Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (10 page)

“Dwarfspit,” Gawain spat, “You mean there’s nobody home, and
they locked up behind them when they left?”

Allazar gazed at the immense gate, and shook his head, the
answer eluding him. “I do not know what I mean,” he whispered. “Only that
someone has placed a seal upon the gate.”

“Break it, then.”

“I do not know that I can.”

Gawain shrugged. “And you won’t know until you’ve tried.
Dwarfspit, Allazar, you carry the White Stick. Use it.”

“I shall try,” the wizard nodded, though he appeared
entirely unconvinced, and entirely alarmed by the seal and its portents.

He rolled his head and flexed his shoulders, tested his
knees and hips, and then set his expression grim as he strode towards the gate
once more. Again, he braced himself and held the staff like a battering ram,
and swung it against the oak. Again there was a deafening boom which reverberated
from within the walls, and again a bright flash which threw the wizard back.

But this time, Allazar was prepared, and though he stumbled
a little, he moved with the force propelling him, and kept his feet. He eyed
the end of his staff, glanced at his companions, then took three paces more
towards them before turning, and yelling at the top of his voice, charged the
gate.

It would have been comical were it not for the fact that
this was the Hallencloister and Gawain wanted entry to it. Another deafening boom
which threatened to afflict them all with headaches such was the intensity of
the sound. But this time, instead of a simple bright flash, those observing
caught a brief glimpse of a mesh of intertwined lightning crackling all over
the immense portal. But then they became busy trying and succeeding to break
the flying wizard’s fall as he dropped into them from a height of about five
feet.

“Would one of the smaller gates be easier?” Gawain asked
solicitously when Allazar had dusted himself down and regained his breath.

“No,” the wizard grumbled, clearly angry. “If anything they
would be harder, the seal smaller and thus, being more compact, more difficult
to break.”

“I was only asking in the hope of sparing you further
flights and us the risk of broken limbs catching you when you land.”

“I am angered by the seal, Longsword. You don’t seem to
understand the significance of it. This is the D’ith Hallencloister! Never
would it be sealed against wizards of the D’ith. Never. Something is very wrong
here and no matter what other reasons we may have for gaining entry to the
‘cloister this,” and here he pointed vaguely behind him towards the immense
gate, “This trumps all of them!”

With that, Allazar spun on his heels, and mumbling beneath
his breath, advanced upon the sealed portal once again.

“
Dar me enthra!”
he screamed again, and again
hammered at the oak with his staff. And again. And again. And again.

For a full hour, Allazar went toe to toe with the east gate.
He would pause, take a drink, wipe his hands and his staff the better to
maintain a tight grip upon the Dymendin. Once, he even paused to fish out the
remains of his sodden lump of sugar-mint, stuffing it into his mouth and later
spitting out small pieces of the paper wrapping.

Each time he attacked the gate he was knocked back by the
opposing force of the seal binding it shut, but each time he remained upright,
and each time, it seemed to those watching his labours, the flash of the mystic
seal seemed a tiny bit dimmer, the opposing force a tiny bit weaker, and the
booming that echoed from within a little louder.

And that was why none of them, not even Gwyn, heard the
arrival of riders behind them until it was too late for them to take any measures
to avoid them. Too late to do anything, in fact, but turn slowly when a harsh
voice called to them:

“Stand fast there!”

oOo

10. Dilemma

Gawain closed his eyes and sighed, muttering a familiar
curse under his breath. He turned around slowly, swivelling to the left so his
right hand and arm were momentarily shielded by his body from view. Long enough
to wrap the bead of his arrow-string around a shaft in the quiver hanging low just
behind his right hip, and then he struck what he hoped was a casual pose, resting
his hands on his hips.

Seven riders. Two clad in grey, five in brown and green
holding their bows canted across their saddles, arrows nocked to strings and
held in place by a finger of the hands firm on the grips, but strings not yet
drawn.

“My lord!” a distinctly feminine voice gasped.

“Rider Cherris,” Gawain replied, smiling tight-lipped. “I am
glad to see you again. I know not your companion’s name?”

