Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (37 page)

Perhaps it was that stick-shaking, or perhaps it was the two
riders cantering away from the battlefield that was the movement which
attracted the Graken-rider’s attention, but it turned, and began flying towards
them, leathery wings flapping and growing larger. Gawain heard hooves over the
sound of their own progress, and a quick glance behind revealed Ognorm hurrying
to catch them up.

Ahead, they were gaining on the elfwizard so quickly they
could probably have dismounted and caught up with him on foot before the Graken
arrived, but Gawain had no intention of testing the theory.

“Do not fret, Longsword. Neither Kanosenn of the
ToorsenViell nor his brethren on the wing shall leave this place.”

When they’d closed to within twenty yards of the desperate
elfwizard, Allazar loosed a small Surge, enough to send their quarry tumbling
but nothing like the immense blast which had stopped the enemy patrol’s charge
almost dead in its tracks.

They dismounted quickly, and Gawain allowed the glowering
wizard to move forward, striding towards the fallen Ahk-Viell, the better to
defend against any mystic defence Kanosenn might unleash towards them.

Perhaps the Graken-rider mistook what he was seeing, or
required some kind of confirmation before landing, but the great winged lizard
drifted lazily overhead at a height of some thirty feet, the rider holding his
Rod of Asteran outstretched and waving as if signalling to them. The Graken
began circling around to come in for a second look. Gawain could see the heavy
clothing the rider was wearing against the freezing air, and the woollen mask,
and the Rod of Asteran still outstretched as if ready to summon black fire.

Without a warning of any kind, Allazar let loose that
shimmering and expanding bubble of a Quench, and before the rider had time to
react it burst beneath the Graken, sending both crashing to the ground. This
time, the winged beast moving so slowly and so low when it was downed, there
was no smouldering or purple smoke to presage the ending of the dark-made
creature; it simply lay spread-winged upon the ground, tail and broken neck
twitching. The rider, all the while, struggled to release himself from the
straps of the high-backed saddle, furiously waggling the Rod of Asteran in
their general direction and calling out to the Ahk-Viell:

“Yathami! Yathami Ahk-Kanosenn!”

Without hesitation and without a word of command from
Gawain, Allazar unleashed a torrent of white fire upon the downed beast and the
rider screaming for help, leaving nothing of both but ash and a cloud of smoke
which seemed to hang in the air, only very slowly drifting upwards.

“You should have run faster,” Gawain called the crawling Ahk-Viell
some ten feet away.

Kanosenn lunged for the staff on the ground where it had been
flung from his grasp by Allazar’s Surge, grasped it, and turned its end towards
Allazar. Chanting and mumbling, the elfwizard skittered back across the ground,
all elbows and knees, gazing in disbelief at the failure of the staff to
unleash mystic energies upon his enemies.

Allazar leaned on the Dymendin and shook his head, slowly.
In desperation, Kanosenn tried again, thrusting the staff forward once more.
Nothing. He turned then, crawling frantically on hands and knees before
thrusting himself forward and lurching upright, and ran a dozen yards before
Allazar brought him down with another Surge of Baramenn.

Again Kanosenn tried and failed to loose fire upon Allazar,
and again. Then he thrust his fist into a bag slung over his shoulder and
hidden from view beneath his cloak, and drew out a phial containing a black,
oily substance. He ripped off the stopper and cast it aside, pouring the liquid
into his mouth, face contorted in pain and in fear.

The liquid oozed down his chin, stained his clothing, lips
and teeth, and he gagged before tossing aside the empty glass tube and
snatching up his staff again. Veins pulsed a grotesque black in his cheeks, and
a coughing bark of a laugh rent the stillness of the air as he presented his
staff and cried aloud wizard words, words which sounded harsh and dangerous. And
nothing more than dim grey sparks could he muster from the stick. Sparks which
sputtered and fell at his feet, useless, smouldering, and then winking out of
existence.

Allazar simply held forth the Dymendin, and the lesser stave
burst into smoke and splinters with a violent concussion, stunning Kanosenn,
who threw himself flat onto his stomach, covering his head with his arms,
expecting death.

