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

by GJ Kelly

“Why are you now smiling?”

  “No reason. But chief among the lessons I urge you to remember is this: Do not tell your lady that your son must take after her side of the family should she present you with a soiled nappy and a happy smile after waking you so to do three hours before dawn. It makes for an uncomfortably silent breakfast made by your own hand. And do practice the expression, it will spare you much pain and your lady many tears. Here, let me show you again…”

  Gawain laughed, quietly, and shook his head. “Were I to practice doing that every day for the next seven weeks, my companions would think me quite mad.”

  “True, but trust me when I say it’s worth it. The rest, alas, you must discover for yourself.”

  But then Gawain remembered the sorrow so often in Valin’s eyes, and he shuddered. Rak noticed.

  “What is it, my friend?”

  Gawain’s smile faded, and he gazed at the flames in the grate. “I do not know, Rak. I do not think the future is inclined towards kindness where Elayeen and I and our son are concerned.”

  “I had such fears for Travak when you spoke of Morlochmen in the Barak-nor, and when the call to arms sounded, heralding war. Your fears are those of all expectant fathers, Gawain. We none of us wish an ill world upon our children. Our nights are filled with dark imaginings, and we see dangers where there were none before. It is natural to fear the future, at such times as this. It is why you overestimate the cheer a letter and a small bundle of gifts might bring compared to the comfort of your arms about your lady.”

  “Do you think so?”

  “I know so. But practice the expression anyway, it’ll serve you well in years to come, especially if you’re graced with another bundle of joy.”

  Gawain nodded.

  “Have you thought of a name for him, my brother?”

  “No. Whenever E and I have spoken of names it has most often been in jest. A name would make of a dream a hard reality, and we were not ready for that. Nor am I still, not yet. I expect it will be something suitably elvish.”

  “You will not choose a name from among Raheen’s monarchs?”

  “I don’t know. I don’t think so. There is no Raheen, Rak. The Hall of Raheen in Last Ridings is no more than an institution, an embodiment of a set of traditions those of us who are left of that land yet cling to, and yearn to maintain. But we cannot, and we know it. My son will inherit no crown from the king of ashes. If he inherits anything at all it will be a longhouse of wood, a roundtower of stone, and a hole in the ground. A hole made when elder days were young, and in it, waiting for him, a box which only he can open.”

  oOo

  25. Hubris

  It was bitterly cold when they mustered in the lamplight outside Rak’s house before dawn, breath pluming, noses dripping, cheeks flushed red by the chill. Travak and Merrin were there, the child swaddled in blankets and standing behind his father’s legs, sleepy-eyed and blinking, regarding the giants all around him with confused interest and more than a little anxiety. The well-wrapped bundle Merrin had given Gawain was now securely strapped to his saddle, and the letters for Elayeen in his tunic.

  “You will give Elayeen my love?” Merrin asked softly. “And tell her to expect us soon?”

  “I shall,” Gawain promised, releasing his hold of Merrin’s hands as she stepped forward to embrace him. “She’ll count the days ‘til summer, we all will.”

  Sniffing and damp-eyed, Merrin drew back, and patted Gawain on the chest lightly, over his heart. Then she moved away, and stood before Allazar. She said nothing, but reached up, slipping her hands around the back of the wizard’s neck and drawing his head down beside hers. She whispered something in Allazar’s ear, and Gawain saw him nodding, and embracing her with his free hand, the staff, as usual, in his right.

  Rak stepped forward, and Travak fled to hide behind his mother’s cloak. Arms were clasped, shoulders slapped, but no further words spoken in the gloom. None were needed. The riders mounted, hooves clopped on the cobbles, and then the four rode away at the trot, eyeing their shadowy surroundings as they went as if memorising the details of a place they were seeing for the last time. They didn’t look back, which of course was as it should be, but it took immense strength to refrain from casting what Gawain felt might be a final look at Rak, his lady, and his son, the noble family watching them depart from within the halo of lamplight which had shone with such welcome on their arrival.

