Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (14 page)

“Blue men?” I asked, confused and more than a little
terrified.

“Blue men!” he insisted, his hands wringing beneath the
blanket. “Blue men! So many of them! They burned! Oh Sardor, they all burned to
ashes!”

“When? When is this to come to pass?” I heard myself
demanding in my dread, but my words moved him not, lost as he was in the memory
of his visions of blue men and brethren burning.

“Darkness came, and the fires died,” he announced softly, as
though he were reading to a child, but then his features clouded, and his eyes
became wild again. “But death came with it! Darkness, in the shadows! Flitting
here! A touch there! And there! And death making dust of our brothers! I saw them
gathered in the dining hall, the boys, and the pat, and the pat-Met, lamps and
wands and Rods of Aemon lit but to no avail! Death passes beneath the long
tables! They do not see it! They do not see it! It moved so swiftly through the
shadows there, I saw them die in their dozens!”

He fell quiet then, and seemed unaware of my presence. I
gave him water, and spoke to him, quietly, uttering feeble words I hoped might
keep him from the abyss, his eyes though clouded still wild, still seeing the
horrors of his dreaming. He wet himself, oblivious, and I removed the sopping
blanket and nightgown, and found in a hall cupboard dry bedding, and made him
as comfortable as I could. An hour later, or perhaps two, his senses returned,
and he recognised me.

“We are doomed, Durminenn,” he whispered. “All here will be
dust and ashes. Everything we know, everything we have worked for.”

“Can we save nothing?”

“Save how? It is the world’s ending.”

“The elves have built a mighty tower, in the forest, at
Ostinath. Toorsen of the elven brethren of the Viell has done this. Surely we
can with his aid save our work, send it there to the tower for safekeeping?”

But his eyes widened further still and he shook his head so
violently I thought his frail and bony neck might snap with the shock of it.

“Toorsen is mad!”

“Mad how? Mad when? Was it not he who aided in the binding
of Morloch beyond the Teeth?”

“Morloch is bound but not his will! Toorsen was drawn to the
tower of Morloch’s dreaming and looked within before fleeing… Morloch planted
in him like a seed his will and Toorsen bears that madness now and for all
time. Trapped is Toorsen on the penumbral line twixt light and dark and bound
there. The half-dark elf! The half-light! He is neither light nor shadow…
Toorsen Grey-Elf! I saw him fly beyond the dragon of the north… I saw it! And I
saw the fire come, Durminenn, I saw the fire come and it was borne in a barrel
by elves like brigands in the night…”

And here, his hand shot from beneath the fresh blankets and
I thought he reached for my throat. But instead his claw clutched at the robes
beneath my chin and drew me forward with astonishing strength for such a small
and wizened old man as he. He held me there, my eyes but inches from his, and
through the clouds of his orbs I saw a light burning deep within their
gleaming. A strange light, deep, and powerful.

“Never trust the Viell!” he spat, and there was a strength
in his voice that made my spine shudder.

Then, he sighed, the light in his eyes faded, and he slumped
back against the useless pillow, which offered as much comfort to him as his
words did to me.

For hours after that, he rambled, one moment lucid, the next
lost in the horror of the memories of his visions. Much of the time, though, he
seemed not to know I was there, and so I sat, and with plain pencil and my
notebook, I wrote down every word he uttered until, an hour before dawn, Master
Benithet, D’ith Vaticinator, Source Unimpeachable, passed from this world.

I do not know how much time must pass before the destruction
of the Hallencloister as seen by Benithet, but that the ending of our world
shall come to pass is not in doubt. Many of his utterances in themselves mean
little, but taken as a whole they paint a picture of indescribable horror which
surely must take place far in our future, as I write now. He spoke of war in
the north, and Morloch’s return from beyond the Teeth, though in guarded
conversations with the wisest of the Council held later I confirmed my own
belief that, it still being now so short a time since Morloch’s binding, any
such return is surely far beyond the realms of probability, if not indeed
beyond all possibility.

