Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (38 page)

In truth, the wound to his head was superficial, though
there’d certainly be a slight scar above his right eyebrow angling down towards
his right temple. The men of the Red and Gold would doubtless declare that it
added a modicum of character to his regal appearance. Elayeen would probably
fret about it for days, once she noticed it beneath his hair; hair which, like
his beard, desperately needed cutting. His companions of course were become
shaggy unkempt creatures, too, Ognorm especially. The dwarf had so much hair
sprouting above his shoulders his appearance hovered perilously close to the
brink of unruly scant minutes after a visit to the barber.

Gawain adjusted the bandage around his head to keep the
t’oth-moistened pad in place, and briefly closed his eyes, recalling the
battle. In his mind’s eye he saw the line of enemy riders charging towards him.
In his mind’s eye he could see everything, of course, and even at the time
motion seemed to slow as if by some supernatural force. The arrow flashing from
Venderrian’s bow, ten riders becoming nine. A horse going down headfirst into
that hard, cold and unforgiving ground, nine becoming eight, and eight becoming
seven when Gawain’s arrow struck the mark a little high, but struck
nevertheless.

Arrows coming back at them, impossibly slowly, snaking
through the air like white fish wriggling, only to shatter against a Shield of
Baramenn. Gawain noted idly that one had been aimed at Venderrian, two at the
wizard. Well. The enemy had assessed and noted the threats they were facing,
after all.

And then, of course, the immense Shield the wizard had
raised to protect all four of them riding so close together that their knees had
almost touched became a Surge of Baramenn. A wall of mystic energy surging
forward and expanding, smashing into the enemy line. Gawain, in his mind’s eye,
saw them all go down, all seven and their horses, none of them having any time
to do more than widen their eyes in shock and horror at the
thing
rushing towards them.

He saw the Jurian lancer’s horse twist its head to its left
when it smashed into the wall of the Surge and go down as if felled by a
giant’s hammer. Saw the tip of the lance bury itself neatly into frozen soil
beginning now to erupt in a shower of rich dark brown ploughed by shares of
tumbling horses, elves, and men. Saw the shaft of the lance bending, bowing,
the rider lifting clear of the saddle, arm and shoulder bulging backwards as
his body drove forwards into that bending lance. Saw the shaft burst asunder,
pieces springing, tumbling and arcing towards him. That had been when he’d
closed his eyes.

Gawain shivered in his blankets, and eyed the dark form of
the wizard lying bundled in blankets of his own some five feet away. What
possible chance could those ten riders have had, charging against the Last
Sardor of the D’ith, in the domain of the D’ith, within sight of the
Hallencloister hill? What possible chance would kindred riders of commonkind
have against such power? Allazar could have ridden alone against them, and
incinerated all ten with a single tree of lightning loosed from a vengeful Dymendin.

Another shudder ran the length of Gawain’s spine as he
recalled a conversation alone with the wizard in the aftermath of Urgenenn’s
Tower, when Eldenbeard had first risen:

You were not yourself in there. In truth, you were really
rather frightening.

I have always been really rather frightening, you know,
especially since the Dymendin came to me and we stood in your father’s hall.
You simply didn’t notice, I think.

Gawain noticed now.
The days of Zaine are ended,
Longsword…
How must it have been in Morloch’s time, when the kindred fought
against the Gothen, Sethi, and Tansee? How must it have been for commonkind,
fighting against such power as wizards might raise against them? How long would
the One Thousand of Raheen have lasted against an enemy force bearing long
sticks of power, with creatures of the Pangoricon in their ranks, the ground
seeded with evil made to pierce hooves and feet and lash with poison any who
passed over it?

How might it have been, had not Zaine ended the chaos of
elder days and imposed order through his mandates upon those born into the
mystic realm of wizardkind? How might it have been, had the gates beneath the
Hallencloister been left open long ago, the world become the D’ith’s domain?

The days of Zaine are ended, Longsword…

Allazar. First Wizard of Raheen. Last Sardor of the D’ith. Battle wizard.

How might it be, in the days and years to come?

oOo

39. Night Vision

Beyond the region of unnerving calm around the
Hallencloister, winter’s grip made itself felt with sleet, hail, and the
occasional ice storm which made clothing and blankets crackle and the ground
crunch under feet and hooves. But the three of Last Ridings endured the misery
with stoic resolve, tending well their horses and themselves.

