Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (36 page)

“Dwarfspit, what was that? Allazar?”

“A snowball of lightning, Longsword,” the wizard whispered.
“Kanosenn is seeking his brethren!”

“Like a Dove of Orris?”

“Precisely like a Dove of Orris. The messenger is sent high
into the sky where it circles, seeking the other staff, and on detecting it,
shoots away to it, bearing its message with it. Finding no such staff, it
simply fades, returning its energies to nature.”

“Then the Graken rider is too far to be found,” Gawain
whispered.

“It would seem so. Perhaps it has returned to the west, or
its rider is sleeping, the staff or other mystic wand dormant.”

Gawain stiffened. “Excellent. Then we need fear no
interference from the air when that bastard yonder walks into our wrath.”

“Melord, how do we proceed? D’you want us to spread out an’
hide in the bushes, like?”

“No. There’ll be no finesse or cunning plans. As soon as
they come into range we’ll simply unleash our weapons upon them, common and
mystic both. Let’s not waste time with anything else, not with a Graken about
the place.”

“Arr, melord.”

Gawain sidled closer to the wizard. “Dwarfspit, Allazar, I
can’t believe they made a Graken so quickly.”

“If as you suspect they are able to use the energies of
failed orbs to create false aquamire, then with such models as Maraciss
provided at Urgenenn’s Tower to guide them, time is the only other resource
they would need.”

“Bastards.”

“Indeed.”

“MiThal! They move!”

“Good.”

Gawain slung the sword over his shoulder, and climbed into
Gwyn’s saddle, surveying the terrain. With everything rimed by frost and ice,
and with the sun so low, the world seemed one vast and lumpy blue-white
blanket. But shadows were slowly shortening as the sun climbed higher in the
sky. The enemy would be easy enough to see against such a backdrop.

Behind him, the others took to their saddles, and sat
quietly, faces wrapped again in scarves now not to diminish the clouds of their
steaming breath but to retain some of its warmth. Minutes slid by, the passage
of time measured by the puffs of breath drifting up from Gwyn’s nostrils. One
of the horses lifted its tail, and dumped a steaming pile, the sound of it
hitting the frozen ground alarming and seeming much louder than it actually
was.

Still Gawain saw no glimpse of the enemy. For a brief
moment, he pondered the possibility of advancing, shortening the gap between
his blade and his quarry, but in truth that would make him visible to the enemy
sooner, as well as vice versa. As it was, the undulations in the landscape and
blisters of ice-covered thorn would keep them hidden from the enemy’s view
until they were almost within range of Venderrian’s bow.

So they waited.

And then Venderrian eased forward, and swivelled in his
saddle, casting a Sighted gaze all around, his expression becoming somewhat
flustered.

“MiThal,” he whispered urgently, “They draw no closer! They
are moving south, across our path, not towards us!”

“South?” Gawain gasped, “But south lies the border with
Arrun!”

He stood in the stirrups and gazed due east, but saw
nothing, of course. There was too much distance between the two groups, and too
much unevenness in the terrain for any but Sighted eyes to follow the
Ahk-Viell’s progress.

“They travel now at speed, miThal. And they continue due
south. Soon their lights will pass from my range!”

Gawain sat back in the saddle. He didn’t need the ghost of Captain
Hass reminding him that the best laid plans were often rendered worthless by an
enemy failing to do what they were
supposed
to do. At least Gawain knew
his horses were sound, and well cared for. The same, he suspected from the
speed of the enemy’s departure from camp, might not be said for the poor beasts
of the Tau. He remembered too the suffering of creatures shivering and
twitching in the rain in the corral by Urgenenn’s Tower.

“Make ready,” he declared, pulling down his scarf so the
order wouldn’t be muffled. “Stay close, leave the packhorse loose to follow, we
can always find him later if we’re separated. We ride for the enemy. I like not
this new course of theirs. We’re surely too near the border for them to choose
such a path without reason.”

