The Grimmand of Sethi, the Graken, the Kraal of Tansee. Creatures of darkness now seemingly commonplace in Goria, and of late, seen east of the Eramak for the first time since Armun Tal and his clawflies three hundred and eighty seven years ago. And why now? Because something was happening or had happened in the north, and Morloch wanted to shift all attention on the south, away from the farak gorin and the Barak-nor. But that had been before the three of Raheen had unlocked the circle and unleashed the ancient power to smite the Teeth.
Gawain remembered the awful fate which awaited the Gorians transported to the army of Morlochmen lurking in the bitter wastelands of the Barak-nor. Gorians transported, alive, in ox-carts, torn from their hearths and homes and bound, clattering east along the scree at the foot of the Teeth before the arduous crossing of the farak gorin. He shuddered in spite of the warmth of the noon sunshine. If Morloch held all Goria, if the war opened on two fronts, north and west, what then?
Poor Hurgo, Gawain thought suddenly, at least no-one’s proclaiming me The Chosen One and clamouring for me to lead them into battle.
Perhaps, Gawain thought, leading Gwyn out of the stream and crouching, his knees screaming, to pick stones and debris from her hooves, perhaps his sense of kinship with The Halfhanded of myth was misplaced. Had Gawain really been pressed into service? Or had he been born to it? As the second-born in Raheen, life had been a huge adventure for the young prince. He had always known Kevyn would one day wear the crown. Never once, not for a moment, had Gawain imagined the crown for himself. No, he was trained as all princes were, trained and prepared for rule, but thanks to Kevyn, never expecting to have to do so.
For Gawain, all that training, all the education and fighting and hunting, all the arts of war and horsemanship, it had all been pure and unadulterated fun! Until his banishment. Even then, the sense of adventure had been real enough, and not until his encounter with brigands on the road to Jarn had Gawain seriously expected to have to use any of his training except in the pursuit of food.
But for Morloch, he would have returned to his lofty homeland, regaled his family and friends with tales of his travels, and perhaps sparked anew his father’s dream of a Union between the kingdoms. But Morloch had destroyed Raheen, and in so doing, had laid the path on which Gawain had walked ever since. But surely, it was pure chance that he had been enduring regal banishment when Morloch’s Breath had annihilated all life in Raheen. It had explained Morloch’s sudden shock and terror at Ferdan, when Gawain’s identity had been revealed.
So, Gawain had not been pressed into service, as Hurgo had been. And certainly not torn from a humble life, nor destined to usurp a war-lord’s crown. Gawain stepped back and nodded approvingly.
“What do you think, Ugly? Have I made good on my failings of yesterday?”
Gwyn walked a few paces, bobbed her head, and waited while Gawain stooped, sighed in expectation of the pain he knew was to come, and then heaved the saddle up off the ground to gently lay it in place on his horse’s back.
Sorry, Hurgo, Gawain thought an apology into the past as he prepared to mount, surprised at how far north the caravan had travelled along the road. But perhaps the only similarity between our lives is that neither of us could ever really hope to leave the path laid before us.
As Gawain mounted and Gwyn eased away from the stream to trot towards the northwest, he knew it was true. Could he turn his back on Elayeen? Never. Could he ignore the plight of the Gorians who had risked so much, and lost so much, seeking sanctuary in Raheen? No. He was Raheen, and he could not simply abandon them to satisfy some selfish desire to live his own life in peace. But the tale of Hurgo the Halfhanded, brief though the wizard’s telling of it had been, had left its mark on Gawain, if for no other reason than the Eldengaze, which had become so dread now he could not bare to look into his lady’s eyes when she turned it upon him.
Gawain swung wide around the rear of the column, easing Gwyn into position to their southwest. Tyrane had of course deployed his men with appropriate caution and Gawain kept his distance from them while he rode. It was good to be alone and in the saddle, and with the voices of his imagination silent now, the twittering of occasional skylarks and the sound of Gwyn’s hooves were like soothing music to Gawain’s ears.
Clouds billowed, white and harmless, and the cooling breezes were welcome. Heavy rain had left a legacy of springs and streams and progress was good for horse and men alike, hours passing with nothing more alarming than a rider breaking formation to add another hare or rabbit to the quartermaster’s already heavy bag. The mid-afternoon rest period came and went, Gawain electing to maintain his post away from the throng and the road, and with Allazar deep in concentration at his work there were none who had any need to disturb his peace.
It couldn’t last though, Gawain knew, and it didn’t. With the sun well on its way towards the western horizon, Gawain’s attention was drawn to something flashing at the head of the column. It was the Dymendin staff, Allazar swinging it one-handed in a lazy arc over his head. The message from Brock had been deciphered.
Tyrane had called the column to a halt for an early evening rest period by the time Gawain arrived at the head. Elayeen sat saddle, the eldengaze turned to the north. Allazar, in his position behind and on her left flank, held the staff in his right hand and his notebook in his left, and wore a nervous expression. Tyrane dispersed the vanguard to rest and stretch their legs, and then took up a position for himself a discreet distance away.
“So, Allazar. The message?”
“Yes, Longsword. It seems I hadn’t made an error after all. Brock had simply ciphered it a dozen times, more times than any message a crown of Callodon has ever sent in peacetime, and more than some which were sent when the land was at war.”
Gawain cast a longing glance at Elayeen’s back, and then drew himself up in the saddle, letting go of himself, and drawing tight the reins of duty once more. “And its content?”
“Is succinct, though I fear you will not like it.”
“Must I beat it from you?”
Allazar sighed, and there was genuine sadness in his eyes. He lifted the book, his thumb already marking the page, and read, quietly:
Raheen chosen by Council to lead Army of The North. Come at once to Shiyanath. Urgent.
“Dwarfspit.” Gawain grimaced, wiping dust from his brow with his left hand, and for a moment, he thought he heard Hurgo’s voice echoing down through the ages, Sorry, Gawain…
29. Urgency
“It is the word ‘urgent’ which perhaps carries the greatest weight for me,” Allazar asserted towards sunset, watching as the guards manhandled a large brazier and hung it by chains from an iron tripod. Preparations were being made to begin the stew which would be needed to feed all fifty four hungry mouths on the road.
Gawain had insisted that the caravan continue until the end of the day’s travel, claiming he needed time to consider the content of the message. He didn’t of course, but it made little sense immediately to abandon the caravan on the strength of a message which had taken days to reach him and most of a day to decipher. A few more hours could do no harm, and besides, he didn’t wish to simply up and leave.
“It is the entire message which concerns me.” Gawain muttered, paring another slice of frak from a lump and sitting on his saddle and bedroll while Gwyn wandered and munched grass away from the camp and its bustle.
Allazar disagreed. “I’m not at all surprised they would turn to you for leadership of any combined force they might be mustering at Ferdan for the march north. Even if not for your military skills or your fearsome reputation as the Longsword warrior, certainly for political reasons. It was inevitable, once the Council had seen for themselves the threat facing all lands south of the Teeth.”