 “Fool of the Tau,” Allazar announced, and without looking,
Gawain knew that the light of Eldenbeard shone now in the wizard’s eyes. “Do
you not know where you are?”

Hands stinging, Kanosenn rolled over onto his back, and drew
himself up onto his elbows, then saw something of the power gazing down at him,
and seemed to shrink back in terror.

“Did you truly believe the Viell could stray so far from the
path and that nothing and no-one would notice? The Sight shall be passed to
those worthy of it, once more to guard against the shadow. You shall not stop
it. Nor shall any of Toorsen’s creed. You have loosed the wolves. You shall be
devoured.”

“There shall be balance! There must be balance in all
things!” Kanosenn shouted, his voice quavering with fear and defiance, face
stained and smeared with false aquamire. “I am light! I am dark! I am of
Toorsen’s Creed! I am light! I am dark! I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I
am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed!”

“Prating fool. You are nothing.”

Suddenly, Kanosenn thrust his hands forward, fingers tracing
intricate patterns in the air while he mumbled a desperate chant.

Eldenbeard laughed.

Gawain took a pace backwards, and behind him, Ognorm
likewise retreated, so cruel was the sound.

“Do you not know where you are, fool of the Viell? The great
gates are opened. This is the domain of the D’ith, where Light and Fire were
forged. None may summon power here but they.”

“Ask him where they sent the Orb!” Gawain blurted. “Ask him
where in the west they sent the Orb they used to destroy the Hallencloister!
Allazar!”

Allazar cocked his head, clearly hearing Gawain’s demand,
and clearly considering it. What battle was taking place inside the wizard’s
head, if any, Gawain did not know.

“Answer, Viell of the Tau.”

But instead, Kanosenn simply repeated over and over again
his mantra, faster and faster, false aquamire staining his eyes dark grey now.
“I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I am dark I am of
Toorsen’s Creed! I am light I am dark I am of Toorsen’s Creed!”

“Be ended then, fool, and know that the days of Toorsen
shall be ended in fire likewise. Soon shall come the days of the Shimaneth
Issilene Merionell. You have loosed the wolves. You shall be devoured.”

And with that, and a slight twitch of Allazar’s hand upon
the Dymendin, Kanosenn burst into fire, and screamed once in great anguish, and
in a sudden rush of flame, was gone.

Silence, eerie. Not a hint of a breeze. Strange weather, in
the region near the D’ith Hallencloister. They had noted it before, and Elayeen
had noted it too in her tales of her journeying near here.

Then came the distant beating of hooves, and Gawain and
Ognorm turned. It was the packhorse, trotting towards them, ears twitching
nervously, smelling the blood on the air, the blood of men and elves, and the
blood of horses. Ognorm sniffed.

“Let us be gone from here, melord,” the dwarf whispered, and
wiped his nose. “Let us be gone from this dread place.”

“Aye my friend,” Gawain whispered in reply, daubing the
wound above his eye with a grubby handkerchief, and turned again to see Allazar
leaning on his staff, the wizard’s eyes his own again, and blinking sadly at
the young man.

“I need you to perform the rites, Allazar,” Gawain said
softly. “For our friend, Venderrian.”

“And the others?” the wizard whispered.

“Vak the others!” Gawain suddenly shouted, with great venom,
and with great pain for the loss of a friend. “Let them vakin rot for their
treachery!”

oOo

38. Battle Wizard

Venderrian’s death hung over them like a cloud, but most
affected of all was Ognorm, who seemed to take it very badly indeed. It was
strange, Gawain thought, for the elf and the dwarf had known each other for a
relatively short time, but he was forced to admit that the two companions had spent
more time talking with each other than with himself or Allazar; both normally
rode behind the two of Raheen, both normally remained quiet spectators during
the exchanges between the king and his wizard.

The Rites were duly performed, for Venderrian and for his
horse, the enemy left lying where they’d fallen, though for the sake of the
rangers at Last Ridings arrows and bows and other supplies which had survived
intact were salvaged from all the elven packs on the battlefield and loaded
onto the packhorse.

