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

by GJ Kelly

  36. Pursuit

  “Is it possible the Ahk-Viell is using some mystic means of keeping them moving so well?” Gawain grimaced, the question born of frustration, and the frustration born of two days spent riding a parallel course with their quarry and keeping them in sight, the river always meandering between them.

  Allazar shrugged. “There are chants for aiding natural healing, you have seen me perform them yourself. But I know of nothing which the Ahk-Viell might use to keep horses fit and moving.”

  “Vakin Dwarfspit, I’m tired of following their progress through the fluttering of disturbed birds and their putrid specks moving across these easy lands of lower Mornland. Soon we’ll be in the higher reaches of upper Arrun and still they haven’t turned west.”

  “They know we are here, and they don’t wish to be caught in the river should they try to cross it.”

  “And we know they’re not travelling by night, Ven’s Sight would have alerted us to that.”

  “At least they too have avoided habitations, though not many of those have we seen.”

  “True. It’s the twelfth today, isn’t it?”

  “Of December. Yes, Longsword. And before you ask, the moon is next full on the seventeenth.”

  Gawain glanced up to the southwest, the moon hanging well above the horizon more than three quarters full and shining brightly. A clear night, and bitterly cold northerlies making a misery of it.

  “You’ve felt nothing through the stick?”

  “Nothing,” the wizard confirmed.

  “It doesn’t make sense,” Gawain protested quietly, pacing back and forth, frost on the grass crunching under his boots. “Tomorrow’s the thirteenth then. Which means we’re what, three or four days from the Hallencloister line, or thereabouts?”

  “Thereabouts,” Allazar agreed, “Our route has been a winding one, but swifter these last few days. If we were closer to the Jurian border than we are here on Mornland’s centre line, it might be easier to judge. The landscape around the Hallencloister is quite familiar to me.”

  “Then we’re perhaps only a day or two from the border with Arrun, which, according to Captain Byrne, the Toorseneth is anxious for us not to cross with the sceptre in our possession. And we’re not.”

  “We’re not what, Longsword?”

  “We’re not on the centre line of Mornland, and haven’t been for days. Our path has taken us further and further west of it for some time now.”

  “Ah.”

  “How did you make that map of Ramoth towers? Your navigation is appalling.”

  “The map of the lands was made from memory of lessons in the Hallencloister, and the towers marked thereon during my travels and from discussions with fellow travellers and traders of the various guilds. It wasn’t intended to show every hill, dale and waterway.”

  “Pity. If it’d had this river on it, we might have a better idea where we are in relation to Arrun’s border and the Hallencloister.”

  “We may well have a better idea tomorrow. The rise we saw on the horizon is probably the last great rise before the descent into Arrun begins.”

  “Aye, true. The midland hills and woodlands are long gone now. Gorse and hawthorn abound here, heralds of Arrun’s plains approaching. To think Elayeen made this journey, and might have camped near here, alone with Meeya and Valin.”

  “Arr,” Ognorm sighed from his blankets. “What a lady she be! If’n you don’t mind me sayin’ so, melord. Sorry.”

  “No, Oggy, I don’t mind at all. She is. Still,” Gawain finally sat on his saddle on the freezing ground and ceased his fidgeting, “Whether it’s the last rise of Mornland we ascend tomorrow or not, we know one thing for certain sure.”

  “What’s that, melord?”

  “Water doesn’t flow uphill. Tomorrow, those two bastards we pursue run out of river, or must cross its freezing flow if they mean to continue their journey. And that, my friends, is a comforting thought before sleep.”

  What wasn’t comforting the next morning was driving sleet which made their onward progress a miserable trudge blown by vicious gusts from behind, Venderrian assuring them all that their quarry was still within range of his Sight and still moving steadily south. And what was even more discomfiting was the discovery that the river which had separated hunter from prey swung not to the east across the Ahk-Viell’s path, but to the west across theirs, the flow broadening, branching, following for a mile or more the foot of the rise before them until it sank from sight in a quagmire and disappeared below ground.