“Unless the Ahk-Viell’s navigation is worse than mine,
Longsword. Do not forget he is a Viell of the Toorseneth, and unlikely ever to
have set foot outside of Elvendere before.”

“True,” Gawain conceded, “And a good point. Our own
navigation may well have suffered recently too. For all we know, we may have
crossed the border already, but I doubt it. Come then. Let’s pursue, and finish
the job, and Kanosenn with it!”

With that, Gawain pulled on a pair of gloves, strung an
arrow, and gently pressed Gwyn forward. The gallop was out of the question for
now, but she moved easily from the walk to the trot, and sensing her chosen’s
intent and the freedom he gave her, accelerated to the canter, picking her way
comfortably between outgrowths of ice-encrusted shrubbery. Behind him, single
file and close together as ordered, his companions followed, and dutifully
behind them all, the packhorse. And all of them pleased for the heat of their
blood pumping warmth through and around night-stiff and aching joints.

Considering the distance between the two overnight camps had
been estimated at a mile, Gawain was taken aback when they cut across the
enemy’s trail and turned due south to follow it and still without sighting the
elfwizard or his sole surviving escort. He wondered if it were possible that
the ToorsenViell had discovered some means of extending their new elvish Cloak
of Quintinenn to encompass horse and rider, and were thus shielded from his
sight, but cast the thought aside as too great an advance even for an insanity
born of Morloch. Not even Morloch himself had such devices as the Toorseneth
now seemed to possess, or they would have been deployed long before Far-gor.

No wonder Morloch had struck at the Toorsengard in the
corridor. No wonder Morloch’s rage was turned now upon the creed of his own
making. But for Allazar’s immense tree of lightning, sent up once the binding
had been broken and the six lesser Viell destroyed by Gawain’s grey fire, those
three Graken riders might well have brought their black fire to bear on Gawain
and Allazar. Or perhaps not. Gawain didn’t know whether Morloch understood the
value of the Dymendin sceptre to the Toorseneth; if so, then the dark lord
would not wish it to fall into the creed’s hands any more than did Elayeen and
the ninety-five.

One thing was certain. The ToorsenViell were advanced beyond
the knowledge Allazar possessed, and had developed tools the like of which
perhaps even Morloch was unaware. And now, one wielder of those tools was
riding faster than good sense might permit and quicker than good husbandry of
animals would otherwise dictate.

Gwyn accelerated a little, and Gawain considered drawing her
back a little. But she was following a path safely blazed by two other horses,
and had sensed the importance of speed and reacted according to her Raheen
nature. They didn’t need Venderrian’s Sight to guide them now, not with a trail
so clear before them. But the trail now so obvious in the white-frosted ground
of the plains would not remain so for long once the sun had climbed higher and
melted the frost and ice away. Worse, the sun was low and shining into their
eyes from the southeast, making horse and rider squint.

Still Gawain refused to slow Gwyn. He’d told his friends to
trust their instincts, and in spite of the risk and in spite of the mystic
strength of the enemy they pursued, it felt good to trust in Gwyn’s again.

oOo

37. Grey Light

There was no disguising the sound of horses’ hooves moving
swiftly across frozen ground, and so it came as no surprise that when Gawain
heard the two enemy horses, their riders heard his five. The Ahk-Viell and his
lone escort had been slowing, their steeds tiring quickly; those two poor
beasts had probably last eaten well from what meagre supplies had been laid up
at the camp by the copse, and for the four days since crossing the river had probably
been subsisting on nothing but forage here in the wild.

Gawain’s horses, though, had been cared for with
professional attention, and most of the supplies borne by the packhorse were
for the animals’ consumption, frak and now freenmek carried in personal
saddle-bags serving the needs of the kindred riders. They were not slowing, and
if anything at all now that equine ears knew what was up ahead and what they were
now about, were increasing their pace. Far ahead, through a terrain of green
and white and shadows, Gawain glimpsed for a moment the enemy, and felt a
thrilling rush of blood.

