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

by GJ Kelly

  Elayeen sniffed, her fingers gently patting his chest while he held her, and together they sat in the glow and warmth of their love until the hour drew late, and they retired to sleep.

  Nearing the end of January, Gawain found himself alone with Allazar in the down-below, sitting in almost exactly the same place they had the day before they’d left for the Hallencloister. Together, they watched the water gurgling from the spout in the far wall, as if waiting for the pool beneath to overflow and thus confound the ancient design of the wizard who’d made it.

  “Are you well, Allazar? You’ve been very quiet of late.”

  “I am well, Longsword. Events have finally had time to catch up with me, and finally I have had time to consider them, that is all.”

  “Elayeen said much the same thing. Time has caught up with us, she said.”

  “Our lady is wise. I often think there is much wisdom contained within the teachings of Minyorn. I should like one day to learn all the tales and lessons she was taught by her mother.”

  Gawain nodded. “I at least had rage and a target for it in the Ramoth when I discovered my world ended at Raheen. Alas, the only target remaining for the destruction of the Hallencloister lies in Ostinath, and I doubt you and I shall see that great roundtower again.”

  Allazar nodded. “I, too, have been prohibited from venturing there by our lady. Though, she need not have been concerned. The shock of the loss of the Hallencloister is diminishing, though as you have often said, the rage doubtless shall not die. It is true I was always something of a radical in the eyes of my brethren, and it is true that I held something of a low opinion of them. But they were my brethren, nevertheless. My kind.”

  “I know your pain, my friend,” Gawain whispered, finally relenting and uttering the word which had pounded over and over in his head in time with the beating of his heart and the pulsing energies of Kanosenn’s binding.

  “Yes,” the wizard whispered. “And I now know yours.”

  They shared a long silence then, glowstones in the high vaulted ceiling above them shining a dull orange, water in the pool gurgling.

  Finally Gawain spoke, and softly. “Why does this feel like an ending, Allazar?”

  “Perhaps it is, of a kind.”

  Gawain nodded. “No more worms.”

  “I still have one. A small one, which I think diminishes a little day by day, and thus may not be as important as once I thought it to be.”

  “The Book of Thangar?”

  Allazar nodded. “The final illustration. Master Arramin will send it to me in due course. Yet, I think perhaps it matters not. The panel I cannot remember doubtless merely points at the next, the circle turning, the world changing. Our panel, our time, the segment between spokes of a great wheel slowly revolving, until the next panel comes to the fore, and those who dwell therein bear the load.”

  “There was a time I would have laughed and berated you for such philosophical nonsense and declared it utter whitebeard Orsey-kek. It is difficult so to do while sitting here, the sceptre and the Morgmetal box safely tucked away behind us, waiting for my unborn son’s hand to wield the one and open the other.”

  “I think, sitting here now, I would have preferred a lump or two, and your laughter. For you to agree with me seems to add weight to the notion that more is yet to come which we ourselves must bear.”

  “Oh, that wouldn’t surprise me at all. Just because the eldenbeards are long dead and dust doesn’t mean I trust them any further than I can throw Gwyn.”

  There was another short silence in the cavernous down-below, broken only by the waters of the pool. Neither Allazar nor Corax had been able to determine whether that crystal-clear flow was simply river-water from the Sudenstem filtered through rocks, or whether it bubbled up from far below, perhaps even from an offshoot of the mystic and now not-so-mythical Avongard.

  Then Gawain astonished the wizard by giving a sudden snort of laughter.

  “Are you well, Gawain?”

  “Yes, I’m well. Just remembering something Martan said when he gave me a guided tour of his so-called lower workin’s.”

  “Ah,” the wizard dropped his voice to a whisper again. “The secret passage which links the down-below to the roundtower?”

  “Yes. I thought its construction a prudent precaution. We’ve no idea what might be sent against us, and the ability to be able to move between the one place and the other might prove useful in the future. It was an intuition I had when still filled with strange aquamire.”