A week after the battle which saw the end of Kanosenn and
the loss of their friend Venderrian, the wound to Gawain’s head was fully healed,
a legacy of the Circles of Raheen, or so Allazar had said, though conceding
that there was a faint white scar which might be revealed to anyone concerned
enough to conduct a detailed scrutiny of Gawain’s face. Ognorm’s snort and
hastily smothered chuckle had Gawain reaching for his boot knife and studying
himself in its reflection. Under the shaggy mop of unkempt hair the scar was a
bright white slash in his weather-tanned features, and he knew Elayeen would
fuss over it and chide him endlessly for his carelessness in acquiring it.

On New Year’s Eve the wind rose, gusting across the plains
of Arrun’s Midshearings, lashing them with occasional bands of squally rain
which felt mild compared to the icy weather that had plagued them a few days
before. Their progress had been good, though cautious in the absence of Ven’s
Sight, but Gawain surprised himself with how quickly he had come to rely once
more on Gwyn’s senses and his own.

It was the absence of strange aquamire which he noticed the
most, though he wouldn’t admit that to anyone, and certainly not to Allazar and
Ognorm in their hasty night-camp, huddled around a rough cairn of
scruffy-looking rocks hastily heaped by cold, wet hands, and heated by a shower
of crimson sparks which had seemed to drip rather than fizz from the end of the
wizard’s staff. A week earlier Allazar had decided and declared that it was
extremely unlikely that any wizard of staff rank would be near enough to feel
the energies liberated by the staff, and with the prospect of enticing warmth
on offer Gawain and Ognorm had concurred immediately.

It being the end of a year the memories of which filled all
three with turbulent emotions, Gawain produced three battered tin cups from the
packs, filled a camp pan with water, and bade Allazar heat the liquid therein.
It took some experimentation until a method was found that finally worked
without spraying freezing water everywhere, and when the steam was rising and
the water bubbling, Gawain filled the three cups, and added drops of loofeen,
and then a generous measure of Jurian brandy from the medicinal bottle.

Silently, lost in memories, they tapped the battered cups,
raised them, and sipped the hot drink, revelling in the heat and the afterglow.

“Is it midnight yet, Allazar?” Gawain whispered in the
gloom, the only light coming from the single pebble of a glowstone the wizard
had used to see well enough to heat the water.

Allazar made a pretence of looking up at the heavens,
lifting a finger in the air, sniffing, scratching his chin, and then declared:
“Just after, I think.”

“Then Happy New Year,” Gawain sighed.

“Arr, you too melord, and you, Serre wizard.”

“May the New Year be blessed with peace and prosperity,”
Allazar whispered.

“May it be a vakin sight better than the last bastard was,”
Gawain muttered, and Ognorm almost choked on his drink.

“Arr, it was a bit of a kekky one at that, melord,” the
dwarf managed when he’d finished coughing.

“I prefer not to think of the misery endured, but dwell
instead upon the happier moments,” Allazar declared.

“Me too,” Gawain agreed, “When you think of one, do share it
with the rest of us.”

There was a silence which lasted about five heartbeats, and
then all three could contain their laughter no longer. When it subsided though,
there was a distinct air of melancholy in the camp, gorse rustling behind them
in the gusts, wind whistling, and all of them waiting for the next band of rain
to sweep through.

“P’raps it won’t be so bad,” Ognorm announced.

“Jurian brandy is wonderful stuff, isn’t it?” Gawain
sniffed. “Makes anything seem possible if you drink enough of it.”

“Heh. Arr. Like, p’raps the Toorsenspits will stay in the
woods and that’ll be that?”

“A good game to occupy our minds before sleep. We’ll call
it, Orsey-kek. My go. Like, Juria shirking off the yoke of Insinnian’s
stewardship and occupation by the end of the month.”

Allazar sniffed. “My turn?”

“Aye.”

“Like, the Hallencloister renewed, and wizards and
commonkind living in peaceful harmony thereafter.”

“Arr. Like, Morloch gone forever, an’ ‘is dark wizards with
‘im.”