“Corporal Dirs,” the man replied. “Royal Jurian Cavalry. You
likely don’t recognise me, m’lord, though I rode under General Bek.”

“Yes, I recognise you, Dirs. Bek gave you charge of the
cordon party around the stores tent where I met with Martan of Tellek on our
last night-camp before forming the line at Far-gor. You and Rider Cherris both
wore the emblem of the Kindred Army then. Now I see only a circle of cut
stitches on your tunics where those emblems once were worn with pride.”

Dirs blinked, smiling briefly in astonishment at Gawain’s
memory, and then he glanced down at the mark on his chest where the emblem had
once indeed been proudly displayed.

“Orders from her Majesty,” Dirs grimaced. “The Kindred Army
is no more, she says, and the wearing of its emblem is… inappropriate.”

“And you, Raheen, are arrested, your liberty forfeit, by
order of Hellin of Juria, and Insinnian, Crown’s Consort of Juria, and by order
of Thallanhall.”

So sneered one of the Toorsengard elves, all of them wearing
the mark of the Tau emblazoned at the hem of their capes, and on their boots,
and saddles.

“You kept better company when last I saw you, Corporal
Dirs,” Gawain grimaced, and leaned forward to spit, his eyes fixed on the elf
who’d spoken.

Allazar drew alongside him to his left, Ognorm to the right,
and Venderrian, glowering and tense, to the left of the wizard.

“Our new
friends
from the great forest,” Dirs
announced. “We’re on long-range patrol, m’lord, with orders to keep an eye on
the border with Callodon. We were riding that way and made a night-camp to the
southwest when we heard thunder rising from the Hallencloister and came to
investigate.”

“Ah, then yours would be the smoke I saw earlier. Did you
set fire to a tree or something over there? I thought a hamlet must’ve sprung
up yonder, so much smoke did we see rising there.”

It was Cherris’ turn to grimace. “Our new
friends
fired wet gorse-wood with elf-oil to cook their breakfast, my lord. They’re not
at all used to life here on the open plains.”

“These criminals must be taken at once to Juria, Corporal!”

“Shut up, Darin,” Cherris sighed, wiping a lock of wet
chestnut-brown hair from her face. “Corporal Dirs commands this patrol and you
with it.”

She glowered at the elf, who held her gaze with an
expression of such fierce distaste that Gawain suspected this was not the first
time Cherris had put the Toorsengard in his place.

Gawain took the opportunity to slide his arrow a little
further from the quiver, tightening the turn of string around the shaft just in
front of the fletching. From the corner of his eye he saw Ognorm’s hands,
thumbs looped in his belt, slide slowly further apart, the left towards the
hammer hanging there, the right towards the Meggen mace snug in its customary
position.

“Alas, m’lord, our new
friend
is right. Her Majesty
gave a general order to all her forces under arms. Should you or your lady be
found on Jurian soil, you’re to be taken to Castletown, and handed over to the
Thallanhall.”

“And do you mean to obey that order, Corporal, here on the
cobbled road of this, the D’ith Hallencloister?” Allazar’s voice carried a
chilling edge.

Sparks fizzled and danced on the end of the Dymendin, Gawain
could see their brightness in the dull light of the overcast day. So could the
elves before them.

“My lord,” Cherris swallowed, and fidgeted in her saddle.
“We have a duty.”

“Yes you do,” Gawain agreed. “And it’s not to the orders
your queen has given you, but to the people you stood for at the line. We have
urgent business here in the Hallencloister and we shan’t be delayed, diverted
nor detained from it.”

“No-one’s come this close to the place in over a year,
m’lord,” Dirs glanced nervously at the massive portal behind the four
companions, and then up at the ramparts. “And the ‘weed that sprang up here
gave everyone an excuse to give the place an even wider berth.”

“It’s why we came to investigate the sounds, my lord,”
Cherris smiled, though weakly, “None have been heard here for so long. Even the
air on the plains nearby is eerie and still.”

“Has there been no answer from within, m’lord?”

“None, Dirs. And that is why we cannot be diverted from our
purpose. We must know why the gates are shut, and why none answer the call.”

