by GJ Kelly
Gawain paused again, eyeing his enthralled and gaping companions.
“That’s why,” he continued, “That’s why Maraciss sent Pelliman Goth to return Kallaman Goth to the west. What wizards there are now serving in the Empire can expect no reinforcements from beyond the Teeth and no fresh allies fresh-corrupted here behind the lines. Maraciss must have learned the truth of the Viell’s intentions. What wizards now remain here east of Elvendere can expect no fresh sticks to learn the craft and lore of the D’ith, either. Who would teach them? Where would they learn?
“That’s why the Toorseneth arranged for the alliance with Juria and the marriage of Hellin to Insinnian. That’s why Jurian towns and villages are being fortified by elfguards loyal to the creed. That’s why they patrol now with Riders of the Grey. That’s why they aimed as one for Allazar and not for me on the Hallencloister Road. Not for politics. Not for gain. But to seek out and destroy all wizardkind save their own, whose powers are, for the most part anyway, limited to the borders of their own domain.”
“Oh thruk…” Ognorm gasped.
“The Viell served long on the Council of Sek,” Gawain added. “Those traitors not directly turned by Morloch likely served the Toorseneth’s will. And the will of the Toorseneth is the will of Morloch, his last spite, his final lash, his last word. To consume you all, Allazar. To destroy all wizardkind and leave nothing but a grey world bereft of all mystic power save those who serve his spite in Elvendere. And who knows, perhaps one day, he might succeed in breaching his bonds, and perhaps one day return for the rest of us, and none of us able to raise a shield against his power.”
“By the Teeth,” Allazar managed, blinking back the tears of his understanding. “By the Teeth.”
“Cherris. Dirs. I must ask of you a boon.”
“M’lord?”
“You said you have a duty. To arrest me, and take me to Hellin’s Hall.”
“We do.”
“You have heard all, and witnessed all. Yet you are both honourable. To your oaths you must remain true. I must be presented to Hellin, must I not?”
Dirs squirmed under the urgency and intensity of Gawain’s fixed gaze. “Yes, m’lord, but…”
“But then hear my boon. I will give you my word and my arm here and now that if you accept my instructions, I shall honour your duty and present myself in Hellin’s Hall.”
“And what would you ask of us, my lord?” Cherris gasped, her tear-stained features a picture of dread and concern.
“I would have you both ride hard for Arrun and Last Ridings, there to tell my queen all that you have heard and witnessed here.”
“And you would give yourself into custody, when you could bear such word yourself m’lord?”
“I now have business in Juria. So too does the White Staff. There are forces of the Toorseneth there which require our attention.”
“We accept!” Dirs declared, brooking no further argument, requiring no further explanation, and thrusting out his hand. “Whatever your business is, we accept your word, and I shall take your arm m’lord, and swear to you in sight of the moon and all here that we shall bear warning to your lady or die in the attempt of it!”
Gawain clasped the offered arm, gripping it firmly.
“So it has been said, so it shall be done,” he announced, and released his grip. “You must tell Elayeen to recall all Rangers from Juria immediately. You must tell her to send warnings to all lands. Allazar, do you have your notebook still? I would write a letter of instructions for Elayeen.”
“I do, Longsword, but…”
“Don’t you see, Allazar? That sparkling crystal-encrusted Grimmand was not sent for her. It was sent for one who might raise white fire against it. It was sent for Corax. Or perhaps even for you. The Toorseneth means to end all wizards.”
oOo
16. Turmoil
Dirs and Cherris had left with the first lightening of the sky, bearing with them the letter of instructions Gawain had written for Elayeen and, for safe-keeping in the down-below of Crown Peak, the Book of Sardor and its appendix. Allazar would not risk the carrying of it deep into Juria where it might fall into the hands of those named in it. The departure of the two Riders of the Grey had been urgent and charged with emotion, the Jurians snapping their fists to the vacant patches of their tunics where Gawain’s emblem once held pride of place. And then they had mounted, and galloped southeast for the Arrun border and the journey to Last Ridings.