  Four days later they were in the northwest corner of Mornland and a week from the Juria Castletown line. Gawain had taken a wide and hurried track around the river border crossing and then swung back east, and with the great bend in the River Shasstin well behind them over their right shoulders, they knew they were on the Mornland side of the border with Juria, and consequently, felt a little safer. Their path would be due south, or thereabouts, though of course taking what precautions were needed to avoid habitations and where necessary to avoid any obstacles nature might have placed in their path.

  Those four days had begun quietly enough, but the realisation that they were homeward bound for Last Ridings had lifted their spirits, and even Allazar seemed less inclined to hide himself in the shadow of his cowl when they made camp. Gawain flicked a glance in his direction, noting the sceptre snug in its tubular map-case and strapped tightly across the wizard’s back. Allazar’s robes beneath his cloak remained black as night, the colour of the mystic dye used when they’d slunk like thieves into Juria.

  The Dymendin staff was also wrapped in black cloth, and while riding the wizard had tucked it like a cavalryman’s lance through loops on his saddle under his right leg. It seemed odd not seeing it in the wizard’s hand, but on the journey to the Eastbinding Allazar had discovered the comfort of carrying it thus, and enjoyed the convenience of having both hands free. Gawain sighed. Allazar had been right, in Arramin’s Cabin. The wizard was himself, but not the self he had been. From a distance, at least, Allazar had all the appearance of military man, and so at least the map-case on his back would draw no particular attention from a casual observer.

  When dawn had lit the sky enough to separate the land from the heavens and thus make for a visible horizon, they broke camp, and by the time they resumed their travelling the sky was a clear pale azure. There’d been a light dusting of frost on the ground and on their blankets, and it twinkled before succumbing to warmer air stirred by the sun. The moon was still bright in the west, and now, an hour later, still was, though fading slowly and dipping lower towards the horizon even as the sun was rising and shining a little brighter. It was cold, winter sneaking up on them since they’d left Last Ridings in September.

  Ognorm was nattering to Venderrian about the flight through the forest of Calhaneth with the Orb of Arristanas when he suddenly stopped, and gazed at the ranger. Venderrian had stopped listening and was staring high up into the sky to the east. Gawain felt a frisson of alarm, and then a curious sense of excitement.

  “MiThal,” the ranger declared quietly. “Condavian!” And he pointed to a black hyphen high in the sky, clear for all to see in stark contrast to the pale blue backdrop.

  A quick glance around revealed little cover which would shield them from an Eye in the sky. The taller shrubs hereabouts would make for a good ambush, and there were copses dotted here and there in the rolling landscape, but they were too far away, and in this season most of the trees were bare-limbed. Besides, Gawain knew, running would merely draw attention if they hadn’t already been seen, and most likely they had.

  “Melord?”

  “Ognorm.”

  “Do we leg it, melord? There’s some big bushes yonder we could squeeze under?”

  Gawain smiled. “No, Oggy. We’ll continue on our way. If it comes within range, we’ll try to bring it down. If not, let it look at us. Keep good watch, Ven, we are now forewarned, and may expect consequences from this sighting.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, melord, but that seems something of an odd plan.”

  Gawain nodded happily. “’Eadsc
ratchy odd?”

  “Arr.”

  “I can think of only one reason for a Condavian circling in this region so soon after our departure from Tarn. And only one pair of eyes interested in what may be seen through its lofty Eye.”

  “Morloch,” Allazar declared.

  “Aye. And if he’s as weak as all would wish to believe, then there’ll be a Graken-rider with a Jardember nearby commanding that winged spy above us.”

  “But how would ‘e know we’re ‘ere, melord?”

  Gawain shrugged. “How did he ever know anything? Spies, in Threlland or in Juria. I suspect the latter. Remember, when we left Juria Castletown bound for Calhaneth on the quest for the Orb, Morloch appeared soon after to threaten the people of Tarn. There may yet be a dark wizard or two loyal to Morloch, perhaps in the far north of Goria where the Meggen dwell, and spies in these lands active still.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon again, melord, you want this Graken-rider to come a-calling?”

