Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8)

by GJ Kelly

  “Her Majesty is ill!” Serat declared at once, “Allow me to attend her!”

  But again, Eggers restrained the elfwizard.

  “Take the queen to her chambers, Lord Chamberlain,” Gawain commanded, “And wait with her there until the Crown’s healer arrives. Captain Ector, if you would despatch a man for the healer?”

  “My lord!” Ector replied, and Gawain heard boots descending the spiral stairs in a hurry.

  “The rest of you will remain seated. Toorsengard will not move.”

  “No, they certainly won’t,” Ector announced, and from behind him, Gawain heard the men adopt a ready position, crossbows doubtless cocked and bolted brought sharply from the port to readiness.

  “This is an outrage!” the Lord Chamberlain cried.

  He was leading Hellin by the hand, she like a mindless child following without a word, seemingly completely unaware of events around her, and the old man’s face was aghast when he turned to face them all from her chamber door.

  “Usurper!” he cried at Gawain.

  “Not so,” Gawain announced. “Your Crown’s fate is in your own hands, Lord Chamberlain. I am here for Serat of the traitor’s tower, and when I have the answers to my questions, I shall leave. Take Hellin to her room, and await the healer, then by all means, return to your place and witness what you shall.”

  There was an uneasy silence then, while the witless Hellin was led into her private rooms and the healers, two of whom Gawain vaguely recalled had tended to Willam years before, rushed through the Crown’s Door on the far side of the table. They gaped, briefly, at the tableau before them, until Gawain pointed to the room into which Hellin had been taken.

  Once the chamberlain had retaken his place, Gawain, who had noted Allazar and Venderrian still obscured in the corner near that Crown’s Door, turned to stare with undisguised disgust at Serat.

  “Where is the orb and shadow you used to destroy the Hallencloister, and what is the Toorseneth’s intention for it?”

  “I refuse to dignify this calumny with a reply,” Serat sniffed. “I am a guest in this land and Ambassador of Thallanhall. Protocol guarantees my protection by the Crown and I do not have to answer to unsubstantiated accusations made by a known and wanted criminal.”

  “In deference to the sensibilities of some at this table I have refrained thus far from drawing my sword. My patience is ending. I will have answers, Serat, if I have to cut off your arm and beat them from you with your own hand.”

  “You would risk war with Elvendere for this nonsense?” Kahsen, the soolen-Viell, spoke. His voice was soft, almost girlish, and his features likewise.

  “There is madness in the south, Serre Viell,” the chamberlain declared, “A madness in southern lands which has set Brock against the Empire and now sets Raheen against both Juria and Elvendere!”

  “Juria is invaded, Lord Chamberlain, and you are a fool blinded by years of unquestioning service to the Crown and its archaic protocols which have led to this catastrophe,” Gawain sighed, and flexed his shoulder. “The Hallencloister is gone, the D’ith destroyed. Your own wizards are dead, and you are now defenceless against any mystic powers which might be brought to bear upon you. Even this soolen-lapdog far from the domain of the Viell could, I don’t doubt, influence your judgement given half a chance. I do not propose to allow him that chance.”

  “Evidence!” the chamberlain cried, and slammed a bony fist onto the table. “Evidence! You have brought us nothing but words! They spoke of you, our honoured guests and friends of Thallanhall spoke long of you, and how you blunder about the world, leaving havoc in your wake! War and death follows in your footsteps! Chaos is your name and catastrophe your bedmate! Give us proof! Give us evidence! Give us something to stay the warrant that bears your name! Give us the Sardor, that we may hear his testimony, else calumny be thy name and in chains you shall go!”

  Gawain blinked, and clenched his jaw, his breathing becoming deeper, his muscles tensing.

  “Oh, my lords,” he breathed, “Now comes the pass. You really do not wish to see the Sardor, not this night.”

  Serat, smug perhaps at this new defence and aware of the staff behind him, smiling in recognition of Gawain’s earlier assertion about a lack of mystic defences, folded his hands upon the table.

  “Oh, my lords,” he parroted, “Now comes the pass. For the Sardor is many leagues away, sealed within the walls of the Hallencloister, his gates drawn up, hiding from the world. This calumny now is exposed, no witness can this longsword horse-king produce, no evidence is there but words, and his lies now lie exposed.”

