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

Book 8

Prologue

Never trust a whitebeard. Not even a dead one.

Gawain, Son of
Davyd, King of Raheen

Toorsen Grey-Elf! I saw him fly beyond the dragon of the
north… I saw it!

Master Benithet of
Sek, D’ith Vaticinator, Source Unimpeachable

Abandon hope, my brothers, for there is none.

Durminenn Meritus,
Master of Sek,

North Sardorian
of D’ith Hallencloister

1. Disturbances

Gawain sighed, standing on the watchtower atop Crown Peak, leaning heavily on the balustrade and idly watching the dwarves in the distance
hard at work at the western promontory. He was lost in thought. Lost again in
the stirrings of strange aquamire. The dwarves had been labouring furiously,
levelling the top of the rocky headland, hacking channels and foundations for
the walls to come much later. Their industry, and their rate of progress, frequently
left Gawain speechless on the occasions when he’d shared a pint with Martan and
the others at The Orb’s Ending.

“G’wain?”

“Hmm?”

“I said, if I am disturbing you, I shall return to the hall.”

Coming back to the watchtower almost with a bump, he turned
to see Elayeen gazing up at him with a mixture of disappointment and annoyance.
It had been him, after all, who’d invited her to walk with him, in plain sight of
all and hand in hand, up the hill, here to the watchtower.

“I’m sorry, E. I was miles away. Forgive me.”

He smiled at her, and slid his arm around her back, drawing
her in front of him so she stood facing the west, his arms wrapped around her
and his hands resting on the slight bulge of her abdomen. Elayeen had been
carrying their unborn child for four months now, and though the term for ladies
of elfkind was a full twelve months, was beginning to show, much to the
excitement of all the ladies in the growing settlement that was Last Ridings.

“It has been two weeks since our homecoming from Urgenenn’s
Tower, miheth. And still you are distracted.”

“I’ve had a lot on my mind of late, it’s true. I’m sorry.”

“And you have been even more distant since the arrival of
the flame-haired lady of Callodon, and her family.”

“Lyssa? I’ve told you all about her. She and her father
Allyn were the very first good people I met on the road to Jarn, when first I
was banished.”

“Yet you have spent a great deal of time in her company,
since their arrival here. Should I be concerned?”

“Only for your head if you ask such a daft question again,
my queen.”

Gawain hugged her gently.

“It is difficult for me to know you, sometimes. I miss the
throth between us. Especially since Maeve has told me so much about the horse-kings
of old. And especially with this,” and her Elayeen laid her hands upon Gawain’s
and lightly rubbed the bulge beneath her red and gold tunic.

He kissed her head. “Silly.
This
is the soon-to-be
Prince of Raheen. If anything, it makes you even more appealing.”

“More of an appealing target, you mean.”

“Well, yes, that too. So you’ve noticed the subtle changes
in watchfulness I’ve ordered then?”

“There is little of anything subtle about the new guardhouse
at the quay, nor Ranger Foden patrolling mid-range around the way-station on the
south bank of the river. Neither is there subtlety in Ranger Yago’s patrolling of
the lands east of our forest, nor Ranger Kiran roaming to the north. And,
miheth, the less said about your plans for a roundtower yonder at the headland,
the better, at least where subtlety is concerned.”

“I am merely taking the kind of kingly precautions for my
queen’s safety that my loyal subjects expect of me. They’re your loyal subjects
too, you know. In fact they love you far more than they do me. Quite rightly,
too.”

“And they are growing in number almost daily.”

“True,” Gawain admitted, “But that’s all the more reason for
precautions. The Toorsencreed know we are here, thanks to Hellin’s new friends
in Juria, and when those new friends of hers in the west are able to make a new
Graken, will doubtless launch another assault upon us from the air. And
this,
”
he rubbed her tummy again, “Would likely slow you down a little should any more
of the scum you encountered at Tarn Point dream of venturing this way.”

“Allazar believes us reasonably safe from that particular
threat,” she sighed. “But yes, as the weeks progress I admit the growing
encumbrance is likely to lessen my ability to defend myself. Already shooting a
bow is a risky business. I am becoming larger in other places, too.”

“I know,” Gawain beamed.

“G’wain! That is most unkingly of you.”

“Bah, we are alone. And now our son is an
encumbrance
rather than a
this
?”

