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

by GJ Kelly

  But that had been hours ago. Ognorm had taken first watch, and now near midnight, Gawain had the second. He enjoyed the silence of the dark hours, the creaking of the trees and occasional rattling of their twigs stirring in breezes up here on the ridge overlooking the south. His men were sleeping, the horses were sleeping, and here he sat, alone and worried.

  Well, not strictly alone.

  “Suppose I don’t know where the enemy are, exactly?”

  Go and look for ‘em, y’highness, or wait for them to find you.

  “And suppose I can risk doing neither?”

  Then y’should be worried, for it means you’ve given up thinking!

  Gawain sighed to himself, and pondered. He was outnumbered ten to one, and out-sticked seven to one. The sceptre in the map-case was far too important an artefact to be allowed to fall into enemy hands. Seeking out the enemy was out of the question. Sitting atop the ridge and waiting for them to come to him was likewise out of the question.

  Why?

  “Beg pardon, Captain Hass?”

  Why is it out of the question? If the goal is to keep the short stick from enemy hands, why is waiting for them to come to you out of the question? Is your position indefensible?

  “We need to get the sceptre to Elayeen and safe below Crown Peak.”

  Why? I thought the objective was to keep the sceptre from the enemy?

  “It is. But…”

  But?

  “But I want to get back to Elayeen. I want to hold her and keep her and our son safe from this lunatic world and the chaos the Toorseneth is wreaking upon us all.”

  Boo bloody hoo, y’highness.

  “Actually, it’s y’Majesty these days.”

  Not fer me, y’highness. I’m dead, remember, and just your imagination.

  That depressing realisation broke the spell, and Gawain scanned the horizon again. The night was clear, an ocean of stars twinkling, the world bathed in their silvery-grey light, and there was no moon. And, as Allazar had announced before bedding down, it’d be a new moon rising at dawn anyway. No light could they expect from that heavenly orb at night for some days yet.

  Hass had always cut through the fug, and had done so again. Of course it was Gawain’s intent to return to Last Ridings and Elayeen, and to secure the Dymendin sceptre in the down-below beneath Crown Peak. He actually smiled when he thought of the word ‘down-below’, and imagined his queen chiding him whenever he used the word ‘vault’ instead.

  But then he snapped his attention back to the reality of his surroundings.

  Love’s killed more watchmen than cut throats and arrows! Hass had told them in the classroom in the Downland Barracks. Keep yer mind on yer job unless you want yer mates dead!

  Gawain accepted the rebuke, stood silently, and flexed his muscles before walking into the gloom of the trees a few yards away from his sleeping companions. So then. Hass was right. It was his intention to return to Elayeen, but the goal was to keep the sceptre from the ToorsenViell hunting them. Recognising the difference between intent and objective brought his circumstances into sharper relief.

  Forty-two of the Tau, seven of them warriors of the mystic variety and thirty-five of the common though crystal-clad type. Though Byrne had said some were wearing the uniform of Bek’s Greys. Those would be armed with crossbows, swords, and possibly lances, the rest, elven longbows and swords. Small beer if a convenient Fallowmead had been built atop the ridge, but alas there was no self-sufficient village here to build pit-traps and catapults and make barrels of caustic powders and liquids to hurl at an enemy charging up the slope. Here atop the slope was just Gawain, Allazar, and two friends.

  Could it be enough? Venderrian and Ognorm could join Gawain in the launching of arrows down the hill into an advancing enemy, and Allazar could spew torrents of white fire down it… but it was madness, of course. The enemy had seven sticks to Allazar’s one, and that one would be employed shielding three of the kindred from a storm of arrows rushing up the hill towards them, at least ten for every one they managed to hurl down at the charging riders. Madness. And the objective was certainly not to stand and fight and hold a nameless ridge to the last man.

  The quiet was momentarily shattered by the high-pitched squeaks and fluttering wings of a flock of nightcrakes flapping overhead in search of the nocturnal flying insects that were their food. Gawain had a sudden inkling of how the insects must be feeling. He shivered, and drew his cloak tighter, breath pluming and giving away his position should any eyes be looking in his direction. He tied a darkcloth scarf around his face to stem the steaming harbingers.

