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

by GJ Kelly

  “Oh very good!” Gawain declared. “You took the adjective ‘hot’ as describing the rabbit rather than the stew, and then created an amusing antithesis by noting the season and the chilly nature of our surrounds to suggest that the rabbits, though warm-blooded, will in fact be cold.”

  “I did.”

  “Oh now I feels the stirrings of trouser-bricks an’ no mistake. Soon melord you’ll be carrying a stick and the wizard a sword.”

  “Three chances of that happening, Oggy,” Gawain smiled, remembering his brother Kevyn’s expression. “Slim chance, no chance, and fat chance. I’ll take the first watch. I know it’s early yet, but the more we rest the more we can speed our journey when it’s light enough to travel safely.”

  In the silence that followed once the camp had settled for the night, Gawain sat in his blankets and pondered. Clouds scudded, stars fading in and out of obscurity. The fire in his heart and the pit of his stomach blazed once more, and he had Morloch to thank for that, again. Before Morloch’s gloating visitation, the world had seemed broken and irreparable, and chaos indeed the likely outcome. The shock of the Hallencloister’s destruction had left not only Allazar hovering on the brink of fury and immensely dangerous, it truly had seemed like the world’s ending to all of them, Gawain included.

  But the wizard had been right, of course. The Toorseneth was very much a child of Morloch’s making, and opposing it was every bit as cathartic as vexing Morloch himself. Now, they had a target once more, and this one was within reach, the enemy’s intentions clear even without strange aquamire to draw upon for insight. In vexing the Toorseneth, Gawain and Allazar would be vexing Morloch, too. It was a new beginning, a new opportunity for change, a chance for the world to wrench its own destiny from the grip of others.

  It would take time, Gawain knew. And it would be for others to dig the foundations of the new age. Gawain was not a builder; the frequent gaffes arising from his lack of understanding of other peoples and lands other than his own (and the offence and sorrow he had inadvertently caused Ognorm recently was proof enough of that) disqualified him from such work. But there were many who could begin the work and already had. Rak of Tarn and Eryk of Threlland, Brock of Callodon, and perhaps the honourable men to be found in Juria. Arrun and Mornland would follow their lead. Pellarn, too, if Igorn’s campaign in the Old Kingdom was successful. Only Elvendere remained an isolated question mark. And the Toorseneth was in Elvendere.

  Still, though Allazar would carry the pain of the Hallencloister’s destruction for as long as Gawain bore the pain of Raheen’s loss, now the catastrophe could be seen in a new light, thanks to Morloch. Tomorrow, a new dawn would rise, and they would meet it with a new strength, a new conviction, a new purpose. Morloch’s visitation, though the dark lord knew it not, had burned away the heavy grey clouds of bereavement, loss, confusion, and chaos, and lit once more the beacons of hope, and righteous anger. And, Gawain smiled to himself in the dark, it felt good.

  oOo

  27. Crystal Clear

  Two days north of the imaginary line drawn straight across the map from Juria Castletown in the west to Princetown Harbour on the east coast of Mornland, Venderrian cocked his head, and they eased to a halt. It was November 27th, and five days since Morloch’s visitation had given them all renewed hope and purpose, and those five days had seen the rising of good humour, the wizard doing his best to shirk off the melancholy of grief and loss.

  Now though, they sat saddle, all senses alert, silently eyeing the landscape around them through the drizzle while Venderrian cocked his head this way and that, frowning and peering into the gloom of an overcast and wet noon. No-one spoke, none wishing to disturb the ranger.

  Here, the terrain was all typical rolling hills and woodlands, streams and small rivers in the valleys, copses and larger stands of trees on the peaks. They’d just emerged from one of those stands of trees, branches winter-bare and spindly, the route through them chosen to avoid a settlement whose smoke rising from the hearths of good people’s homes they’d seen drifting up in the east. Ognorm sniffed, and wiped his nose on the back of his sleeve, the dregs of his winter cold finally abating.

  “MiThal,” Venderrian announced softly, uncertainty in his voice, “I cannot say for certain, but I think there are lights in the woodland to the west, yonder,” and he pointed.

