Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (33 page)

Again, Gawain shrugged, and adjusted his cloak. “No, Oggy.
As ever he serves his own foul interests. You heard him. It was his hatred of
himself planted the madness in Toorsen’s mind. He rebels now against his own
ending. That is why he followed us, and sent what last servants he could muster
against the creed here. To prevent them ending all wizardkind. To prevent his
own demise. Come, my friends, here are the horses. We have some hunting to do.
And henceforth?”

They eyed him expectantly.

“Henceforth we trust our own instincts and those of our
friends.”

oOo

34. Worms’ Ending

There was nothing to be done on the slope of the western ridge.
Of the thirty-one men and horses who’d been standing there in tight formation
when Morloch’s Graken-riders had attacked, only three riders and four horses
had managed to escape unharmed into the trees. There were no wounded, elves,
men or horses, to spare further misery; such was the devastation wrought upon
them from the air.

They found the rider-less horse standing wide-eyed and sad
in the gloom some fifteen yards within the tree line with six others, presumably
those once ridden by the dead Viell of the failed binding. And there they
paused awhile to remove saddles and tack, Gawain calming the distressed animals
while Venderrian helped himself to a travelling cannister full of elven arrows
and Allazar liberated saddle-bags of freenmek and honey-bars which he shared
with the elf ranger and stowed on their packhorse. The elven horses were
loosed, and seemed grateful to depart the scene, and were last seen riding
towards the eastern trees and the lake beyond, far from the smell of blood and torn,
gaping earth.

After that, the four of Last Ridings picked their way
through the pines atop the ridge as quickly as they could, emerging on the
western side still with three hours of daylight left in the day. To their
surprise, the tracks left by the three elves who’d fled the Graken attack swung
south, and so the pursuit began, continuing until it became too dark to risk
the safety of the horses.

Venderrian, of course, would have trouble detecting those
three survivors, their dark stone-encrusted garb remained intact. But this was
southern Mornland, the ground softened by winter rains, and neither Gawain nor
the ranger had any difficulty reading the tracks left by their quarry.

“Finding that bastard Kanosenn should be a lot easier,”
Gawain declared softly, eating frak and ignoring entirely the sounds of delight
Allazar was uttering with each bite of fresh-liberated freenmek the wizard
took.

“Arr melord,” Ognorm quietly agreed. “Without them black
gems to hide ‘em, they won’t be so keen to ‘ang around, not with me mate Ven’s
peepers pointed right at ‘em.”

“Why do you think they are heading south, Longsword?”

Gawain shrugged. “I suspect they may have made a camp that
way, and then advanced when they saw through the Condavians’ Eyes which route
we were taking. I imagine they kept a good distance south of us the whole time,
and adjusted their course east or west as we did. Theirs was the advantage,
with their spies in the sky.”

“But melord, how did they know we’d take that long stretch
right through the middle o’ their wizards?”

Gawain grimaced in the gathering dark. “They didn’t, until
we began the final approach to it. The main force doubtless waited nearby with
the Ahk-Viell watching through the Condavians until we were almost in the trap,
then the elfwizards advanced through the trees and down the slope.”

“It would not have taken long for the Viell to scoop out
those hollows in which they hid,” Allazar agreed. “And nothing more mystic
needed for the task than a shovel. It was a cunning trap.”

“And one we should not have walked into. But, hey-la, we
prevailed.”

“Arr, and with that black-eyed barstid’s help an’ all.
Thought we were done for fer sure when Ven spotted them Grakens. So then, Morloch’s
having a pop at the Toorsenspits now too, melord?”

“Yes, so it would seem. Doubtless what few spies he has left
in these lands told him of Kanosenn’s force and their purpose. One thing
Morloch would not wish to see is the sceptre back in the hands of the Toorseneth,
there to be used against his wizards as well as ours.”

“Arr well, if’n you don’t mind me sayin’ so melord, it’s all
a bit confusing.”

“That’s the nature of chaos, Oggy. If we’ve made enough luck
this day, then the elfwizard will expect us to run from the danger he
represents, and won’t be looking over his shoulder until we’re there tapping on
it.”

“We ‘opes.”

“We do. I doubt he’ll expect us to pursue, though. He still
has the advantage in numbers over us, and with three of Morloch’s Graken
dropping death from the air, Kanosenn will probably expect us to be in hiding
or running from them, too. He won’t have heard Morloch’s words. Won’t have seen
the Graken retreat. He was too busy running southwest and for the cover of the trees
there.”

