Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8)
Page 36
Without a warning of any kind, Allazar let loose that shimmering and expanding bubble of a Quench, and before the rider had time to react it burst beneath the Graken, sending both crashing to the ground. This time, the winged beast moving so slowly and so low when it was downed, there was no smouldering or purple smoke to presage the ending of the dark-made creature; it simply lay spread-winged upon the ground, tail and broken neck twitching. The rider, all the while, struggled to release himself from the straps of the high-backed saddle, furiously waggling the Rod of Asteran in their general direction and calling out to the Ahk-Viell:
“Yathami! Yathami Ahk-Kanosenn!”
Without hesitation and without a word of command from Gawain, Allazar unleashed a torrent of white fire upon the downed beast and the rider screaming for help, leaving nothing of both but ash and a cloud of smoke which seemed to hang in the air, only very slowly drifting upwards.
“You should have run faster,” Gawain called the crawling Ahk-Viell some ten feet away.
Kanosenn lunged for the staff on the ground where it had been flung from his grasp by Allazar’s Surge, grasped it, and turned its end towards Allazar. Chanting and mumbling, the elfwizard skittered back across the ground, all elbows and knees, gazing in disbelief at the failure of the staff to unleash mystic energies upon his enemies.
Allazar leaned on the Dymendin and shook his head, slowly. In desperation, Kanosenn tried again, thrusting the staff forward once more. Nothing. He turned then, crawling frantically on hands and knees before thrusting himself forward and lurching upright, and ran a dozen yards before Allazar brought him down with another Surge of Baramenn.
Again Kanosenn tried and failed to loose fire upon Allazar, and again. Then he thrust his fist into a bag slung over his shoulder and hidden from view beneath his cloak, and drew out a phial containing a black, oily substance. He ripped off the stopper and cast it aside, pouring the liquid into his mouth, face contorted in pain and in fear.
The liquid oozed down his chin, stained his clothing, lips and teeth, and he gagged before tossing aside the empty glass tube and snatching up his staff again. Veins pulsed a grotesque black in his cheeks, and a coughing bark of a laugh rent the stillness of the air as he presented his staff and cried aloud wizard words, words which sounded harsh and dangerous. And nothing more than dim grey sparks could he muster from the stick. Sparks which sputtered and fell at his feet, useless, smouldering, and then winking out of existence.
Allazar simply held forth the Dymendin, and the lesser stave burst into smoke and splinters with a violent concussion, stunning Kanosenn, who threw himself flat onto his stomach, covering his head with his arms, expecting death.
“Fool of the Tau,” Allazar announced, and without looking, Gawain knew that the light of Eldenbeard shone now in the wizard’s eyes. “Do you not know where you are?”
Hands stinging, Kanosenn rolled over onto his back, and drew himself up onto his elbows, then saw something of the power gazing down at him, and seemed to shrink back in terror.
“Did you truly believe the Viell could stray so far from the path and that nothing and no-one would notice? The Sight shall be passed to those worthy of it, once more to guard against the shadow. You shall not stop it. Nor shall any of Toorsen’s creed. You have loosed the wolves. You shall be devoured.”
“There shall be balance! There must be balance in all things!” Kanosenn shouted, his voice quavering with fear and defiance, face stained and smeared with false aquamire. “I am light! I am dark! I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light! I am dark! I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed!”
“Prating fool. You are nothing.”
Suddenly, Kanosenn thrust his hands forward, fingers tracing intricate patterns in the air while he mumbled a desperate chant.
Eldenbeard laughed.
Gawain took a pace backwards, and behind him, Ognorm likewise retreated, so cruel was the sound.
“Do you not know where you are, fool of the Viell? The great gates are opened. This is the domain of the D’ith, where Light and Fire were forged. None may summon power here but they.”
“Ask him where they sent the Orb!” Gawain blurted. “Ask him where in the west they sent the Orb they used to destroy the Hallencloister! Allazar!”
Allazar cocked his head, clearly hearing Gawain’s demand, and clearly considering it. What battle was taking place inside the wizard’s head, if any, Gawain did not know.
