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

by GJ Kelly

  “Life ain’t so complicated in the ‘Mark,” Ognorm said, his voice sad and distant, and low in his chest. “Father’s name were Norm o’ the ‘Mark, so here I be now, Ognorm ‘o the ‘Mark. Not that I’m complaining, mind, who am I to think ill of a name chosen for me by my own father? No-one, that’s who. Just sayin’ it ain’t so complicated at ‘ome, is all.”

  “And your name, Allazar? Who gave you your name?”

  There was a short silence, and they saw the shrouded wizard’s shoulders move a little.

  “I do not know,” the wizard announced. “I remember very little beyond my days in the Hallencloister. Some fields. Some flowers; yellow folksgloves, I think. A melody. Sometimes in my dreams I hear that melody, and I see the flowers, and butterflies, and blue skies. I can never remember the tune when I wake, only snatches of it drifting by on a breeze of faint recall. Perhaps it is as well. The most vivid recollection I have from my boyhood is the nightmares, and I do not wish to dwell on those. My heart is too heavy for such dark memories as those.”

  Gawain nodded. He remembered the descriptions Allazar had given of those nightmares when they’d stood together at Far-gor before the battle. Not until the dying Sardor Eljon had spoken in the North Tower of the Hallencloister did Gawain come to realise the full significance of those nightmares, and understand the power of Allazar the boy, the youngster who had fled Morloch’s grasp.

  “I’ll take first watch,” Gawain announced softly, and without a word, his two companions lay down, and buried themselves in their blankets.

  Allazar, the boy who had fled Morloch’s grasp. Allazar, the Last Sardor of the D’ith. Gawain’s head was throbbing and he reached for the familiar pack beside him. A draught of silvertree powder and water, the slightest daub of precious Eeelan t’oth, and he secured the pack again, its bottle of Jurian brandy untouched. That too would likely become a precious commodity, at least until trade with Juria began to flow again. When that would be, who could tell?

  In truth, the wound to his head was superficial, though there’d certainly be a slight scar above his right eyebrow angling down towards his right temple. The men of the Red and Gold would doubtless declare that it added a modicum of character to his regal appearance. Elayeen would probably fret about it for days, once she noticed it beneath his hair; hair which, like his beard, desperately needed cutting. His companions of course were become shaggy unkempt creatures, too, Ognorm especially. The dwarf had so much hair sprouting above his shoulders his appearance hovered perilously close to the brink of unruly scant minutes after a visit to the barber.

  Gawain adjusted the bandage around his head to keep the t’oth-moistened pad in place, and briefly closed his eyes, recalling the battle. In his mind’s eye he saw the line of enemy riders charging towards him. In his mind’s eye he could see everything, of course, and even at the time motion seemed to slow as if by some supernatural force. The arrow flashing from Venderrian’s bow, ten riders becoming nine. A horse going down headfirst into that hard, cold and unforgiving ground, nine becoming eight, and eight becoming seven when Gawain’s arrow struck the mark a little high, but struck nevertheless.

  Arrows coming back at them, impossibly slowly, snaking through the air like white fish wriggling, only to shatter against a Shield of Baramenn. Gawain noted idly that one had been aimed at Venderrian, two at the wizard. Well. The enemy had assessed and noted the threats they were facing, after all.

  And then, of course, the immense Shield the wizard had raised to protect all four of them riding so close together that their knees had almost touched became a Surge of Baramenn. A wall of mystic energy surging forward and expanding, smashing into the enemy line. Gawain, in his mind’s eye, saw them all go down, all seven and their horses, none of them having any time to do more than widen their eyes in shock and horror at the thing rushing towards them.

  He saw the Jurian lancer’s horse twist its head to its left when it smashed into the wall of the Surge and go down as if felled by a giant’s hammer. Saw the tip of the lance bury itself neatly into frozen soil beginning now to erupt in a shower of rich dark brown ploughed by shares of tumbling horses, elves, and men. Saw the shaft of the lance bending, bowing, the rider lifting clear of the saddle, arm and shoulder bulging backwards as his body drove forwards into that bending lance. Saw the shaft burst asunder, pieces springing, tumbling and arcing towards him. That had been when he’d closed his eyes.