  “I do, Oggy. And if he does, Allazar, please hold your peace and give no hint of your nature. With your hood up, you look more like a Callodon lancer wrapped against the cold than a wizard, and it’d be nice if you can keep it that way.”

  “An insight, Longsword?”

  “Yes. Morloch would not pass up an opportunity to gloat, and this may be the last one he gets. Come, there’s a clear rise yonder, and if we place ourselves on it the view of our surrounds will be much improved.”

  “Aye, and the Condavian’s of us an’ all,” Ognorm mumbled fretfully.

  “Indeed, that an’ all,” Gawain agreed cheerfully. But there was a steely edge to his voice and a glint in his eye which made them all stiffen in their saddles as they turned their horses a little to the east of south, heading for the rise.

  They didn’t have to wait long. Perhaps fifteen or twenty minutes later Venderrian declared “There, miThal” and pointed to the northeast.

  “Graken,” Allazar announced, “Unmistakeably so, and come from around Threlland’s eastern flank. I had thought it would come from the west.”

  “It doubtless did originally, when we left Juria, and then it settled in the Barak-nor or thereabouts while the Condavian searched for us. With all the new defences in Tarn and neighbouring peaks, and Kindred Rangers patrolling Threlland’s western reaches, it would have wished to avoid a daylight flight anywhere near them. Thus, it has sneaked around the east, perhaps even over the sea there for a time.”

  The Condavian dipped lower, circling around them, and the flapping winged lizard still some way off continued making its cautious way towards them from the north. They were on a ridge running roughly west to east, the ground hard and windblown, all wild and scrubby grasses. Plenty of room for a Graken to land. Plenty of space for a clear shot from an elven longbow.

  “Remember, Allazar, hold your peace. Unless it attacks, and then by all means deprive Morloch of another of his dwindling stock of loyal servants.”

  “I shall do my best, Longsword.”

  “Your best to hold your peace or your best to bring it down should it attack?”

  “Both.”

  “Ah. Well, can’t ask for better than your best, I suppose.”

  The Graken dipped lower, and for a moment looked to be turning away, but it was merely manoeuvring on the wind in order to arc around and approach them along the ridgeline. At perhaps three hundred and fifty yards due east of them, it rose, back-winged, and settled on the ground, folding back its wings.

  “Canny bugger,” Ognorm sniffed. “Too far for me to nail in this wind.”

  “And for me, my friend,” Venderrian sighed, his Sighted gaze fixed upon the Graken rider. “He raises a dark object, miThal.”

  “A Jardember, no doubt. Wait behind me, and stand fast unless I call you forward. Stand ready though.”

  With that, Gwyn ambled some ten yards forward, leaving a trio of worried-looking companions behind him readying weapons, or in Allazar’s case, tucking the cloth-wrapped staff under his arm in the manner of a lancer making ready to ride for the charge.

  A familiar shimmering in the air above and in front of Gawain, and a dark-edged circle appeared, and then the image crystallised as if from a wavering fog. In it, they could see two figures, both robed in heavy dark cloth, one seated at a desk, scribbling, the other standing to one side clutching a small bundle of scrolls, to which a new one was added when the scribbling was done.

  It was the standing figure which suddenly seemed to notice they were being observed. That figure, man or woman none could say, turned its black-eyed gaze towards them, and blinked. Black thread veins pulsed, thin and blackened lips gaped for a moment, and then the scroll-bearer bent low at the waist to whisper urgently into the seated figure’s ear.

  It was Morloch who sat upright and tossed a glance over his shoulder at the immense lens through which Gawain could be seen. He handed a final scroll to his underling and made a perfunctory shooing motion which his hand, waited until a nearby door had been closed behind the acolyte before he stood, and then approached, his features looming large.

  “You. Nothing. I thought never to be vexed by you again. Yet there you stand once more. Did you think you could pass so close to my domain and go unnoticed by me?”