  “Now that is worrying,” Allazar declared. “Last time you had such an intuition where Martan of Tellek was concerned, a vast web was dug beneath the farak gorin.”

  “He made the association too. While showing me the tunnel, he mentioned the Morgmetal spike he discovered in the number six run beneath the farak gorin, saying he was disappointed not to find another one here. And he asked if his drawing of the spike had proved to be of any use. I told him it had, and that it was a message of a kind from elder days which helped us vex Morloch greatly. It was his reply and the memory of it evoked my snort of laughter just now, with our talk of eldenbeards and their carefully-laid plans.”

  “What was his reply?”

  “He said: Aye well, glad we found it in that run at Far-gor then. Let’s just ‘ope there weren’t a PS though, ‘cos if’n there were, be a bugger to find it now.”

  They chuckled quietly, shaking their heads and marvelling at the humour of dwarves.

  “We should probably go back up top,” Gawain sighed. “I know it’s another three months or so before E is due, but now we’re back I don’t like being too far removed from her sight and her side.”

  “Which is as it should be.”

  “I told her the very same thing.”

  “Perhaps a little of a wizard’s wisdom is beginning to rub off on you after all this time.”

  “I rather think it more likely a bit of my blundering stupidity is rubbing off on you, you whitebeard goit. And speaking of, I haven’t seen Corax today, what’s he up to?”

  “He is with Harribek Anhelo, helping to accelerate the training of the pigeons. In the evenings, he works upon devising a means of overcoming the protection afforded to those wearing the ToorsenViell’s crystal-coated garb, and is also seeking a means of defeating the rock-crystal coating on the Toorseneth’s Grimmand.”

  “Good,” Gawain announced, and stood, stretching after sitting on the stone bench for so long. “I suppose we can take comfort from the knowledge that the Creed won’t be able to make a crystal-coated Kiromok. Not unless they find a way to make the crystals disappear from sight too.”

  “Hmm. It is precisely such trains of thought which doubtless led Urgenenn astray. Let us hope the Toorseneth has no such thinkers in their ranks.”

  Gawain adjusted the sword over his back, while Allazar leaned on the Dymendin in customary pose. They gazed around the expanse of the down-below, at the ante-chambers cut into the rock walls, short tunnels now filled with Tyrane’s carefully chosen winter stores and supplies. Allazar shone a Light of Aemon at the wall above the water-spout, illuminating the map and admiring the sparkling dots which Dannis, Curator of Dun Meven, believed marked other such refuges as this. They too believed likewise, now.

  The light winked out, and for a long moment, they regarded each other with great respect, great friendship, and a hint of sadness for all they had endured, and all that lay ahead. And then without a word, they turned, and began the walk up the sloping ramp which led to the exit, the rap of the Dymendin on the rock floor in time with their footfalls echoing in the cavern behind them.

  oOo

  43. Hark, The Herald

  On February 2nd, Gawain was seated at the long table with Elayeen, perusing lists of the supplies stored in the down-below. Arbo hovered in attendance, answering occasional questions while his queen absent-mindedly worked her way through a plate of his fresh-baked butterscones topped with jam and lightly dusted with ground cinnamon, which had been her fa
vourite since Fallowmead. Gawain didn’t get a look-in where the scones were concerned.

  The logs in the fire crackled, and wind whipping against the shutters testified to the gusty squalls without the warmth of the hall. Gawain took another sip of mulled wine, nodding contentedly while Elayeen detailed the expenses incurred by the hall in his absence.

  But the peace was suddenly shattered by the thundering of hooves which had all eyes drawn to the portals.

  “Four horses,” Gawain muttered, and flicked a gaze to the longsword propped against the table to his right. “Arbo, the door if you please.”

  “Sire,” the youth acknowledged, and hurried to open one of the two immense doors, admitting wind and a spray of rain along with four bedraggled riders.

  Two of them were the dwarves of Sarek’s Rangers sent by Eryk of Threlland last summer, an escort from the quay. One was Tam of Westfalls. The fourth Gawain recognised, and the profound concern etched deep in the man’s face and his bedraggled appearance made hearts sink.