They had been in pursuit for perhaps three hours,
maintaining a fast trot and pausing only briefly to water the horses and
themselves at a fast-flowing stream. It was difficult to say if the enemy had
done likewise or paused only briefly before continuing their inexplicable
southerly flight, but Gawain was Raheen, and the pause for the horses was, he
knew, essential. The animals could keep up the trot all day if needs be. But
they, like kindred runners, needed both water and fuel to keep them going.

But now the enemy which had been slowing spurred their tired
animals onward, and their poor treatment of their horses was but another
offence to be added to the growing list which would lend a certain satisfaction
to their destruction when that time came.

Another glimpse, longer this time, the two riders cresting the
slightest of rises and for a moment appearing in silhouette against the pale
blue sky. Gawain refused to allow Gwyn to gallop. There was no need to tire the
hunters, not when the quarry was fading.

“MiThal!” Venderrian called, “More lights! Far! Southwest!”

Gawain flicked a glance behind and to his left, and saw the
ranger pointing urgently. More lights? His heart hammered. Reinforcements? A
patrol sent to bar the way into Arrun?

“Are they moving?” he called over his shoulder, “Ven, are
they moving?”

“Slow, to the east!”

A patrol then, riding the east-west line which Byrne had
said the enemy wished to prevent them from crossing. He couldn’t allow the
Ahk-Viell to make contact with that patrol. Perhaps, if they were at the extent
of Venderrian’s range, the elfwizard hadn’t seen them yet. But it likely
wouldn’t be long before ordinary eyes and ears detected the patrol’s presence.
With a sigh, he raised a hand and thrust it forward, and let Gwyn surge
forward, hooves kicking up chilled clods not yet thawed by a morning’s winter
sunshine.

They thundered forward, only the packhorse maintaining its
measured pace, trying to keep up but ill-equipped for such speed and wisely
electing to follow its eyes and ears and equine common sense. The gap was
closing, though the difference in pace between hunter and quarry wasn’t great.
The enemy were driving hard now, keenly aware of their pursuers.

On they raced, weaving around larger bushes and shrubs,
splashing through gravel-bedded streams, shattering ice in some of the
shallower ones, hooves pounding, horses snorting, cloaks and hair and eyes streaming.

And then Kanosenn turned to the southwest. Whether he’d seen
the distant patrol slowly advancing eastwards, none could say. But the
manoeuvre was a desperate one and Gwyn’s head turned to take a sharper, more
westward track, one which would intercept the enemy quicker than the straight
pursuit.

Hunter and quarry could see each other now, disappearing
from view only briefly when larger outcrops of gorse intervened or they
combined with slight dips in the terrain. But the gap was closing much more
quickly, the Tau’s horses were struggling, and the inevitable conflict drew
closer. At three hundred and fifty yards, Venderrian loosed a hopeful shot, and
although the arrow flashed harmlessly wide of the mark, it was seen by those it
was aimed at, and they turned again, further to the south once more.

“Lights, miThal! They move quickly now! Perhaps ten!”

Vakin Dwarfspit,
Gawain thought to himself.
Assess!
Assess what? Ten unspecified lights? It could be Kindred Rangers, or it could
be ten of Morloch’s Black Riders. Assess when seen.

“Ride on!” he shouted, and ride on they did.

Venderrian loosed another shot, the gap closer to three
hundred yards now and diminishing. The arrow slid over the enemy’s heads and
they knew they were in range. But their horses were labouring, eyes wild,
running through pain and misery and slowing in spite of their horse-hearted desire
to answer their riders’ calls for speed.

At two hundred yards the quarry jinked to the southwest
again, and Venderrian loosed another arrow. By great misfortune it raked a
gouge along the right hindquarter of the trailing horse, ridden by the
Ahk-Viell’s escort, and the sudden shock of pain was too much for the poor
beast, which squealed, and stumbled, and fell, sending the rider flying from
the saddle to roll head over heels along the rough and scrubby ground and into
a small shrub.