“Did Valin or Meeya not warn you concerning the oftentimes
poor humour and dangerous changes of mood suffered by the expectant elfin,
mihoth?”

“Ah. Yes, they did, actually. Are you in poor humour now
then?”

“Not yet, G’wain, but you have been sailing close to the
wind of late.”

“Hmm. Such nautical terms always make me think of the
Melusine, and my stomach needs no such reminders.”

“I am sorry. In spending time with Maeve and baby Kamryn I
have also learned some colloquial phrases from her and her husband, Ryan.”

“The boat-builder.”

“The Master boat-builder.”

“I know,” Gawain kissed her head again, “I meant no offence
in omitting his title, you know that.”

“I do. But I am feeling sensitive today. Especially where
the flame-haired lady newly arrived from Callodon is concerned.”

“Miheth, your hair is growing soft and lush and long, and
all trace of that brown muck you splodged all over it after leaving Tarn is long, long gone.”

“Long? It has grown but a few inches since Dun Meven. It is
still much shorter than you like. I know it is.”

“Bah. Long enough for me to run my fingers through. I am
happy, miheth. Fret not about Lyssa of Callodon, nor the length of her hair. She
is a bard, and tells a good tale in the hall of an evening as you well know.
Besides, she has asked, through Allazar, if she might serve in our hall as a
chronicler.”

“And you have agreed?”

“I have,” Gawain sighed, and felt the tug of strange
aquamire again. “I can’t explain it, E, but lately I’ve thought it might be a
good idea to make a record of all the events we have endured, together and
apart. Allazar keeps saying the world is changing, and though it pains me to
say it, he’s right.”

“Perhaps it is the ancient book in the down-below I asked
you to inscribe in honour of Curator Dannis which has disturbed you, and made
you contemplate the making of such records?”

There was a short pause, Gawain gazing over the top of
Elayeen’s head towards the west. Then he answered.

“Perhaps.”

“It is quite probably a very bad thing to lie so brazenly
with your hands resting upon our unborn son, mihoth.”

Gawain smiled, and squeezed her gently. “I’m sorry. Again.
But it’s possible that the very existence of the vault…”

“Down-below.”

“It’s possible that the very existence of the down-below has
added to the unsettling eddies which have disturbed my calm of late, and yes,
also the ancient tome and its hundreds of blank pages. How was that? D’you
think
this encumbrance
heard me?”

“It was eloquent and kingly, and yes, he probably did.”

“Has Allazar made anything of the few pages which have been
marked in that book? Or Corax?”

“No. The book is very old, the ink faded in spite of their
insistence that the rock of the cavern is somehow charmed to prevent rot or
decay in the stores secreted there.”

Gawain shrugged. “Perhaps the spells or whatever they are
don’t work on ink. I’m not entirely sure it matters. Whoever it was made those
earlier inscriptions is long gone. If your friend Dannis was correct, and the
vaults…
down-belows
… were made by Aemon himself, they pre-date even
Morloch and the Eldenelves.”

“Time has a habit of catching up with us, G’wain. We cannot
run from it. We cannot fight it.”

“No, we can’t. Is that why you wanted the three of us to try
to open the Morgmetal casket together the day after the feast? Because you feel
time has caught up with us?”

Elayeen shrugged. “It occurred to me that the three circles
girdling the triskele keyhole might require all three of us to turn the key, or
to be present when the lock was opened.”

“Alas.”

“I am not sorry for the failure. I said so then, and I meant
it. Likewise now. I knew that both you and Allazar were disturbed by the hasty
and possibly shallow description I gave to you at Urgenenn’s Tower of my
earlier attempt. So then, I sought to ease both your minds, and my own, by
making the joint attempt when we returned.”

“You still believe the box is for our son to open?”

“Yes.”

Gawain nodded, and did his best to ease even closer to
support his wife without crushing her up against the balustrade.

“Allazar is disturbed too,” she announced softly. “I am
concerned that both of you were affected by the tower more than you know.”

“In the wizard’s case, I’ll admit it’s certainly possible.
That bastard Urgenenn was as mad as a bag of dog-bats. There was writing
scratched on every brick, block, stone and surface in there. I suppose the
traitor didn’t take much in the way of pencil and paper with him when he fled
the Hallencloister and made his foul home there in the Eastbinding.”