The Jurian corporal squirmed in his saddle, and flicked a
glance at Cherris as if for support.

“My lord, we have our orders. Perhaps if you were to assure
us of your consideration after you have received an answer, either to your
knocking or to your questions, I and my patrol might wait for you below?”

Tension suddenly seemed to ratchet up a notch, and Dirs
shifted in his saddle again. Gawain did not envy the Jurian’s dilemma.

“I can assure you of my consideration, Corporal Dirs. I can
also assure you that I have no intention of surrendering to elves of a foul
creed whose stock-in-trade is the betrayal of the kindred races.”

“I have heard enough of this childish Eastlander stupidity!
I have my orders! The dwarf may do as he pleases, but the man, the wizard, and
the elf traitor…” Darin trailed off, and Gawain smiled, and took half a step
forward.

“Cat got your tongue, Darin, elf of Toorsencreed and
Eastguard?” he asked, his voice dropping in tone and volume, and utterly
menacing. “Your friends of the Tau should know, I suffer no-one to draw string
or steel against me. That is the way of Raheen, and I am Raheen.”

With that, Gawain drew the arrow slowly from his quiver, and
held it in both hands before him, casually prepared for hurling. Darin’s eyes began
to bulge, the elf pinned by Venderrian’s Sight the moment he had swept his eyes
down the line of the four companions and uttered the word ‘traitor’.

“Dirs, Cherris, move away from these elves. Friends of Juria
they most certainly are not. We shall discuss your orders like civilised people
once the threat to myself and my friends is diminished, one way or the other.”

“Darin?” another elf asked in alarm, clearly hoping for
orders. None were forthcoming.

“You will tilt your bows and allow the arrows you have
nocked to fall at your feet,” Gawain commanded. “If you move against us, you
have seen your last Eastland dawn. Cherris, Dirs, move away, please. You stood
at Far-gor, you’ve seen the White Staff at work, and know only too well how poor
is his marksmanship.”

Blinking, Cherris and Dirs regarded each other for a moment,
and at another hissing shower of fizzing sparks from Allazar’s staff, eased
their horses, high-kneed, some twelve feet away from the five elves, away to
Gawain’s right.

“He looks about ready to burst, Ven,” Gawain announced,
gazing at the one named Darin, the elf’s face crimson as an over-ripe tomato.
“Release him.”

At once, the Sight-stricken elf clutched his throat, veins
bulging like cords, and gasped for breath, eyes bulging wide.

“Don’t do it, Toorsengard!” Gawain cried at Darin’s nearest
companion, whose right hand was inching across his thigh towards the string of
his bow.

“Take them!” Darin gasped aloud, reaching for his own
string.

“Stand down!” Dirs and Cherris screamed together.

But it was far too late to halt the scene unfolding before
their eyes. Whether it was hubris drove the elfguard Darin to give the order or
genuine loyalty to his superiors, it mattered not. What mattered was the fact
of four mounted elves instantly drawing string against Gawain and his
companions, the fifth Sight-stricken and attempting to do likewise while
gasping for breath.

Gawain’s arm was already cocking back as a prelude to
throwing, the elf Darin his target. Ognorm’s hands were dragging hammer and mace
from belt-loops, knees bending and head going down ready to charge forward. Ven
had pinned another of the elves and was presenting his own bow, arrow nocked in
a blur.

But Allazar won the race, flipping the staff horizontally
and raising a broad and shimmering shield before them all, into which four
elven longshafts slammed and shattered, all of them aimed at the wizard.
Venderrian loosed, but his own arrow shattered harmlessly on the back of
Allazar’s shield, which then seemed to tighten from a disk into a large ball,
only to form a Surge which sped across the ten yards of clear cobbled road to
slam into horses and elves both.

The chaos that followed was brutal, horses going down, tumbling
and squealing, sending riders sprawling. One elf, the Toorsengard Venderrian
had pinned before Allazar loosed the Surge, was crushed beneath a horse rolling
over and kicking in panic to regain its feet. The others were no less
fortunate.