Dazed, the elfguard staggered up onto one knee, dragged off
his helm, and then perhaps realising what had happened, looked up in time to
see Gawain leaning from the saddle thundering towards him, longsword drawn.

Gawain swung the sword and cut the downed rider of the Tau
practically in two, sending a great arc of blood spraying forward. Venderrian
loosed again, and the arrow flashed over Kanosenn’s right shoulder. But then
came the sight and sounds Gawain had been waiting for with increasing concern.
Riders, a group of them, thundering towards them, perhaps a dozen, perhaps ten
as Venderrian had asserted, it was difficult to tell from five hundred yards
and that distance closing rapidly. They were elves and riders of the RJC in
equal numbers. The RJC bore lances, points presented, and the Tau, of course,
bows.

Assess. Done. Don’t think, do.

“Line! Line!” he commanded, and he eased Gwyn back a little
until all four of them were riding in line abreast.

“Shield when ready, Allazar!”

“Heard!” the wizard called back, and eased his Dymendin
forward.

“Through their centre! Through their centre!”

Gawain sheathed the sword and drew an arrow, Ognorm to his
right already carrying one strung, beard, hair and eyebrows flying and a mad
grin on the dwarf’s face. To his left, Allazar, and left of him, Venderrian,
hunched low, his weight off the saddle the better to aim his next shot,
features set with grim determination. This was no squadron of Raheen cavalry he
was commanding, Gawain realised, though for the fools charging towards them, it
might have been better if it were. If it were, the fools thundering towards
them might have turned, and run.

Ahead, the line parted briefly to allow the Ahk-Viell to
pass safely through and then promptly closed again. Ten there were, then nine
when Venderrian’s arrow blew an elf clean out of the saddle, the body first
rocking wide-armed backwards and then flung high into the air by the horse’s
galloping hindquarters, tumbling like a ragdoll out of sight behind the enemy
line.

Then eight there were, when Ognorm’s hurled shaft struck a
horse in the chest and the shock of it brought the charging animal down,
sending the RJC rider tumbling to a broken necked death on the unforgiving
ground, not feeling the crushing of ribs when the tumbling horse rolled over
the body. Seven, when Gawain’s arrow took an elf in the face and knocked him
backwards out of the saddle, the rider-less horse continuing the charge, and
then the world blurred as Allazar summoned a great shield, and three arrows
shattered against it.

There was no time to string or nock more arrows, the line of
seven closing upon the line of four much too quickly for that. Allazar leaned
forward, screaming in the wizard’s tongue, and the immense disk of the shield Surged
forward into the four lancers of the Royal Jurian Cavalry and the three stunned
riders of the Tau, blasting riders from saddles, and sending horses tumbling
into the ground.

It was a catastrophe. Men, elves and animals screaming,
charging headlong at the gallop one moment, and then slamming as if into a
solid wall the next. Gawain closed his eyes, blotting out the chaos of flying
hooves and men, something struck a glancing blow to his head above his right
eye, a shattered piece of a Jurian lance. And then he opened his eyes, finding
Allazar still mounted to his left and Ognorm to his right. But Venderrian was
down, his horse taken from under him by the flailing hooves of another’s
tumbling steed. Ahead, the Ahk-Viell’s was running on foot, his horse collapsed
and dying, exhausted, run into the ground.

“Ven!” Gawain shouted, feeling the warmth of his own blood
sliding down the side of his face, Gwyn thundering to a halt and turning,
“Ven!”

Behind them, survivors, all dazed and some upright and staggering,
desperately fought to regain senses. Venderrian was one of them, sitting
upright, his right leg a bloody mess where a quiver of broken arrows shattered
in the fall had been driven into his thigh, the remains sticking like a porcupine’s
quills from the blood-soaked leather of his trousers. A rider of the Greys,
head bleeding and helm dented, was making a steady, foot-dragging advance
through the carnage, approaching Venderrian with a crossbow when Gawain’s
warning cut through the eerie stillness of the air around them.

“Ven! Ven!” Ognorm screamed, drawing Nadcracker and
galloping forward into the mess Allazar’s mystic power had made of the enemy
force. “Ven!”