  Gawain shivered in his blankets, and eyed the dark form of the wizard lying bundled in blankets of his own some five feet away. What possible chance could those ten riders have had, charging against the Last Sardor of the D’ith, in the domain of the D’ith, within sight of the Hallencloister hill? What possible chance would kindred riders of commonkind have against such power? Allazar could have ridden alone against them, and incinerated all ten with a single tree of lightning loosed from a vengeful Dymendin.

  Another shudder ran the length of Gawain’s spine as he recalled a conversation alone with the wizard in the aftermath of Urgenenn’s Tower, when Eldenbeard had first risen:

  You were not yourself in there. In truth, you were really rather frightening.

  I have always been really rather frightening, you know, especially since the Dymendin came to me and we stood in your father’s hall. You simply didn’t notice, I think.

  Gawain noticed now. The days of Zaine are ended, Longsword… How must it have been in Morloch’s time, when the kindred fought against the Gothen, Sethi, and Tansee? How must it have been for commonkind, fighting against such power as wizards might raise against them? How long would the One Thousand of Raheen have lasted against an enemy force bearing long sticks of power, with creatures of the Pangoricon in their ranks, the ground seeded with evil made to pierce hooves and feet and lash with poison any who passed over it?

  How might it have been, had not Zaine ended the chaos of elder days and imposed order through his mandates upon those born into the mystic realm of wizardkind? How might it have been, had the gates beneath the Hallencloister been left open long ago, the world become the D’ith’s domain?

  The days of Zaine are ended, Longsword…

  Allazar. First Wizard of Raheen. Last Sardor of the D’ith. Battle wizard.

  How might it be, in the days and years to come?

  oOo

  39. Night Vision

  Beyond the region of unnerving calm around the Hallencloister, winter’s grip made itself felt with sleet, hail, and the occasional ice storm which made clothing and blankets crackle and the ground crunch under feet and hooves. But the three of Last Ridings endured the misery with stoic resolve, tending well their horses and themselves.

  A week after the battle which saw the end of Kanosenn and the loss of their friend Venderrian, the wound to Gawain’s head was fully healed, a legacy of the Circles of Raheen, or so Allazar had said, though conceding that there was a faint white scar which might be revealed to anyone concerned enough to conduct a detailed scrutiny of Gawain’s face. Ognorm’s snort and hastily smothered chuckle had Gawain reaching for his boot knife and studying himself in its reflection. Under the shaggy mop of unkempt hair the scar was a bright white slash in his weather-tanned features, and he knew Elayeen would fuss over it and chide him endlessly for his carelessness in acquiring it.

  On New Year’s Eve the wind rose, gusting across the plains of Arrun’s Midshearings, lashing them with occasional bands of squally rain which felt mild compared to the icy weather that had plagued them a few days before. Their progress had been good, though cautious in the absence of Ven’s Sight, but Gawain surprised himself with how quickly he had come to rely once more on Gwyn’s senses and his own.

  It was the absence of strange aquamire which he noticed the most, though he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, and certainly not to Allazar and Ognorm in their hasty night-camp, huddled around a rough cairn of scruffy-looking rocks hastily heaped by cold, wet hands, and heated by a shower of crimson sparks which had seemed to drip rather than fizz from
the end of the wizard’s staff. A week earlier Allazar had decided and declared that it was extremely unlikely that any wizard of staff rank would be near enough to feel the energies liberated by the staff, and with the prospect of enticing warmth on offer Gawain and Ognorm had concurred immediately.

  It being the end of a year the memories of which filled all three with turbulent emotions, Gawain produced three battered tin cups from the packs, filled a camp pan with water, and bade Allazar heat the liquid therein. It took some experimentation until a method was found that finally worked without spraying freezing water everywhere, and when the steam was rising and the water bubbling, Gawain filled the three cups, and added drops of loofeen, and then a generous measure of Jurian brandy from the medicinal bottle.