“Like, the Toorseneth collapsing under the weight of its own
arrogance, killing all within, and Elvendere restored.”

“Oh now Longsword, surely there must be a rule to this game
which defines and separates fantasy from Orsey-kek?”

“I didn’t complain when you suggested ‘peaceful harmony’
with wizards, did I?”

“True. Apologies.”

“Accepted. Whose go is it?”

“Who cares. It is a foolish game anyway,” the wizard yawned.
“And though this beverage is doubtless to blame, still I am grateful for it.”

“Me too,” Ognorm stifled the infectious yawn as it passed
from Allazar to Gawain to him. “D’you reckon you could make ‘ot soup like that,
Serre wizard?”

Allazar shrugged. “I hadn’t thought about it. Do we have
anything with which to make a soup?”

“Only frak and that elvish stuff you and Ven filled the
packs with back there. Don’t reckon that’ll make much of a soup, though.”

“No, indeed.”

Another squall drove in from the north then, and Allazar
snatched up the glowstone and pocketed it, all of them ducking their heads and
lifting their cups to their lips, drinking the dregs quickly before freezing
rain could rob the liquid of heat.

“There you are then,” Gawain declared miserably over the
wind and the sound of rain lashing their cowls, “Another year begins as it
doubtless means to carry on.”

 A week later saw them in Arrun’s Southshearings and eyeing
terrain which gladdened their hearts. It was familiar; good grasses, lush and
verdant, rich shrubbery, and stands of trees. They were, Gawain estimated,
perhaps only four days from the northern arm of the Sudenstem’s first forking,
and that meant they were only four or five days from Last Ridings. They had
seen no signs of pursuit, nothing in the air and nothing on the ground to
trouble them, no tracks or spoor to cause the slightest alarm.

When they made camp on the night of the eighth of January,
they did so in milder weather than any they’d experienced since leaving Lord
Rak’s home in Tarn. There’d been rain of course, but the winds seemed to have
lost most of their bluster by the time they arrived this far south.

There’d been signs of life along the way too, though mostly
seen from a goodly distance. Smoke from chimneys, and once even a broad stripe
of tracks left by a small flock of sheep or goats. They’d only had to adjust
their course twice to avoid habitations, and they did so with great reluctance
knowing how rich were the comforts they were doubtless passing by compared to
frak and damp blankets.

They were tired, all of them, tired of travelling and of the
stress of keeping watch in camp and on the move. Theirs had begun as a
straightforward journey, a four-week ride to the Hallencloister for answers to
simple questions, and now, nearing home, their arrival at the D’ith citadel
seemed a very long time ago.

“What are you doing, Longsword?” Allazar asked quietly,
sipping hot loofeen. The night-time beverage had become a habit since New
Year’s, though without the addition of the potent golden liquid in its bottle
in the medicinal pack.

“Counting the knots in my string. It is the eighth of
January, isn’t it?”

“It is. We are perhaps three days now from your hall.”

“Hmm. Then we have been away one hundred and fifteen days.
One hundred and fifteen, for a journey which was to have taken half that time.
Elayeen will kill me, assuming she recognises me.”

“Could always ‘ave a shave, melord, now that the wizard
knows ‘ow to boil up some water?”

“No. No, it’s a nice idea, Oggy, but knowing my lady,
that’ll simply add to her list of Things G’wain Must Be Chided For. I doubt
she’d appreciate our stopping on the way home for haircuts and shaves instead
of running our poor horses into the ground and delaying for nothing but the
occasional drink and a pee.”

“Arr. Still, ‘undred and fifteen days. Coof. That’s almost a
third of a year!”

“I know, Oggy mate, I ain’t so thick as I’m tall you know.”

Ognorm snorted, and Gawain grinned before taking another sip
of loofeen.

“You’re rather quiet this night, Allazar. Is something
troubling you?”

“No. No, I’m remembering certain advice about not letting
down one’s guard simply because a destination is nearby.”

“Cheeky goit. Though I must admit I am still puzzled by the
Toorseneth’s desire to prevent us crossing into Arrun from Mornland. Have you
had any further thoughts on the matter?”