“Answer, Viell of the Tau.”
But instead, Kanosenn simply repeated over and over again his mantra, faster and faster, false aquamire staining his eyes dark grey now. “I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed!”
“Be ended then, fool, and know that the days of Toorsen shall be ended in fire likewise. Soon shall come the days of the Shimaneth Issilene Merionell. You have loosed the wolves. You shall be devoured.”
And with that, and a slight twitch of Allazar’s hand upon the Dymendin, Kanosenn burst into fire, and screamed once in great anguish, and in a sudden rush of flame, was gone.
Silence, eerie. Not a hint of a breeze. Strange weather, in the region near the D’ith Hallencloister. They had noted it before, and Elayeen had noted it too in her tales of her journeying near here.
Then came the distant beating of hooves, and Gawain and Ognorm turned. It was the packhorse, trotting towards them, ears twitching nervously, smelling the blood on the air, the blood of men and elves, and the blood of horses. Ognorm sniffed.
“Let us be gone from here, melord,” the dwarf whispered, and wiped his nose. “Let us be gone from this dread place.”
“Aye my friend,” Gawain whispered in reply, daubing the wound above his eye with a grubby handkerchief, and turned again to see Allazar leaning on his staff, the wizard’s eyes his own again, and blinking sadly at the young man.
“I need you to perform the rites, Allazar,” Gawain said softly. “For our friend, Venderrian.”
“And the others?” the wizard whispered.
“Vak the others!” Gawain suddenly shouted, with great venom, and with great pain for the loss of a friend. “Let them vakin rot for their treachery!”
oOo
38. Battle Wizard
Venderrian’s death hung over them like a cloud, but most affected of all was Ognorm, who seemed to take it very badly indeed. It was strange, Gawain thought, for the elf and the dwarf had known each other for a relatively short time, but he was forced to admit that the two companions had spent more time talking with each other than with himself or Allazar; both normally rode behind the two of Raheen, both normally remained quiet spectators during the exchanges between the king and his wizard.
The Rites were duly performed, for Venderrian and for his horse, the enemy left lying where they’d fallen, though for the sake of the rangers at Last Ridings arrows and bows and other supplies which had survived intact were salvaged from all the elven packs on the battlefield and loaded onto the packhorse.
Gawain rode back to where the horse ridden by Kanosenn’s escort had been scraped by Venderrian’s arrow, hoping to tend the stricken animal, but the poor thing had died, exhausted from the chase, all its strength finally spent, its great heart stilled. The sight of it lying alone in the icy wilderness broke the dam holding back Gawain’s tears, and he wept while he tended to the wound on his head, the blood thick and congealed in the bitter cold of that lonely place, silvertree powder stinging nevertheless.
After that, the three of Last Ridings turned south, and rode at a steady pace, pausing at a broad stream to wash away in freezing clear water the blood and gore, and to tend their horses. That first night without the ranger was the hardest. Gawain had caught himself often, looking across at where Venderrian might have sat, checking to see if anything had been revealed to the ranger’s Sight. Ognorm hadn’t said a word, and had simply sat on his blankets, using his considerable strength to straight
en Nadcracker’s shaft.
The following day, knowing they were now well inside Arrun’s borders and unlikely to be harassed by Insinnian’s forces, they moved steadily due south, chafing their necks with the constant swivelling of their heads, an uncomfortable reminder, not that any was needed, of the absence of Venderrian’s eldeneyes to watch over them.
On the night of the sixteenth, two days after the battle, they were still on the edge of the eerie calm region surrounding the Hallencloister, having crossed the Hallencloister line earlier than expected. Their navigation, Gawain had said, was likely thrown off by the weather driving them south quicker than they’d believed, the wind always from the north and thoughts of warm beds and hot meals adding speed to their journey even though they’d taken a more easterly path through Mornland than originally planned.