There was little else to be said between the four companions left behind. They’d simply saddled horses, broken their fasts, and turned north, knowing that while the journey to Juria Castletown would ordinarily take approximately eighteen days, their need for stealth might make it a little longer.
They saw no-one that first day, and when they made camp that night it was closer to the scrubbier ground northeast of the Hallencloister, Gawain electing to remain in the vicinity of the borders of Arrun and later, Mornland, should they encounter a larger patrol on Jurian soil and choose to flee into safer lands. Hellin’s Hall was Gawain’s destination, but on his own terms. It began to drizzle again, and they had again entered the strange still air of the region around the ancient citadel. An hour after they settled in cloaks wrapped tight against the damp and the chill, it was Ognorm of Ruttmark who spoke first.
“Beg pardon, melord… but what’s the job at Juria? When we get there, I mean?”
Gawain smiled sadly in the gloom. “Trust you, Oggy. Trust a Threllander to be practical, when so many other questions could you have asked.”
“Arr, well,” Ognorm announced softly and with sorrow, “Me ‘eart’s too full o’ sorrow for ought else, melord.”
“Yes. Mine too. I have had much time to think in the silence of the ride this day, and so much now is clearer to me. There are questions though I would ask the ‘spitsucking traitor of Toorsen’s creed at Hellin’s Hall, Serat of the Ahk-Viell. I would know where now rests the foul orb and shadow which they used to lay waste to the Hallencloister and end all those within its walls. I would know their intentions for that device and for these lands. That they mean to end all wizardkind except for themselves is clear; other aspects of their madness are not.
“And there is one more task we are sworn to undertake, an oath to a friend to be fulfilled. There is a wall of stone there in Juria, and if his name be on it, it falls to us to strike it off.”
“Aye,” Ognorm sighed. “Aye, friend Jerryn’s last wish to be honoured. And beggin’ yer pardon again, melord, if that noble name be there, and the wall be of stone as you say? Then beggin’ yer pardon, it’ll be a dwarf’s hand as wields the hammer does the striking of it. Please, melord.”
Gawain nodded. “Then you’ll need this, Oggy. You being once a lifter and shifter, I doubt you carry your own…” And he fished in the packs to find the chisel borrowed from the good old boys at The Orb’s Ending, and handed it to his mournful companion.
Allazar noted the object, and shot a telling and accusing glance at Gawain, but said nothing, sinking back into the shadows of his cloak and cowl.
“Arr, ta melord, and no, us lifters an’ shifters don’t carry the badge of them that cuts the stone below. But that don’t mean I don’t know how! It’ll be a fine job I do for me old mate Jerryn. A fine job.”
Ognorm sniffed, and wiped his nose on the back of a sleeve already damp from the night’s misty rain, and then fell silent. Gawain glanced again at Allazar, and saw only the outline of a rumpled cloak and staff, the wizard’s face remaining hidden deep within the shadows of the cloak’s cowl. Venderrian next, the elf wrapped against the weather but still occasionally casting his Sight around them; he held his gaze for a moment, but then the elf looked away, his expression haunted.
“It wasn’t you or the folk of Minyorn did this evil,” Gawain announced gently. “Don’t let the burden of another’s crime weigh upon your own shoulders, Ven.”
“It was my people who did this thing, miThal, my countrymen. Small wonder you have
ordered the recall of rangers from Juria.”
“That decision was made for their safety, Ven. The ninety-five are too few and too far between, and now that Juria is allied with the Toorseneth, wittingly or otherwise, there is precious little risk of their Sight being needed here. Now that the creed has a foothold in the midlands, they’ll not be sending seed or spore this way. They have no need.”
“And Morloch, melord?”
“Bound again beyond the Teeth, denuded, his forces either spent or now about their own business and deaf to his commands. He has no darkness to send against these lands. No, it’s the Toorseneth deployed seed, spore, and now spawn against us. Distractions in the south to slow Brock’s plans, tools to entrap Juria, weapons to seek out and destroy the scattered remnants of the D’ith; two out of three of their tasks are now complete.”