My interpretation of the sayings of Master Benithet before
his passing is perhaps no more valid than any which might be formed by each and
every Sardorian who succeeds me. The major signs of impending catastrophe
appear to be these: a great loss in the west, a great loss in the south, a
great war in the north, all occurring in the same generation of commonkind. I
do not know the ‘blue men’ to whom Benithet referred, and no amount of study
made discreetly at my quiet request has revealed so much as a hint as to their
identity.

I append hereafter all the sayings of Master Benithet in the
hours before his passing, but once again I adjure you all, my successors, to
guard well these secrets and this book. The world cannot know of them, lest all
order collapse and witless barbarism herald the ending of all commonkind.

Abandon hope, my brothers, for there is none.

Admit no-one to this knowledge save your successor.

Trust not the Viell of the forest realm.

Every book and every parchment, paper, scrap or scroll
passed to the Library of D’ith here in Hallencloister shall be copied,
secretly, and thence in secrecy taken north, and sealed there in tunnels beneath
the mount of black pyrestone known by those who dwell there as Crownmount.

Seed the lands, my brothers, with brethren of wand, rod and
staff taught well the ways of the D’ith, that they may stand with faith to the
fore in time of great need, against the darkness which is to come.

Trust not the Viell of the forest realm.

Abandon hope, my brothers, for there is none.

Here ends the
Foreword of the Book of Sardor

Durminenn Meritus,
Master of Sek and North Sardorian of D’ith Hallencloister

oOo

14. The Appendix

“There is more,” Allazar sighed, turning the gold leaves of
the book, “Snatches of Benithet’s prophetic dream-seeing, pages of them… wait…”

A packet had slipped from the back of the book, and Allazar
picked it up, and unfolded it.

“Oh,” he sighed. “Sardor Eljon has added his own account of
events, on fine vellum.”

“Read it, Allazar, for all of us to hear. Let us all learn
of the treachery of the ToorsenViell and the manner of the Hallencloister’s
destruction.”

The wizard nodded, and in the light from his staff, gently
held the sheets of vellum by the edges, as if rough treatment might cause the
smooth and durable leaves to disappear before their eyes. He cleared a throat
already constricted by unfathomable sorrow, drew in a breath, and continued
reading aloud.

I, Eljon Meritus, Master of Sek and Sardorian of D’ith
Hallencloister, do hereby solemnly attest and affirm that the contents of these
pages are a true account of events witnessed by me, and that I, by my own hand,
committed here for posterity those events in this final appendix to The Book of
Sardor. There is no goldpaper to be found here in the crystal chamber of the North Tower where now I sit and write, awaiting the coming of the Last Sardor, in thunder
and in lightning, as foreseen by Master Benithet so long ago.

The world has ended.

Its ending came as foretold, in fire, and in shadow.

Nothing could we do. Not even I, who knew what one day must
come, could prepare for the ending, so quickly did it arrive and with such
dreadful speed did it make manifest the visions of elder days. The signs were
all there; the loss of Pellarn, the destruction of Raheen, and word come down
from the north of a dark army rising and Morloch preparing to breach his
binding. Still we thought we had time. I thought we had time.

When word came of an army mustering at Ferdan even I could ignore
no longer the portents and prophecies of Benithet. No longer could I deceive
myself with false hope, ignoring Durminenn’s adjuration to abandon such futile
effort. But word also came, of traitors within our ranks, servants of Morloch
hidden from sight and senses by the foul runes of n’iman sett, of brethren
striking brethren and Morloch himself answering a summons uttered by a traitor
at Kings’ Council.

Orders I gave then, to raise the gates, all of them. Many
were the protests, but the Blue Guard remained loyal to the key about my neck,
and the gates were drawn up, though some few of the brethren fled before all
the walls were sealed and the wheels, bolts and bars locked. Protest there was,
for our duty to our kindred of commonkind, protest but not panic. Many held the
faith. Traitors were found, and ended, though at a cost to the faithful.

Council of Sek was summoned and met, and there, finally, I
revealed the prophecy of Benithet; that the world’s ending would come after a
great loss in the west, a great loss in the south, and a great war in the north.
Great relief there was that Pahak of the Ahk-Viell was not present, his seat at
the table of Sek empty since his recall some time ago now by Thal-Hak of
Elvendere. Great relief there was that the war was yet some weeks, perhaps even
months, from commencement. We had time, it was agreed, for trusted Masters of
Sek, Met, and Reen to be chosen and sent north to support the army with staff,
rod, and wand, and for such preparations as might be made by the remainder for
the coming of the final cataclysm.

