Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (5 page)

Allazar looked alarmed, and clutched his staff and his
horse’s reins both, a cloak already dusty and grubby-looking covering his
robes.

“Wearing blue! A cape with a blue hood! Darkness, miThal!”

Gawain’s stomach lurched. A dark wizard, here, in West Forkings, and moving slowly eastward?

“Where!” he cried, “Where!”

Ven pointed again, frantically, and Gawain caught the
briefest glimpse of dark blue in amongst the pale greens and browns of farmer’s
garb, and then it was gone into the crowd.

“Dwarfspit!” he cried in disgust. “Are you sure, Ven?”

“What kind of darkness?” Allazar demanded.

“Grimmand I think!” Venderrian declared. “A man except to
eldeneyes!”

“Vak!” Gawain spat. “Leave the horses, they’ll care for
themselves!” And with a flourish, he drew the longsword, the black steel of the
blade humming, at once drawing gasps of alarm from both the wizard and the
ranger.

And then he ran forward into the crowd, eyes scanning for a
man in a blue cape and hood, who might be Grimmand, sent from the west against
Last Ridings.

“Make way!” Gawain shouted, “Make way!” and images of other
drawn swords marching into a market shouting the same order flashed unbidden
into his mind. Ramoth mercenaries, marching with their emissary into Jarn Square, long ago…

Only here, there was no Tallbot of the town’s guard standing
for his king and for his neighbours. Here, there were startled people, some
frozen in shock and gaping slack-jawed, others scurrying to clear a path, all
staring, all suddenly fearful, the joy of an otherwise dreary morning shattered
by another threat to their humble and peaceful existence.

“Make way!” Allazar shouted, and his voice carried, sweeping
forward chill and cutting as though on a breeze preceding thunder.

Gawain, sword drawn, skittered to a halt, a barrow heaped
with apples blocking his path, the owner terrified, eyes wide and white and
fixed upon the black steel and the tall warrior that had been charging towards
him.

Venderrian dashed around the man, and Gawain followed suit,
leaving Allazar to negotiate the obstacle.

“Left miThal!” the elf pointed with his right hand, his bow
and a nocked arrow held in his left.

“Don’t shoot Ven!” Gawain shouted back, “Don’t shoot unless
it’s clear!”

Cries of alarm spread around them, rushing in advance of
their pursuit like ale from an overturned tankard, faster than they could run,
faster than anything which might be done to stop it. Panic followed, people
starting to surge out of the way, pressing back, a ripple of fear racing
outwards from the disturbance in their midst.

More glimpses of blue… a dress here, a bonnet there, a hat,
a coat, the canopy of a stall selling carrots and cauliflowers… and Gawain gave
up looking. Venderrian possessed the Sight. He could see what other eyes could
not, and though Elayeen had described as ‘stressful and likely to cause a
headache’ the constant switching between normal vision and the Sight of the
Eldenelves, the ranger had no choice in such a crowded place. People and his
quarry he could see clearly enough with that Sight, but stalls, wagons,
barrows, baskets and bundles he could not.

More commotion, this time from behind, and Gawain risked a
glance over his shoulder, where he saw Gwyn trotting high-kneed and snorting,
leading the other two horses, following close behind. He smiled a grim smile.
It had been a long time since he and Gwyn had faced danger together like this,
and the Raheen mare was watching over her chosen mount’s back.

“It knows we pursue!” Venderrian shouted, and leapt over a
neat pile of potato sacks. “It turns to the centre!”

Dwarfspit!
Gawain cursed to himself, hard on the
elf’s heels as the ranger turned to the right. The creature was hoping to lose
its pursuers in the middle of the crowded market. It didn’t know it had no hope
of evading a Kindred Ranger.

“Make way!” Gawain screamed again, and another great ripple
of fear sent people surging away from that cry.