  Eggers sniffed, and drained his goblet. He wiped his lips on a napkin with great care, and eyed the Ahk-Viell beside him.

  “You seem to be forgetting something, elfwizard, and by Raheen’s leave I’d prefer to be sitting somewhere else before I jog your memory.”

  Gawain nodded, braced for treachery, but the rotund Jurian lord stood, replaced his chair under the table, and walked calmly around the great board to take a vacant space nearly a full diameter from his last, well clear of Serat who now had nought but empty chairs twixt him and Gawain.

  “There,” Eggers declared, filling another goblet as others shuffled their chairs further away from the soolen-Viell too, shuffling as far from the targets of Gawain’s ire as they could.

  Serat’s staff, propped against the bookcase eight feet behind him, was in easy reach of the nearest elfguard, who could simply reach out and toss it across the gap to the Viell. Gawain was aware of it. Gawain was aware of everything now, even the slow movements from the dark corner of the room where Quintinenn’s Cloak still held and Venderrian was slowly bringing his bow to the ready.

  “What you forgot, elfwizard,” Eggers sighed dramatically, “And what the Lord Chamberlain seems to have forgotten, but the Guard clearly hasn’t, is that his Majesty Gawain of Raheen walked in here a free man, of his own accord, knowing full well of the warrant and its implications. Still he did so. And he did so for answers from you. And that, for any reasonable fellow possessing a reasonable quantity of wits, is all the evidence needed to know he speaks truth. And now, he has a clear swing for his famous blade, to take that arm of yours and beat those answers out of you with your own hand.”

  Serat blinked, and then smiled, but Gawain could see the elf’s tension rising. Again the old Chamberlain banged the table, startling the nervous diners.

  “Evidence! Proof! I have the warrant, signed by her Majesty and by myself! Bring us this Sardor or I shall order the Guard to execute the warrant!”

  “Very well,” Gawain announced, and all eyes in the council room began to widen as he took a pace backwards away from the table. “On your own heads be it. Behold then the Last Sardor of the D’ith.”

  oOo

  21. Truth and Horror

  There was a sudden draught of chill air which swept through the room as Allazar strode forward into plain sight. The Dymendin glowed in his right hand, and his left he held outstretched. No-one had any time to react so sudden was his appearance and that of the elf ranger, bow drawn, the arrow aimed at the head of the Ahk-Viell. Allazar’s lips moved, and with a sharp clattering, Serat’s staff flew from its resting-place against the bookcase, slammed into the polished oak table, cartwheeled once in the air, and slapped into the Last Sardor’s outstretched hand.

  For a fleeting moment, Gawain thought he had made a dreadful mistake in summoning Allazar out from under his Cloak of Quintinenn. The fury in the wizard’s face was plain to behold, the snarl on his lips, and that dangerous cast to the eyes which spoke silently of immense power on the brink of release. A word, mumbled, and Serat’s staff burst apart with a deafening crack, showering the table with splinters and leaving for a moment a column of smoke which faded to the fresh smell of lightning.

  Serat, perhaps in shock, made as if to stand and push himself back and away from the table.

  “Nai murthen vizzarn! Stent thool!” Venderrian screamed, and Serat froze.

&nb
sp; “Don’t move!” Ector cried, almost at the same moment, though his command was to the six elves of the Tau, three to each side of the room, a trio behind the soolen-Viell, and the other three behind Serat.

  Behind Gawain and Ognorm, the sound of clothing rustling, crossbows being brought to bear, and the clicking of a dozen safety catches being thumbed.

  For a heartbeat, perhaps a little longer, the tableau remained frozen, elves poised with swords half-drawn, their eyes fixed upon various targets, and much to the alarm of some at the table not all of those targets were standing newcomers. Wizards faced each other, mutual hatred burning in their eyes, the air charged with ozone, sparks fizzling atop the lustrous white Dymendin.

  And then the door to Hellin’s private chambers opened. It was, Gawain noted before instinct drove him to his knee and dragged a poised Ognorm likewise to the floor, one of the healers, alarmed by the noises in the council chamber perhaps, come to see what had caused a disturbance which might have upset his patient.