  Gawain wasn’t prepared to risk horse or rider crossing the freezing, boggy ground, and so in haste and in great discomfort, they rode wide around the bitter obstacle and lost three hours of their pursuit before they were able to attain the slope of the rise. It was a stomach-wrenching frustration of a setback, and given their poor mood and the foul weather, it seemed to them that nature was conspiring against them in favour of the Toorseneth.

  On the summit of the rise, Venderrian announced that he could glimpse dim lights south of their position, though he had to squint against the sleet numbing his face and making his Sighted eyes water. The enemy had taken advantage of their delay and favourable geography and begun to swing west, the one direction Gawain did not wish them to take.

  When the hunt had begun, Ognorm had asked why their goal had changed from getting the sceptre to Elayeen at all costs, to hunting down an elfwizard and his escort. Gawain had explained that destroying the so-called Retribution sent against them by Insinnian before word could be sent west would spare reinforcements pursuing them all the way back to Last Ridings, and sow doubt and fear in the hearts of the despised creed sufficient perhaps to quash any plans the enemy might have had for a direct assault on Last Ridings.

  And that was why Gawain drove them on through the sleet and down the slope on the southern side of the ridge. In spite of the poor visibility inflicted by the weather, he knew that stretching before them now were gently undulating plains which marked the blurred region between lower Mornland and upper Arrun. The border between the two lands was nearby, and when, an hour later, Venderrian shouted over the wind that the dim lights were a little brighter and were now further to the west of them, a burst of optimism had Gawain altering their course sharply west too.

  It was possible, he imagined as they pressed on with the hunt, that the Ahk-Viell had misjudged the distance between them, and perhaps overestimated the delay imposed by the westward flow of the river. Perhaps, he thought, the elfwizard had assumed the river to run due west along the foot of Mornland’s last rise broad and deep as ever, and that no-one in their right mind would attempt to cross the freezing flow in this weather. Turning west as the enemy had was shortening the distance between them and their pursuers.

  But not by much. Enough for renewed optimism to add strength to the grim determination which kept them moving, weaving this way and that around great blisters of gorse and hawthorn which proliferated around them, and enough for Gawain to trust his own instincts when darkness began to fall and he dismounted, leading them all on foot in single file, his own boots testing the ground before hooves safely followed the path he found.

  They were still a week from the winter solstice, the sun had set on this the thirteenth day of December behind the thick, low overcast in the mid afternoon, and Gawain refused to give up so many hours when even the packhorse was fit enough to continue for hours at the cautious walking pace he was obliged to take. With Venderrian’s eyes to warn of living dangers, his concern was entirely with the ground and its safety, and so he trusted instincts, and kept his head bent to the task.

  The sleet died in the early evening, becoming a faint drizzle which did little to wash away the patches of sludgy ice which had formed in sheltered hollows between the higher blisters of growth on the scrubby terrain. Still they trudged on, the slightly more clement weather permitting them to eat on the move. Then, perhaps two hours before midnight, a slight click of a tongue brought Gawain to a halt, and he turned, an
d waited while they gathered about him.

  “MiThal,” Venderrian whispered. “We are very close to them now. They have stopped and made camp I think.”

  Gawain dragged the sopping blackcloth scarf from his face and whispered his reply. “How close, Ven?”

  “Perhaps less than a mile. But there is more. I think a saw a grey light in the sky to the southwest. It is why I signalled the halt.”

  “Grey?”

  “Yes.”

  Gawain’s heart sank. “How far?”

  “I cannot say, miThal, the weather and the darkness, I cannot say for certain. It was at the extent of my range.”

  “Vakin Dwarfspit,” Gawain sighed. “They have made a Graken.”

  “And it patrols nearby,” Allazar whispered, “Perhaps to prevent our crossing into Arrun.”

  “And that is why the vakka Kanosenn has fled this way instead of turning west for Juria after Morloch’s attack!” Gawain gritted his teeth against a stream of invective directed entirely at himself. Of course there would be a reason, and likely one which strange aquamire might have seen, though Gawain himself had not.

  “We could have at ‘em in the dark, melord. Kick the ‘spit out of ‘em while they’re sleeping?”

