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

by GJ Kelly

  “No.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because the Word is yet needed. I would not have been compelled to the Hallencloister and to force entry there were it not. What powers now drive us, Longsword, are not so cruel as to wish merely to reveal to us the ending of our days.”

  “You hope. So we are indeed pawns in some ancient game?”

  “No, I do not believe so.”

  Gawain was agog. “You can say that, even with Eldenbeard arisen and driving you to slaughter where once you would never have considered violence?”

  Allazar nodded, though slowly and sadly. “Even so. You must understand, we are sitting here now because the choices we made led us here. Any one of us could have abandoned this path at any time. You may believe we were forced along it as if at the point of some ancient spear, but that is not the case. What we are now, and where we are now, are the consequences of decisions we ourselves have made, and actions we ourselves took.”

  “Pardon me for declaring this strange philosophy of yours a bigger steaming pile than anything Gwyn has managed all the years I have known her. Benithet saw the end of the Hallencloister, and every Sardor since Durminenn simply sat back and waited for it to happen. There’s a key around your neck now and a Morgmetal box under the hill in Last Ridings which have nothing to do with decisions we ourselves took.”

  “Yet, the name upon that dread casket is She, not Elayeen. And Master Benithet spoke only of the Last Sardor, my name is not inscribed in Durminenn’s book. It is why such prophecies always seem so vague, Longsword. You have complained of the vagaries yourself often enough. It is why such prophecies always take the form it shall come to pass that a grey man from the east shall travel to the west, and bring down the walls of the oppressor, rather than Nijel the Elder from Nordshear will set fire to the Keep of Maraciss in Simatheum at lunchtime on July the sixth in the reign of Bendorrick the Third. It gives people plenty of opportunities to escape, though others would doubtless thereafter take paths which would still lead to the events foreseen.

  “Had I not rejected the temptation of Morloch’s dreaming tower, had I not rebelled against the strictures of Hallencloister, some other would have, in my stead. The result would be the same for the world, though not for me.”

  Gawain sniffed again. “That’s the kind of drivel I offered Elayeen to put her mind at rest when Corax delivered the box and she revealed she owned the key to it.”

  “Of course. It is, after all, the kind of drivel I always offer to you when you’re drinking in taverns and complaining about eldengoits.”

  “Eldengoits? Have I ever called them that? I don’t remember.”

  “You were ‘tired and emotional’ at the time, as I recall.”

  “Dwarfspit, I invent a wonderful word like that and then forget it.”

  “My apologies. I should have made a note, but I think I might have been a little tired and emotional at the time myself.”

  “Do you really believe the drivel?”

  “I don’t know. Truly, I no longer know what to believe, now. The only comfort I can find in the shards of my heart is that I know the Word is still needed, and that can only mean the Deed is not yet done, and our journey together not yet over. Else why would Eldenbeard be needed?”

  Gawain nodded. He didn’t know, either. They had left Last Ridings to find answers, and had found them. In the north, beyond the Teeth, Morloch yet dwelled. Perhaps the black-eyed evil was laughing, his final spite revealed, the last lash of his whip cracked, echoes yet sounding. Or perhaps he too sat in his tower, gazing at the ruin of his plans and his own land, wondering what now to do, now that he was bound beyond the mountains again.

  “You do know, Allazar,” Gawain said softly, “That I would never have wished for this. Not for any of it. Despite all my railing against whitebeards and my despising of them, you do know I would never have wished this upon the Hallencloister?”

  “I know.”

  They sat in silence then, the wizard glad of Gawain’s company, as Gawain knew he would be. Before them and below them, the broad expanse and its unbridgeable chasm stood now and forever between them and the Teeth, and between them and the object of their common hatred. Gawain, holding the sword propped against his right thigh. Allazar, holding the Dymendin propped against his left shoulder. Two who had vexed Morloch, and two who knew the ineffable agony of total loss.

  Later, while birds sang nearby and could occasionally be heard fluttering to a landing on the roof of the cabin before continuing about their business, Gawain was struck by a sudden realisation.