It was too much, it seemed, for gentle folk. When the roots
of fear grow deep the flower of panic is quick to blossom, and the people of West Forkings had been frightened for a long time. Word had flashed like fire through the
crowd, evil was among them, pursued by Last Ridings. People fled in all
directions, bags and baskets dropped, children snatched up, cries and screams
rising and spreading as Allazar’s call of ‘Make way!’ charged with mystic
insistence cut through the din of barrows and carts overturning as the rush to
escape the unnamed and unknown horror became a stampede.

A great wave of people was suddenly rushing towards Gawain,
stalls being toppled this way and that, produce and merchandise scattered and
trampled. Gwyn and the horses surged forward, overtaking man, elf and wizard
and forming a moving barrier that towered over the panicked people and forced a
way through.

“Make way!” Allazar cried again, and held the staff aloft,
and this time there was a bright flash and a thunderclap the like of which
Gawain had not heard since the wizard had employed those tools to break the
grip of throth rage between himself and Elayeen. It had been a long time ago,
that day outside Jarn, the three of them on their way to Raheen together.

 But the technique Allazar had employed then worked now too,
and the wave parted before them like the Sudenstem at the headland of Last
Ridings, and suddenly the way ahead was clear except for debris and the
scattered ruins of barrow and stall. Some stalls yet stood, pristine, their
wares still fresh on display, others were virtually matchwood, produce or
merchandise ruined.

“This way, miThal!” Venderrian called, running faster now that
people were no obstacle to their progress.

The Grimmand, if Grimmand it be, would seek the anonymity of
a crowd, this Gawain knew. But it didn’t know fear, and it didn’t know panic.
It possessed intent and the intelligence to carry it out, but not knowing fear
and panic it had not joined in with the stampede to escape the marketplace. It
had merely continued on its way, trying to avoid pursuit and following its
primitive instinct to use guile and avoid drawing attention to itself.

And that was why it was following the fast-thinning and
disappearing crowd at a distance, and moving much slower than it might if it
had known that a Sighted elf ranger had his eyes fixed firmly on its dark
signature.

“MiThal!” Venderrian called.

“Take the shot Ven!” Gawain replied without hesitation,
seeing the blue-clad figure loping between the stalls.

Venderrian didn’t stop. As he leapt over scattered bolts of
Arrunwove silkcloth he swung his bow into position, drew the string, and loosed
almost the moment his boots hit the ground.

Gawain saw the white streak of the arrow and saw it smack
dead centre into the creature’s back. He saw the thing go down hard, face-first
into the cobbles of the vast market square, and was about to cheer when he
remembered another arrow and another Grimmand at the foot of the Downland Pass.
Arrows would not stop the creature.

But the arrow did make the creature angry. Whatever its
former intent, whoever its target might have been, and Gawain and doubtless
everyone else could guess who that might be, it now knew it had been
discovered, and self-preservation demanded the destruction of those attacking
it.

It turned to face them, and Gawain saw a plain-looking man
in his late thirties, smartly clad in colourful garb and a jaunty blue cape and
hood. A cape and hood which the creature shirked off as its true form made
itself manifest.

“
Tireandanam!
” Allazar shouted, and presented the
white staff, cutting loose with a gout of white fire which blasted shards of
cobbles in all directions as it tore along the ground towards the advancing
creature.

Fire struck the thing full in the chest, burning away the
gaily-coloured clothing in an instant, lifting the foul creation off its feet
and hurling it backwards through the air.

“Allazar…” Gawain began, stomach lurching.

The wizard sneered, jerked the staff back to the port
position across his chest, and sniffed his disgust at the thing and his
satisfaction with a job well done.

“Allazar!” Gawain declared again, watching as the Grimmand
dragged itself to its feet and began advancing upon them again.

The wizard blinked, his jaw sank, and he gaped in total
astonishment.

Charging towards them was no ordinary Grimmand, a form-shifting
creature of aquamire able to take on the appearance of any man or woman
unfortunate enough to fall victim to the creature. Its skin sparkled, twinkled
almost, like a cloud of stars or a bejewelled diadem. Venderrian’s bow thrummed
again, and another white streak sped across the shortening distance between
them and the arrow’s target.