“It may have had something to do with the gates below the
Hallencloister being opened, though clearly Kanosenn knew nothing of that, nor
the Graken-rider. Perhaps it was simply the proximity of the border with
Callodon in that region. Thallanhall may have given strict instructions not to
violate that southern limit of Insinnian’s lawful influence.”

“Well,” Gawain drained his cup, “If the artisans have built
the promised stone hearth in my hall, perhaps we can ponder the portents in
front of a blazing log fire while munching hot toast and honey and drinking
fine warm ale in the weeks to come. For now, I am going to take a turn around
the camp. I for one have no intention of letting down my guard simply because
we’re nearing the end of our journey. First watch is mine, as usual.”

“Arr, I’ll turn in then melord.”

“I’ll try not to wake you on my return.”

“Ta.”

Gawain stood, eyed the wizard suspiciously for a moment, and
then began his perambulation. Of course Allazar had been quite right, one’s
guard should never be let down simply because the end of a journey is within
sight. But Gawain knew it had been a deception, one of the kind the wizard
usually employed to evade answering personal questions. Something was troubling
the wizard, and whatever it was seemed to be increasing the closer they got to
Last Ridings.

Well, without strange aquamire to provide insights and leaps
of intuition, and with no nagging worms to demand his attention, Gawain had
nothing but his own instincts, experience and training to rely upon now. About
the only thing he could think of to explain Allazar’s discomfort was the
extremely unlikely possibility that the wizard had dropped the Sceptre of
Raheen somewhere along the way from the Hallencloister Line and didn’t know how
to announce that they’d all have to go back for it.

While the humorous thought made Gawain suddenly smile, it
also made him shiver, and he adjusted his cloak and the strap of the sword
slung over his back. The night was clear, starlight welcome though the air was
cold. He lowered his hood and wrapped a black scarf around his head and face,
more from habit to hide his blond hair than for the cold. He left his ears
clear though, the better to listen to the night’s noises. There’d be wild goats
about, and probably sheep too. The land hereabouts was the verdant Arrun
grassland of the Southshearings, after all.

Nightcrakes. The occasional distant squeak of a bat, and the
less common flutter of leathery wings. A goat or a sheep, bleating, far off.
The sound of his own breathing. And a snort from Gwyn…

Gawain froze, and slowly bent his knees to stoop low behind
a thorny shrub, ears straining. Nothing. He crept low, retracing his steps back
to the campsite, saw the wizard and Ognorm both under the blankets, neither
moving. Gwyn was standing nearby, the other horses close to her, all of them
staring with ears pricked towards the southeast, the direction they’d be taking
when it was light enough and safe enough for travelling.

Gawain knelt, and felt for a pebble, and then realised it
was too soon even for Ognorm to be sleeping. Not even the dwarf could spark out
so quickly after settling down for the night. Gwyn’s ears twitched, and she
bobbed her head. Something, they knew, was out there in the silvery gloom.
Slowly, Gawain eased an arrow from his quiver, and strung it.

Movement from the camp, and he watched Allazar and the dwarf
slowly sitting up, peeling back blankets, moving so slowly it was almost
painful to watch. Painful, yet curiously it filled Gawain with deep
professional pride; the wizard and the dwarf were very far removed from the
humble D’ith pat and lifter and shifter they used to be. He watched as they
rose to a crouch, Allazar with the business end of the Dymendin sliding forward
to point towards the unseen threat, Ognorm with Nadcracker in one hand and a
strung arrow in the other.

Gawain judged it was perhaps half an hour until midnight,
and this judgement was based entirely on the pointless knowledge Allazar had
imparted on seeing the moon earlier in the day. That half-moon hung low in the
sky to the west now, perhaps an hour or more from setting. Late indeed for
travellers to be roaming the wilds of the Southshearings. He crept back towards
the camp, feeling suddenly rather exposed on his own with nothing behind him
but open grassland and a starlit sky. Better to stand with his friends, with a
tall shrub to the rear.

Gwyn snuffled again and her head followed her ears to the
southwest.

Gawain cursed under his breath and held up two fingers,
jabbing one to the southwest, and then to the southeast. Allazar shifted a
little in response, the staff pointing in the general direction of the new
target, leaving Gawain and Ognorm facing the southeast, and the old one.