“Do you think it was the writing in the tower which has so
altered the wizard’s mood since we returned?”

Gawain pondered the question.

“No,” he finally declared, and with conviction. “No, it may
have disturbed him at the time, or not, I don’t know. It was the battle with
Kallaman Goth I think which disturbed him much more, and the brief but shocking
appearance of Eldenbeard. He was terrifying, E. I stood face to face with
Morloch’s power in the deep dark below the Teeth, and I’ve gone toe to toe with
iron-masked lords of the Goth, and felt only rage and disgust and a powerful
urge to destroy every last one of them. But seeing Allazar as I did in the
tower,
that
was frightening. That was what I imagined all great wizards
would be like, back when I was a boy. All power, all arrogance, and not a hint
of humanity.”

Gawain sighed again, and then continued. “But all trace of
it faded quickly and he was his normal beardy self when we left the
Eastbinding, and all the way back here. And even up until a few days after our
homecoming he was the usual useless goit on a stick we’ve come to expect. It
was later he became so distracted, not long after he sent a couple of
Harribek’s birds to Brock, after the feast, in fact.”

“And you are sure you have not berated him, or otherwise
upset him?”

“Me? Why would I ever do something like that? When he’s not
been teaching Corax, exploring the down-below, or striding about the place
trying to look important, he’s had his nose stuck in his notebooks. I’ve hardly
had cause to speak to him, much less berate him for anything.”

“No,” Elayeen agreed, “You’ve been very busy with the
bard-chronicler from Callodon, or in the tavern drinking with dwarves.”

“I haven’t!” Gawain squeaked, “I’ve been about my kingly
duties, and especially those concerning you, Ranger Leeny, Queen of Raheen!”

Elayeen smiled, and he knew it, even though he couldn’t see
it standing behind her as he was. She always did when called her that, just as
the new steward of the hall, Arbo, always did whenever Elayeen called him by
name.

“Do not think you can ease yourself back into my affections
with such blatant and glib stratagems, G’wain. Ranger Leeny your queen is far
from easily impressed.”

“Bah.”

Elayeen leaned back into him, and folded his arms tighter
about her.

“Why did you ask me to accompany you here, G’wain? It wasn’t
to watch Martan and his friends levelling the top of the headland.”

He sighed. And paused, and pondered.

“There is a tension rising in the hall,” he finally
declared. “And for good reason. Tomorrow is the day Brock plans to cross the
River Ostern in force, to begin the long-awaited liberation of the Old Kingdom. At least it is if Brock hasn’t changed his mind or the date of his incursion. Tyrane
is fretful, as are the men of the Black and Gold down there with him. In truth,
I am fretful too. Allazar is distant and distracted, the men are tense and
nervous, and even the horses in the fields behind the tavern have sensed it and
they, too, are uneasy. I thought perhaps the sight of the two of us might
reassure them all, and I thought also to remove you from the hubbub for an hour
or two.”

There was another pause then, Elayeen stroking his forearm
while she considered his words.

“There is more, though, G’wain. I can feel it through your
embrace.”

“Yes.”

“You should know, if you hadn’t already guessed,” she
whispered, and drew in a deep breath. “You should know we can see the darkness
in you now, all of us of the ninety-five.”

“The darkness?”

“The darkness you brought back with you from Urgenenn’s
Tower. We can see it with our eldeneyes, swimming deep in the heart of the
steel, in the sword upon your back. And we can see it swimming deep in the
heart of you.”

“I hadn’t considered the possibility,” Gawain admitted
softly.

“There has always been a darkness within you, G’wain, I have
always known that, and when we were throth, I could see it even before I became
the Sight and you the Deed. But the darkness our eldeneyes now can see is
different, and tangible, and of the kind gathered by your blade which made all
elves fear to touch the sword when first you were carried from the field of
battle and to my care in my brother’s province.”

“Not all elves feared the sword, Elayeen. You didn’t.”

“I did. But I loved you more than I feared the black steel
of that ancient weapon, and so I carried it, and cleaned it, and brought it to
your bedside in the hope that it would aid you in the fight against the poison
that coursed through your veins.”

“It seems so long ago, that day near the forest, when Black
Riders charged me down, and I was struck by one of their bolts.
Eem frith am
Gan-thal
, I said to the shadows gathered about me, and then I awoke to fire
and ice, pain and beauty.”