G. Kelly - Sword and Circle

He was tired. During the night, Allazar’s cries from the smaller room on the far side of the inn could still be heard, and though muffled by the doors and distance between them, they jarred on the young man’s ears and jerked him from sleep as though he were in the same room. Elayeen stirred not once, and more than once, awakened by the wizard’s shouts, Gawain had known the sudden terror he’d felt in the Great Hall, and anxiously watched and waited for signs of her breathing in the orange glow of the lamplight.

Gawain himself had drifted in and out of sleep, hovering on the brink of dark dreams where strange words became great cries and soft light became a dazzling agony. Now, as he finished the last of his breakfast, he felt drained. When it was apparent that Turlock was in no hurry to finish his examination of Elayeen, Gawain went in search of Gwyn. Dawn had come and gone, his Remembrance forgotten, and in truth, Gawain felt no guilt for his lapse; his was a heavier burden, and he felt sure The Fallen would understand.

Gwyn had been well enough attended, at least as well as could be expected from lowland guardsmen. She seemed to sense Gawain’s mood as usual, her bright blue eyes wide and sad-looking as he dragged the brush through her mane. “Hai Gwyn,” he managed, “I’m sorry you’ve had to put up with so much. Thank you, for carrying us to safety once more.”

Gwyn’s head bobbed, though whether in acknowledgement or to revisit the bucket of oats and apple on the stable floor Gawain did not know. There was so much he did not know, now.

What have I unleashed, he thought as he went about his duties to Gwyn, what have I set in motion? What have I done?

Broken your beloved wife’s heart as well as her eyes, and broken Allazar’s mind, a cruel inner voice responded. But Gwyn snorted suddenly and shifted her weight, the brush caught in a tangle, reminding Gawain to pay attention to the task in hand, and not lose himself in self-pity.

There will be no breach at The Teeth! Gawain had declared to the ghosts in the Keep. And he knew that was true. Just as he had seen across the Teeth in the great aquamire lens under the mountains so long ago, and knew the visions swimming in that dark lens to be true, he knew the great wave had slammed into the mountains, destroying the thousands labouring thereon, binding Morloch once again. That was the great power locked in the ancient magic of Raheen’s Circle of Justice. A great power set aside against the day which the magi of old surely knew must eventually come, the day when Morloch broke free of the mystical bonds they imposed upon him in an age long since faded into legend and myth. That day had come. But so long was it in the coming, all memory of that ancient power had been lost.

Now, brushing Gwyn and picking stones and gravel from her hooves Gawain understood the reason for the ancient tradition of sending the Crown’s sons into the lowlands, banishing them for a year and a day, to wander, nameless, unknown, throughout the lowlands, to return with news which might trigger the need for the Circle to be unlocked, the ancient power unleashed. Or not.

Gawain paused a moment, he thought he heard Allazar cry out, but he was too far from the inn for that to be true. A gull squawked overhead, and Gawain sighed. He tried to remember the old tales of Morloch, the darkest of wizards who in ancient times turned from the teachings of Zaine, and instead of serving the kindred races of Man, plotted and schemed for dominion over them. Before Gawain’s own banishment two years ago, and his encounter with the Ramoth, he would laugh at the tales told to frighten naughty children into better behaviour.

If you’re bad, Morloch will wait until you sleep, and take you away to the darklands!

How many mischievous children had lain awake for hours at night, peeping over the top of their drawn up bedclothes and jumping at every shadow since memory of the truth of Morloch had been forgotten? The facts were scant enough, and shrouded in a history all too-well guarded by the D’ith deep in the library catacombs under the halls of learning at the citadel that was the Hallencloister. Gawain had glimpsed it, long ago, just before he plunged the Sword of Justice into the black lens in the cavern below the Dragon’s Teeth, and sent black fire racing through the Morloch-made tunnel to leap across the great divide and strike at the dark wizard, ‘liberating’ the vast lake of aquamire fermenting on the northern plain beyond the mountains.

Of the three kindred races of Man, Elves, Humans and Wizards, dwarves of course being close cousins of men, it was with Wizards and Elves that the mystic powers resided. Few men ever learned to wield such powers and those who did invariably had some elven or wizardly forebears and bore the mark of it in their white hair. After all, wizards are born, not made. So long did Morloch labour and in such secrecy that when he broke from Zaine, taking with him a cabal of corrupt and power-hungry wizards, the world was stunned. So stunned, it was said Morloch even had time to raise an army of men in what is now the Gorian Empire, and the war which ensued was long and bloody.

But the combined might of the kindred races drove Morloch ever north, until he crossed the Teeth, and finding neither Elves nor Wizards there, conquered all those lands. There, distracted by the strength of his power and dominion over all he surveyed, he paused to revel in the fruits of his conquest, and thus gave time for the kindred races in the south to gather, and unite, and bind him there, trapped behind the great mountain range for all time.

Thus bound, people forgot the truth of Morloch and his betrayal of all the kindred, and he passed out of memory and into myth. Until, that is, Gawain vexed the dark lord of the north and discovered his intent. Morloch doubtless knew the hidden secret of Raheen, safe and secure atop the mountain in the south, farthest kingdom from his dark influence. Raheen had been chosen by the elder magi to be a bastion against Morloch, an unconquerable symbol of hope, isolated, aloof, its people constantly enjoying peace yet always making ready for war. Morloch was of those elder magi. He knew them all, the extents and limits of their powers, for had they not taught Morloch all they knew?

And that was why Morloch had destroyed Raheen. To destroy Hope, yes, and to remove the one great natural fortress to which all survivors of the dark armies flooding from the Teeth would flee. But also to destroy the sole remaining power able to oppose him in southlands.

Morloch had only partly succeeded, and that was why he feared Gawain, the longsword warrior, the DarkSlayer, on learning the true identity of the King of Raheen, and thus, obviously, the identity of the great sword he carried. The Sword of Justice, the last key needed to unleash the great wave.

Gawain studied his handiwork, admiring the sheen in Gwyn’s coat, then patted her gently on the neck. “Thank you, Gwyn,” he said again, and this time there was less of the young man feeling sorry for himself in his voice, and more the warrior king.

So, what have I done? He asked himself once more.

What indeed. He knew that all the labour of countless thousands of Morloch’s subjects hammering away at the north face of the Teeth to create a breach was now all for naught. When the wave had struck the range, all the workings were blown away in the spalls of rock blasted from the north face, reshaping the mountain range anew on that side.

Yesterday, casting a final look at the ghosts gathered in the ruined Keep, Gawain had called to them silently:

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.