Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (29 page)

30. Sleeping Dogs

Gawain was worried. He wouldn’t admit it to anyone, never
mind show it, but he was worried. True, the laughter he’d shared with Allazar
was a great release of the tension they all felt, and it was good to hear the
wizard chuckling and laughing out loud. But the laughter, he knew, had at times
bordered on the desperate, and had it gone on too long after sunset, could have
ended in tears.

But that had been hours ago. Ognorm had taken first watch,
and now near midnight, Gawain had the second. He enjoyed the silence of the
dark hours, the creaking of the trees and occasional rattling of their twigs
stirring in breezes up here on the ridge overlooking the south. His men were
sleeping, the horses were sleeping, and here he sat, alone and worried.

Well, not strictly alone.

“Suppose I don’t know where the enemy are, exactly?”

Go and look for ‘em, y’highness, or wait for them to find
you.

“And suppose I can risk doing neither?”

Then y’should be worried, for it means you’ve given up
thinking!

Gawain sighed to himself, and pondered. He was outnumbered
ten to one, and out-sticked seven to one. The sceptre in the map-case was far
too important an artefact to be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Seeking out
the enemy was out of the question. Sitting atop the ridge and waiting for them
to come to him was likewise out of the question.

Why?

“Beg pardon, Captain Hass?”

Why is it out of the question? If the goal is to keep the
short stick from enemy hands, why is waiting for them to come to you out of the
question? Is your position indefensible?

“We need to get the sceptre to Elayeen and safe below Crown Peak.”

Why? I thought the objective was to keep the sceptre from
the enemy?

“It is. But…”

But?

“But I want to get back to Elayeen. I want to hold her and
keep her and our son safe from this lunatic world and the chaos the Toorseneth
is wreaking upon us all.”

Boo bloody hoo, y’highness.

“Actually, it’s y’Majesty these days.”

Not fer me, y’highness. I’m dead, remember, and just your
imagination.

That depressing realisation broke the spell, and Gawain
scanned the horizon again. The night was clear, an ocean of stars twinkling,
the world bathed in their silvery-grey light, and there was no moon. And, as Allazar
had announced before bedding down, it’d be a new moon rising at dawn anyway. No
light could they expect from that heavenly orb at night for some days yet.

Hass had always cut through the fug, and had done so again.
Of course it was Gawain’s intent to return to Last Ridings and Elayeen, and to
secure the Dymendin sceptre in the down-below beneath Crown Peak. He actually smiled when he thought of the word ‘down-below’, and imagined his queen
chiding him whenever he used the word ‘vault’ instead.

But then he snapped his attention back to the reality of his
surroundings.

Love’s killed more watchmen than cut throats and arrows!
Hass had told them in the classroom in the Downland Barracks.
Keep yer mind
on yer job unless you want yer mates dead!

Gawain accepted the rebuke, stood silently, and flexed his
muscles before walking into the gloom of the trees a few yards away from his
sleeping companions. So then. Hass was right. It was his intention to return to
Elayeen, but the goal was to keep the sceptre from the ToorsenViell hunting
them. Recognising the difference between intent and objective brought his
circumstances into sharper relief.

Forty-two of the Tau, seven of them warriors of the mystic
variety and thirty-five of the common though crystal-clad type. Though Byrne
had said some were wearing the uniform of Bek’s Greys. Those would be armed
with crossbows, swords, and possibly lances, the rest, elven longbows and
swords. Small beer if a convenient Fallowmead had been built atop the ridge,
but alas there was no self-sufficient village here to build pit-traps and
catapults and make barrels of caustic powders and liquids to hurl at an enemy
charging up the slope. Here atop the slope was just Gawain, Allazar, and two
friends.

Could it be enough? Venderrian and Ognorm could join Gawain
in the launching of arrows down the hill into an advancing enemy, and Allazar
could spew torrents of white fire down it… but it was madness, of course. The
enemy had seven sticks to Allazar’s one, and that one would be employed shielding
three of the kindred from a storm of arrows rushing up the hill towards them,
at least ten for every one they managed to hurl down at the charging riders.
Madness. And the objective was certainly not to stand and fight and hold a
nameless ridge to the last man.