  “Where the trees cover the hill in the shape of a widow’s peak?”

  “Mithal?”

  “The v-shaped stand of trees on the crown of the rise.”

  “Ah. Yes, that is the place.”

  “It’s only half a mile away at best, is your Sight impeded somehow?”

  Venderrian shrugged. “The lights are faint, as if behind a thick wall, as at the tower in the Eastbinding.”

  “Allazar, is this geography likely to contain such vitreous stone as Urgenenn’s Tower was made of?”

  “I do not know, Longsword. Met Corax would be the one to answer such a question.”

  Gawain sniffed, and wiped rain from his face with a gloved hand. “Could the lights be behind the hill, Ven?”

  “No, miThal. They are in the trees. The light of the trees is dim, the sap low, life resting until spring. Those other lights I see with eldeneyes are dimmer still.”

  “Dwarfspit, and we’ve walked out into the open in plain sight of any who might be lurking yonder and watching. I really wanted to avoid people on our journey home. As much as I would help anyone making a demand on our oath, I would prefer to get back to Elayeen and Last Ridings quickly, and not be diverted as my Ranger Leeny was when she herself made this journey.”

  “Are you sure they are people, Ranger Venderrian?” Allazar asked quietly, sharing Gawain’s concern for any delay. “Might the lights be birds in the trees, or small animals?”

  The look Venderrian gave the wizard would have been comical in less threatening surroundings, and spoke volumes.

  “Ah. My apologies.”

  “Someone approaches, miThal, three lights, much brighter than the others. They must have been shielded behind the dimmer ones. They are on horseback.”

  Moments later, three riders of the Royal Jurian Cavalry emerged from the woods at the point of the widow’s peak Gawain had described, and began their slow ride down the hill and across the valley from the west.

  “Greys,” Gawain sighed, “Bearing a flag of truce. I like this not one bit. Why would friends feel the need to bear such a flag?”

  “And why are they so many miles deep inside the border with Mornland, as we surely are?” Allazar muttered.

  “We’ll find out when they get here. It’s those dim lights they’ve left behind them which concern me most.”

  “Oh I do ‘ope it’s not trouble,” Ognorm sighed, “I don’t want to go up against our old mates, and I only just started feeling meself now me cold’s gone.”

  “The flag means trouble,” Gawain announced quietly. “Else why carry it at all? And now they’re a little closer, I think I recognise the officer leading the trio.”

  Allazar wiped beads of drizzle from his brow and peered at the three riders crossing the valley below them at the canter. “Yes, Longsword, there is something familiar about the fellow’s bearing in the saddle.”

  At length, the riders cantering up the slope some hundred yards from Gawain, they slowed respectfully and perhaps a little anxiously given the makeshift flag tied to the lance one of them bore as proud as any banner. At fifteen yards, they stopped.

  “Captain Byrne,” Gawain announced. “I never thought to see a friend approach so warily, and on friendly Mornland soil, too. Well met, and honour to you.”

  “Alas, my lord, your recognition honours me more than you could know, and breaks my heart, for I am sent not by friends to provide comfort and escort as when first we met near the Morrentill, but by enemies of yours.”

  “The flag you bear is eloquent, Captain, and spoke much on your approach.”

  Byrne nodded. The Jurian officer had met them all at the end o
f the Morrentill, after Gawain’s speedy but tedious journey along the Canal of Thal-Marrahan, and at Willam of Juria’s command ensured their safety all the way to Ferdan where Gawain was to take command of the Kindred Army.

  “I hope this symbol speaks as eloquently, my lord,” Byrne declared, and drew back his cloak to reveal the blank circle of stitches on the left breast of his tunic. But then he opened that tunic, to reveal the emblem of the Kindred Army sewn neatly inside. His two companions did likewise, the emblem still worn proudly, it seemed, even though out of sight.

  “It does, Captain. Discard that flag, men of the Greys, it’s not needed here where honour knows honour and salutes it.”

  “It’s why we were chosen by them to bring word to you. They know, back there on the hill, they know we mean to turn away and ride for Castletown once I’ve uttered the words I’m commanded to speak. Shameful words no Rider of the Grey ever before had to bear to one as noble as you, my lord. I am glad General Bek did not live to hear such orders given.”