  “You didn’t answer my question earlier.”

  “Oh I’m sorry, Longsword. What was the question?”

  “What will become now of those born with white hair. What’s to be their future, with no teachers to pass on that craft and lore, and no Sardor to govern the teachers?”

  “Ah.”

  “There’s an expression which gives me comfort and dread at the same time. Comfort for it being distinctly Allazar and not Eldenbeard, and dread because it means you’d hoped I hadn’t noticed that you evaded the question earlier. In truth I hadn’t, until now.”

  “You are becoming wiser to my ways, after all.”

  “We’ve come a long way together. Now answer the bloody question, and stop trying to make me feel guilty for the asking of it.”

  “It will be as it was in the days before Zaine.”

  Gawain waited until the urge to squirm with impatience got the better of him.

  “And how was it in the days before Zaine?”

  Allazar sighed and cast a damp-eyed gaze in Gawain’s direction before facing the mountains once more, staring into the middle distance.

  “Awful. Chaos. Minds, untrained and untrammelled by discipline and understanding, unleashing powers without wit or wisdom, in many cases without awareness. Boys in their dreams setting fire to their beds or their houses while sleeping, boys inflicting pain and misery knowing not how they did so but repeating the act as others might pull the wings from flies or burn ants with a lens. Jealous youths striking out at rivals or at their unrequited loves, anger bursting brick, board, block and stone asunder. Fires erupting for no reason, animals and people likewise.

  “Chaos. Until fear and hatred of the white-haired grew stronger and stronger, and the persecution began. Children slaughtered, youths hunted, those older and wiser living in hiding, growing in power, wreaking revenge for their persecution or demanding the fealty of commonkind, wielding havoc unappeasable, unstoppable. Until came Zaine. Until came order. Until, finally, came the Hallencloister.”

  Gawain at last began to understand Allazar’s heartbreak when his call for sanctuary had gone unanswered. The Hallencloister had been so much more than a place of learning the wizard had endured from boyhood, so much more than a seat of governance. It was, for those of wizardkind, their homeland, their hope, and their salvation from the barbarism of yore.

  But still there remained the emotional confusion which even now furrowed Gawain’s brow. Pity and sorrow for Allazar’s loss, rage at the revealing of the new depths plumbed by the Toorseneth’s treachery, and his old and familiar certainty that had the barbarism of the past succeeded in erasing wizardkind forever, the world would not have endured the seemingly ceaseless suffering inflicted by Morloch.

  “I should have known better than to ask,” he finally managed.

  “And if Elvendere falls entirely from grace, and elves of the Tau are let slip upon the world, to the chaos will be added the horror of forest-born hunters seeking out the white of hair, to destroy them, to keep this world forever dull, until Morloch’s return. And that will mean war, for as you have so often said, Gawain, we wizards are born, not made. And we are born of commonkind, as are you all.”

  Gawain closed his eyes and sank back against the rough-hewn wall of the cabin, his head gently thumping against it.

  “Morloch’s spite knows no bounds, then,” he whispered. “With Benithet’s Orb gone into
the west, no lands south of the Teeth will be spared his lash. The seer was right, Allazar. This is the world’s ending.”

  The wizard’s silence was far more potent than any spoken reply might have been.

  oOo

  24. Expressions

  Dinner at Rak’s house that evening was progressing quietly, though there were five at the table. Ognorm and Venderrian seemed a little withdrawn, perhaps not entirely comfortable dining with their host and Gawain, and Allazar was distant, his grief too fresh for gentle conversation. It was therefore Rak and Gawain who were doing most of the talking, speaking quietly, and then mostly about the continued expansion of Last Ridings since the Lord of Tarn had left there after the Feast of First Choosing.

  A knocking at the front door was answered by the housekeeper, who then in turn tapped gently on the kitchen door, drawing Rak away from the table with a polite apology. He closed the hall door behind him, leaving the four of the Hallencloister Quest eating good hearty fare, but none of them particularly revelling in it.