  Sixteen or seventeen days to the Hallencloister, and thence another twenty-eight home to Last Ridings. Home? Home was Raheen. But Raheen was gone. Well then. Perhaps ‘home’ now was wherever Elayeen waited for him.

  Boo bloody hoo, y’highness.

  Yes, thank you, Captain Hass.

  So then. The fly in the ointment was not knowing where the enemy had deployed. Thanks to their Condavian, the enemy knew every move Gawain made and could adjust their plans accordingly. Gawain knew not where the Toorsencreed were, and their newly-created crystal armour made them difficult for Kindred Rangers to spot, effectively reducing the range of the Sight to a little less than half a mile. This was middle Mornland, woodlands, streams, rolling hills giving way slowly to the grassier plains of Arrun. Plenty of places for the Tau to lurk unseen. Plenty of places for an ambush.

  Thinking of Arrun called to mind something which seemed of sudden significance, and Gawain closed his eyes and stared into the dark grey mist of strange aquamire. Captain Byrne’s voice filled his mind’s ears. Serre Jawn speaks Elvish, of course, though either our new friends know it not or they have forgotten that the Lord Chamberlain would be expected to be fluent in all tongues. They’re desperate, my lord. They’re under orders not to let you cross into Arrun. I know not why.

  No, Gawain thought, I don’t know why either. Why was the Arrun border significant? Elfwizards of the Ahk-Viell and lesser sticks had operated freely from Urgenenn’s Tower in the Eastbinding far to the south of Arrun’s border with Callodon. It couldn’t be a geographical limitation on their powers or distance from their forest domain which made the enemy desperate to act against Gawain within the borders of Mornland.

  Whatever the reason for the creed’s desire to obtain the sceptre before the quest to keep it safe crossed into Arrun, it added a new dimension to Gawain’s thinking. Suddenly, safety wasn’t as far away as Last Ridings. It was two weeks away, two days or so north of the Hallencloister line, at the border between Mornland and Arrun. And that, he thought, narrowed the range of possible locations for his enemy quite considerably.

  A little after sunrise saw them saddling the horses and preparing to continue their journey. Gawain stood beside Gwyn at the tree line, eyeing the sky. There were grey clouds to the north, drifting slowly in their directions, though not so dark as to threaten rain or thunderstorms.

  “South then, melord?” Ognorm asked, following Gawain’s gaze and watching the lazy circles made by the Condavian high in the sky in that direction.

  “No, east,” Gawain announced.

  Allazar blinked.

  “Beg pardon, melord?”

  “I want you and Venderrian to follow the ridge and then at its end continue east for five more miles or so. Do you see that small river yonder, in the southeast? The one that has those four little finger-lakes like a string of pearls?”

  “Arr, melord, I do?”

  “Ven?”

  “MiThal.”

  “Do you see the copse to the right of the lakes, shaped a little like a clover-leaf?”

  “Arr.”

  “Yes, miThal.”

  “Good. Allazar and I will await you there. Don’t ride too hard, maintain a purposeful pace as if you are bound for a destination of mild importance. When you’ve gone your five miles or so, swing abruptly south and join Allazar and I there in the trees.”

  “MiThal, if those tre
es hide the enemy, you will not have my Sight to warn you.”

  “I know, Ven. The danger’s where the fun is. We’re going to play a game with our enemy today. I want to see how they react. Don’t worry. If Allazar and I find anything unpleasant in the clover-woods, you’ll see us soon enough running in your direction making noises much like girlies screaming in a playground.”

  “Just us two, melord?”

  “Just you two. I’ll take care of the packhorse.”

  “Arr. Well. Be seein’ you later, then, I spose.”

  Gawain smiled. “Let’s hope so. If not, it means one of us is either lost or dead.”

  “Only, me king’s orders…”

  “I know, Oggy, believe me. Fret not. No-one will be squinting at me sideways this day. Except perhaps that Dwarfspit Condavian and you’d have a job shoving Nadcracker up its arse. We’ll give you about a quarter of an hour’s head start before we leave. You should still be able to see us from these heights. At least for a while.”

