G. Kelly - Sword and Circle

Allazar looked up briefly, pausing, and then began scribbling frantically, turning a page.

“And,” Gawain added, “Why did they simply not afflict me with all of these ‘gifts’ instead of you?”

Again, Allazar paused, and then again continued writing. Finally he passed the book back to Gawain who read:

Three circles one for each of the kindred races three sets of adjectives likewise one for each thus each of us has been altered according to our ancestry the elders knew what qualities would be needed to unlock the circle and which qualities would be needed in the battle for freedom and justice for all

Me they are teaching though what I do not know the voices of old are filling my head I have yet to understand the knowledge they are imparting

To you they gave the gift of the Sword and the power to wield it you know it is too heavy for any other to wield as you do that is why you seem unchanged you were changed more than a year ago

The elders who left the circle had a plan and knew what they were doing we must trust to them and wait

“And that’s all he wrote,” Gawain mumbled, handing the notebook back, “A pity these elders can’t teach you basic punctuation while they’re at it, wizard.”

Allazar sniffed, and wrote a rude word on the page, holding it up for Gawain to see, and the young king smiled.

Sudden movement from the bend in the road caught Gawain’s eye before he could reply, and he watched, frozen, as a Callodon guardsman sprinted down the track to make a hurried report to his commander.

“What is it?” Elayeen asked, “Is there more?”

“No,” Gawain said, his voice rich with sudden concern, “Something is happening, a runner is reporting to Captain Tyrane.”

She swung around in her seat, and looked towards the wells where she knew the captain kept himself available. Seeing the bright shape against the dull grey backdrop of the mountain, she announced softly, more to herself than the others, “He is approaching with news.”

He was. Tyrane hurried across the cobbled expanse as quickly as dignity permitted.

“My lord, word from our lookouts. A group of people, perhaps two dozen in number, are approaching from the west. They are dressed poorly, but some are carrying weapons. Your lady’s escort brought rumours of Gorians dressing in such a manner and crossing the border near the Old Kingdom, I think it would be wise if you withdrew within.”

“Very well, Captain,” Gawain agreed. “My lady and the wizard will retire. I’ll re-join you here shortly.”

The captain saluted, and turned to give hand signals to his sergeant, and soon the outpost was alive with quiet military efficiency.

Gawain led Elayeen inside, Allazar following, leaning heavily on the staff. With a sudden jolt of surprise, Gawain remembered he’d left the sword on the bed in their room.

“Allazar will stay with you, miheth, I need to fetch my sword. Allazar, look to my lady.”

“ Isst ,” the wizard nodded, standing close enough to Elayeen that their arms brushed, so she would know where he was.

“Fetch my bow, G’wain.” Elayeen demanded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes. You know who I am.” She replied firmly.

Gawain hurried to the room, slung the longsword over his shoulder into its customary position, and loosened it in its scabbard. As an afterthought, he buckled on his shortsword, and then picked up his lady’s longbow and the quiver of arrows that were as much a part of her outside Elvendere as the longsword was to Gawain.

“Here,” he said, back by the main doors of the inn, handing her first the quiver and watching as she slung it over her shoulder with practiced ease, her eyes gazing at a point somewhere in the middle of his head. And then he handed her the bow.

“Stay inside, both of you,” he commanded. “We don’t know who these people are, and for all the beatings we’ve given Morloch I wouldn’t put it past the bastard to have a last lash at us. If they’re friendly, I’ll come for you. If not, the two of you have mine and the good captain’s backs.”

“ Compindathu, Longsword.”

“Be careful.” Elayeen added, her head following his movement to the door.

“I shall,” he said, and he meant it.

Gawain closed the doors behind him, and Tyrane, armed now with shortsword and with a crossbow cocked and bolted joined him on the boardwalk, looking to the northwest.

“Lookout in the trees north of the stables has signalled nineteen of them, four of them women, eight armed with bladed weapons.”

“You’ve drilled your men well, Tyrane.” Gawain acknowledged.

“Since you relieved my homeland of the Ramoth towers, my lord, much is changing within the ranks of the Guard. For the better, I might add. We were all too long at peace since the Pellarn war caught us on the hop, and must learn quickly to cope with war once again if half the stories we have heard are true.”

“More than half, probably,” Gawain scowled. “Could these people be simple farmers of Callodon? I met honest farmers on the road to Jarn when I first set foot in the lowlands.”

“On foot and carrying weapons? I doubt it, my lord. Nearest farm is out towards what’s left of Stoon, and the track from there runs to the Jarn road well north of here. If they were local farmers fleeing some catastrophe they’d be running for Jarn, not to an outpost abandoned more than a year ago. Begging your pardon, my lord.”

“That’s all right, Tyrane. I understand. I’m thinking out loud more than anything. If local people wouldn’t come here, it makes you wonder why poorly-dressed and poorly-armed Gorians would.”

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.