  “Aye, Oggy, we could if one of them wasn’t an elfwizard with a big stick. Knowing our luck this day we’d walk into a ring of Viell-grey Aknids, or worse.”

  “In truth,” Allazar whispered, ice crystals frosting his unkempt beard, “He’s no fool, and will have any number of mystic watchkeepers set about him.”

  “Ven, do you think you can fix his position so we can circle around, and place us between our quarry and the region where you saw the Graken?”

  “Yes, miThal.”

  “Good. Take Allazar’s place behind me, you can guide me from there and I’ll swing us around. We’ll put ourselves on the other side of them. They can walk into our trap for a change.”

  Two hours later they settled between a pair of immense gorse bushes, and tended to the horses, feeding them well from the dwindling packs and treating them to warm dry blankets while they themselves slept huddled in wet ones. It was a miserable end to a miserable day, and the only saving grace to be found amongst the miseries they’d endured was the knowledge that their efforts had placed them unseen and unnoticed in the path their quarry would doubtless take in the morning, and thus hopefully see an end to the pursuit and the beginning of a swift ride home.

  Gawain woke to an increasing pressure on his chest which he couldn’t quite fathom. It was freezing cold, his left hip ached, and he was curled like an infant in blankets which crackled when he moved. The pressure continued to build, and when he opened his eyes the world was a silver-dusted wonderland and the pressure, he saw, was coming from Allazar’s frost-rimed Dymendin.

  Memory flooded in with consciousness, and he did his best to rise silently, trying hard to ignore the aches and pains in limbs and joints held motionless for so long, not daring even in sleep to move lest cold air find its way in under the blankets.

  But the blankets crackled, the hood of his cloak crackled, and when he sat upright, blinking, he realised dawn was breaking on an astonishing spectacle. During the night, temperatures had plummeted, and the gorse bushes between which they had taken shelter were now perhaps double their original size, each branch and twig coated in ice which had sprouted crystal buds and limbs of it own, pure white. The grass around them was a glittering field, each blade adorned with its own sparkling white coat.

  Ice crystals clung to beards and hair and eyebrows, especially poor Ognorm’s, the dwarf having all the appearance of a bizarre and wizard-made ice-man. The horses too were unimpressed, ice clinging to their manes and tails, frost-rimed blankets testifying to the bitterness of the air around them. Overhead, the sky was a clear silvery grey, sunrise approaching quickly.

  Gawain remembered the reason for their camp, and rose swiftly, ignoring the shooting pain in his hip when he did so. His first thought then was for Gwyn, but she seemed untroubled, dragon-breath pluming from her nostrils. His second was for the sword, and he grasped the freezing hilt and after a brief struggle, loosened the blade in its scabbard. He’d held it close in the night, after all, and it hadn’t welded itself to its sheath.

  A quick glance at the others, and a questioning look for Venderrian. The ranger pointed to the northeast and shook his head; the enemy hadn’t moved. Then the elf made a circling motion with his finger and shook his head again. Nothing.

  A breakfast of rock-hard frak or freenmek, hasty relief behind one of the bushes, and breaths blown on hands and fingers while they waited, Allazar not daring to use mystic energies to provide warmth in the camp this close to a staff-bearing enemy who might feel such use. When fingers were warm enough for work, they shook out the ice from horse-blankets, brushed it from coats, manes, and tails, and saddled their mounts, taking great care in the still air to limit the inevitable sounds of their activity.

  Still Venderrian gave no indication that the enemy had stirred, even when the pale and sickly-looking sun dragged itself over the horizon as if it were a yawning teen reluctant to rise until the afternoon. But even the pallid light was dazzling, reflecting as it did from the ice all around them, the glare making them squint while they packed away their camp.

  Venderrian unwrapped his bow carefully, a long strip of fur keeping the wood safe from winter’s overnight ravages, a simpler waxed cloth wrap likewise protecting the string which he tested carefully before scanning the heavens again and turning his gaze northeast once more. It was half an hour after sunrise when the ranger gave a slight hiss of alarm, and indicated motion in the enemy camp. All eyes turned in that direction, and all of them gave a gasp of surprise when a bright white light shot into the air from the enemy camp, circled at incredible speed, and then simply winked out.

