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

by GJ Kelly

  Morloch blinked.

  And Gawain knew the reason for Morloch’s earlier anger. Strange aquamire had revealed the insight. Why should Morloch suffer such fury, albeit brief and hastily concealed, when Gawain had asked where are yours if the north did indeed hold limitless resources as Morloch had claimed? He pressed home his advantage.

  “You have destroyed yourself, Morloch. Even now the darkness you unleashed in the west is fading, Goth-lords poor substitutes for the real terror of white-haired wizards of Gothen, Sethi, and Tansee, so few now in number. What powers the Tals of the west might learn from wizards are transitory and live only as long as they themselves.

  “Wizards are not made, they are born. Goth-lords are not born, they are made of grasping men whose lust for power corrupts them and sees them learning cheap tricks and conjuring from those who once served you. Tals made Goth-lords remain men of the west, and loyal only to themselves. Do you think the zealots of Toorsen’s creed will permit any white-haired child of the west to rise through those treacherous ranks who served you so long ago? You have destroyed yourself, Morloch. The madness you seeded in Toorsen’s mind was born of your own hatred for yourself. If I have indeed unleashed this ruin, then I have indeed brought about your ending!”

  “You know nothing, Nothing.”

  “Yet I vex you still. You really should have let me cross the Teeth. Your ending at my hands would have been so much swifter and almost merciful compared to the withering agony you shall suffer, your aquamire exhausted, your servants gone, alone there in your tower. While here in these lands, your name shall pass once more into myth, a story to frighten naughty children, until with the rising of the new age of enlightenment which shall surely follow the ending of the Toorseneth, you are forgotten, as dust in a crypt calls to mind no image of the flesh and bone which once it was.

  “We shall vex you, Morloch, even beyond the dust of your ending. There shall be no chaos here! No descent into barbarism! We shall stand in the south and the last thing you’ll ever see when you draw your final foul and rasping breath shall be the light of our world shining like a beacon above the Teeth of your binding and you shall know then! You shall know then it was I who vexed you! And with me, all these lands! Vex!”

  And as Morloch backed away in dread from the lens in his dark tower beyond the Dragon’s Teeth, Gawain charged forward towards the Graken-rider, drawing an arrow ready to hurl and waving it like a banner-man’s flag. Behind him after the briefest of stunned moments charged his three companions, Venderrian loosing a hopeful arrow.

  “You shall not vex me!” Morloch screamed, but the image wavered and faded, the Graken-rider noting how close the elven longshaft had come in spite of the chill breezes wafting down from the north.

  The dark wizard fumbled with the Jardember, trying to secure it in a pouch under his robes as four wild horsemen thundered towards him. Another arrow snicked into the dirt to the other side of him, and he knew he had been bracketed by the bowman.

  “Vex!” they screamed, their blood up. Even the packhorse bearing their supplies was running behind them, doing its level best to keep up.

  The Graken lurched, jerking its head around to the north in response to its rider’s insistent tugging on the reins. Its wings unfurled and it began to lope down the slope of the ridge into the wind, squealing as an arrow struck the base of its tail and two more, hurled by Ognorm and Gawain, fizzed over its head.

  “Allazar!” Gawain screamed over the sound of the charge and the wind whipping his face. “Allazar! Bring it down! Bring it down!” and he hurled another arrow.

  But a stronger gust caught in the Graken’s wings and filled them, and with three powerful beats it was airborne, and gaining speed, the horsemen swinging after it, Venderrian loosing another shot which they saw, incredibly, fly straight and true into the back of the rider’s tall seat. It was moving quickly now, and while they plunged down the slope at the gallop, the Graken lifted higher and stretched its lead to perhaps a hundred yards.

  “Allazar!” Gawain screamed again, knowing now that only the wizard’s immense tree of lightning might have the range and the power to bring the beast back to earth.

  But it was no tree of lightning the wizard called forth. Over the whistling of the wind and the thundering of hooves they could hear Allazar screaming out strange words none understood, and instinctively they eased back, giving him the lead.