  “Rollaf!” Gawain gasped, and stood, and indicated the hearth. “Come my friend, warm yourself by the fire! Arbo, hot wine for our unexpected guest, and bring an early lunch for us all. Notify Major Tyrane that a well-known scout from Callodon has arrived, and send for Allazar and Corax too.”

  “Sire!”

  Rollaf shrugged off his drenched cloak and hung it on a peg beside the immense stone fireplace. He was shivering, and from the state of his clothing had been riding for a long time.

  “Warm yourself up, my old friend, get the blood flowing. Food and friends are on the way.”

  “Aye…” the scout replied through his chattering teeth, his weather-tanned features hidden by an unkempt beard and shaggy hair plastered about his face, “Ta milord…”

  Arbo returned to announce that food was coming, and that so too were Tyrane and Allazar. Elayeen passed the lists of supplies they’d been perusing to the steward, who took them carefully and returned them to a small curtained alcove which served temporarily as the hall’s chancery. Moments later the portal blew open again, and Tyrane and the wizard blew in. The tall and immaculately-dressed Callodon Major took one look at Rollaf, and blanched, and his worried expression did not pass unnoticed by those yet in the hall.

  In no time, it seemed, word had spread, and while hot and steaming food began to pile up on the long table, Gawain’s official and unofficial lieutenants began to gather in the hall. To their credit, all of them allowed the rangy woodsman to warm himself, and eat a fresh-baked bread roll stuffed with cubes of stewed beef so quickly it almost seemed to disappear whole.

  “Milord…” Rollaf turned to face Gawain, the latter standing at the head of the table, Elayeen seated to his left. “Thanks, milord… though you won’t be thanking me, not for the news I come with.”

  “Come, sit, everybody. There’s more food and hot wine, Rollaf, help yourself. You look exhausted.”

  “Aye, milord. Been a long ride. Long ride for us all was at Pellarn.”

  “Is Terryn with you?”

  “No milord. I don’t know where Terryn is. We got split, in Pellarn. Last I heard, he went southwest, t’ward the Eramak. Ain’t heard nothing since. Milord…” Rollaf paused, and took a gulp of hot wine, and those gathered around the long table held their breath.

  They knew of him, of course; one of the pair of Callodon woodsmen who’d joined Gawain and Elayeen on the journey from Jarn and through southern Elvendere, all the way to the Morrentill and to Far-gor. That he was struggling to retain his composure was obvious. That something dread had happened, likewise.

  “Steady lad, all friends here,” Tyrane said softly, and Rollaf nodded in gratitude.

  “Sorry milord.”

  “For nothing. We’ve travelled far together, and you further still it seems. Take your time.”

  “Won’t help milord. Time won’t help me none. It’s disaster, milord. Total. Pellarn’s lost again, all us Black and Gold routed, those of us who got across the Ostern. More coming in all the time, up from the South-halt and in through the woods, mostly. They come so quick at us, over the Eramak…”

  “Who lad? Who came at you?” Tyrane gasped.

  “Simanians from Goria, from the northwest. Floods of ‘em, running. Running like the world were afire behind ‘em. We were spread so thin, we couldn’t hold ‘em back, couldn’t get them barriers up at the Eramak before we saw ‘em coming down the slopes o’ the west bank like a flood… Got word, milord, from ‘is Majesty, told me to get this to you…” Rollaf fished out a waxed leather packet, and held it as though it contained some poisonous dark-made creature.

  Tyrane took it, and gave the scout a reassuring squeeze on the shoulder before the woodsman would release the packet into his care. Then it was carried around the table and given to Gawain.

  “Weren’t nothing we could do, milord. Spread thin, we were, chasing down mercenaries, helping in the villages and towns and such. Then the flood came like a tide, swept across the Eramak, and soon everyone was running east, us of Callodon and them of Pellarn, even the Gorian Resistance. Last I ‘eard, milord, the enemy held all, right up to the Jarn Gap.”