The quiet was momentarily shattered by the high-pitched
squeaks and fluttering wings of a flock of nightcrakes flapping overhead in
search of the nocturnal flying insects that were their food. Gawain had a
sudden inkling of how the insects must be feeling. He shivered, and drew his
cloak tighter, breath pluming and giving away his position should any eyes be
looking in his direction. He tied a darkcloth scarf around his face to stem the
steaming harbingers.

Sixteen or seventeen days to the Hallencloister, and thence
another twenty-eight home to Last Ridings. Home? Home was Raheen. But Raheen
was gone. Well then. Perhaps ‘home’ now was wherever Elayeen waited for him.

Boo bloody hoo, y’highness.

Yes, thank you, Captain Hass.

So then. The fly in the ointment was not knowing where the
enemy had deployed. Thanks to their Condavian, the enemy knew every move Gawain
made and could adjust their plans accordingly. Gawain knew not where the
Toorsencreed were, and their newly-created crystal armour made them difficult
for Kindred Rangers to spot, effectively reducing the range of the Sight to a
little less than half a mile. This was middle Mornland, woodlands, streams,
rolling hills giving way slowly to the grassier plains of Arrun. Plenty of
places for the Tau to lurk unseen. Plenty of places for an ambush.

Thinking of Arrun called to mind something which seemed of
sudden significance, and Gawain closed his eyes and stared into the dark grey
mist of strange aquamire. Captain Byrne’s voice filled his mind’s ears.
Serre
Jawn speaks Elvish, of course, though either our new friends know it not or
they have forgotten that the Lord Chamberlain would be expected to be fluent in
all tongues. They’re desperate, my lord. They’re under orders not to let you
cross into Arrun. I know not why.

No, Gawain thought, I don’t know why either. Why was the
Arrun border significant? Elfwizards of the Ahk-Viell and lesser sticks had
operated freely from Urgenenn’s Tower in the Eastbinding far to the south of
Arrun’s border with Callodon. It couldn’t be a geographical limitation on their
powers or distance from their forest domain which made the enemy desperate to
act against Gawain within the borders of Mornland.

Whatever the reason for the creed’s desire to obtain the
sceptre before the quest to keep it safe crossed into Arrun, it added a new
dimension to Gawain’s thinking. Suddenly, safety wasn’t as far away as Last
Ridings. It was two weeks away, two days or so north of the Hallencloister
line, at the border between Mornland and Arrun. And that, he thought, narrowed
the range of possible locations for his enemy quite considerably.

A little after sunrise saw them saddling the horses and
preparing to continue their journey. Gawain stood beside Gwyn at the tree line,
eyeing the sky. There were grey clouds to the north, drifting slowly in their
directions, though not so dark as to threaten rain or thunderstorms.

“South then, melord?” Ognorm asked, following Gawain’s gaze
and watching the lazy circles made by the Condavian high in the sky in that
direction.

“No, east,” Gawain announced.

Allazar blinked.

“Beg pardon, melord?”

“I want you and Venderrian to follow the ridge and then at
its end continue east for five more miles or so. Do you see that small river
yonder, in the southeast? The one that has those four little finger-lakes like
a string of pearls?”

“Arr, melord, I do?”

“Ven?”

“MiThal.”

“Do you see the copse to the right of the lakes, shaped a
little like a clover-leaf?”

“Arr.”

“Yes, miThal.”

“Good. Allazar and I will await you there. Don’t ride too
hard, maintain a purposeful pace as if you are bound for a destination of mild
importance. When you’ve gone your five miles or so, swing abruptly south and
join Allazar and I there in the trees.”

“MiThal, if those trees hide the enemy, you will not have my
Sight to warn you.”

“I know, Ven. The danger’s where the fun is. We’re going to
play a game with our enemy today. I want to see how they react. Don’t worry. If
Allazar and I find anything unpleasant in the clover-woods, you’ll see us soon
enough running in your direction making noises much like girlies screaming in a
playground.”

“Just us two, melord?”

“Just you two. I’ll take care of the packhorse.”

“Arr. Well. Be seein’ you later, then, I spose.”

Gawain smiled. “Let’s hope so. If not, it means one of us is
either lost or dead.”