“A pity Morloch’s Grakens did not finish him,” Allazar
glowered. “But we must stop him turning west and sending for reinforcements.”

“True. But he’ll be expecting us to regroup, as he is likely
doing. Then he’ll move south, and perhaps send a rider with a call for reinforcements
to the west. He may even send up another Condavian, if he has the means with
him to create one. The Toorseneth is desperate for the sceptre, and anxious to
stop us crossing into Arrun.”

“All I need to know,” Ognorm declared, shuffling on his blankets,
“Is that they squinted at you sideways, an’ I’ve got a message for ‘em from me
king.”

The forthright declaration earned a smile from them all, and
then Gawain nodded.

“Get some sleep, my friends. We’re up before dawn to
continue the hunt.”

“May I speak with you for a few moments, Longsword?”

“Of course.”

Gawain stood, and they walked a short distance from the
makeshift camp leaving Ognorm and Venderrian settling for the night until their
turn on watch came.

“If it’s another apology for this afternoon’s entrapment,
don’t bother,” Gawain said quietly.

“I wanted to explain,” the wizard sighed, his head beginning
to hang. “The binding… it draws all mystic energy out into the vortex… the
swirling mist you saw. In the centre, a wizard is utterly powerless, even one
of Morloch’s strength…”

“Allazar. There is no need for explanation. We’re all
familiar with the word ‘binding’ and what it means, whether it’s of the mystic
variety or not.”

Still the wizard looked distraught, numb hands clutching the
bitterly cold Dymendin. “It is important to me that you understand, Gawain, important
that you know my tears were of rage and frustration…”

“Vakin idiot. Did you think I could possibly imagine
otherwise? D’you think we could have travelled so far together without me learning
something of your strengths and weaknesses?”

Allazar looked suddenly sheepish. “I wasn’t aware I had any
strengths worthy of my king’s attention.”

“Bah. You’re the only one can wield the White Staff, just as
the sword feels light as a feather in my hands so too the stick in yours.
You’re sure the binding hasn’t left you feeling weak and sobby-sobby like a
girly in a playground with her pony-tail fresh pulled?”

The wizard smiled. “I am sure.”

“Good. You’re the Last Sardor, and people will have certain
expectations of you, you know. It wouldn’t do to be seen as anything other than
a flinty-lipped fish-eyed fryer of darkness and fount of pointless knowledge.”

“Knowledge is never pointless, Longsword.”

“Indeed. That’s the answer one would expect from a wizard. What
moon rose on the third day of December?”

The wizard blinked, and frowned, lips moving silently in
astonishment before he answered.

“It rose unseen with the sun, a new moon. Why do you ask?”

“What possible point is there to such knowledge?”

“It permits one to calculate that the next new moon will
occur on the first day of January. I am confused, Longsword, is the moon
important?”

Gawain blinked. “I was using your knowledge of the state of
the moon a week ago as an example of pointless knowledge. Who cares what moon
rose a week ago?”

“Anyone wishing to know what moon rises tomorrow.”

“And now you are no longer feeling weak and sobby-sobby, my
task here is complete. Unless there is something else?”

“There is one thing.”

“Which is?”

“Thank you.”

Gawain eyed the wizard in the gloom, and nodded. “Bah. Just
because I haven’t killed you yet, doesn’t mean you’re my friend. It’s a good
start, though. Do you know any spells or mumbles for warming up sticks? You’ll
be bloody useless to us with your hands frozen to that one. Or worse, frost-bit
black fingers in a neat pile on the grass beside you when you wake up.”

Allazar blinked in surprise again. “Actually, d’you know, I
really hadn’t thought about such a thing. I believe I do.”

“Then use it, clodwit. And get some sleep. I don’t mean to
waste much time on pleasantries when we catch up with the enemy. I’m anxious
for a warm bed and the warm embrace that awaits me there in Last Ridings.”

“There is one thing you may now be certain of, my friend,”
Allazar whispered sadly. “There will be nothing pleasant when next I confront
Kanosenn of the Ahk-Viell. What retribution there shall be, shall be none of
his commanding. What watch shall I have?”

“The last, before dawn. You’re the only one of us with the
pointless knowledge of what hour the sun will rise tomorrow, so wake us all
half an hour beforehand, would you?”

“I shall. Good night, Longsword.”

“Good night, Allazar.”

