G. Kelly - Sword and Circle

“Let’s hope so. It’s a long way yet to Jarn.” And with that, Gawain dismounted, and jogged alongside Gwyn, for the benefit of his own legs as much as for hers.

“It tracks us still.”

Hearing the chilling voice of the eldengaze repeating the same mantra grated on Gawain so much that he put on a burst of speed, running with Gwyn through the vanguard and out a good thirty yards from the head of the column, where he eased back to the same gentle loping pace the Gorians had set themselves. The men of Callodon thought it an act of great nobility, the young warrior king running ahead, sharing the discomfort of all those on foot and placing himself and his famed longsword at the point of the van should any danger threaten from the north. The refugees from Goria were simply baffled that the young man who they’d been told was indeed the King of Raheen and husband to the beautiful elfin with the strange vision would be on foot at all, much less covered in the same mud as they were. Whatever Elayeen and Allazar thought, they kept to themselves.

After three miles and no sign of the darkness doing anything other than keeping pace, Gawain began to allow his mind to wander. The pace was comfortable enough, a quick glance over his shoulder showed that indeed the Gorians seemed well able to maintain it without too much effort, and the horses were moving smoothly enough. The advance scout kept his warning flag lowered, and but for Elayeen’s annoyingly frequent pronouncements concerning ‘it’, this would get them to Jarn within another four days. If the pace could be maintained.

In answer to an unspoken question, Gwyn’s big head bobbed and she snorted. She could trot along like this all day and no, nothing around her was alarming or worrying her.

So why are we running? Seemed to flash through his mind. Was it possible that in reality there was nothing keeping pace with them, that Elayeen’s ‘gift’ was flawed or she unable to understand it? Gawain doubted it. Allazar had been right, her ability was growing in strength and doubting her was probably just petulance and perhaps wishful thinking on Gawain’s part. He was still angry with her. Angry for not waking him at the first sign of danger, resentful of the long hours she had spent deep in private conversation with the wizard, and yes, still bereaved at the loss of the throth between them which might otherwise have given him an insight into the changes the circle had wrought upon her.

He was angry that the Elayeen he loved could not see him, but the Eldengaze could. And now, to Gawain, ‘eldengaze’ was not simply a poor attempt of his at naming the ancient trait or ability that had long faded from the kindred race of Elves. It was becoming Eldengaze, a person. A chilling and independent entity seemingly bereft of personality, alien, utterly divorced from the loving and sensitive beauty Gawain had discovered trapped and bleeding and shining in the moonlight at the edge of Elvendere almost two years ago to the day.

So why are we running? Because the darkness was there. Gawain understood why the Gorians had seemed to call all dark wizard-made creatures and things ‘the darkness’. He’d seen it himself, before he’d destroyed it. Seen it shimmering black beyond the Teeth while he stood on the heights of Tarn, in Threlland. Seen the dark glow emanating from the great lake of aquamire behind the mountain range, watched it as it seemed to draw the very sunlight from the day. He’d ‘liberated’ that great lake of evil, ignited it with the fire that flashed from the great lens filled with the same stuff, in a cave in the mountains where he and Martan of Tellek had discovered the truth about the Ramoths and their ‘great god;’ all of it was nothing but a great deception planned by Morloch to divert attention from the coming invasion, now thwarted.

So why are we running? Ahead, the scout flicked his flag out to the left and then to the right, a signal that another of the many cobbled passing-places was ahead. Gawain flicked a glance over his shoulder, saw Tyrane acknowledge the signal, saw the Gorians jogging along, the mud on their heavy closeweave garments darkening with sweat. It was a bright morning, the sun beginning to warm the track, moisture evaporating from the rain-soaked woodlands evaporating, making the air humid and sticky. The horses would need watering and feed more frequently if they maintained this pace, and once the ditchwater had drained, and much of it already had, that would mean foraging for springs and streams…

More haste, less speed. It had been much easier on the plains. Just the three of them, charging south from Ferdan. Plenty of grass for the horses, vast unbroken oceans of it. Water too, until slowly the heat of summer began drying up the streams and springs, forcing them closer to the woodlands and a more plentiful supply.

So why are we running? “Dwarfspit, that’s a good question.” Gawain mumbled to himself, and as the passing-place came into view, he glanced over his shoulder and raised his hand to signal to Tyrane that he wanted the column to halt ahead. Tyrane acknowledged the signal with a brief wave of his own, and sent the word down the line. Gawain could see there were great heaps of gravel each side of the track at the passing-place, and the crunching underfoot testified that it would have been needed on this stretch of the Jarn road to keep the track firm when it had been in daily use. The ground was soft here, and the broad expanses of the cobbled areas each side of the road were more gravel than cobbles too.

Gawain stopped in the middle of the track just to the north of the near circular passing area, waiting for the caravan to catch up. It seemed to him he could hear running water beyond the crunching of boots, hooves, and iron-rimmed wheels on the track. Up ahead, the scout had seen or heard the column slowing, and had come to a halt too, and then dismounted. The column, when the vanguard arrived, simply stopped in the road, the Gorians breathing heavily but still comfortably.

“My lord?” Tyrane asked.

“Rest break. Water the horses.” Gawain ordered quietly, cocking his head to listen again once the crunching progress of the column had stopped. “Sounds like there’s running water close by. Good chance to fill barrels, water skins and canteens. And get cleaned up.”

Tyrane’s eyebrows arched expressively, and he darted a quick look at the wizard.

“Longsword, we’ve barely made five miles…”

“What’s the darkness doing?”

Elayeen turned in the saddle. “It has stopped.”

Gawain nodded, as if he’d been expecting the answer, and in truth he had been.

“Recall the scout, Tyrane, find the running water, top up, clean up, and when ready, you’ll move out.”

Again, Tyrane’s eyebrows arched. “We? And you, my lord?”

“Oh, I think I’ll have a rest for a while. And then I think I’ll go hunting. I’ll catch up with you all later.”

An hour later, and with everyone else a great deal cleaner than Gawain thanks to the floodwaters in a nearby stream, the column was preparing to move out again. Gawain decided to remain as he was, filthy and mud-stained from head to toe. It would make for good camouflage.

“Are you sure this is wise, Longsword?”

Gawain shrugged his shoulders. He stood to the side of a large mound of gravel, watching the woodlands to the west and chewing frak. Elayeen stood transfixed some six feet away, the wizard between her and Gawain.

“We have no idea what that is out there.” Allazar reminded him.

“Yet you’re confident you can deal with it should it attack.”

It was Allazar’s turn to shrug his shoulders, and he made much of shifting the Dymendin staff from one hand to the other. “I have been gifted with the power of a D’ith Sek, Longsword, perhaps even more. And fate has delivered us a Dymendin staff with which to focus that power.”