“Rock-crystal…” Gawain heard the wizard mumble as the
longshaft smashed into the Grimmand’s chest, sending out a puff of fine dust
before the wound sealed itself and the spent arrow clattered harmlessly on the
cobbles.

Allazar blinked away his shock and loosed another stream of
white fire into the thing, again checking its headlong charge towards them and
knocking it off its feet. As soon as the wizard’s stream of fire winked out
Gawain charged forward, sword readied. But another shape thundered past him
over the cobbled ground. Gwyn, squealing in fury, feeling her chosen’s
intentions and acting on them, sprinting the twenty yards to the Grimmand
faster than any man could hope to cover the distance.

The creature had barely made it up onto its hands and knees
before the Raheen charger was rearing up, squealing in rage and then slamming
mighty hooves down upon its crystal-covered back and head. Gawain skidded to a
halt on the well-worn cobbles, poised, grinning like a madman and feeling once
again the joy of being Raheen, of knowing the bond, seeing his horse-friend
vent all the long frustration of her being abandoned and left in the care of
others while he had gone alone into danger.

Hooves, steel-shod in Callodon, slammed down upon the
Grimmand, pounding, mashing, smashing, yet still the creature aquamire-made
survived the trampling. Gawain cared not.

“Vex!” he screamed, and Gwyn danced clear, head bobbing,
blue eyes wide.

The Grimmand pushed itself to its feet, and stared with
aquamire-infused eyes at Gawain’s advance, perhaps seeing the great black
blade, perhaps not, perhaps seeing only Gawain’s life-light.

But that blade slammed into its chest, ripping it open, the
coating of rock-crystal which had protected it from Allazar’s white fire
powdered and rendered utterly useless during Gwyn’s pounding attack.

“Vex!” Gawain screamed again, this time in disgust, whipping
the blade backhanded, laying open the creature’s head, seeing nothing but
grey-black ooze within before the wound closed, the gaping gash in the torso
already sealed and healed.

“Allazar!” Gawain shouted again, bringing the longsword down
upon the Grimmand’s head in a blow that might have cut an ordinary man clean in
two from crown to crotch, but merely laid the thing open. Exactly as Gawain had
intended, dancing away to the right and leaving a clear field of fire open to
the wizard.

Instantly, a searing bolt of white fire lanced forward, tore
into that gaping wound and the substance within, and blew clean through it.
Gawain glimpsed purple before he turned to continue running with Gwyn away from
the Grimmand, and both had gone no more than three or four yards when the
welcome and familiar
whoosh
of an aquamire conflagration brought news of
great cheer to their ears.

Greasy smoke drifted skyward, a large stain on the cobbles
marking the passing of the Grimmand. Gawain stood looking at it with Allazar
and Venderrian.

“It was covered in fine rock-crystal…” Allazar sighed. “It
must be the work of the Viell. There is nothing of the kind in the Pangoricon!”

“I’ll tell you something else that isn’t in your book too,
wizard,” Gawain heaved a breath, sheathing the blade.

“Longsword?”

“Like those luvly big tomarters, you don’t get many Grimmands
to the pound either.”

oOo

5. News

“Word must be sent to Last Ridings, Serre Mayor,” Gawain
declared, gazing out of the window in the spacious but rather plain office in
the town hall.

Below, people were quietly going about the business of
clearing up in the aftermath of pandemonium. From the vantage of height on the
upper floor of the hall, it looked as though the marketplace had been struck by
a whirlwind, the centre ruined, and damage and debris spreading outward.

“We’re at your service milord,” the familiar and portly
official replied. “We do have horses and riders?”

“Quickest by boat, I think, though it needs to be fast.”

“We have such vessels milord. I have pen and ink here milord
at my desk, and paper too should you wish to write a note for Last Ridings?”