Gawain rode back to where the horse ridden by Kanosenn’s
escort had been scraped by Venderrian’s arrow, hoping to tend the stricken
animal, but the poor thing had died, exhausted from the chase, all its strength
finally spent, its great heart stilled. The sight of it lying alone in the icy
wilderness broke the dam holding back Gawain’s tears, and he wept while he
tended to the wound on his head, the blood thick and congealed in the bitter
cold of that lonely place, silvertree powder stinging nevertheless.

After that, the three of Last Ridings turned south, and rode
at a steady pace, pausing at a broad stream to wash away in freezing clear
water the blood and gore, and to tend their horses. That first night without
the ranger was the hardest. Gawain had caught himself often, looking across at
where Venderrian might have sat, checking to see if anything had been revealed
to the ranger’s Sight. Ognorm hadn’t said a word, and had simply sat on his
blankets, using his considerable strength to straighten Nadcracker’s shaft.

The following day, knowing they were now well inside Arrun’s
borders and unlikely to be harassed by Insinnian’s forces, they moved steadily
due south, chafing their necks with the constant swivelling of their heads, an
uncomfortable reminder, not that any was needed, of the absence of Venderrian’s
eldeneyes to watch over them.

On the night of the sixteenth, two days after the battle,
they were still on the edge of the eerie calm region surrounding the
Hallencloister, having crossed the Hallencloister line earlier than expected.
Their navigation, Gawain had said, was likely thrown off by the weather driving
them south quicker than they’d believed, the wind always from the north and
thoughts of warm beds and hot meals adding speed to their journey even though
they’d taken a more easterly path through Mornland than originally planned.

With a bright moon a day away from full shining on a clear
and freezing night, they sat huddled in their blankets, alone with their
thoughts, and thoroughly miserable. It was Gawain who broke the silence, a
couple of hours before midnight and all three reluctant to sleep.

“What did you mean, Allazar, about this being the domain of
the D’ith?”

The wizard’s face was shrouded in the shadows of his cowl.
“The memory of Eldenbeard is slowly fading,” he said quietly. “But I recall
clearly the words Sardor Eljon wrote in his account of the end of days. He
spoke of opening the great gates below, referring to gates most held myth, but
which, it seems, are real enough. They were, they
are
, a reference to
the old tale Master Arramin spoke of, concerning the pure waters of the Avongard,
which, it was said, no evil may cross. In myth, opening the gates believed
buried far below the hill on which rests the Hallencloister would flood the
lands with those waters, and it would seep far and wide, and only the D’ith
would have power therein.”

“Then why didn’t they open the bloody things when Morloch
was laying waste to the lands?”

“I suspect they did, which is why he was driven to the west
and to the north.”

Gawain sighed, and fidgeted on his blankets. “If true, then
the waters released by the gates haven’t spread very far. We’ll be out of this
region of stillness tomorrow evening.”

“Perhaps, as Master Arramin also said, the collapse of the
farak gorin affected their flow. Certainly the canal of Thal-Marrahan was far
from fresh when last we saw it.”

“True.”

There was a long pause then.

“What was the point?” Gawain suddenly asked.

“Hmm?”

“What was the point of the gates? Why not just flood the
lands and create this domain of the D’ith a long time ago? Surely it would have
been as potent a weapon as the Orb of Arristanas? Surely it would have
prevented the destruction of the Hallencloister?”

“No,” Allazar sighed in return. “It would create a domain
where only the D’ith could summon mystic energies and employ their power. As we
ourselves saw, it did not bar entry to creatures Morloch-made, or Viell-made,
as the Orb of Arristanas would have done. It was lust for power corrupted
Morloch, the Sardors would not wish to open the floodgates and put such
temptation in the way of wizards unless it was necessary. I suspect the gates
were intended as a last resort against attack by dark wizards, but that is just
a fading memory of Eldenbeard origin. Keeping them closed would allow allies of
the Viell to lend their mystic weight to the fight against any oppressor.”

“It might have guarded against the shadow though.”

“It might,” Allazar whispered. “But Benithet saw it not, and
so it was not done. And the waters would not have guarded against the foul fire
of Benithet’s Orb.”

