G. Kelly - Sword and Circle

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.”

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.”

“Callodon is a free land…” Tyrane declared, and Gawain stood quietly allowing the captain to reassure the Gorians…

“The sergeant of the guard stands a short distance to the left of the line does he not?” Elayeen asked.

“ Isst, est verithias the sergeant…”

“I think it best if you simply reply ‘yes’ or ‘no’ Allazar.”

“Isst.”

“Then after that short distance there are three Gorians, then a…gap…”

“Nai.”

“No… the shadow is moving, is the fourth person moving? To the right?”

Allazar peered through grimy panes unwashed in years. A man, fourth from the left, had just moved towards the centre. “Yes,” he confirmed, frowning, watching intently.

Gawain was watching intently too, while Tyrane described briefly the destruction of Raheen, but reassured the refugees, if indeed that was what they were, that all lands east of the Empire were free of oppression and tyranny. Gawain had seen the movement in the line too. The Gorians had inched forward a little, and were closing together behind Simayen Jaxon, and Gawain conceded that this was probably perfectly natural behaviour. And it was possible that the man inching closer to the centre of the line was hard of hearing, and simply wanted to shorten the distance between his feeble ears and those speaking. Certainly the man looked as travel-worn and dishevelled as all the others, nothing remarkable about him…

“He has moved again, one person closer towards the centre of the line.” Elayeen asserted, her voice growing in confidence, concentrating hard.

“Yes.” Allazar again confirmed, his nose pressed against the thin glass sheet, which gave a little under the pressure, the putty in the slender wooden frame cracked and lacking maintenance. It occurred to the wizard that if Elayeen had indeed been gifted with the sight of the Eldenelves, the grime on the glass would hardly be an obstacle to her vision of events unfolding outside.

“Is it a man?”

“Isst.”

“Who now stands behind and between two of his companions?”

“Yes…”

“We had been told of the destruction of Raheen by our overseers,” Jaxon said sadly, his voice clearer now, stronger, “But how could we believe such a thing? All our lives were told of the great mountain, and of the great people there, and their steeds. Songs we were forbidden to sing told of their ride into battle to try to wrest Pellarn from the Emperor’s praetorians. But how could we believe such a thing as their destruction?”