The sergeant, standing between the wells with a small contingent of men, gave a flurry of signals.
“We’ll soon find out, my lord. They’ve passed the bluff and the lookout there, and are heading this way.” Tyrane gave a brief signal, and the guards sank to their posts concealed behind the wells and the tents erected there.
Gawain surveyed the area. With only a limited number of men at his disposal, Tyrane had deployed them in strategic positions from which to launch a withering ambuscade should the need arise, or to emerge and take captive any small force between the stables to the north and Downland Pass slightly to the south. It was the best any captain could have done in the circumstances, and Gawain studied the man beside him out of the corner of his eye anew.
Tall, as tall as Allazar give or take half an inch, rangy but wiry with it, perhaps forty years old, and always crisply dressed. His hair was thinning underneath the burnished and embellished helmet he was strapping tightly under his jutting chin. An intelligent man, with a keen sense of protocol and an appreciation of military tactics. He was probably highly thought-of in Brock’s court, which was precisely why, Gawain knew, Brock had ordered him to hold the Pass. If anything, it was an apparent lack of imagination that probably let him down; Gawain remembered how he and Allazar had taken the outpost by surprise when they first arrived. The captain simply hadn’t been expecting to have to cope with anything until after Gawain had arrived, and that could’ve been costly for the men of Callodon.
Tyrane loosened the sword in his scabbard and as the group of strangers came into view around the bend the track asked quietly: “Would you like to do the talking, my lord, or I?”
“Oh I think we can take it in turns, Tyrane. If words don’t work and it comes to fighting, my blade has a large swing, best to give me plenty of room to the right.”
“Aye my lord.”
The group slowed almost as soon as they rounded the bend and saw Gawain and Tyrane standing outside the inn. Tyrane was clearly a military man, in military uniform, and the outpost had always had about it a military feel, and so it appeared to them now. The group slowed almost to a standstill, and people seemed to jostle for position. The women were eased into the middle of the small throng, the armed men to the front and flanks, and the man who was clearly their leader strode perhaps two paces in front of all them.
Though the tactics were sound and they walked in a column of threes, they were all out of step, their gait nervous, their gaze fixed on the two men at the inn.
“They don’t look military.” Tyrane said quietly,
“Neither does my lady ‘til she starts shooting Morlochmen and dark wizards out of their saddles.” Gawain replied tellingly.
“Weapons look old, and not well maintained.”
“Aye. Probably still hurt if they disembowelled you though.”
“True,” the captain conceded, hefting his crossbow and holding it casually across his chest. “Though I rather hope my men will have taken care of that eventuality before my lunch finds itself at risk.”
The group of strangers were about twenty yards out and well within crossbow range when Tyrane stepped forward a little and called out:
“Good afternoon, Serre, you and your party look like you’ve travelled far on foot.”
At fifteen yards the leader made a motion with his left hand, and the group slowed to a stop.
“Good afternoon to you too, my lords,” the leader called back, his voice strong and clear, but Gawain thought he could hear the catch of the man’s breath, nervous if not downright fearful. The clothes they were all wearing were indeed poor, but hardwearing, serviceable, and if anything, a little warm for the time of year. Closeweave garments, of the kind worn by farmers or labourers, clothes meant for life and work outdoors, the kind worn by many folk in the lowlands. What embellishments there may have been, embroidery or patterns dyed into the cloth, had faded long ago, leaving just plain khaki brown, dull, and in all respects, common. Stout boots, stained with the mud and dust of many miles of travel.
“Be this the kingdom of Raheen, and you its officers?”
That was certainly not a common question and all those listening, including Allazar and Elayeen at the window of the inn, understood the ramifications of it; no man alive in the remaining five kingdoms would ever ask such a question, certainly not since Morloch’s Breath…
“You are people of Goria.” Tyrane announced.
“Aye.” The leader acknowledged, his hand resting nervously on the pommel of an ancient shortsword. “Aye we are. We seek sanctuary in the highlands.”
13. Shadows
Tyrane gave a brief signal with his left hand, and his men emerged from concealment, crossbows cocked and levelled. The leader of the Gorian group looked utterly desolate.
“We seek sanctuary…” he repeated, and his shoulders slumped, clearly expecting death, or worse.
“I’ll thank you and your party, Serre, to form a line before me, and those of you bearing arms to place your hands upon your heads while my men relieve you of your weapons,” Tyrane announced, and seeing the despair confronting him, added “And then we shall discuss the matter of the sanctuary you seek.”
At once, hope seemed to lift heads and fill hearts and eyes, and the group hastily formed a line behind their leader, who unbelted his decrepit shortsword and let it fall to the ground before placing his hands on his head. The other armed men promptly followed suit, and three of Tyrane’s men nimbly yet cautiously advanced to collect the weapons and remove them from all risk of the Gorians reclaiming them.
“I am Captain Tyrane, of the Royal Callodon Guard. These are my men. Please remain as you are while some necessary precautions are taken.”
“My name is Jaxon, Simayen Jaxon,” the leader announced, his hands still on his head. “My friends have made me their leader since we escaped Goria. We will do as you command, Captain. There is nothing else we can do.”
While Tyrane’s men began searching the Gorians for concealed weapons, the captain himself stepped forward a little, lowering his crossbow. “Jaxon? That’s an Old Kingdom name.”
The leader nodded. “Aye. Some of us were children, some babes in arms when Pellarn fell to the empire. We were taken south and west, across the Eramak, to work in the fields of the province of Armunland.”
A few daggers and boot-knives were found and confiscated from the Gorians, including from the women, and when the sergeant nodded an ‘all clear’ to Tyrane, the captain visibly relaxed.
“You may lower your hands, but please remain where you are. There are many questions that beg answers.”
Those with arms raised lowered them, and all seemed to relax a little, including the Callodonian guardsmen.
Inside the inn, standing a couple of feet back from the window overlooking the scene unfolding without, Allazar was describing events to Elayeen as best he could in his fragmented language. Suddenly, Elayeen stiffened, tilting her head this way and that.
“Allazar,” she whispered, “How many are there? From Goria?”
“Dies-nyen, meleeah.”
“Does that mean nineteen?”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Then a shadow walks among them, Allazar, for I am sure I see only eighteen.”
“Forgive me, Captain,” Jaxon called, “You said you and your men were of Callodon? I had thought this great mountain was Raheen, so it was taught to us by our parents in our slavery.”
“And so it is.” Tyrane announced when Gawain said nothing. “Though that great kingdom is now no more, destroyed by dark magic more than a year ago.”
Heads bowed and shoulders slumped again. Jaxon gave a great sigh. “Then the stories we were told are true, and the darkness has spread across all lands. There is no hope for us then, and no freedom.”