“Perhaps it explains the strange weather here.”

“Perhaps, but I do not think so.”

“Was the weather strange when you dwelled there, in the
‘cloister?”

There was a long pause before Allazar answered, his voice
soft, and bereaved.

“I cannot remember.”

After another pause, Gawain nodded. “It’s probably the shock
of battle, Allazar, that’s all. Battle, and Eldenbeard, and the loss of our
friend.”

“Yes. Perhaps it is at that.”

“Sometimes? Sometimes I can’t remember Elayeen’s face. I can
picture her standing near me, her back to me, and hear her laughter, and her
head turns to look at me over her shoulder, and I cannot remember her face.
Then I panic. But later, the memories come flooding back. Sometimes, I can’t
remember home. I can’t remember what my parents looked like, or my brother.
Then, at other times, I am there again, in dreams, and I remember everything.”

There was another long silence, the three gathered close in
their blankets, ears straining for sounds that might presage alarm, Gawain
flicking glances towards the horses and Gwyn, relying on her senses so much
more now that Venderrian was gone.

“What will happen, melord?”

“What will happen where, Oggy?”

“In Juria. To our friends, the rangers, and the Greys. What
will happen now to them, now that the Toorsenspit’s hold the land?”

Gawain pondered the question, but in truth, he couldn’t see
an answer. He doubted he’d have seen one even if filled to the brim with
strange aquamire.

“I don’t know. It’s for Jurians to decide their fate now I
think. None live who know what happened here in Arrun and in Mornland. None
save us and Morloch. It depends, I think, on how long Insinnian wishes to hold
Juria in thrall to his stewardship, and how long the Toorseneth will permit him
to hold the throne waiting for Tamsin to come of age.”

“And our friends the rangers?”

“Word for their recall to Last Ridings by now will have been
sent far and wide. Don’t fret for them, Oggy. Those that served in Juria will
find their way to safety. Warnings will be spreading even now, warnings for
wizard and ranger alike. Knowing Tyrane as I do, I expect he’s already casting
a great net of newsriders from the Ridings to Crownmount and to Callodon.
There’ll be Harribek’s birds too by now, I shouldn’t wonder. Our friends in the
ninety-five will be safe.”

“Ninety-four, now, melord,” Ognorm sighed.

“Aye,” Gawain agreed, sadly. “You’re not so thick as you’re
broad.”

“Aye, I know. Ven knew it too, the pointy-eared goit,”
Ognorm chuckled, and sniffed before continuing:

“Dunno why I like ‘em, them elves. Never paid ‘em no mind
when I was lifting and shifting in the ‘Mark. Got to admiring ‘em, though, up
at Far-gor. Them standing with us all there. Give up their ‘omes and everything
they did, to stand with us all there. And that old bastard trundling up in his shiny
coach threatening ‘em with death and banishment, and them all stood there,
taking it,” Ognorm shook his head in admiration, the hood of his cloak rustling
a little. “Heh, least they
did
take it ‘til our lady stepped forward.
And a merry old
you an’ the ‘orse you rode in on
that was, too! Nearly
cheered, me and lads, when them ‘spits pissed ‘emselves and our ninety-five nailed
‘em to the thrukken moon for their insults an’ their threats. Ninety-four now.
I miss me mate, melord. Don’t care who knows it. I miss me mate Venderrian.”

“We all do, Oggy.”

“Arr. I know. Sorry. Dint mean to make us all feel worse
than we was anyway.”

Gawain drew in a breath. “We’ll need to be careful on the
way south, now we don’t have Ven watching the sky and the land around us. It’s
going to take time to get used to relying on our own senses again, especially
with the kind of weapons the Toorseneth are able to create.”

“You reckon they might send summink nasty after us?”

“Or in front of us. Just because they didn’t want us to
cross the Arrun border doesn’t mean they’ll have given up hope of obtaining the
sceptre. But, since the Toorseneth doesn’t know their entire miserable
‘Retribution’ has been annihilated, we may be lucky and escape any further
harassment. I’m not going to bet on it, though. We need to be careful.”