  Then a shimmering grew like a great sphere of rippling water around the end of the cloth-wrapped staff. The wizard’s shouts rose to a crescendo, the rippling ball grew, and then sped forward, expanding like the Surge of Baramenn they had seen before, but this time, holding its watery, balloon-like shape. It passed under the Graken, and then burst, leaving what for a fleeting moment looked like a great hole in the air beneath the winged beast into which it promptly fell.

  Its wings flailed, all control lost as it sank into the great bubble Allazar had burst beneath it. By the time it regained the normal density of chill winter air some thirty feet closer to the ground, it was too late. It had already begun to spin, one wing snapping up suddenly at the renewed pressure of the air, the other flailing as it desperately sought to maintain flight. It failed, and as the horsemen charged forward, it ploughed into the soft earth of north-eastern Mornland, throwing up great sprays of soil and shrubbery until it slid to a halt.

  They were fifty yards from the stricken creature and closing at the gallop when they saw the iron-masked wizard pry himself free of the straps holding him fast to the high-backed saddle, and stagger away from the smouldering carcass, purple smoke already beginning to billow from the creature’s shattered head.

  They were reining in, well clear of the beast and to the east of it when it erupted into purple flame, smoke billowing before it was whipped away to the south. Gawain jumped from the saddle, drawing the sword the moment his boots hit the ground, striding towards the dark wizard, fury burning in his stomach and in his heart.

  That was when Allazar did release a Surge of Baramenn, blowing the dark wizard off his feet just as the latter drew a Rod of Asteran from beneath his heavy robes.

  “Don’t kill him, Allazar!” Gawain cried, but the wizard was already two yards in front of him and running faster than Gawain could remember ever seeing Allazar move.

  “Stand back Gawain!” Allazar screamed, and as the Graken-rider heaved himself up onto his elbows, the First of Raheen swung the White Staff like a pole-axe, striking the Graken-rider on the head.

  They stood over the supine and motionless rider, Gawain with the tip of the sword held near the throat, Allazar with the staff held directly over the iron mask, breathing hard. That mask was dull, and evil, and like those they had seen before, simple, nothing but crude holes drilled for eyes and mouth.

  Ognorm kicked the unconscious form in the ribs, rather hard.

  “Reckon ‘e’s carked it, melord,” he sniffed, “Fall and the bash on the bonce done for ‘im.”

  Allazar stooped, and grasped the base of the mask under the chin, dragging it off. The face beneath was a man’s, the head bald, fine black veins visible under snow-white skin. Dark liquid had oozed from his ears and nose, and the eyes were closed, seeing nothing.

  “MiThal!”

  Gawain glanced up into the sky, following the direction of Venderrian’s pointing finger. A trail of smoke, moving quickly south, all that remained of the Condavian which had died along with the dark wizard who’d made it.

  “Dead then!” Gawain grimaced, stooping to pry open a pallid and lash-less lid. The black eye beneath was glazing quickly, and entirely lifeless. “Dwarfspit!”

  “Behold the reason for my warning, Longsword,” Allazar turned the mask over.

  Inside, it was lined with what looked like plush velvet padding, at least half an inch thick, if not more.

  “Insulation against the cold,” the wizard explained. “And the simple design of the mask prevents the wearer from being gagged. Even without his Rod of Asteran, this foul creature wou
ld have been able to chant any number of unpleasant weapons against you. I am sorry I hit him so hard. Sometimes I forget how heavy the Dymendin truly is, so light is it in my hands.”

  “No matter,” Gawain declared. “Oggy, Ven, search the body, carefully. See if there’s anything which might give us an idea where he came from.”

  “Arr.”

  “You should step away with me, Allazar, lest they discover some book of dark spells which might corrupt you in some way.”

  Gawain strode from the corpse, leading the horses clear and walking them after the sprint. The packhorse in particular drew his attention; it wasn’t overloaded but they had long way to go, and he wanted to ensure they all took great care for the animal’s welfare.

  “I am sorry, Longsword…” Allazar began.

  But Gawain span on his heel to face the wizard. “Sorry? D’you know what this means? We have vexed Morloch! Oh we have vexed him, Allazar! Did you not see his anger? Did you not see the fury and the despair in his eyes there at the end! We have vexed him, Allazar! We have vexed him to the vakin moon and yonder and robbed him of another of his dwindling stock of loyal servants!”