  Silently, lost in memories, they tapped the battered cups, raised them, and sipped the hot drink, revelling in the heat and the afterglow.

  “Is it midnight yet, Allazar?” Gawain whispered in the gloom, the only light coming from the single pebble of a glowstone the wizard had used to see well enough to heat the water.

  Allazar made a pretence of looking up at the heavens, lifting a finger in the air, sniffing, scratching his chin, and then declared: “Just after, I think.”

  “Then Happy New Year,” Gawain sighed.

  “Arr, you too melord, and you, Serre wizard.”

  “May the New Year be blessed with peace and prosperity,” Allazar whispered.

  “May it be a vakin sight better than the last bastard was,” Gawain muttered, and Ognorm almost choked on his drink.

  “Arr, it was a bit of a kekky one at that, melord,” the dwarf managed when he’d finished coughing.

  “I prefer not to think of the misery endured, but dwell instead upon the happier moments,” Allazar declared.

  “Me too,” Gawain agreed, “When you think of one, do share it with the rest of us.”

  There was a silence which lasted about five heartbeats, and then all three could contain their laughter no longer. When it subsided though, there was a distinct air of melancholy in the camp, gorse rustling behind them in the gusts, wind whistling, and all of them waiting for the next band of rain to sweep through.

  “P’raps it won’t be so bad,” Ognorm announced.

  “Jurian brandy is wonderful stuff, isn’t it?” Gawain sniffed. “Makes anything seem possible if you drink enough of it.”

  “Heh. Arr. Like, p’raps the Toorsenspits will stay in the woods and that’ll be that?”

  “A good game to occupy our minds before sleep. We’ll call it, Orsey-kek. My go. Like, Juria shirking off the yoke of Insinnian’s stewardship and occupation by the end of the month.”

  Allazar sniffed. “My turn?”

  “Aye.”

  “Like, the Hallencloister renewed, and wizards and commonkind living in peaceful harmony thereafter.”

  “Arr. Like, Morloch gone forever, an’ ‘is dark wizards with ‘im.”

  “Like, the Toorseneth collapsing under the weight of its own arrogance, killing all within, and Elvendere restored.”

  “Oh now Longsword, surely there must be a rule to this game which defines and separates fantasy from Orsey-kek?”

  “I didn’t complain when you suggested ‘peaceful harmony’ with wizards, did I?”

  “True. Apologies.”

  “Accepted. Whose go is it?”

  “Who cares. It is a foolish game anyway,” the wizard yawned. “And though this beverage is doubtless to blame, still I am grateful for it.”

  “Me too,” Ognorm stifled the infectious yawn as it passed from Allazar to Gawain to him. “D’you reckon you could make ‘ot soup like that, Serre wizard?”

  Allazar shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it. Do we have anything with which to make a soup?”

  “Only frak and that elvish stuff you and Ven filled the packs with back there. Don’t reckon that’ll make much of a soup, though.”

  “No, indeed.”

  Another squall drove in from the north then, and Allazar snatched up the glowstone and pocketed it, all of them ducking their heads and lifting their cups to their lips, drinking the dregs quickly before freezing rain could rob the liquid of heat.

  “There you are then,” Gawain declared miserably over the wind and the sound of rain lashing their cowls, “Another year begins as it doubtless means to carry on.”

  A week later saw them in Arrun’s Southshearings and eyeing terrain which gladdened their hearts. It was familiar; good grasses, lush and verdant, rich shrubbery, and stands of trees. They were, Gawain estimated, perhaps only four days from the northern arm of the Sudenstem’s first forking, and that meant they were only four or five days from Last Ridings. They had seen no signs of pursuit, nothing in the air and nothing on the ground to trouble them, no tracks or spoor to cause the slightest alarm.

  When they made camp on the night of the eighth of January, they did so in milder weather than any they’d experienced since leaving Lord Rak’s home in Tarn. There’d been rain of course, but the winds seemed to have lost most of their bluster by the time they arrived this far south.