“Good idea. Allazar, if you please? Advise my lady of our
continued good health, apprise her of the threat we faced. Describe it in
detail for the benefit of Corax and Wex, and have Ranger Nuriyan despatched at
once here to the town. Suggest that he keeps watch as best he can around the
docks for anything attempting to sneak in from the west by way of the river.”

“We could return to Last Ridings, Longsword?”

Gawain shook his head. “No. Our friends can only bear so
many farewells in a day. Be sure to tell all, in the letter. Our people must be
forewarned and prepared for this new threat.”

“I shall.”

Allazar sat at the mayor’s desk, took up pen and paper, and
began to write.

“Was it black or rather more grey to your Sight, Ven?”

“It was not black, miThal. It was the same shade as the
Graken of Eastbinding.”

“Viell grey, then.”

“Yes, miThal.”

Gawain nodded, and turned his attention to the window again,
and gave a slight twitch of his head for the ranger to join him there.

Venderrian understood at once, and stepped forward to cast
his Sight over the gathering throng below labouring to restore order to the
marketplace. A slight and commendably discreet shake of the head told Gawain
all was clear, and a slight hand gesture in return marked the spot as the
ranger’s duty-post for the time being.

“Serre Mayor,” Gawain announced, turning back to the office
and its anxious incumbent. “I am sorry for the chaos below. It was our
intention to pass quietly through West Forkings about our duties, and we were
grateful that the good folk here were kind enough to allow our passage
unhindered. But the nature of the Rangers’ Oath meant we could not possibly
ignore the threat we saw mingling with the townsfolk, irrespective of our
purpose.”

“Aye milord, of course not! Beg pardon milord, ‘tis us as
should be apologising to you, for the panic and the mayhem which obstructed you
all in your duties milord. I’m sorry. They’re good folk, but after the ‘weed
was sown...”

“I know. We all of us know at Last Ridings. Our own
settlement there would not be half so comfortable were it not for the good
people here. The ferry and landing stage alone are worth their weight in gold
to us. If not for them and for Morkel, we’d still be paddling a raft across the
river while a foul creature passed through your town unseen and unhindered.”

“Morkel’s a decent fellow, milord, and though fond of his
beer he earns it, and with the work he does it’s not in him for very long. We
were glad to help, milord, more than you know. If there’s anything you need…?”

“No, thank you Serre Mayor. I expect some of our people will
arrive soon to purchase provisions and winter stores. You mentioned you have
horses and riders?”

“Aye milord we do, and they’re at your service should you
need them.”

“I learned from my lady that Mornland has a guild of
newsriders, fellows who go about bearing news from place to place, helping
remote villages and communities remain abreast of events in the wider world.
Perhaps you and the council of West Forkings might consider such a service. I
understand homesteads are springing up on the north shore of the river, for
example.”

“Aye, milord, that they are. It’s good grass hereabouts and
good land for farming near the river. Town’s growing, East Forkings is, too.”

“We can sometimes feel cut off in Last Ridings, Serre Mayor.
Waiting for boats to bring news is almost an occupation in itself, and unless
supplies have been ordered there’s little traffic on the river stops at our
quay since you took your wool to Sudshear and returned home. Doubtless there’ll
be even less come winter.”

“Aye. Aye, milord, I can see that, now you’ve mentioned it.
And with the station built now on the south bank and Morkel the ferryman
dwelling therein, it’d be a simple thing to send a rider once each day or two
for word to be carried across.”

“Good. The riders would need to be reliable, Serre Mayor,
and trustworthy.”

“I understand milord. Last thing Last Ridings needs is false
alarms and other such mischief to distract you from your duties. I’ll attend to
it, milord.”

“You almost finished, Allazar?”

“Almost, Longsword,” the wizard mumbled, scratching the page
rapidly with his pen.

“And speaking of news, Serre Mayor, has any fresh arrived?”

“Depends what you mean by fresh, milord?”