  “Dwarfspit, what was that? Allazar?”

  “A snowball of lightning, Longsword,” the wizard whispered. “Kanosenn is seeking his brethren!”

  “Like a Dove of Orris?”

  “Precisely like a Dove of Orris. The messenger is sent high into the sky where it circles, seeking the other staff, and on detecting it, shoots away to it, bearing its message with it. Finding no such staff, it simply fades, returning its energies to nature.”

  “Then the Graken rider is too far to be found,” Gawain whispered.

  “It would seem so. Perhaps it has returned to the west, or its rider is sleeping, the staff or other mystic wand dormant.”

  Gawain stiffened. “Excellent. Then we need fear no interference from the air when that bastard yonder walks into our wrath.”

  “Melord, how do we proceed? D’you want us to spread out an’ hide in the bushes, like?”

  “No. There’ll be no finesse or cunning plans. As soon as they come into range we’ll simply unleash our weapons upon them, common and mystic both. Let’s not waste time with anything else, not with a Graken about the place.”

  “Arr, melord.”

  Gawain sidled closer to the wizard. “Dwarfspit, Allazar, I can’t believe they made a Graken so quickly.”

  “If as you suspect they are able to use the energies of failed orbs to create false aquamire, then with such models as Maraciss provided at Urgenenn’s Tower to guide them, time is the only other resource they would need.”

  “Bastards.”

  “Indeed.”

  “MiThal! They move!”

  “Good.”

  Gawain slung the sword over his shoulder, and climbed into Gwyn’s saddle, surveying the terrain. With everything rimed by frost and ice, and with the sun so low, the world seemed one vast and lumpy blue-white blanket. But shadows were slowly shortening as the sun climbed higher in the sky. The enemy would be easy enough to see against such a backdrop.

  Behind him, the others took to their saddles, and sat quietly, faces wrapped again in scarves now not to diminish the clouds of their steaming breath but to retain some of its warmth. Minutes slid by, the passage of time m
easured by the puffs of breath drifting up from Gwyn’s nostrils. One of the horses lifted its tail, and dumped a steaming pile, the sound of it hitting the frozen ground alarming and seeming much louder than it actually was.

  Still Gawain saw no glimpse of the enemy. For a brief moment, he pondered the possibility of advancing, shortening the gap between his blade and his quarry, but in truth that would make him visible to the enemy sooner, as well as vice versa. As it was, the undulations in the landscape and blisters of ice-covered thorn would keep them hidden from the enemy’s view until they were almost within range of Venderrian’s bow.

  So they waited.

  And then Venderrian eased forward, and swivelled in his saddle, casting a Sighted gaze all around, his expression becoming somewhat flustered.

  “MiThal,” he whispered urgently, “They draw no closer! They are moving south, across our path, not towards us!”

  “South?” Gawain gasped, “But south lies the border with Arrun!”

  He stood in the stirrups and gazed due east, but saw nothing, of course. There was too much distance between the two groups, and too much unevenness in the terrain for any but Sighted eyes to follow the Ahk-Viell’s progress.

  “They travel now at speed, miThal. And they continue due south. Soon their lights will pass from my range!”

  Gawain sat back in the saddle. He didn’t need the ghost of Captain Hass reminding him that the best laid plans were often rendered worthless by an enemy failing to do what they were supposed to do. At least Gawain knew his horses were sound, and well cared for. The same, he suspected from the speed of the enemy’s departure from camp, might not be said for the poor beasts of the Tau. He remembered too the suffering of creatures shivering and twitching in the rain in the corral by Urgenenn’s Tower.

  “Make ready,” he declared, pulling down his scarf so the order wouldn’t be muffled. “Stay close, leave the packhorse loose to follow, we can always find him later if we’re separated. We ride for the enemy. I like not this new course of theirs. We’re surely too near the border for them to choose such a path without reason.”