Gawain patrolled a small loop around their camp, waiting
until he was sure they were all asleep before he sat on his saddle, sword
across his lap, and cloak drawn tight. It was cold. And he
did
miss
Elayeen. It was all well and good Captain Hass and his warnings against weaker
moments on watch, but the fact of the matter was, Gawain was tired, and he felt
cold, and empty.

Gone was the grey mist of strange aquamire, nothing
remaining of it now but faint stains shifting as if alive in the steel of his
blade. No visions swam from grey mists to haunt him when he closed his eyes. No
worms wriggled and vied for his attention. Today had been an ending, as
Kanosenn had said. But it had been the worms’ ending, not Gawain’s. Now he had
no aquamire clarity. Now he was, quite simply, Gawain again.

It was cold. His breath was pluming and he noticed it, and
wrapped a black scarf around his face and head, and drew up the hood of his
cloak. Steaming breath on watch, and Captain Hass would be disappointed with
him. Anyone could be skulking in the dark. Brigands. Toorsenelves. Morlochmen.
Jurians perhaps, loyal to Insinnian’s stewardship of the throne. He strained
his ears, listening for sounds that shouldn’t be there but were, and sounds
that should be there but weren’t. Hearing none, he slowly scanned the gloom
around the camp, noting silhouettes of trees and shrubs on the horizon,
wondering if the enemy they were pursuing had camped in the distant copse some
hours’ ride to the south.

It had been a day of surprises, not the least of which was
the recognition of the profound friendship he felt for the wizard. Allazar. A
whitebeard. Well, he thought, the world was changing, and there were few enough
whitebeards in it. And had he not left Corax in Last Ridings, to watch over
Elayeen? What greater sign of his changing attitudes towards wizards could
there be than that?

The world had changed, almost beyond recognition now. Even
Morloch feared it, and was rebelling against the very chaos he himself had
stirred into motion. Morloch’s legacy, worms’ ending, chaos and strife.

It called to mind the verse of the Arathalaneer which
Venderrian had recited. How did it go?
Dark days old are come, dark days new
are born, in war and strife and rising dread, dark days new are born, and
shadows, ‘til arrives the reaper.

A day of surprises. Morloch’s last desperate pronouncement,
reaching out with what power he had remaining to him to declare, almost at the
border with Arrun,
I shall not fade!
The greatest fear of tyrants
everywhere: ending in obscurity. Such men, such wizards too, would spend all
their people and all their wealth for the building of monuments, holding death as
nothing, but obscurity the greatest of agonies. Obscurity lasts forever for
those who die in it, and for the desperate, infamous and evil acts allow the
dimmest of lights to be seen for a brief moment, in the futile hope perhaps of
eclipsing for a time the brighter lights of those whose lives they claim.

Surprises. The Toorseneth had a new Cloak which, unlike the
archaic Cloak of Quintinenn, Gawain could not see. It seemed to Gawain to date
the legacy of the circles in the Hall of Raheen, his father’s hall. Certainly
Allazar and Arramin had been surprised by some of the advances the Viell had
made. It simply added to the urgency of his desire to return to Last Ridings; their
enemies had Cloaks and black gems which could evade even the Sight of the
Eldenelves, and that meant Elayeen and all their friends were vulnerable.

Surprises. The look on Kanosenn’s face had been priceless
when Gawain unleashed the strange aquamire upon the binding and the Viell. It
had been something of a surprise to Gawain too, though of course insight and
the pulsing rhythms in the sword and in himself had shown him his power before
he used it. He had been filled, after all, with the same energies the Viell
were using for the binding, but much more than they were able safely to wield,
and that power subtly altered by the longsword and its mystic runes.

But that power was gone now, gone the way of the worms,
ended in a thrilling release of the
something
which had charged him,
which Sighted elves could see within him. Perhaps his arms too were healed now
from the lingering effects of the Shadow of Calhaneth, but the only way to know
for certain would be if they remained insensitive to the presence of Viell
energies and false aquamire. He might never know, now. The Ahk-Viell Kanosenn
needed no such false aquamire to strengthen his abilities here in these lands,
and if no reinforcements were waiting nearby, all the lesser Viell in
Kanosenn’s force had been destroyed.

Gawain decided he didn’t like surprises, not that he ever
really had. They should not have been caught in Kanosenn’s trap, just as they
should not have been trapped in the crater of the volcano in the Eastbinding.
But with the ending of the worms came also the certainty that now was the time
for men to grasp their own destiny, and thus, when they were back in Last
Ridings, it would be Captain Hass and his invaluable lessons, and not insights
born of dark energies, which would help to guide Gawain and his people.