  “Are you both ready to leave at dawn tomorrow?” Gawain asked softly.

  “Arr, melord. All sorted. Got plenty of supplies to keep us going on the way back. Pack‘orse won’t be loaded down mind, but we’ve enough stuff for the winter’s journey.”

  “If we don’t dawdle, we’ll be dining in the hall in seven weeks from now.”

  “And the route, Longsword?” Allazar surprised them with the question. He hadn’t been with the three of them when Gawain had advised Ognorm and Venderrian to make ready.

  “We’ll hug the Threlland border to the vicinity of the river crossing, skirt that, then continue south just inside the Mornland border to the line running from Nordshear to Juria Castletown. Thence, straight as an arrow due south, through Mornland and Arrun clear to Last Ridings.”

  “The horses have had little rest,” the wizard declared, poking at the food on his plate.

  “I know. Gwyn can manage, but I’ve arranged with Rudd, the master groomer, for fresh mounts for you all. He may be relied upon, of course, but I’ve seen the horses myself and they’re hardy, and used to ranging with Sarek’s men; they’ll probably think a couple of months on flat ground in the lowlands a holiday compared to life here in the Black Hills.”

  “You must forgive my distraction, Longsword, you must all forgive my distraction of late. I ought to have done more while these arrangements were being made. I am sorry.”

  “In truth there was only one task you were needed to perform, and you’ve done that,” Gawain soothed, eyeing the stout leather cylinder hanging from the back of Allazar’s chair. The Dymendin Sceptre of Raheen nestled snug inside a military map case, for convenience and for concealment.

  “Arr, and we know what task lies ahead of us all, Serre wizard, an’ are sworn to see the short stick safe to melady back at the Ridings.”

  Allazar nodded, and stabbed a chunk of beef with his fork, eyeing it sadly.

  “There wasn’t a ceremony or anything,” Gawain announced, trying to lighten the mood around the table. “But yes, I suppose what started at the Hallencloister Quest is now the Quest of the Sceptre. If nothing else, it’ll give us another reason to speed our journey and to exercise caution along the way. The prospect of that falling into unfriendly hands does not a warm and fluffy feeling make.”

  “Arr, we seen what the long white stick can do, doubt the short one’s got much less of a poke in it.”

  Allazar was on the brink of a reply mid-chew when Rak came back into the kitchen and took his seat at the table. A quick draught of hot wine, and he eyed Gawain with a telling look.

  “Ill news, my friend?” Gawain asked, tensing.

  “News, though what its portent, I cannot yet say. Word has arrived from Crownmount concerning his Majesty’s hopes for an eastern alliance to force the annulment of Hellin’s warrant and the thwarting of any plans she might have had for seeing you and your lady taken in chains to Thallanhall. Neither he nor the rest of the world yet knows of Hellin’s condition, of course.”

  “Your expression, Lord Rak, does not bode well for Threlland’s hopes,” Allazar sighed.

  “No. Word recently arrived by couriers via the River Shasstin, it seems, and was taken direct to Crownmount. To be brief, Callodon supports the initiative but is far too preoccupied with matters in the Old Kingdom to spare the resources required for a formal treaty to be ratified, though of course Brock’s Court wishes to assure Threlland of the high esteem in which you are held there, blah blah. Arrun and Mornland sit on the fence, the councils in those principalities unwilling to risk the ire either of Hellin and Elvendere, or of Callodon, Threlland, and of course Last Ridings. They’ve expressed their continued friendship and respect for all lands and are pleased to remind us that all who come in peace may cross their borders without let or hindrance.”

  Gawain sighed. “There is little those lands could do should anyone cross their borders with ill intent. Long have they relied upon friendly relations with all lands to protect them.”

  “And with the threat from the north diminished and passed into history, they are anxious for those friendly relations to continue. His Majesty’s efforts were valiant, but in vain, as I suspected they might be, my brother. Were it not for Pellarn, of course, there would have been no need for Eryk to act; Brock would have rumbled a warning north across the border to Hellin, and she would likely have heeded it as well as the advice of her own council. However, news of the proposed alliance should certainly have strengthened her council’s call for moderation, and will also have reached the ear of Thallanhall. It has not been a complete failure.”