With a bright moon a day away from full shining on a clear and freezing night, they sat huddled in their blankets, alone with their thoughts, and thoroughly miserable. It was Gawain who broke the silence, a couple of hours before midnight and all three reluctant to sleep.
“What did you mean, Allazar, about this being the domain of the D’ith?”
The wizard’s face was shrouded in the shadows of his cowl. “The memory of Eldenbeard is slowly fading,” he said quietly. “But I recall clearly the words Sardor Eljon wrote in his account of the end of days. He spoke of opening the great gates below, referring to gates most held myth, but which, it seems, are real enough. They were, they are, a reference to the old tale Master Arramin spoke of, concerning the pure waters of the Avongard, which, it was said, no evil may cross. In myth, opening the gates believed buried far below the hill on which rests the Hallencloister would flood the lands with those waters, and it would seep far and wide, and only the D’ith would have power therein.”
“Then why didn’t they open the bloody things when Morloch was laying waste to the lands?”
“I suspect they did, which is why he was driven to the west and to the north.”
Gawain sighed, and fidgeted on his blankets. “If true, then the waters released by the gates haven’t spread very far. We’ll be out of this region of stillness tomorrow evening.”
“Perhaps, as Master Arramin also said, the collapse of the farak gorin affected their flow. Certainly the canal of Thal-Marrahan was far from fresh when last we saw it.”
“True.”
There was a long pause then.
“What was the point?” Gawain suddenly asked.
“Hmm?”
“What was the point of the gates? Why not just flood the lands and create this domain of the D’ith a long time ago? Surely it would have been as potent a weapon as the Orb of Arristanas? Surely it would have prevented the destruction of the Hallencloister?”
“No,” Allazar sighed in return. “It would create a domain where only the D’ith could summon mystic energies and employ their power. As we ourselves saw, it did not bar entry to creatures Morloch-made, or Viell-made, as the Orb of Arristanas would have done. It was lust for power corrupted Morloch, the Sardors would not wish to open the floodgates and put such temptation in the way of wizards unless it was necessary. I suspect the gates were intended as a last resort against attack by dark wizards, but that is just a fading memory of Eldenbeard origin. Keeping them closed would allow allies of the Viell to lend their mystic weight to the fight against any oppressor.”
“It might have guarded against the shadow though.”
“It might,” Allazar whispered. “But Benithet saw it not, and so it was not done. And the waters would not have guarded against the foul fire of Benithet’s Orb.”
“Perhaps it explains the strange weather here.”
“Perhaps, but I do not think so.”
“Was the weather strange when you dwelled there, in the ‘cloister?”
There was a long pause before Allazar answered, his voice soft, and bereaved.
“I cannot remember.”
After another pause, Gawain nodded. “It’s probably the shock of battle, Allazar, that’s all. Battle, and Eldenbeard, and the loss of our friend.”
“Yes. Perhaps it is at that.”
“Sometimes? Sometimes I can’t remember Elayeen’s face. I can picture her standing near me, her back to me, and hear her laughter, and her head turns to look at me over her shoulder, and I cannot remember her face. Then I panic. But later, the memories come flooding back. Sometimes, I can’t remember home. I can’t remember what my parents looked like, or my brother. Then, at other times, I am there again, in dreams, and I remember everything.”
There was another long silence, the three gathered close in their blankets, ears straining for sounds that might presage alarm, Gawain flicking glances towards the horses and Gwyn, relying on her senses so much more now that Venderrian was gone.
“What will happen, melord?”
“What will happen where, Oggy?”
“In Juria. To our friends, the rangers, and the Greys. What will happen now to them, now that the Toorsenspit’s hold the land?”
Gawain pondered the question, but in truth, he couldn’t see an answer. He doubted he’d have seen one even if filled to the brim with strange aquamire.
“I don’t know. It’s for Jurians to decide their fate now I think. None live who know what happened here in Arrun and in Mornland. None save us and Morloch. It depends, I think, on how long Insinnian wishes to hold Juria in thrall to his stewardship, and how long the Toorseneth will permit him to hold the throne waiting for Tamsin to come of age.”