  “What’s come to pass in Juria, Byrne? When we left it, the council there was preparing for stewardship.”

  Byrne grimaced. “Aye, my lord. Word spread of the honour done Major Jerryn and the risk taken in the doing of it. But Juria now is undone, my lord. Some time past, Queen Hellin sent First Wizard Mahlek to her boy-husband, Insinnian, in Elvendere. Insinnian returned with a large host at his back not two days after you left Castletown. Those papers sent west with the wizard were treaties, signed by the queen without the council’s knowledge, as is the Crown’s right of course. Treaties ratified in accordance with all protocols, which named Insinnian guardian of Tamsin and Pandalene, the queen’s sisters, and named him Steward of Juria in the event of her Majesty’s illness or demise before Tamsin is of an age sufficient to rule.

  “My lord, Juria now is governed by Insinnian of Elvendere, Crown’s Consort and Steward of Juria. The council is disbanded in accordance with other papers signed by Queen Hellin should such circumstances arise as have of late; she is declared unfit to rule and is now in the care of the healers. The Crown awaits Tamsin’s head, but not for another eight years may she wear it. Until then, it is the elf lordling Insinnian who holds the reins of power, and with elfwizards and a host of elfguard to strengthen his grip upon them. We have no wizards of our own in Juria now, Mahlek did not return from the great forest. Studying, they say he is, in the library there, at her Majesty’s orders, though all now fear you spoke truth when you proclaimed him dead by the hand of the Tau.”

  “And Lord Eggers, Hellin’s cousin?”

  “Under house arrest on his estates west of the vineyards, my lord. Juria is undone, and by the Queen’s own hand. Some say that is why she is become mad, and thus unfit to rule, for the guilt of her betrayal.”

  “And how came you to be here, Captain Byrne?” Allazar asked.

  The officer grimaced. “Orders have been given for the execution of the royal warrant, and amendments made thereto following Insinnian’s discovery of the destruction of the embassy without the Keep. The Steward did not believe accounts of a fiery accident occurring there, and by wizardly means determined that you had presented yourself to the Crown. Serre wizard Allazar is named now as culpable for her Majesty’s illness, and Serre Ognorm and Ranger Venderrian named also on the warrant for trespass and conspiracy to harm the Crown.”

  “’Ope they spelled me name right,” Ognorm muttered, and seemed quite delighted by the news.

  “And you are here to execute that warrant?” Gawain asked.

  “No, my lord. They know we would take no part in such a deed. But they know too that those of us who wore the emblem of the kindred, and many still do though it be hidden, are honourable men and women. They know we can be trusted to deliver their word to the letter, and they know we can be trusted not to turn against the Crown we are sworn to serve. Thus were we sent, they knowing we would ride away, and not swell your ranks to oppose them. It’s they who intend to execute the warrant, my lord, and all of you with it.”

  “They?”

  “In the trees yonder, my lord. Eighteen of Insinnian’s crystal warriors, or so we’ve come to call ‘em. Elfguard, with bows and short swords, but they wear strange new armour, my lord. It is of leather backed by metal in the manner of the thalangard armour we have seen before, but each small tile of leather is studded by a black stone gem of a kind we have never seen. It is like smoked glass, but with facets cut as if for jewellery. Round, about an inch in diameter, stuck somehow to each of the leather platelets. It’s even studded on their helms, and their boots. Their horses likewise bear armour as if for battle, studded with the same gems, but one of the stable lads whispered that it’s little more than a tightwove cloth to which the stones have been affixed. No-one knows the purpose of this new crystal armour; it would seem a poor defence against sword, bolt, or arrow.”

  “And so we have our answer,” Gawain sighed. “Its purpose is clear to us, Byrne. The dark stone gems are intended to evade or obscure the Sight of the Kindred Rangers.”

  Byrne seemed to shrink in his saddle, as if beneath a fresh weight heaped upon his shoulders. “So that is why we were sent to their rear. To be hidden behind some mystic crystal cloak while you approached.”

  “Eighteen you say?” Gawain demanded, though gently.