But there was no time. Of course there was no time. How
could there be any time, when a Source Unimpeachable makes immutable fact his
declaration of the world’s ending?

During the darkest of hours beyond midnight while the
Council deliberated and made its plans the very day that I ordered the gates
drawn up, a contingent of elves arrived at the southern lesser gate in the west
wall, and being recognised by the Blue Guard as allies from the great forest,
admitted. Twenty there were, I was later told, on horse, and with a wagon,
which they left without the walls. Their leader was an unidentified elfwizard
of the Ahk-Viell and they had with them, so the bemused gate-watch were told by
this wizard, a mystic device for the Council of Sek to aid in the war to be
waged in the north.

It was borne on a litter from the wagon, and described as a
large metal barrel which possessed a sheen of gold in the starlight. Later we
surmised that it was some new alloy of the elven Viell, gold-infused Morgmetal,
though how so much of that latter uncommon substance had been obtained and
forged by them is a matter for minds other than mine to speculate. Under escort
from their cloaked elven contingent those bearing the litter stole through the
shadowed passages led by the Ahk-Viell who, it was said, seemed to know well
his own way.

No escort, therefore, was given by the Blue Guard. Thus,
when the contingent returned with the litter empty, it was assumed that the
device had been delivered to me here at the North Tower or to the Cloisters of
Sek. Instead, it had been set upon the uppermost dish of the Fountain of Zaine
in the very heart of Hallencloister, where it was discovered at dawn.

At the lesser gate, the elves departed, the gate was
secured, and the gate-watch remained undisturbed the rest of the night. They
had come like brigands in the night, those elves, just as Benithet had foreseen
and foretold, and we, busy in the Council, noticed not, knew not, until sunrise
brought with it a commotion, and our world’s final day.

The barrel had been found and a large group of Guards and
brethren gathered to observe the spectacle and gape in astonishment at the
sacrilege before them. So we were told by survivors of the carnage which
ensued. So I saw from my window in the tower. As the sun broke over the walls
to the southeast, its rays struck the barrel and soundlessly, it opened as a
flower might, petals of metal blossoming to reveal a double horror. One, a foul
black shadow of a thing which immediately when exposed to the pure light of the
sun’s rays sped down through the water and into the drain in the base of the
fountain’s pool. The other, an evil core of warped and twisted brown metal small
as a pear, which they said seemed to be glowing with a malevolent light.

Some of the braver guardsmen and brethren advanced to peer
into the pool, to ascertain the location of the shadow-thing they had observed
fleeing the light. “It has gone into the pipes!” they were heard to call, but
then they began to cry out for help. When they turned, their flesh appeared to
be burning, though no flame could be seen. Hands and arms they plunged into the
waters of the fountain, faces too, for relief which came not, and their cries
became desperate.

Others hurried to their aid, and were likewise afflicted. A
humming was heard, the vile core of the device began to glow a dull red, the
colour of blood they said, and as the sun rose higher, a great flash of some
putrid light was seen, and many in the courtyard fell writhing. All those in
the courtyard who had been gazing at the device were blinded, and staggered
about with hands outstretched, crying out for aid and tripping over the fallen.

The brave came, and did their best. Blue Guards with
pikestaffs advanced and attempted to close up the petals of the barrel, but
were burned by the invisible flame emanating from the core. As the sun rose
higher so too those unseen flames grew in strength and power. Lightning came
from it then, a foul brown in colour, it danced and flickered in the air and
struck the ground all about the courtyard, growing stronger until, at noon and
in spite of all efforts to shield against it, it struck the Cloisters of Sek,
and fires at once began to consume beams of oak and all other combustible
materials within.