  Ognorm and Venderrian were clearly unconvinced by the plan and unimpressed at what they considered the abandonment of their duty to watch over Gawain. But they obeyed his orders anyway, the ranger casting a long glance towards the distant woods halfway to the horizon, and the dwarf casting frequent glances over his shoulder lest it be some trick and Gawain racing off back to the north.

  “A game, Longsword? Is this wise?”

  “Probably not, Allazar. Come, help me with the packhorse. I mean to leave him here with our supplies. We’ll be camping here again tonight.”

  “We will?”

  “Yes. I want to see what the enemy does, if anything, once they realise we’ve split our party. If it’s the sceptre they want so badly, they’ll be miffed indeed not knowing which of us has it. And then, in a couple of hours when our party is reunited down there in the clover woods, they’ll be miffed again at having taken whatever steps they took only to find them unnecessary.”

  “I still cannot see the wisdom in teasing our enemies thus.”

  “Teasing. A good word for what I’m doing, I suppose. Imagine how peeved they’ll be when noon finds us back here again, all four of us. And how vexed when the manoeuvres are repeated, with you and I going east, and Ven and Ognorm south before coming back yet again.”

  “And the point?”

  “Did you ever hear the children’s story of the toothless old man and his dog?”

  “I do not think so. Is it relevant?”

  “To my game, yes. Behold, the Condavian is moving already, see how it adopts a figure of eight pattern now, attempting to keep Ven and Oggy in its field of view, as well as us.”

  “Ranger Venderrian said he thought he saw another Eye circling to the north.”

  “He did, some time ago now. I wouldn’t be at all surprised if we don’t see a few more in the days to come. But to my story…

  “There once was a toothless old man lived in a poor hut in a poor village and with him an old dog. Both were tired and threadbare, both unpleasant to the nostrils and to the eyes of those who saw them, and many did, for the old man most days when it wasn’t raining or snowing or icicles hanging from the rafters, sat on an old three-legged stool outside his hut, the old dog asleep on the ground beside him.

  “No-one actually knew whether the dog was alive or dead, for no-one ever really saw it move, even though flies buzzed around its ears and crawled upon its nose. It was mangy, and podgy, and indolent, just as the old man was toothless, podgy, and indolent.

  “One summer, when a few of the boys in the village were old enough to make mischief and to enjoy the fun of doing so, four of them, watched excitedly by snot-nosed younger children all filthy faces and fingers in mouths, four of them with long sticks strode along the dirt track up close to the toothless old man and the dog.

  “Oy, is your dog dead? They called, and one of them stepped forward, and poked the dog with his stick. It didn’t move.

  “No, ‘e ain’t dead, now bugger off ye little buggers or I’ll sick ‘im on ye! The old man replied, and the sight of his toothless snarling made them laugh. They had never seen an old man with no teeth before.

  “It is! It is dead! Said another brat, and poked the dog with his stick. It’s dead! went up the cry, and all four began poking the unfortunate animal with their sticks.

  “Oy! cries the old man, Didn’t yer mothers teach you nothing? Didn’t yer mothers teach you to let sleepin’ dogs lie?

  “But the children cared not for granny-wisdom and old wives’ tales, and kept poking the smelly dog with their sticks. At this the old man stands up, bones creaking, and the children take half a pace back, and stopped poking the dog. You don’t know who I am, says the toothless old man, and you don’t know who ‘e is neither. I gives you this one last warning. ‘E may be old and tired, and ‘is once-gloss coat of shimmering black now dull and threadbare, but if you will keep pokin’ ‘im with yer sticks, don’t come a-wailing to me or yer witless mothers when ‘e cracks a sleepy eyelid, looks at ye coldly fer a moment, then rips yer vakin ‘eads off!”

  “Kind to give the warning,” Allazar blinked, “But such language before young children is unfortunate.”

  Gawain shrugged. “It’s just a story, and I may have done the toothless old bloke a disservice. Perhaps he spoke to them with great courtesy. But anyway. Do you want to hear the rest of the story or not?”

  “I imagine the children ignore the warning.”