“Last we heard was of the ‘weed being cleared from around
Porthmennen in Callodon, and a good yield expected at the vineyards outside
Juria Castletown in spite of their earlier blight.”

“Oh, then the last you heard is stale now indeed, milord,
and now I understand clearer your request for newsriders and a reputable
source. Aye, Porthmennen was cleared by a lowly wizard from Callodon Court, so
it’s told, and he was then despatched at once to Dunbere south of Porthmorl,
where another crop of whipweed had been sowed in the fields. Crops were lost,
the ‘weed mixed deep within the cornfields. They’ll know a hard winter unless
Harks Hearth has enough put by in stores to support them.”

“Dunbere? I hadn’t heard of an attack there?”

“Aye milord, it was perhaps a week or so after you left here
for the Eastbinding and assigned to us that dear lady ranger who watched over
us so well, back before Ranger Foden came to take her place.”

“Hmm, then Dunbere was assailed by the Graken we ourselves
saw on our journey into the mountains. That threat is destroyed.”

“Aye milord. Repairs also are being made at the docks in
Porthmorl…”

“Repairs? The harbour was damaged?”

“Aye milord, so we heard, struck the same as here at the
dockside, by that wizard on the wing.”

“Probably the same that attacked Dunbere then, striking on
his return journey up the coast.”

“I daresay, milord, I daresay. But word is, ships o’ the
fleet were unharmed, all being out to sea when the fire fell there. You heard
the news about Doosen, milord? The village near the great forest?”

“I know of Doosen, Serre Mayor, the Jurian village on the
border with Callodon, down near the Jarn Gap and close to the southern forest of Elvendere. What news of it?”

The mayor suddenly looked nervous. Clearly whatever news he
possessed had not reached Last Ridings, and having witnessed something of the
violence in the marketplace earlier, albeit from the safe distance of his
office window, there were many stories about Gawain’s kingly rage...

“Milord, it’s said by those come down the water from Mereton
that elves have raised watchtowers there, and built a palisade around the
village which they have manned in some numbers.”

Gawain blinked. “And Juria has permitted this?”

“’Tis Juria’s flag still flies there, milord, so it’s said,
the elves acting in defence of the queen and at her request.”

“Hellin requested that Doosen be fortified?” Gawain gasped,
and Allazar, pen poised, gaped.

The mayor shrugged. “I know not such details, milord, only
the news that came downriver. You know what boatmen are like, milord, they’re
all as fond of a good yarn as any of us, but when so many come bearing the same
tale, why then that’s when we townsfolk lend it credence and take it as news.”

“I’m sorry, Serre Mayor, I didn’t mean to doubt you, nor to
ask questions you cannot possibly answer. I am still new to life on the river.”

“It’s all the news I know, milord. Beyond such mundane
matters as the raising or lowering of prices for this and that, and the odd bit
of gossip, there’s been nothing we could call fresh news since the last you
heard. Nothing beyond that which I have just now imparted, that is.”

“I have finished, Longsword, if you wish to peruse and
inscribe the missive?”

“Thank you,” Gawain took the letter Allazar had written,
reading it swiftly and nodding as he did so. Finally, he declared “Excellent,
thank you Allazar,” and took the pen, wrote a paragraph or two of his own, and
signed the page.

“Serre Mayor,” Allazar’s voice become chillingly stern.
“This must be taken immediately to Last Ridings and delivered at once to her
Majesty.”

“Of course, milords.”

“Will you then summon an esquire or other trusted courier to
bear this downriver? I should like to assess the fellow myself,” the wizard
declared.

“I shall not, milords. I shall carry this meself, direct to
her Majesty’s fair hand and to none other in the between, and my oath on it. My
brother-in-law shall be the boatman who bears it and me both to Last Ridings,
and me back again.”

Allazar’s eyebrows raised in appreciation of the solemn
declaration from the rotund and otherwise unremarkable official, noting the
fierce pride in the Arrunman’s eyes.