“And our friends the rangers?”
“Word for their recall to Last Ridings by now will have been sent far and wide. Don’t fret for them, Oggy. Those that served in Juria will find their way to safety. Warnings will be spreading even now, warnings for wizard and ranger alike. Knowing Tyrane as I do, I expect he’s already casting a great net of newsriders from the Ridings to Crownmount and to Callodon. There’ll be Harribek’s birds too by now, I shouldn’t wonder. Our friends in the ninety-five will be safe.”
“Ninety-four, now, melord,” Ognorm sighed.
“Aye,” Gawain agreed, sadly. “You’re not so thick as you’re broad.”
“Aye, I know. Ven knew it too, the pointy-eared goit,” Ognorm chuckled, and sniffed before continuing:
“Dunno why I like ‘em, them elves. Never paid ‘em no mind when I was lifting and shifting in the ‘Mark. Got to admiring ‘em, though, up at Far-gor. Them standing with us all there. Give up their ‘omes and everything they did, to stand with us all there. And that old bastard trundling up in his shiny coach threatening ‘em with death and banishment, and them all stood there, taking it,” Ognorm shook his head in admiration, the hood of his cloak rustling a little. “Heh, least they did take it ‘til our lady stepped forward. And a merry old you an’ the ‘orse you rode in on that was, too! Nearly cheered, me and lads, when them ‘spits pissed ‘emselves and our ninety-five nailed ‘em to the thrukken moon for their insults an’ their threats. Ninety-four now. I miss me mate, melord. Don’t care who knows it. I miss me mate Venderrian.”
“We all do, Oggy.”
“Arr. I know. Sorry. Dint mean to make us all feel worse than we was anyway.”
Gawain drew in a breath. “We’ll need to be careful on the way south, now we don’t have Ven watching the sky and the land around us. It’s going to take time to get used to relying on our own senses again, especially with the kind of weapons the Toorseneth are able to create.”
“You reckon they might send summink nasty after us?”
“Or in front of us. Just because they didn’t want us to cross the Arrun border doesn’t mean they’ll have given up hope of obtaining the sceptre. But, since the Toorseneth doesn’t know their entire miserable ‘Retribution’ has been annihilated, we may be lucky and escape any further harassment. I’m not going to bet on it, though. We need to be careful.”
“Oh I do ‘ope there’s none o’ that stinking Spikebulb kek out there, melord. I really do.”
“They have limited resources,” Allazar declared. “And although they have persuaded over the course of centuries almost the entire population of Elvendere to regard them with reverence, the Toorseneth does not possess limitless supplies of Viell loyal to their grotesque creed. If they are now bending their will to the destruction of all wizardkind east and west of the forest, then they are spread thin indeed. We must not allow grief for our fallen friend to colour our judgement or create threats where there may in fact be none. Ours is surely a simple task once more, to take the Sceptre of Raheen to Last Ridings, and ourselves with it.”
“All true,” Gawain conceded, “Or at least the last part is. We really don’t know what forces they have at their disposal in that immense roundtower in Ostinath. But yes, Last Ridings is our goal again now. Tomorrow’s the seventeenth. If we’re not delayed by bad weather or worse, it’ll be almost the second week of January when we arrive. Less than four weeks.”
Ognorm let out a sigh, breath billowing in the cold, still air. “Arr. Won’t be too long after that, the new prince is due. April innit, melord?”
“Yes,” Gawain shook his head in wonder. “Four weeks to Last Ridings, and four months to fatherhood for me. Elayeen will be huge by now, I shouldn’t wonder.”
“Have you thought of a name yet, melord?”
“No. No, there’s been little time for such gentle thoughts on this journey of ours. Besides, I don’t feel right, choosing a name on my own. In Raheen, there was always much debate and discussion concerning the matter of names for royal infants. Many books and histories were consulted, so as not to endow an unfortunate new crown with a name tainted by ignominious forebears or ancestral relatives of dubious repute. I suspect Elayeen will have a great deal to say on the matter too, if she hasn’t decided already.”