“Oh I do ‘ope there’s none o’ that stinking Spikebulb kek out
there, melord. I really do.”

“So do I,” Gawain agreed, feeling the shiver run up his
spine, and the memory of Jerryn’s death flooding back. “I think it’s unlikely
though. They don’t know where we are, and can’t seed a border of ‘weed and
‘bulb from the Bay of Midshears all the way across Arrun to the Callodon
border.”

“They have limited resources,” Allazar declared. “And although
they have persuaded over the course of centuries almost the entire population
of Elvendere to regard them with reverence, the Toorseneth does not possess
limitless supplies of Viell loyal to their grotesque creed. If they are now
bending their will to the destruction of all wizardkind east and west of the
forest, then they are spread thin indeed. We must not allow grief for our
fallen friend to colour our judgement or create threats where there may in fact
be none. Ours is surely a simple task once more, to take the Sceptre of Raheen
to Last Ridings, and ourselves with it.”

“All true,” Gawain conceded, “Or at least the last part is.
We really don’t know what forces they have at their disposal in that immense
roundtower in Ostinath. But yes, Last Ridings is our goal again now. Tomorrow’s
the seventeenth. If we’re not delayed by bad weather or worse, it’ll be almost
the second week of January when we arrive. Less than four weeks.”

Ognorm let out a sigh, breath billowing in the cold, still
air. “Arr. Won’t be too long after that, the new prince is due. April innit,
melord?”

“Yes,” Gawain shook his head in wonder. “Four weeks to Last
Ridings, and four months to fatherhood for me. Elayeen will be huge by now, I
shouldn’t wonder.”

“Have you thought of a name yet, melord?”

“No. No, there’s been little time for such gentle thoughts
on this journey of ours. Besides, I don’t feel right, choosing a name on my
own. In Raheen, there was always much debate and discussion concerning the
matter of names for royal infants. Many books and histories were consulted, so
as not to endow an unfortunate new crown with a name tainted by ignominious
forebears or ancestral relatives of dubious repute. I suspect Elayeen will have
a great deal to say on the matter too, if she hasn’t decided already.”

“Life ain’t so complicated in the ‘Mark,” Ognorm said, his
voice sad and distant, and low in his chest. “Father’s name were Norm o’ the
‘Mark, so here I be now, Ognorm ‘o the ‘Mark. Not that I’m complaining, mind,
who am I to think ill of a name chosen for me by my own father? No-one, that’s
who. Just sayin’ it ain’t so complicated at ‘ome, is all.”

“And your name, Allazar? Who gave you your name?”

There was a short silence, and they saw the shrouded
wizard’s shoulders move a little.

“I do not know,” the wizard announced. “I remember very
little beyond my days in the Hallencloister. Some fields. Some flowers; yellow
folksgloves, I think. A melody. Sometimes in my dreams I hear that melody, and
I see the flowers, and butterflies, and blue skies. I can never remember the
tune when I wake, only snatches of it drifting by on a breeze of faint recall.
Perhaps it is as well. The most vivid recollection I have from my boyhood is
the nightmares, and I do not wish to dwell on those. My heart is too heavy for
such dark memories as those.”

Gawain nodded. He remembered the descriptions Allazar had
given of those nightmares when they’d stood together at Far-gor before the
battle. Not until the dying Sardor Eljon had spoken in the North Tower of the Hallencloister did Gawain come to realise the full significance of those nightmares,
and understand the power of Allazar the boy, the youngster who had fled
Morloch’s grasp.

“I’ll take first watch,” Gawain announced softly, and
without a word, his two companions lay down, and buried themselves in their
blankets.

Allazar, the boy who had fled Morloch’s grasp. Allazar, the
Last Sardor of the D’ith. Gawain’s head was throbbing and he reached for the
familiar pack beside him. A draught of silvertree powder and water, the
slightest daub of precious Eeelan t’oth, and he secured the pack again, its
bottle of Jurian brandy untouched. That too would likely become a precious
commodity, at least until trade with Juria began to flow again. When that would
be, who could tell?