Ognorm blinked, and sighed.
“Besides,” Gawain continued, drawing his cloak tighter, “When word reaches the good people of Juria that it was elves destroyed the Hallencloister and with it, almost the whole world at Far-gor, elves bearing the same tau-mark as worn by those now occupying their towns and villages, how safe d’you think those elves will be?”
“You mean to spread the word so soon, Gawain?” Allazar asked, his voice surprisingly firm given the near totality of his loss.
“I’m hardly going to hide the truth from friends and allies, Allazar. Why would you think I would? What purpose would it serve?”
“Our lady is of elfkind, so too our Sighted friends.”
“And everyone knows this. By recalling the rangers from Juria I’m merely removing any possibility that Jurians angry at this fresh betrayal by elves of the Tau might mistake friend for foe in the dark or at a distance.”
“You will make enemies of all elves with this revelation.”
“No, I don’t think so. You yourself said that Elayeen had done more to cement the honour and reputation of the Kindred Rangers in the eyes of the world than anything we ourselves could have done or imagined. When you’re able to think a little clearer, Allazar, I suspect you’ll agree. I know the rage you feel, and how its restless billowing clouds judgement and makes a pauper of reason.”
The wizard didn’t answer, but Gawain caught the slight dip of the cowl and Allazar’s brief nod of acknowledgement.
“Good job they closed the forest again, I reckon,” Ognorm declared. “Dunno how folk back ‘ome would feel about all this. Will Serre wizard Arramin be safe there, d’you reckon? Back at home?”
Gawain nodded. “Elayeen will send warnings, and a message specifically for Arramin. He’s probably the safest wizard of the D’ith alive, not including vakin Morloch. Morloch’s behind the Teeth. Arramin’s in the vaults of Crownmount. At least we now know what was behind all those doors Allazar, on each landing of that endless staircase there in the depths of Crownmount, and I can think of no better curator for that particular collection than Arramin.”
“My people are doomed,” Venderrian suddenly announced. “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.”
“Well there’s a cheery poem, Ven mate. What’s that from?”
“It is a verse from the Arathalaneer. The song for the fallen Thalangard.”
“Arr. That’ll be the one me mate Reesen dint want any of us to sing if he’d… if anything’d happened to ‘im. Is there nothing we can do about Elvendere, melord? Can’t we get word in to ‘em about these Toorsenspits?”
Gawain shook his head.
“No. At Kings’ Council in Ferdan I spoke of my seeing an entertainment, a fellow clad in garish and wizardly clothing whispering in the ear of a farmer who, at length, leapt from his chair flapping his arms and walking high-kneed like a chicken. I spoke before Council and told of wizards likewise whispering into the ears of kings. It made them all rather angry, especially the wizards. But in Elvendere, the ToorsenViell have been whispering into people’s ears since the building of their tower at Ostinath. Children are taught the lies in schools and believe them, and grow up to repeat those lies to their children, and on and on… so Elayeen told me.
“How do you tell a people that they have been deceived for thousands of years? How do you tell them that those they’ve respected and entrusted with the safeguarding of their culture have been working secretly against them, and all this time have been waiting for the day when they would be called upon to enact Morloch’s final spite? How do you end beliefs which have been taught for so long and are now so deeply ingrained they have come almost to define a people? History records there is only one way, and it seldom succeeds entirely.”
“What way?” Ognorm whispered, fearing the answer as he wiped away drops of rainwater which had gathered on his eyebrows.
“War, and annihilation.”
“Arr.”
“It didn’t work for Morloch at Raheen. Not yet, anyway. And it hasn’t worked for the Toorseneth at the Hallencloister. Not yet, anyway. Nor has it worked entirely in Elvendere, where dwell elves of Minyorn, who like our friend Ven here, and most of the ninety-five, kept alive the ways and traditions of elder times. The Sight will spread in that land and with it, we can only hope, understanding. Perhaps even now Thal-Hak works to undermine the tower and its servants. Ven?”
“MiThal?”
“You looked to be on the verge of speaking.”