  Allazar blinked, astonished, and then slowly, a smile began to form. A cruel smile, like the one Gawain himself had worn on so many occasions.

  oOo

  26. Grim Smiles

  They found little on the dark wizard’s corpse of note. Heavy robes and garments to keep out the cold, an Eye of Morloch, which Gawain promptly burst with the tip of his sword, feeling the slight jolt of something rushing through his hand as he did so. A book, similar to that Gawain had found in the satchel of a wizard of the ToorsenViell in the hills near Harks Hearth, and this Allazar snatched from a surprised Ognorm’s hand, tossed away, and promptly incinerated with a blast of white fire. And lastly, a phial of aquamire, possession of which Gawain claimed while Allazar was scattering the ashes of the burned book.

  But the wizard either had eyes in the back of his head or some other means of understanding what had taken place behind him, and he stepped close to Gawain, and held out his hand. Gawain sniffed. Allazar simply gazed at him. Gawain folded his arms over the pommel of his sword, still unsheathed from bursting the Eye.

  Allazar leaned forward a little, and said softly, “Don’t you think you have quite enough as it is?” and nodded at the grey-black steel of the sword, aquamire real and false staining the blade deep from tip to hilt and humming.

  “The risk of passing it into your hand is too great,” Gawain declared, sheathing the weapon. “You might succumb to the temptation it represents.”

  But Allazar’s expression darkened, and sparks danced atop the cloth-wrapped Dymendin. Fearing the imminent arrival of Eldenbeard, and Gawain did fear Eldenbeard, he withdrew the phial of foul black substance from a pocket and held it up. At once, Allazar snatched, tossed it towards the corpse of the Graken-rider, and before it landed unleashed a dazzling torrent of white fire which consumed entirely the body and the phial. There was a loud concussion beneath the roaring of the white fire when the aquamire was liberated, but nothing remained but ash and smoke when the wizard grunted in satisfaction and turned away to walk to the horses. The three left behind stood gaping and trying desperately to blink away the after-images staining their vision, and it was some minutes before they were able to continue on their way.

  Camp that night was entirely different to their earlier, more sombre affairs. The change in Gawain and Allazar was remarkable, and saw Ognorm and Venderrian exchanging frequent surprised glances at the renewed banter between the two. Finally, after settling on their blankets and the last chews of their evening meals swallowed, the confused dwarf could take no more.

  “Beg pardon, melord, but, what does it all mean? Everything the black-eyed ‘spit said left me quaking in me boots, an’ I don’t mind saying so neither. But there you and the wizard sit, like you won a great victory?”

  “We have, Oggy. We have,” Gawain smiled in the gloom. “And what’s more, Morloch knows it.”

  “Well I can’t see it, melord. Sorry.”

  “A long time ago,” Gawain began, wrapping his blankets tighter, “When Morloch was first bound beyond the Teeth, he discovered that even though he couldn’t cross them back into these lands, he could bring his influence to bear. He used that influence, to draw sleeping wizards in their dreams to his tower, there to corrupt them, and make of them dark servants. He may well have done so when he was on this side of the Teeth too, adding to his retinue of followers, but the perfect freedom of evil to do whatever evil desires was likely more than enough to attract many of them in those elder days.

  “Toorsen was one of the elfwizards of yore who helped bind Morloch, and later in dreams he too was summoned to Morloch’s tower. We know this from the Book of Sardor. Morloch planted a madness in Toorsen, thinking to create a final weapon, a doomsday weapon against the day all his plans failed, to be unleashed upon the world should a time come when Morloch found himself bereft of all hope of ever consuming these lands. That time came with the ruin of his plans to cross the Teeth through a breach in them and across the rip beneath them. For how long he succeeded in sending aquamire and loyal servants into these lands before the Teeth were slapped and the breaches sealed, we cannot know. But when the work of centuries at the Teeth was undone, and with the rising of the Goth-lords and dark wizards in the west turning to Maraciss for their own ambitions, Morloch’s plans lay in tatters. Clear so far?”

  “Aye melord, so far.”