  The tone was conversational, and so matter-of-fact that Gawain’s companions were astonished. But not Gawain. His heart hammered, a familiar rage flaring, a rage he thought dead, feelings he thought lost in a world become a grey and hopeless chaos. And then he smiled, thin-lipped and grim, and gazed up at the loathsome image, and then spoke:

  “What, no bluster? No tantrums? And what’s this, lord of filth, you seem to have lost another tooth since last I saw your miserable visage, the day I plunged your army into the abyss, and all your hopes with it.”

  But Morloch cackled, and grinned, revealing the moist black cavity where now indeed only a single tooth stood rotting defiantly.

  “What need have I for bluster now, Nothing, now that the final blow has been struck? Did I not warn you, fool? Did I not tell you I would unleash upon your stinking lands and putrid people such wrath as this world has never seen? And have I not done so? Where are your wizards, Nothing?”

  “Where are yours, filth?”

  For the briefest moment, Gawain saw a flash of intense anger darken Morloch’s expression, the black veins of his neck and face pulsing. It was enough for Gawain to press forward again.

  “Oh, did you think yourself safe from the insanity of Toorsen’s creed? Did you think they would strike only at the light and spare your acolytes in their quest for balance? How many images now swim in your lens, where once there were hundreds? One? Two?”

  “It matters not,” Morloch sighed, and blinked, and eased back from the lens a little. “You shall fade and die, Nothing. Chaos shall reign. Walls shall crack and towers tumble and war make ruin of the folly you name civilisation. All shall perish who remember these days, and those that live in years to come shall declare their flyblown hovels, caves and tree houses the very zenith of kindred achievement.” Then Morloch leaned forward, black eyes glinting in the reflection of the sunshine pouring from the lens.

  “But. I. Shall. Live. Did you think me destroyed, Nothing? Did you think me withering now upon the vine of your miserable lands? That which you have seen beyond this foul mountain barrier is nothing. These northern lands are vast beyond your witless imagining. Thrice ten times could I fit your reeking realms into the north with room to spare! Fabled lands there are, and islands in the sea, rich and verdant. They shall feed me. And when I am become bored with the feasting and gorging upon them, then, Nothing, then I shall recall this pitiful corner of the world and return. And when I do, Nothing, I shall commence to devour whatever remains of the spawn of your loins, and breed them like cattle for my table!”

  “So there is bluster, after all. I vex you still. With thrice ten times the feast within such easy reach of your festering arm, why then expend so much time and effort snacking here? Not even the lord
of imbeciles would waste so many resources while easier pickings lay closer to hand. Why walk a hundred miles to pluck an apple from a tree if you live in the middle of an orchard?

  “I vex you still, lord of foul conceit and hubris! The pride which was your army is swept away. Your servants are fled and rising now for their own ambition, heedless of yours, knowing that you without them to do your bidding are utterly powerless, caged as you are beyond the Teeth; there, where the might of these lands constrained you, and left you trammelled like a rabbit fearful of the light shining without its hutch!”

  “You shall vex me no more, Nothing, for your world is ended. Nothing shall come of nothing. Chaos rules now where order once prevailed! My chaos! My legacy to your mewling breed. It would have been so much easier, Nothing, so much easier had you simply died with all your reeking people atop your mouldering eyrie, so much easier for you all. The ending of you all would have been swift and almost merciful compared to the misery all your realms shall now endure. And it shall be endured. Because. Of. You. While those who yet remember these days still draw their rancid breath, they shall envy the dead, and curse you for bringing this ruin upon them, and those as yet unborn shall know nothing but animal barbarism! Nothing of any worth shall remain! This is my chaos, this is my legacy, this is my lash of doom which ends your vexing of me and sees the final hours of all your commonkind endeavours!”

  “Bluster. Worthless words from a witless worm once of the eldenD’ith and now banished beyond all effect and influence. Do you not understand, lord of stupidity and filth, it was your own madness you placed in Toorsen’s mind. Toorsen’s madness is your own and not some cunning weapon of clever invention or creation! You planted in him the seeds of your own destruction! Who shall you now summon to your dreaming tower? In all those broad lands in the north, how many are born there with white hair to answer your call to service? In those fabled lands and islands in the sea, how many fresh white-haired acolytes are born and raised to heed your summons?”