Gawain hurled his arrow, which struck Darin in the left
shoulder as the kneeling elf, still clutching the remains of a broken bow, ducked
away from a charging horse and tried to rise to his feet. Pain brought with it
an awareness of his situation and he looked up to see the King of Raheen
sprinting across the cobbles, drawing a long black blade which hummed and
seemed to crackle alarmingly as it swung downwards. Darin had just enough time
to grasp the hilt of his own sheathed shortsword before Gawain’s blow landed,
smashing through the elf’s skull and down through his chest, killing him instantly.

Venderrian drew his bow a second time and shot an elf laying
dazed on the cobbles clean through the heart, while a sickening thump and great
arcing spray of blood and grey-pink matter told of Ognorm’s mace finding its
mark in the back of a fourth elf’s head. Gawain braced, hefting the bloodied
black blade high and staring to the left at the last of the unnamed elves even
now rising to his feet, sword in hand and staring wide-eyed at the wizard
towering over him… a wizard who simply poked his long white staff into the
elf’s chest, and blew him asunder with a sharp concussion and the briefest of
flashes.

Gawain didn’t have to look into Allazar’s eyes to know a
dangerous light was burning there. Instead, he turned his gaze to Cherris and
Dirs, the two riders of the Grey stunned by the speed and ferocity of the
violence before them and struggling still to bring their horses to rest as five
other startled animals skittered and scattered on the cobbled road around them.

Cherris caught Gawain’s gaze, and blanched. For his part, he
saw the wet brown hair plastered to her pale face and neck, saw the emotions
cartwheeling in her wide brown eyes, and promptly relaxed, bending to wipe the
blood from his sword on a cape bearing the mark of the Toorseneth. He sheathed
the sword, and after a glance at his comrades, fixed Cherris and Dirs again.

“We’ll discuss your orders like civilised people,” Gawain
announced, “Just as soon as you’ve rounded up the horses and tended to them.
There’ll likely be bruises from the wizard’s rough treatment, and they’ll need
tending.”

“Aye, m’lord!” Dirs gasped, instantly grateful for an order
which would remove him from imminent threat and delay any decision he and
Cherris might need to make in respect of Hellin’s standing orders.

“Take the horses yonder, halfway to the gate further along
the wall. They may be less disturbed by the noise of the wizard trying to break
into this place. Allazar, when we’re all clear of this bloodied ground, the
Rites for the Fallen if you please. I like not the mess they’ve made. It
offends me as much as they themselves did.”

After the hasty rites were done and nothing but ashes
stained the wet cobbles where five elves of the Tau had been slain, Gawain and
his three companions gathered near the gate, eyeing the two Jurian riders
examining and tending to the horses Allazar had bowled over with his Surge.

“We have slain allies of Juria, Longsword,” the wizard
sighed, the light in his eyes faded and his voice melancholy. “There is no
knowing the extent of the repercussions.”

“Arr, and them two are Grey Riders, mates who stood with us
at Far-gor. I ain’t much keen on goin’ against ‘em, melord. Not much keen at
all.”

“They’re honourable, and loyal to Juria, not to Hellin.
We’ll worry about how next to proceed after we’ve broken the seal on this vakin
gate. We didn’t come this far only to surrender meekly to a couple of RJC
long-rangers and hand ourselves over to Hellin and the Toorseneth.”

“It’s precisely because they
are
honourable that we
and they face a dilemma, Longsword. If they were any less so, they might
abandon all care for Hellin’s orders and ride away. Perhaps even with us, to
Last Ridings.”

“It is their dilemma,” Gawain agreed, “And not really ours.
Ours is breaking through the seal. I think you’re being far too gentle with
this vakin gate, Allazar. Time to call forth the tree of lightning, and blow the
bloody door off its hinges.”

“Alas, were it only so simple. The seal is cunning and like
most armour, absorbs and deflects the power applied to it. But it is weakening,
and that is encouraging.”

Gawain looked sceptical, and with grunt, nodded for the
wizard to resume his battering, and drew the others away towards the two
Jurians, leaving Allazar to it. They’d only gone a few yards when another boom
of thunder sounded from the gate, and echoed eerily within the walls of the
Hallencloister.