  “As well they might, it being uttered by a toothless old man, stooped and creaking, bony finger wagging. Poke poke poke went the sticks. And the dog’s ear twitches. But still they ignore the warning. Poke poke poke. And the dog cracks a sleepy eyelid, regards them coldly for a moment, and in an instant has an arm in its jaws, shaking the screaming brat like a rag-doll while all others run screaming for their mothers.”

  “What on earth would possess anyone to tell such a story to children?” Allazar grimaced, eyeing the Condavian as it followed the ranger and the dwarf further east.

  “It’s a good story, what’s wrong with it?”

  “What’s wrong with it? Apart from the swearing and the child being torn limb from limb you mean?”

  Gawain sniffed. “It serves two purposes and was a vakin sight more effective than lowlanders and their wishy-washy don’t judge a book by its cover or utterly uninformative let sleeping dogs lie. There’s nothing like a good arm-ripping-off to drum home the message to leave other people and their dogs alone when they want to be.”

  “And yet you plan now to poke our enemies?”

  “No, you beardy clodwit! I’ve had enough of them poking me. Now it’s my turn to bring some teeth to bear. Besides, we know two things they don’t know we know.”

  “Which are?”

  “We know they’re desperate to obtain the sceptre, and we know they don’t want us crossing the Arrun border. They can’t afford to run the risk of the sceptre being taken beyond their reach, and any hope they might have had of us sleepwalking into their carefully-laid ambush is going to be shaken like a rat in a terrier’s jaws when they see us split up and travel in different directions. Which they are about to now. Come. The packhorse will be safe and comfortable here. Let’s ride for the clover woods and see what happens.”

  oOo

  31. Sneaky

  Nothing happened. Gawain and Allazar rode to the copse which from the heights on the summit of ridge possessed a vague resemblance to a clover-leaf, but closer to it than the five or six miles from the ridge was just another cluster of silvertrees. It wasn’t for an hour after their arrival and the horses well watered and tended that Gawain uttered a delighted ‘hah!’ and pointed into the sky away to the west.

  “What is it, Longsword?”

  “A second Condavian.”

  “You are sure? It’s not the first returned after its long loop?”

  “I am sure. It’s gliding in from the west. Probably been circling behind us and these clover-woods where we couldn’t see it for the trees. The fir
st is still following Oggy and Ven.”

  “I still don’t understand how this to-ing and fro-ing will avail our cause and serve to rip the arm from the Tau in the manner of an old man’s toothless dog.”

  “The dog had teeth, clodwit, it was the old man who was toothless. How would a toothless dog rip anyone’s arm off?”

  The wizard mumbled something, and turned his attention back to his horse.

  “Are you unwell, Allazar?”

  “I am perfectly well, thank you.”

  But Gawain stepped closer to the wizard anyway, and tried to sneak a glance at Allazar’s eyes while he worked.

  “It is really quite disturbing when you do that, Longsword,” Allazar protested.

  “Do what?”

  “That. Trying to look into my eyes even though I am not looking at you. I have told you I am well.”

  “Bah. I am merely concerned that my First Wizard might become unfit to wreak his special kind of havoc upon our common enemy when the time comes.”

  “I am very far from unfit for such duties. And thank you for your concern for my wellbeing, surprising though it is.”

  “You needn’t look at me like that, either. It’s solely my kingly concern for the mystic abilities on which we may soon come to rely that prompts my actions. Not some bizarre attachment as you may be imagining.”

  “Of course, and I imagined no such thing.”

  “Good. Ever since Ognorm’s winter cold passed I’ve been more than a little concerned by every sniff and sniffle I’ve heard. I’ve heard people mumbling about Elayeen’s use of caustic powders and liquids against the Meggen at Fallowmead, but now I know there’s a much greater misery she could have inflicted up on them. Could’ve launched a dwarf with a winter cold into their midst. Surely never has so much foul slime been spat up, coughed up, or sneezed out of so red a shonk as Ognorm of Ruttmark’s.”

  “Yes, it was a rather unpleasant few days. But you need have no fear for me. Wizards do not catch colds.”