  There’d been signs of life along the way too, though mostly seen from a goodly distance. Smoke from chimneys, and once even a broad stripe of tracks left by a small flock of sheep or goats. They’d only had to adjust their course twice to avoid habitations, and they did so with great reluctance knowing how rich were the comforts they were doubtless passing by compared to frak and damp blankets.

  They were tired, all of them, tired of travelling and of the stress of keeping watch in camp and on the move. Theirs had begun as a straightforward journey, a four-week ride to the Hallencloister for answers to simple questions, and now, nearing home, their arrival at the D’ith citadel seemed a very long time ago.

  “What are you doing, Longsword?” Allazar asked quietly, sipping hot loofeen. The night-time beverage had become a habit since New Year’s, though without the addition of the potent golden liquid in its bottle in the medicinal pack.

  “Counting the knots in my string. It is the eighth of January, isn’t it?”

  “It is. We are perhaps three days now from your hall.”

  “Hmm. Then we have been away one hundred and fifteen days. One hundred and fifteen, for a journey which was to have taken half that time. Elayeen will kill me, assuming she recognises me.”

  “Could always ‘ave a shave, melord, now that the wizard knows ‘ow to boil up some water?”

  “No. No, it’s a nice idea, Oggy, but knowing my lady, that’ll simply add to her list of Things G’wain Must Be Chided For. I doubt she’d appreciate our stopping on the way home for haircuts and shaves instead of running our poor horses into the ground and delaying for nothing but the occasional drink and a pee.”

  “Arr. Still, ‘undred and fifteen days. Coof. That’s almost a third of a year!”

  “I know, Oggy mate, I ain’t so thick as I’m tall you know.”

  Ognorm snorted, and Gawain grinned before taking another sip of loofeen.

  “You’re rather quiet this night, Allazar. Is something troubling you?”

  “No. No, I’m remembering certain advice about not letting down one’s guard simply because a destination is nearby.”

  “Cheeky goit. Though I must admit I am still puzzled by the Toorseneth’s desire to prevent us crossing into Arrun from Mornland. Have you had any further thoughts on the matter?”

  “It may have had something to do with the gates below the Hallencloister being opened, though clearly Kanosenn knew nothing of that, nor the Graken-rider. Perhaps it was simply the proximity of the border with Callodon in that region. Thallanhall may have given strict instructions not to violate that southern limit of Insinnian’s lawful influence.”

  “Well,” Gawain drained his cup, “If the artisans have built the promised stone hearth in my hall, perhaps we can ponder the portents in front of a blazing log fire while munching hot toast and honey and drinking fine warm ale in the weeks to come. For now, I am going to take a t
urn around the camp. I for one have no intention of letting down my guard simply because we’re nearing the end of our journey. First watch is mine, as usual.”

  “Arr, I’ll turn in then melord.”

  “I’ll try not to wake you on my return.”

  “Ta.”

  Gawain stood, eyed the wizard suspiciously for a moment, and then began his perambulation. Of course Allazar had been quite right, one’s guard should never be let down simply because the end of a journey is within sight. But Gawain knew it had been a deception, one of the kind the wizard usually employed to evade answering personal questions. Something was troubling the wizard, and whatever it was seemed to be increasing the closer they got to Last Ridings.

  Well, without strange aquamire to provide insights and leaps of intuition, and with no nagging worms to demand his attention, Gawain had nothing but his own instincts, experience and training to rely upon now. About the only thing he could think of to explain Allazar’s discomfort was the extremely unlikely possibility that the wizard had dropped the Sceptre of Raheen somewhere along the way from the Hallencloister Line and didn’t know how to announce that they’d all have to go back for it.

  While the humorous thought made Gawain suddenly smile, it also made him shiver, and he adjusted his cloak and the strap of the sword slung over his back. The night was clear, starlight welcome though the air was cold. He lowered his hood and wrapped a black scarf around his head and face, more from habit to hide his blond hair than for the cold. He left his ears clear though, the better to listen to the night’s noises. There’d be wild goats about, and probably sheep too. The land hereabouts was the verdant Arrun grassland of the Southshearings, after all.