  “Good. Because as plans go Morloch’s was a desperate one, born of spite and a thirst for vengeance against the Viell and the D’ith who together had defeated him, and bound him in the north. His plan was simply to destroy the Hallencloister and all within; to end the D’ith, and through the corruption of Toorsen’s mad creed, make dark those remaining elfwizards not of that creed.”

  Ognorm sniffed. “Seems to have worked pretty well then, melord, if’n you don’t mind me saying so.”

  Gawain smiled that grim smile of his, the smile now shared by Allazar. “Yet the plan called for the D’ith to be destroyed before the invasion at Far-gor, and so they were. To rob us of friendly sticks at the front when darkness and the Meggen swept south. And yes, my friend, that worked pretty well too. But there is where it should have ended.”

  “And it dint?”

  “No. Alas for Morloch, not only was he slapped back behind the Teeth, but his army was swept away. The old belief that the waters of the Avongard are so pure no evil may cross it actually came to pass when the roof of the canyon collapsed, and Morloch’s army perished. Had the army survived, Elvendere would have fallen along with all other lands. But Morloch’s army perished, and Toorsen’s madness survived.

  “Toorsen’s creed didn’t stop with the destruction of the Hallencloister. That foul orb of Benithet has been taken west, so we were told by Serat. Dark wizards too are Toorsen’s target south of the Teeth, and Morloch’s influence here in these lands is ending. He hasn’t so much cut off his nose to spite his face, as cut his own throat. Without dark wizards to do his bidding, he is powerless. And without wizards of the D’ith, there can be no dark wizards made of them.

  “Morloch’s influence thus wanes, ended by his own hand, plans of his own design his own undoing. We have vexed him even unto his own ending. What resources he may yet have beyond the Teeth are failing, and like his stock of servants here in the south, dwindling, and irreplaceable. His own weapon has backfired against him.”

  “Arr well, that’s good then?”

  “It is. It means the kindred’s destiny now rests in its own hands. Above all else we must prevent these lands falling into chaos as Morloch hopes. Now more than ever must the lands unite in common cause. This is not the world’s ending as Allazar and I feared and believed. This is no ending at all. It is a beginning. The chance to make the Ranger’s Oath a reality. Friyenheth, Ceartus, Omniumde. Freedom and justice, for all.”

  Ognorm blinked, bushy eyebrows arched, and
wiped his nose.

  “We have a new purpose now,” Allazar announced softly. “A new purpose, and a new hope, and a new common enemy. This is the new strength in us you have seen. Master Benithet saw no future beyond the Hallencloister’s ending because he was not of the new world which shall rise from its ruin. Our task now is to return to Last Ridings, and strengthen its defences, and then begins the new age.”

  “Strengthen the defences against what, though?” Ognorm sniffed again.

  “Against the Toorseneth,” Allazar replied, “Which is the new enemy, arisen from the madness of the old. In many ways, the Toorseneth is Morloch, he the parent and the creed of the Tau his child.”

  Again Ognorm sniffed, and looked doubtful.

  “And there is no vast barrier of rock twixt them and us,” Gawain glowered. “They have no Dragon’s Teeth for skirts to hide behind.”

  “But melord, why can’t the black-eyed ‘spit just hop on a Graken and fly ‘imself over those mountains? The Toorsenspits did just that in the Eastbinding after all.”

  “The Dragon’s Teeth is an immense range, high, and broad as well as long,” Allazar declared. “And nothing may live for long above the tree line on such peaks. The air there is too thin. It is why so many died on the slopes of the far side, trying to hammer a breach through them. The Graken cannot fly in such thin air, nor so far along the coast from the north as it would need to. If it could, Morloch would have remained bound there for a matter of weeks, not millennia. The highest peaks of the Eastbinding are no higher than any in Threlland, and Threlland’s highest peak falls short of the lowest valley between the mountains of the Teeth.”

  “And so Allazar is indeed himself. More than a hundred words when ‘the Teeth are too high and too broad’ would do. To celebrate, once we’re well south of the Castletown line, I might relent and let you make us all a hot rabbit stew.”

  “Alas, Longsword, I believe the only rabbits we might find in these lands are of the cold variety.”