But Gawain could see it was too late. He hurled an arrow as
Gwyn surged forward, saw it speeding to strike the Jurian in the man’s right hip,
but saw the dazed elf ranger turn too late to see the threat lurching towards
him. The Jurian raised the crossbow, and pressed the trigger, and Gawain saw
Venderrian jolt with the impact of the heavy steel bolt. Then Ognorm was
screaming and leaning out of the saddle, and swinging the Meggen mace into the
Jurian’s head with such force the iron shaft bent under the impact.

“Ven!” Ognorm screamed again, leaping from the saddle to
smash the mace into another survivor’s face, blood and brains spattering the
already blood-soaked ground in the middle of the mass of downed riders and
horses.

“Ven,” Gawain whispered, leaping nimbly from the saddle, and
kneeling by the fallen ranger’s side. “Ven…my friend…”

It was hopeless, of course. The steel bolt had burst through
the ranger’s chest at the bottom of the breastbone, his heart nicked and bleeding,
life ebbing away.

“Ven! Ven mate!” Ognorm, pleading, falling to his knees and
resting one blood-spattered hand on the elf’s shoulder, the other holding his
dying comrade’s hand.

“Oggy my friend,” Venderrian managed, and then his pupils
narrowed to pinpoints, looking over the dwarf’s shoulder towards the southwest.
“Light, miThal. Grey light…” And then the pupils snapped wide open, and the elf
sighed, and died.

“Ven…” Ognorm whispered, rocking back and forth.

Gawain sniffed, and followed the line of the ranger’s dead
gaze. A dot in the sky, far off, slowly becoming a hyphen.

“We have to go,” he announced, and put a hand on Ognorm’s
shoulder. “Oggy, we have to go. Graken.”

Ognorm nodded, and sniffed, and wiped his eyes and his nose
on the back of his sleeve while Gawain reached down to close Venderrian’s
sightless eyes.

“Allazar!” Gawain called, and pointed, the wizard striding
through the carnage and ending the suffering of horses and men, denying any of
the survivors the chance to kill another of his companions.

The wizard nodded, and then called back. “This one lives,
Longsword!”

Gawain’s features darkened, and Ognorm’s too. Together they
stood, and strode through the wreckage to the cloaked and bloodied Jurian, the
downed man lying with his leg pinned under a horse.

“Arm’s broken, and a leg,” the man said.

“You did not ride with Bek at Far-gor,” Gawain declared, his
voice cold, steaming breath hanging in a cloud about him, not a whisper of a
breeze stirring the air. “Yet you wear Grey.”

“No. Queen’s man, through and through. Once o’ the
townguard. Volunteered for the Retribution.”

“You rode against me and mine.”

“Yer wanted! All o’ you! And I obey ‘er majesty’s command,
and that of ‘er Consort!”

Gawain bent at the hip, bringing his face down close to the
pinned Jurian. “You should have remained a townguard.”

Then he stood, and with Allazar, walked away to the horses,
leaving the wide-eyed Jurian gazing up at the broad-shouldered fury staring
down at him that was Ognorm of the Ruttmark.

Ahead, still running and clutching his stick, Kanosenn of
the Ahk-Viell, and away to the east, the Graken, which rather strangely seemed
to be flying a northerly track. They saw Kanosenn pause and glance back towards
them, then turn and raise his staff towards the Graken and its rider.

“Dwarfspit, Allazar, that bastard must not escape!”

“Nor shall he, Longsword,” the wizard replied, dragging
himself up into his saddle. “Look yonder, on the far horizon.”

“What am I looking at?” Gawain demanded, distracted only
momentarily by a brief scream and the thudding impact from the battlefield behind
them.

“That rise. Atop it unseen from this distance lies the
Hallencloister. We are in Arrun.”

With that, Allazar rode forward, face grim, eyes fixed upon
the figure of the running elfwizard who, from time to time, seemed to raise his
staff and shake it towards the Graken.