“Very well, Serre Mayor,” Gawain agreed. “We’ll accompany
you to the docks and escort you to this boatman of yours, and thence we’ll take
the Northside Ferry. We cannot remain to keep watch over the town until Ranger
Nuriyan arrives, but rest assured, he’ll likely be here before your own return
upriver.”

“Indeed,” Allazar added his reassurances, “And the
likelihood of another such creature as we today encountered setting foot here in
West Forkings within the next few hours is remote indeed. Such creatures would
have no targets here, only in Last Ridings might their evil be sated.”

“Then let us go, milords, I need no preparations and can
rely upon my deputy to oversee affairs here in my absence.”

It took a little time to negotiate the outskirts of the
market and traverse the narrow roads which avoided the chaos in the large
square, but once on the west road the going was hampered by traffic brought to
a near standstill by earlier events. It was with a palpable sense of relief,
therefore, when at last they watched the mayor clamber aboard his
brother-in-law’s small and sleek sailing boat, and with a wave of a pudgy hand,
the vessel was pushed from the dockside and out into the faster waters. There,
its bright yellow sail raised, it sped swiftly east, and was soon lost from
view.

“The ferry is yonder,” Allazar declared, “And if I’m not
mistaken, that is it leaving the north bank now. If we don’t dawdle we should
meet it without much of a wait.”

They mounted, and moved off along the stone-built quayside, weaving
their way through the ropes and bollards, bales, boxes and barrels scattered
here and there. It was busy, but their serpentine route was certainly a quicker
one than the road and its traffic on the other side of the boatsheds and
warehouses would have allowed.

When finally they found the ferry and its pontoon and paid
the fee for the crossing, they stood together, a dozen feet or so from what
appeared to be a small family group and a handcart filled with potatoes making
the crossing in the same direction.

“Tell me, Ven, what reason can you think of for elves to
fortify the village of Doosen near the Jarn Gap?” Gawain asked softly.

“None, miThal. Doosen is of no concern to Thallanhall, and
elves do not dwell south of Minyorn.”

“Which is itself considerably further north than Doosen,
standing as that village does close to Calhaneth.”

“Yes, miThal. Minyorn is much further north.”

“A show of strength and support for Hellin,” Allazar pronounced,
“A gesture of support by her husband, the boy Insinnian. And also a strong
suggestion to Brock of Callodon to remain on his side of the border.”

“Insinnian is aptly named, miThal,” Venderrian declared,
“His father is a worm who wriggled his way to petty power and a voice in
Thallanhall. The boy learned his lessons well, and knows how to squirm his own way
into favour. The Toorseneth has many such puppets, miThal, and some, like
Insinnian, know well who it is pulls the strings of their lives.”

“The timing could not be worse, coming as it did before
Brock’s plans for Pellarn.”

Allazar grimaced. “True. And given what we know of the
Toorsencreed and their short-lived but effective dealings with Maraciss, we
need look no further for an explanation for the fortifications. A distraction,
Longsword, to take Brock’s eye from the Ostern and lands west of that river.”

“Hellin is beginning to annoy me,” Gawain sighed.

“I fear she learned nothing of statesmanship from her
father,” Allazar agreed.

“Willam was a good man,” Gawain declared. “I liked him.
Killed by a traitor of the D’ith, in his own hall, during victory celebrations.
That’s another thing I’d like to talk to the Sardor of Hallencloister about.”

“If they’ll let us in.”

“You have a big stick.”

“The doors are of mighty oak and thicker than my arms held
wide.”

“Did you remember to bring the ellamas oil, Ven?”

“I did, miThal.”

“Thank you.”

“We are dealing with wizards, Longsword, powerful ones at
that. This is no Ramoth tower we are facing to be razed by such simple means as
ellamas oil and a spark from a firestone.”

“Indeed. And can these powerful wizards put out a fire on
the far side of a mighty oak door thicker than your arms held wide, or must
they open that door to extinguish the blaze before it eats its way through?”