  “Perhaps it’s as well,” Gawain nodded. “Now that Hellin is unfit to rule, her council may act. I have no desire to make enemies of good people, least of all those who stood to the fore at Far-gor.”

  “Indeed, and nor they of you. Hellin’s descent into madness, if such it be, may well have spared Juria a great deal of unpleasantness.”

  “Was there no other news? No word of Brock’s progress?”

  “Alas, none. You must remember, Gawain, news travels slowly here in Threlland. His Majesty will not even know you are here until days after you have left. And we do not have the kind of swift communications Brock employs. Even if we did, few are the birds which reached Juria, you said, and even fewer would there be to reach Crownmount.”

  “It is a lack which must be addressed by all of us. With so much happening in the world, to remain unaware of critical events is to remain unprepared for them. I do not like surprises. It’s a lesson we all should have learned years ago when Pellarn fell.”

  “If we had learned it before then, the loss of the Old Kingdom might have been averted, and much else besides. But that, alas, is hindsight. I have no more news for you. I would that I had some words of comfort from without our borders to help speed your journey, but I do not. Do you have everything you need for tomorrow’s departure?”

  “Yes, thank you. The horses are readied, provisions obtained, new clothing and blankets. I’m hoping sunrise finds us on the plains, and the wind behind us all the way.”

  “Merrin will wish to bid you farewell. She has letters, and another bundle for your packsaddle. Gifts, I think, for your lady.”

  Gawain smiled. “Lady Merrin is kind. I know Elayeen will appreciate that kindness. By the time I get back to her, she’ll be huge, and in need of something cheerier than just me to brighten the dark days and nights of winter. Spring, and the new prince, cannot come fast enough for me. How it must be for Elayeen, I cannot imagine.”

  “I can,” Rak smiled, “And I fear in the matter of value between your safe arrival home and a bundle of gifts, you underestimate yourself.”

  The meal continued quietly after that, until finally Venderrian and Ognorm took their leave. Early nights were the order of the day, the journey south would be a long one, seven weeks of winter travelling. After Allazar retired to his room, Gawain sat awhile longer with Rak by the living-room fire, still loath for
sleep to end their brief reunion. That Rak understood helped not, and merely added to Gawain’s rising melancholy mood.

  “In the summer, perhaps,” the dwarf smiled, his eyes glinting in the firelight, “When ships’ captains put out to sea with great enthusiasm for their voyages, there may be a need for Threlland to assure itself of the welfare of Last Ridings and those who dwell there. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if a certain lady of Eryk’s acquaintance doesn’t insist upon it.”

  “Will Merrin be fit to travel, then?”

  Rak nodded. “We are expecting our new arrival in June. I’ll send word of course, but all being well our ladies will be able to compare poops and mewlings near the end of August.”

  Gawain smiled. “Yes. How happy was I to escape such daily commotions when Maeve delivered Kamryn. How it’ll be when our son is born I do not know. Were you preoccupied with such events when Travak was born? I don’t seem to remember.”

  “Husbands are expected to maintain a certain level of interest, and need to learn how to feign an expression of delighted surprise at the drop of a hat. You should practice on the way back to your hall. Here, let me show you. Here am I, sitting by the fire, reading an important document fresh arrived with urgency from Crownmount. But lo, in comes my lady, beaming, and holding out a soiled nappy for my inspection, and declares, look what our darling baby has managed!”

  Rak’s expression instantly became the picture of fatherly delight, pride, and astonishment. “Oh! Our son did that? How marvellous! Give him a kiss for me, my love, I will do so myself the moment I have finished reading this proposed trade agreement sent to me by your uncle…”

  Gawain chuckled as Rak’s expression instantly became serious once more.

  “There are other lessons you should probably learn, my brother, which will spare you many hardships, but alas, there is no time now for the teaching of them.”