“Only, me king’s orders…”

“I know, Oggy, believe me. Fret not. No-one will be
squinting at me sideways this day. Except perhaps that Dwarfspit Condavian and
you’d have a job shoving Nadcracker up
its
arse. We’ll give you about a
quarter of an hour’s head start before we leave. You should still be able to
see us from these heights. At least for a while.”

Ognorm and Venderrian were clearly unconvinced by the plan
and unimpressed at what they considered the abandonment of their duty to watch
over Gawain. But they obeyed his orders anyway, the ranger casting a long
glance towards the distant woods halfway to the horizon, and the dwarf casting
frequent glances over his shoulder lest it be some trick and Gawain racing off
back to the north.

“A game, Longsword? Is this wise?”

“Probably not, Allazar. Come, help me with the packhorse. I
mean to leave him here with our supplies. We’ll be camping here again tonight.”

“We will?”

“Yes. I want to see what the enemy does, if anything, once
they realise we’ve split our party. If it’s the sceptre they want so badly,
they’ll be miffed indeed not knowing which of us has it. And then, in a couple
of hours when our party is reunited down there in the clover woods, they’ll be
miffed again at having taken whatever steps they took only to find them
unnecessary.”

“I still cannot see the wisdom in teasing our enemies thus.”

“Teasing. A good word for what I’m doing, I suppose. Imagine
how peeved they’ll be when noon finds us back here again, all four of us. And
how vexed when the manoeuvres are repeated, with you and I going east, and Ven
and Ognorm south before coming back yet again.”

“And the point?”

“Did you ever hear the children’s story of the toothless old
man and his dog?”

“I do not think so. Is it relevant?”

“To my game, yes. Behold, the Condavian is moving already,
see how it adopts a figure of eight pattern now, attempting to keep Ven and
Oggy in its field of view, as well as us.”

“Ranger Venderrian said he thought he saw another Eye
circling to the north.”

“He did, some time ago now. I wouldn’t be at all surprised
if we don’t see a few more in the days to come. But to my story…

“There once was a toothless old man lived in a poor hut in a
poor village and with him an old dog. Both were tired and threadbare, both
unpleasant to the nostrils and to the eyes of those who saw them, and many did,
for the old man most days when it wasn’t raining or snowing or icicles hanging
from the rafters, sat on an old three-legged stool outside his hut, the old dog
asleep on the ground beside him.

“No-one actually knew whether the dog was alive or dead, for
no-one ever really saw it move, even though flies buzzed around its ears and
crawled upon its nose. It was mangy, and podgy, and indolent, just as the old
man was toothless, podgy, and indolent.

“One summer, when a few of the boys in the village were old
enough to make mischief and to enjoy the fun of doing so, four of them, watched
excitedly by snot-nosed younger children all filthy faces and fingers in
mouths, four of them with long sticks strode along the dirt track up close to
the toothless old man and the dog.

“
Oy, is your dog dead?
They called, and one of them
stepped forward, and poked the dog with his stick. It didn’t move.

“
No, ‘e ain’t dead, now bugger off ye little buggers or
I’ll sick ‘im on ye!
The old man replied, and the sight of his toothless
snarling made them laugh. They had never seen an old man with no teeth before.

“
It is! It is dead!
Said another brat, and poked the
dog with his stick.
It’s dead!
went up the cry, and all four began
poking the unfortunate animal with their sticks.

“
Oy!
cries the old man,
Didn’t yer mothers teach
you nothing? Didn’t yer mothers teach you to let sleepin’ dogs lie?

“But the children cared not for granny-wisdom and old wives’
tales, and kept poking the smelly dog with their sticks. At this the old man
stands up, bones creaking, and the children take half a pace back, and stopped
poking the dog.
You don’t know who I am,
says the toothless old man,
and
you don’t know who ‘e is neither. I gives you this one last warning. ‘E may be
old and tired, and ‘is once-gloss coat of shimmering black now dull and
threadbare, but if you will keep pokin’ ‘im with yer sticks, don’t come
a-wailing to me or yer witless mothers when ‘e cracks a sleepy eyelid, looks at
ye coldly fer a moment, then rips yer vakin ‘eads off!
”