  There were gasps around the table at that, eyes wide, heads turning towards Gawain as he peeled open the layers of waxed leather to retrieve the letter Brock had written. Short sentences, made in haste, and Gawain read them hurriedly before sighing, stunned, and then passing the pages to Allazar to read aloud. Gawain reached out to take Elayeen’s hand, a gesture which was not lost on any of them.

  The wizard drew a breath, held the leaves before him, and in sombre voice, conveyed Brock’s message:

  Gawain,

  All is chaos. All is disaster. So close we came! Pellarn liberated, its people free, the flag flying proud at the Keep! Then came word, a great horde. A great horde fleeing in panic, driven one way by Zersees’ legions from Zanatheum, driven another by foul-made horror in Simatheum!

  Maraciss is dead we hear, but know not for certain if this be truth. Prisoners snatched near the Ostern declared it so. Simatheum is lost, they said, lost in fire and in shadow, some dread device unleashed upon them, burning all by day, striking all with horror by night. Their city in flames and in ruins, what few who could, fled. The survivors were first to cross the Eramak. They ran clear to the Ostern and welcomed capture.

  The remains of their armies came next, fleeing Zersees’ legions, without order, all in chaos, driven by fear and dark masters on the wing. They took Pellarn for their own, and with dark mystic energies stronger than any power our own wizards could wield did what we ourselves had not time enough to do; they raised the barriers at the Eramak. Zersees’ legions were halted there, and though they tried, they could not cross to aid us. Alone, we could not face the horde which is all that now remains of Maraciss and his ambition.

  All is chaos, Gawain. Callodon is powerless. We regroup, our men return in rags across the Ostern. We look to our own borders now, in hope of keeping the Simanian horde west of the Ostern. Now we know, my friend, why elves strengthened the southern border of Juria, to keep out the horde from the west. To keep out the survivors of Pellarn’s second falling.

  Look to your borders, Gawain. Guard them well! All now is chaos. Pelliman Goth they say now rules the Keep which Igorn in the name of freedom liberated, and lost. Darkness now holds sway in the Old Kingdom. Our lights were not bright enough nor strong enough to keep it out.

  Look to your borders, my friend. We cannot help you. You cannot help us. All is chaos, and we must fight to hold what is our own. Dark days new are born, and the brighter the lights, the larger and fouler the moths which circle in search of immolation. And you, my young friend, have ever burned brightly.

  Tomorrow I lead my men with Igorn to re-take Jarn and hold the Gap. What comes after, I do not know. Tyrane is your man, and those with him. Use him, and them, well.

  Honour to you, my friend Raheen,

  Brock

  Silence in the hall thereafter, marred only by the ha
mmering of hearts, and the ominous crackling and spitting of logs in the fire, as though the conflagration in the hearth had a voice, and the voice was a herald, and the world’s doom foretelling.

  End of Book 8

  Table of Contents

  Prologue

  1. Disturbances

  2. Questions

  3. Arrangements

  4. Tomatoes

  5. News

  6. Oy!

  7. Fwi-end

  8. ‘Weed and Watchmen

  9. Eyem D’ith

  10. Dilemma

  11. Where Light and Fire Were Forged

  12. The Last Sardor

  13. The Book of Sardor

  14. The Appendix

  15. Worm’s Ending

  16. Turmoil

  17. Three Lights

  18. Crisis

  19. Five Blows

  20. Behold then…

  21. Truth and Horror

  22. Brother

  23. The Wizard’s Silence

  24. Expressions

  25. Hubris

  26. Grim Smiles

  27. Crystal Clear

  28. Pork Pies

  29. Caballum

  30. Sleeping Dogs

  31. Sneaky

  32. Corridor of Uncertainty

  33. Instinct

  34. Worms’ Ending

  35. Pink

  36. Pursuit

  37. Grey Light

  38. Battle Wizard

  39. Night Vision

  40. Stories

  41. Last Yards

  42. First Dinner

  43. PS…

  43. Hark, The Herald