fixed between two dark brown wooden toggles. “Wire-saw, milord. Back afore too long.”

  “Ah.”

  “Don’t stray too far Terryn, and remember those things move quickly. If my lady gives a warning, the wizard will make certain you hear it too,” Gawain asserted, and Allazar nodded reassuringly.

  They watched the scout pad silently into the woods to the east, making hand-signals to Rollaf and Tyrane along the way. Rollaf disappeared into the gloom, and Tyrane waved an acknowledgement to Gawain. Elayeen swung her gaze behind her and to the east for a few moments, noting the departure, and then resumed her solitary sentry duty.

  “A question, Allazar.”

  The wizard dragged his gaze away from Elayeen and looked up at Gawain expectantly. “Hmm?”

  “Tireandanam? What does it mean?”

  “Ah.”

  “Ah, what, wizard?”

  Allazar looked a little sheepish. “It is somewhat quaint and old-fashioned. Archaic, if you must know the truth. In the language of wizards it means ‘shooting’. Wizards used to use it as a warning that they were about to unleash Aemon’s Fire, or white fire as we know it today.”

  “Oh.”

  They shared a small silence, watching while Kahla weaved her way along the paving between the pools to take a water skin and wrapped food to Elayeen, who declined both.

  “This Aemon? It sounds as though he was a powerful wizard.”

  “One of the earliest of note, and one of Zaine’s generals in the battle against Morloch, or so they teach in the Hallencloister. His light, and his fire, and the lesser fire of the last rites, were perfected and taught by him. Most of the tools a wizard has at his disposal bear the names of their makers.”

  “Hmm. Arramin asked you a question, before the attack, about the light of Aemon and casting shadows with it.”

  “Yes.”

  “It didn’t.”

  “Didn’t what?”

  “Cast a shadow. Not that I saw anyway.”

  “Ah. I didn’t think it would.”

  “He also mentioned something about a pangorian?”

  “Oh. The Pangoricon of Morloch. I wondered if you’d noticed that.”

  Gawain’s eyes narrowed. “Why, shouldn’t I have?”

  Allazar drew in a deep breath, and let it out slowly. “The Pangoricon of Morloch is a book. A very, very old book. It contains details of all the foul creations Morloch and his disciples originated in the wars which followed Morloch’s treachery and defection from the path of Zaine. As far as I know, only one copy now exists, and it is kept locked in the deepest, darkest vault of the D’ith Hallencloister, and only the Sardor himself may grant access to it.”

  “Yet you have read it?”

  “No. I have never seen it, and until Arramin mentioned it by name today, I had never heard of it. I believe it forms a greater part of the knowledge the elders and the circle placed in my head, which is how I now know of its existence.”

  “Then how did Arramin know of it?” Gawain asked, a sudden and familiar suspicion beginning to tug at his innards.

  Allazar shrugged. “He is of the D’ith Sek, Longsword, with access to knowledge which I as a D’ith pat would not even know existed. Also, he is an historian, and a bookworm. Perhaps you could ask him when he wakes, I am certain he will gladly tell you all he knows, if he hasn’t already.”

  “Hmm,” the familiar suspicions subsided again. “A pity this knowledge in your head only pops out at the last minute.”

  “Ah. Well, perhaps it might help to think of it like this. You doubtless were taught many years ago that two and two are four. Yet you do not spend the rest of your waking hours dwelling on that knowledge. It only comes to the fore when you should need to perform simple arithmetic. Thus it is, with the knowledge I have been given.”

  Gawain suddenly gave a single snort of laughter, before reining it in.

  “Have I said something foolish, Longsword?” Allazar looked alarmed.

  “No, I’m sorry. I was just remembering.”

  Allazar raised a quizzical eyebrow, and Gawain gazed away into the middle distance.

  “My brother, Kevyn, was four years older than I. When I was about four, we had a teacher of mathematics who taught us both. Magistra Wenda, she was called. She must’ve been as old as Arramin, and as strict and as terrifying as any sergeant-major of the guard. She would set my brother problems far beyond my understanding, and Kevyn would sit at his desk scratching away with his pencil solving them while I sat at mine and the Magistra fixed her beady eyes upon me.

  “One day, with Kevyn hunched over his papers and calculations, and I counting on my fingers, Magistra Wenda asked me this: If you have six apples, and a brigand takes two apples, what do you now have? Well, I took a deep breath and with my fingers and thumbs confident they’d given me the correct answer, I was about to say ‘four apples’ when Kevyn, his head still bent to his task, announced quite seriously: You have six apples and a brigand’s head.”

  Gawain grinned happily at the memory. “Of course, my mother got to hear of it and we received a stern telling-off for being disrespectful of the Magistra. I protested my innocence of course, it was all Kevyn’s doing, I’d been a good boy, honestly!”

  Another chuckle escaped Gawain’s throat. “He clipped me on the back of the head when I said that and called me a ‘goody-goody creepworm.’ Mother clipped him for clipping me and reminded Kevyn of his duty to his younger brother. I laughed, so she clipped me for being disrespectful of her and of my brother!”

  Allazar smiled at the scene unfolding in his mind’s eye. But then Gawain sighed.

  “I miss my brother. I miss them all.”

  “Yet you carry them still, in your heart.”

  Gawain crushed the memories. “And one foul creature alone is responsible for that, so tell me more about this Pangoricon.”

  “There is little else to tell, Longsword, in truth. Though I do have a suspicion we both may have seen it recently. Do you recall
, on the road to Jarn, the demGoth Graken-rider used his Jardember to summon the vision of Morloch?”

  “I do.”

  “When first he appeared, Morloch had his back to us.”

  “He did,” Gawain frowned, closing his eyes and remembering.

  “And was turning the pages of a very large illustrated book?”

  “Yes, yes he was. What makes you think it was this Pangoricon? Why would Morloch need a copy of his own book?”

  “Strictly speaking it is not his book. He didn’t write it. It is a compilation, listing the creations and weapons of the three principle cadres, or orders, of dark wizards allied to Morloch’s cause. The Sethi, the Tansee, and the Gothen. You, we, have encountered examples of all three.

  “The Gothen used aquamire and the power it gives to enhance their own corrupt magic. Whatever they created was bound to them, as that horde of clawflies was bound to the Goth-lord Armun Tal. The Gothen, in which cadre Salaman Goth doubtless ranked very high, were creators of the mystic; dark fire, the Rod of Asteran, the Jardember, guardstones, these are a few of their creations.

  “The Tansee bent their evil minds to the creation of fantastic creatures, such as the Kraal, and the Graken. They mocked nature by bringing forth abominations to wreak havoc on the kindred races and their works.

  “And finally, the Sethi, perhaps the most devious and foul of them all, they favoured stealth and infiltration, deception and deceit. Theirs are the Grimmand and the Kiromok, and I have no doubt other creatures hidden within cunning imitations and facsimiles.”

  Allazar gave a short sigh of disgust. “Together, Longsword, these three cadres of evil between them created the weapons of the dark war waged against the elder races. And it would appear their foul arts have been resurrected in the west, to bring forth the darkness in Goria.”

  “And also here. You said these Kiromok were used to deny territory. Why should Morloch wish to deny anyone passage to a ruined city?”

  Allazar shrugged. “Perhaps he doesn’t. Perhaps the Kiromok were despatched when he learned of the destruction of Salaman Goth, or later, Jerraman demGoth?”