  But the opening of the door, of course, triggered a burst of violence so short-lived none could describe afterwards the sequence of events they witnessed. Bolts flew from crossbows, swords were drawn, including Gawain’s crackling blade, an arrow was loosed, there was a bright flash and a deafening concussion, and a bright arc of light swept forward from Allazar’s staff like a lashing of mystic whipcord over the heads of those seated at the table.

  Eyes yet living blinked, and vision regained sought target or threat, and found none. At the walls either side of the great table, six of the Toorsengard slipped lifeless to the floor, one shot through by an arrow, all shot through by steel bolts, and all with their chests gaping black, split asunder and cauterised by the white fire which had lashed them.

  Gawain rose, slowly, and let out a breath. Serat was still alive, and entirely unharmed. The door to Hellin’s chambers banged shut.

  “Don’t move!” Ector cried again, “Stay where you are, all of you!”

  Shock again, and the diners once more knew fear, eyes wide with it, and most of those eyes were fixed upon the humming darkness swimming within the steel of the famed Raheen sword held casually, its point angled upwards, though in the general direction of Serat of the Ahk-Viell.

  “My lord Raheen,” Ector declared. “You have the floor. Men of the Guards, two paces back, and reload.”

  Boots on stone punctuated the terror, and as the elderly chamberlain raised a tremulous hand and made as if to speak, there came the sound of a dozen crossbows being cocked, men straining, hooks dragging back strings, and sears clicking into place.

  “Behold, Allazar Meritus, Sardor of the D’ith,” Gawain declared, his voice cold, his breathing deep and controlled.

  “Behold,” Allazar replied, all heads swivelling to regard with fresh alarm the wizard and his glowing staff, the Dymendin a pure white now, almost painful to the eye. “The dream-visions of Benithet, Master of Sek!”

  Above the oak table a smoky mist began to form, and billowed, and roiled, and in it then came images. The Hallencloister, from without and above, as if seen from an Eye borne aloft by a Condavian, its gates all drawn up, banners hanging limp from walls and towers alike. The image swooped down and around, hundreds of wizards, masters and students and boys, and men of the Blue Guard, all about their business. Nightfall, lamps lit. A gate, opened, and cloaked elves in uniforms of crisp blue and white, bearing a litter on which an ornate casket sat. Leading them, an elfwizard bearing a staff, his face hidden from view in the shadows of his cowl.

  The Fountain of Zaine, waters cascading, the casket hoisted up and placed atop the upper dish and left there. The elves withdraw, the gate is closed. Morning. A crowd gathers, segments of the casket fall slowly outward, gold and silver petals blooming. The horror within, amorphous, black, sliding through the water and out of sight of the sunshine. Fire, then, radiating. Wizards and Blue Guards burning, writhing. Lightning, a putrid colour, a glowing brown, striking, a blinding flash, and men and wizards staggering.

  Stains and shadows in the courtyard, wizards hammering at the gates from within, desperate to flee the horror. Twilight, and they are exhausted, barely able to summon mystic light and fire in the glow from the embers of all that remains of the cloister of Sek in the aftermath of its conflagration. The Shadow comes, then. It passes under the long tables in the refectory, leaving mould where once young lives thrived. The Shadow returns to the succour of the orb, a Graken comes, its rider closes the orb and bears it from the Hallencloister. A gate opens, and elves come once again, hunting for survivors, ending life, destroying, pillaging. Nothing remains when they depart.

  The Hallencloister is become a mausoleum, vast, and empty, nothing but ashes and mould interred within.

  The light died and with it the mist Allazar had summoned. Silence, save for the sounds of choked breathing, men utterly astonished by the scale of the cataclysm they had witnessed, and the horrors which not even wizards could hope to defend against.

  “This…” the chamberlain croaked, “It is some kind of trick? Surely?”

  “No,” Gawain declared. “It is the ending of the Hallencloister. So it was seen, so it was done.”

  Then Gawain stepped forward, and holding out the sword as easily as it were a feather duster, he moved its tip to within inches of Serat’s face. The humming, everyone noticed, grew louder the closer it moved to the wizard of the Tau.

  “You will tell me now the whereabouts of that orb and the Toorseneth’s intentions for it.”

  “I do not know!” Serat grinned, and there was a worrying quality to that grin which sent a thrill of warning the length of Gawain’s spine. “Can’t you guess though? Can’t you? I do not know, but I can guess!”

