G. Kelly - Sword and Circle

“But what was this vision, and how was it lost?”

Arramin stroked his threadbare beard, thoughtfully. “In the opinion of elder magi the sight of the Eldenelves was perfectly natural and quite necessary considering the realm in which they dwelled. Much of the land was dense forest, dark and gloomy. How useful then, to develop a peculiar vision which revealed the inner light of all things, including themselves, around them. Gifted as they were, and many of their descendants still are, with mystic abilities, perhaps they themselves created it, the better to hunt in their forest realm. Let us not forget, the Eldenelves too were creatures of nature’s making, and in common with all such, must eat to survive and thrive.”

“It seems we are readying to move off again,” Gawain announced, watching riders mount and pedestrians return water skins to the wagons, Tyrane signalling his men to stand to. “I should like to hear more, wizard, if you will continue while we ride?”

“Of course, my lord, I am at your service.”

Gawain mounted, and waited for the wizard with his comical stick still slung over his rounded shoulders, to climb into the saddle and settle himself. Finally, with the column travelling north once more, Arramin continued his lecture.

“In truth though, we do not know the real origin of the sight peculiar to the Eldenelves. As to its loss, we may only speculate that as the world took on its present mantle, it was no longer necessary. Forests gave way to fields of wheat, corn, and barley, here in the east as well as the west. With Morloch bound behind the Teeth, the great conflict over, the kindred races no longer had need of their grand alliance, and in the enduring peace that followed, went their separate ways.

“You must remember we are speaking of a time shrouded in the mists of myth. Certainly after Morloch was bound the world was a very different place than it had been before.”

“Yet they also saw the world as we do.” Gawain muttered, and though it wasn’t a question, Arramin took it to be so.

“Oh yes, my lord. They were said to be able to call their strange sight at will. If I recall correctly, there are at least, let me see, one, two… three tales in the Book of Erragenesis, a rather large collection of folk tales common to the libraries of Callodon, Juria, and of course in the D’ith Hallencloister, which are perhaps relevant to the subject at hand. Let me see…” Arramin squinted towards the heavens, mumbling names and places.

“Ah, yes, the allegorical tale of Hurgo the Halfhanded is perhaps the most apposite. I shan’t bore you with the tale my lord, it concerns a mythical figure, Hurgo, a farm-boy, pressed into service by a cruel war-lord to serve as a soldier for an unjust battle against a neighbouring fiefdom. During the battle, the unfortunate young man loses half his left hand to a farm-boy likewise pressed into service in the opposing force. Hurgo kills his opponent, and is horrified both by the deed and by the battle. However, he discovers he has a certain skill at fighting, and rapidly his prowess and esteem as a warrior grows.

“Hurgo determines to learn what martial skills he can in order to depose the cruel and barbaric war-lord who had pressed him into service and made of him a reaper of men rather than of the crops of his former station. When finally he succeeds, destroying the war-lord in a mighty battle, he is of course lauded and showered with honours, and made lord of the now somewhat sizeable domain his hated predecessor had acquired by conquest.

“Determined to maintain peace with his neighbours, Hurgo at first ignores the clamouring around him; suckwits, soothsayers and sundry sycophants proclaiming The Halfhanded the ‘chosen one’ of some false prophecy who will lead his people to dominion over all. However, he eventually succumbs, his favourite wife being primarily responsible for his failed resolve, and builds an army to invade and conquer his neighbours’ lands.

“The lesson in the myth of course lies in the corruption of Hurgo from innocent and unwilling to noble and strong, then weak and finally corrupt, ending by becoming the very thing he set out to destroy. He is finally brought to his senses too late, when during the final battle he is confronted by a line of Eldenelves who, unbeknownst to Hurgo, are allies to those whose land he is attempting to invade.

“In the myth, the Eldenelves advance, appearing at first as little more than rather splendid warriors marching towards Hurgo’s lines. But the men become concerned when their salvos of arrows have no effect upon the advance. The Eldenelves march into Hurgo’s lines, and with the strength of their strange sight, chill the soldiers to such an extent they are paralysed, and cut down.

“At the end, a nameless Eldenelf strides towards Hurgo, sword in hand, and pauses, looking at him sadly and saying ‘Your light fades, like a candle guttering in the breezes of that great choir of voices you have silenced, who even now sing for your end.’” Arramin sighed, and drew in breath before continuing.

“Too late, Hurgo realises he has become the mirror image of the cruel war-lord he had despised so much. In a final fit of rage, perhaps against the world and the forces that had created him, he raises his sword and is about to give vent to his mighty battle-cry when the Eldenelf simply pins him with his gaze, rooting him to the spot, and kills him.”

“By the Teeth,” Gawain muttered, eyeing the wizard. “Was their sight so powerful, then?”

Arramin shrugged. “Who can say? It is a myth my lord, a tale perhaps based on some historical event or admixture of events, but intended to convey a simple message to the listener. Few documents survive from that time and those that do are sealed and preserved deep within the library of the Hallencloister. There are enough references in such tales and songs to give credence to the old belief that yes, the Eldenelves were possessed of a sight which men found so uncomfortable as to be ‘pinned’ by it, as an insect to a board, for study.”

“Then it is perhaps as well they chose not to conquer the world of men, such an enemy would be dread.”

“Dread indeed, my lord. Dread indeed.”

Lunchtime arrived, with Allazar still engrossed in his work. The wizard was convinced that he’d made an error in one of his earlier iterations of the cipher, and had been forced to begin a large part of the work again. Eldengaze maintained her watch, accepting a hunk of salt pork wrapped in unleavened flat-bread given to her by one of the four ladies in the group, and Gawain, having nothing to do, decided to practice his aim from horseback. He left the group while he ranged wide to the east of the road but was careful to remain within sight of Tyrane and his men.

After he’d bagged three hares and checked that the rest of the group were still resting on the road west of him, he unsaddled Gwyn, and with a profound apology for his lack of duty to her the previous day, set to with the curry-comb. His shoulders ached and there was fresh blood on his right elbow where the grazes had opened when he’d flung his arrows, and in truth it’d taken considerably more than three throws to bag the hares which would be his contribution to the evening pot.

His knees too were a mess in spite of the salve that Healer Turlock had applied. But in Raheen he would’ve been expected to grin and bear it, and so here on the plains of Callodon that is what he did, though bearing the pains was considerably easier than grinning. He had, he decided, very little to smile about. Gwyn moved a little, ripped another great wad of grass from the ground and munched while Gawain brushed.

It would be so easy, he thought, casting a glimpse towards the throng of people and horses on the rise that marked the ridge and its road, so easy just to saddle Gwyn and slip away. Turn his back on all of them, leave the lowlanders to fend for themselves. After all, how much more could he be expected to do? He’d barely had time to draw breath in the last year.