  “Aye, my lord. We’re commanded to tell you that by order of Insinnian, Steward of Juria, you are to surrender into their custody an artefact known as the Sceptre of Toorsen, and render yourselves into their custody along with it. You will be taken in good health and unharmed to Elvendere, there to stand trial for crimes against the elven people. Should you resist, force will used and if it be so, no guarantees for your safety can be made. I am supposed now to entreat you to consider an honourable surrender.”

  “Which should give us a little more time to talk,” Gawain smiled.

  “Aye, my lord. There’s more. There’s an elfwizard clad in that crystal-studded armour. One who carries a long staff. They’ve deployed two more groups that we’re aware of, one to the southeast, the other further south and to the west. They mean to retrieve the sceptre they keep talking about. Before I left Castletown with that lot, Serre Jawn, the Lord Chamberlain, quietly took me to one side. He told me to tell you if we met that he had overheard Insinnian speaking with elfwizards about the need for the sceptre to be acquired quickly lest the Thallanhall slip from their grasp and they find themselves surrounded in Ostinath. Serre Jawn speaks Elvish, of course, though either our new friends know it not or they have forgotten that the Lord Chamberlain would be expected to be fluent in all tongues. They’re desperate, my lord. They’re under orders not to let you cross into Arrun. I know not why.”

  “How did they know we were here?”

  “I know not,” Byrne admitted. “Wizardry, we think. We’ve been waiting up there now for three days, and patrols have been out day and night looking for signs of your approach. My lord, the greater force waits to the south of here, east and west of the line of valleys they assume you’ll take to speed your journey home to Last Ridings. They have elfwizards in their numbers too, six of them with short sticks and with long, three in each party. And with other Riders of the Grey.”

  “Dwarfspit.”

  “My lord, if any Rider of the Grey should move against you, be not afraid to take what steps as may be needed for your defence. There are none who stood at Far-gor would ride against you now, so any that do are certainly not your friends, and no friends of the true Crown of Juria, neither.”

  “Thank you, Byrne, though it will grieve me sorely to have to loose against allies.”

  “That’s likely their plan, my lord. A juvenile attempt at turning opinion against you, and making you hesitate, and for all you and we know, it’s Insinnian’s elves dressed in grey, and none of Bek’s pride and joy.”

  “Serre,” one of the riders announced.

  “Aye, I know. We must leave, my lord, our time is expired and they’ll grow nervous on the hill. Ther
e’s eighteen up there, my lord, another twenty to the southwest, and twenty more to the southeast, waiting to close upon you. I know not if any were deployed to swing around to the north to cut off your retreat.”

  “Bows, swords and wizards, and nothing more?”

  “Nothing that we’ve seen. My lord…”

  Byrne’s despair shone from the officer’s eyes, and those of his two companions. Gawain smiled and shook his head slightly. But Byrne spoke anyway, great strips of his heart torn away with each phrase he uttered.

  “What are honourable men to do, my lord? How are honourable men to remain true to crown and country when it’s ill-intent that rules them both and strangers on the throne? How can oaths be kept and honoured when hearts and conscience cry out against the keeping? What are honourable men to do, my lord, when those who rule know not the word much less the living of it? What are we to do, my lord? What are we to do?”

  Gawain felt for a moment the agony of those before him, saw the desperation of Byrne’s plea for answers in their eyes, and knew once more the bitter outrage of betrayal. He drew a breath, and sat as tall as he could in the saddle before speaking.

  “The true crown and the true country is not to be found in the stewardship of fresh-faced boys and foreign interlopers new arrived, nor in their edicts, nor any threat of oppression or the harsh reality of it. The true crown and the true country lies in the hearts of honourable men and women who carry it safe there far beyond the oppressor’s reach, and pass it with reverence from one generation to the next. To that true crown and true country they remain steadfast and true, bending but not breaking in the teeth of the storm and waiting for the calm which must surely follow. They keep the true crown and country alive against the day of its return, and in the meanwhile, do what they must to survive, lest the truth perish with them. While fools in power make enemies, conscience in quiet dignity makes allies. Go home, men of Juria, and keep the true crown, and the true country, safe against the day of their rightful restoration.”