  “Madness!” the chamberlain declared, as though of late it had become his favourite word. “He is fallen into madness!”

  Another chill breeze seemed to waft through the room, and Gawain caught sight of Allazar sweeping around the table, stepping over the bodies of the fallen elves, to reach down and heave Serat from his chair. With impossible strength born of unspeakable rage, Allazar lifted the elfwizard into the air and slammed him down onto the table.

  Crockery shattered, goblets overturned, food scattered and crashed to the floor as Allazar dragged the grinning and recalcitrant Ahk-Viell down the table and hurled him to the floor.

  “You! Shall! Speak!” Eldenbeard’s terrifying voice commanded, and even Gawain stepped back.

  Guards pressed themselves back against the wall behind them, dinner guests leapt from chairs and likewise sought shelter against the bookcases, and in a flash, Venderrian’s arm was around the soolen-Viell’s neck and whispering a warning not to move into the very junior elfwizard’s ear.

  Serat gasped, his grin fading, the maniacal laughter building in his throat dying instantly.

  “Where is the orb!” Gawain demanded, and stepped forward, and thrust the tip of the sword into Serat’s wrist, neatly between the bones of the forearm behind the right hand.

  “I do not know! I do not know!”

  Gawain twisted the blade a little.

  “I do not know!” Serat screamed. “I do not know!”

  “Speak!” Eldenbeard commanded. “Your name! Who do you serve!”

  “Serat! Serat of the Ahk-Viell and Toorsen is my master! He shall consume you all!”

  “Alive Allazar!” Gawain screamed, “Alive!”

  “Light and Shadow!” Serat cried, “The balance shall be maintained! They will take it west! They will take it west!”

  And as soon as those words passed from Serat’s lips, Serat passed from the world in a bursting blast of white fire, Allazar’s staff thrust under his chin.

  Silence again followed, and Gawain wiped the elfwizard’s blood from the tip of the sword, and sheathed it.

  “MiThal?” Venderrian asked. “What is to be done with this one?”

  “Soolen-Viell,” Allazar sneered. “Useless beyond the Viell’s domain, and he will know nothing of the Toors
eneth’s plans.”

  And with that, the wizard strode forward, reached out and grabbed the elfwizard’s robes under his chin. With a nod from Gawain, Venderrian released the soolen-Viell Kahsen into Allazar’s custody.

  Gawain had no idea what was about to happen and decided later that he probably would not have intervened anyway. The memory of the Toorseneth’s treatment of Elayeen was still too fresh in his mind, the shortness of her hair a reminder of it until once again its full and lustrous length was re-grown.

  Allazar simply dragged the startled wizard of the Tau, the markings on his robes clearly visible to all in the room, past the astonished and in some cases blood-spattered nobles, gathering speed, towards the far wall where stood the Guard. Finally as understanding dawned, the Guard parted, revealing the large ornate window which overlooked the Embassy of Elvendere in the courtyard below. Kahsen barely had time to scream before Allazar threw him bodily through that window, watching grim-faced as the body flew through the air to slam into the courtyard far below, to the ringing accompaniment of shards of glass on the cobbles.

  Now, the cold draft which swept over them all came from the shattered window, and was fresh Jurian air, which seemed like some mystic broom to sweep the odours of death, betrayal and destruction from the council chamber.

  Later, once order had been re-established, bodies removed, and a trusted guard set, Gawain sat at the fresh-cleaned table, Ognorm at his back, and eyed the nobles around him. Allazar stood off to one side with Venderrian, by the blood-spattered bookcases, unconcerned by the irony of their position in a place once occupied by those they had so recently slain.

  “What now, my lord?” Eggers asked, his pudgy hands folded on the table.

  “Now? Now Juria’s fate hangs in the balance, as does the world’s.”

  “Do you believe, my lord, Serat’s words?” the chamberlain asked, his voice quavering.

  Gawain pondered for a moment. “Their intent is to destroy all wizardkind. It makes a kind of perverted sense that once they destroyed the Hallencloister, where the Light and Fire of Aemon were forged, they would also wish to destroy the dark wizardry now rife in Goria. Yet, never trust a whitebeard has been my advice to all who would listen. To that adage must now be added, not even a dead one. West lies Elvendere. They may simply have taken the orb back to the Toorseneth.”