The elf looked suddenly pained, as if caught on the brink of hurling a rock through a window. Gawain waited, determined for the elf to utter whatever it was he’d been about to say. There’d been altogether too many times when elves had left words unspoken in Gawain’s presence of late.
Venderrian, under pressure from Gawain’s impassive gaze and still reeling from the shock of the Hallencloister, relented.
“There was much turmoil in Elvendere when you took Thalin-Elayeen from faranthroth. There was even more when dwarves returned with mifrith Valin and Meeya, bearing news of her new life in Threlland. They will know now, all of them, of Far-gor. Such a thing cannot be hidden long, miThal. There will be even more turmoil in Elvendere now. Dark days new are born, in war and strife and rising dread.”
“There will be much turmoil in Juria when we get there, too. Elvendere must fend for itself, for now. Our task is the taking of Serat from Juria Castletown. Alive, Allazar. We need to know about the orb. Serat must be taken alive.”
Again, a slight dip of the wizard’s cowl acknowledged Gawain’s command. It was disconcerting, and Gawain wondered whether he too had seemed so utterly cold and distant in the aftermath of Raheen. He conceded that he probably had.
“How come they dint use the one at Calhaneth, melord? The orb, I mean.”
Gawain shrugged. “It seems they didn’t need to. They couldn’t operate the great wheels on the canal, and seemed entirely reluctant to journey so far south. The taboo on venturing anywhere near that dead city was one of long standing, and perhaps over time even those wearing the tau accepted it without question. Theo of Smeltmount told of other tests and trials of other orbs taking place even before his services were obtained. Doubtless it was one of those, and the shadow-creatures it created, that they used against the D’ith.”
“Arr.”
“I’ll take first watch,” Gawain announced. “You’ll take second, Oggy. I’ll wake you when it’s time. We’ll spare Ven’s eyes this night.”
He watched them settle down on damp blankets, wrapped warm against the miserable night. Allazar, he knew, was feigning sleep, as the wizard had done the night before. Just as Gawain himself had done in the aftermath of Raheen’s destruction, eyes closed in the dark, hoping for the peace of sleep, but seeing only images of his shattered world flashing and wheeling through his tortured mind. Back then, he had the sword, Gwyn, and little else but steely-eyed and cold-hearted vengeance with which to wreak havoc upon Morloch’s plans. Allazar had the White Staff and the power given him by ancient circles and the eldenbeards who’d made them
.
Allazar was thus far more dangerous than Gawain had been. Much would depend on whether or not the wizard could contain the rage burning within him, a rage Gawain knew all too well. And then there was the light in his eyes, the dangerous glow seen at Urgenenn’s Tower, and the voice only Allazar and Kallaman Goth had heard. Eldenbeard.
They had been driven here, Gawain knew, by ancient compulsions, just as Elayeen had been driven far from the Dragon’s Teeth, far from Morloch’s influence or so she had said. For all the talk of omens and portents and prophecies, and all the gentle white lies Gawain had used to try to reassure and assuage Elayeen’s dread of the Morgmetal box waiting these past two thousand years for their unborn son to open it, there was no denying they had been driven to the Hallencloister to learn the truth of its destruction.
He should be happy, he knew. Long had he railed against wizards and their mumbling, despising their easy use of mystic power to influence and alter the lives of those they had called ‘commonkind’. He should be rejoicing at the destruction of the Hallencloister and the whitebeards both. But instead, he felt a new and alarming kinship with Allazar, and through it, the loss and grief the wizard was suffering. They had travelled far together, and now, after all their journeys and the perils they had faced and overcome, now they shared a common agony. Gawain’s world had ended in fire; now too Allazar’s. And Morloch was responsible for both cataclysms.
He felt the old familiar anger too. Anger at whitebeards who could have altered the course of the future so long ago, but who did nothing, nothing but secretly copy their books and hide them under Morloch’s very nose. They could have secretly hidden an army of mystic warriors below Crownmount, those at least would’ve been of far greater use at Far-gor and in Pellarn than books in vaults.