I ordered the immediate evacuation of the Hallencloister,
all gates to be opened, and what books and other mystic treasures close to hand
to be taken to safety. But there was no hope. Durminenn’s adjuration is not to
be ignored. Reports came to me that the gates could not be opened, and Master
Erinenn of Sek came to me with the news that the gates had been sealed from
without. The brethren set to with stave and rod, the gates all unlocked and
unbarred, wheels unlocked and chains loose, yet still the portals would not
open. So thick had the elders made our gates to be proof against the barbarians
without, that we could not break those external seals from within.

Smoke rose. Lightning danced in the courtyard. Men and
brethren sickened and weakened from the emanations of the device thought too
late of fleeing over the walls. Perhaps some succeeded, I know not. Our walls
were no defence against the emanations of the device in the fountain, the
Fountain of Zaine, dried up, all its water evaporated in the heat from the foul
thing elf-made and elf-delivered which always was to be our doom.

In accordance with the words of Benithet, I took the Book of
Sardor, and one of the three remaining Sardorian keys, and my staff, and as an
afterthought, paper and pen and food, and took myself down to the crystal
chamber in the vaults beneath the North Tower. There, I lit a Light of Aemon
for my comfort, and for the writing of this account.

Old Master Salen took himself up to the roof of the tower,
and sent word to me through the great crystal prisms by means of which I
watched for as long as he and I were able. Towards late afternoon the
emanations from the device seemed to diminish, and later, at dusk, faded. Many
were too sick to continue their assault upon the gates, and those who had
fallen in the central courtyard had been entirely consumed by dark crimson fire
from the device, leaving, he said and I saw through my tears, ghastly shadows
of their passing on the hallowed pavement there.

It was with darkness that the shadow came, rendering into
lifeless mould all it touched as it roamed the corridors avoiding starlight and
moonlight. Lights of Aemon were lit, Candles of Aaron launched by those strong
enough, white fire loosed, maroons sent up by the guardsmen of commonkind who
could not summon such mystic lights as those brought forth by the brethren. The
shadow, Salen said, moved below ground, and could not escape the walls any more
than we could. The night was filled with fire, and the loud rumbling of burning
floor-beams collapsing in the Cloisters of Sek which blazed and crackled.

At midnight, and through the prisms, all was quiet. Old
Master Salen, his flesh covered in blisters and running sores, described the
shadow enveloping the vile metal rock at the centre of the device. No movement,
he said, came from below. No lights burned of the mystic variety, only the
faint pinpricks of orange made by glowstone lamps opened by the Blue Guard, and
embers, glowing remnants of the conflagration around the courtyard.

Later, when it was darkest, he said he saw a great winged
creature hover above the courtyard and a ray of some dark mystic light shine
upon the device, the petals of the barrel closed up, sealing the twin horrors
once more within. Then, he said, the creature descended, grasped the barrel
with its claws, and with a great flapping of leathery wings, succeeded against
casket’s weight to bear it over the west wall and down onto the ground below.

Some time later he reported with great hope seeing a stream
of lights appear through the southern lesser gate of the west wall. His last
report was ‘elves have come!’ and all was silent thereafter.

More time passed and I heard sounds from without in the
vaults, and for the briefest of moments I had hope that this was the thunder
and lightning of which Benithet spoke in his dream-visions. But it was not. I
believe it was our doom, rifling the vaults, destroying all, removing all trace
of the D’ith from the Hallencloister, leaving none alive who might have hidden
from fire and shadow.

They attempted entry here, too, but the old Sardors were not
fools. They heeded Durminenn’s warnings. The Viell have no knowledge of the
crystal chamber or its construction, as the imbecile who loosed white fire
against the door to force it open would doubtless now be aware had he survived
the attempt.

They have gone. I wait.

I am alone. I have opened the great gates below. When the thunder
and lightning come as they must to herald the arrival of the Last Sardor, then
I shall open the chamber, and seal it behind me, and I shall take to him, he
who surely must come soon, the Book of Sardor, and the key. To him shall they be
given, with the hope that our fate shall at last be known, that a day shall
come when the D’ith shall be avenged, and that the Last Sardor shall renew our
world and let the wisdom, knowledge, and enlightenment of Zaine once more shine
bright as a beacon in these darkest of days.

Until then, I wait.

Until then, I am alone.

Until ends,

Eljon Meritus,
Master of Sek and Sardorian of D’ith Hallencloister

oOo