Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (20 page)

“You will, I am sure, Lord Chamberlain, understand why your
disposition is really no concern of mine.”

The old man blinked, and many were shocked by Gawain’s
assertion and cold dismissal. But he ignored them all, and continued.

“The device used by the Toorseneth to destroy the
Hallencloister remains at large. It is contained in a casket of gold-infused
Morgmetal, elf-made, a barrel of evil containing dark fire and shadow. Though
of lesser size and power than the Orb of Arristanas, it is of the same pedigree,
and possesses the power to destroy utterly any town or village in which it is
unleashed. Including this one.

“It is the current disposition of that foul and murderous
elfwizard device I am entirely concerned with. It is, though I never believed I
would hear myself uttering these words, it is the welfare of all surviving
wizards of the D’ith I am concerned with. And it is the complete annihilation
of the Toorseneth and all its perverted pious acolytes I am concerned with. Friyenheth
Ceartus Omniumde. Freedom and justice for all, and that includes freedom and
justice for those of the D’ith yet living who have kept their faith and would yet
serve the best interests of the kindred.

“As for the Guards behind me, ever have they served the
Crown, and Juria. They stand for the honour of both, and woe unto him, or
her
,
who would bring dishonour to either. I do not doubt the good Captain and his
men will do their duty when called upon so to do.”

Eggers grunted again, and took a draught of wine, and eyed
the elves in the room over the rim of his goblet. And still Hellin said
nothing.

“And yet, my lord,” the chamberlain declared in the absence
of word from his Crown, “Still your speech gives us neither comfort nor
reassurance. What are we to think? What are we to believe? We have only our
senses upon which to rely, and our senses speak of a threat to us all here in
this room. You have not denied the charges of murder levelled against a Crown
of Raheen, nor the charges of theft of a precious elven artefact, events
witnessed as I have said, by many…”

Gawain felt a familiar bubble rising, and tried hard to tell
himself that the Jurians before him were struggling to cope with extraordinary
circumstances. But he could also feel the tension rising, and knew too that
Allazar would be fighting his own internal battle against a rage which could
destroy everything, and everyone, in the room.

“No,” he declared, quietly, and with great menace. “I do not
deny it, and had she not spared him from my blade, I would have split that
whitebeard bastard A’knox of the Toorseneth in two for the filthy bile he
spewed at my queen on a battlefield soaked in the blood of good men and women
of these lands! A battlefield betrayed by treacherous bastards the like of
which now dine beside you at your Crown’s table!

“You require comfort and reassurance? Be comforted with the
knowledge that it was your Crown’s dinner guest who seeded your lands with
foul-made filth, allowed it to grow, and then conveniently arrived to remove it
for you. Take what reassurance you may from the knowledge that they possess a
weapon which, if set upon the roof of this very Keep tonight, would by
nightfall tomorrow have destroyed every living thing in Castletown and left it,
and you, nought but a smoking stain.

“You require something to believe, Chamberlain? Believe
this: In a few moments from now I am going to demand answers from Serat of the
ToorsenViell and if they are not forthcoming I am going to drag him from
Hellin’s precious table and beat them from him.

“Believe this also: I hold Hellin of Juria Morloch
Collaborator, witting or otherwise, allied to an evil whose depths cannot be
fathomed by reasonable minds, wed to a puppet whose strings are servant to
agents of a Morloch-corrupted wizard dead and dust these thousands of years,
and whose goal is now the complete destruction of wizardkind even at the
expense of us all.”

Jurians at the table were astonished, all of them. Jurians
behind Gawain, likewise. He was famed throughout all lands, this longsword
king, this Darkslayer, this Lord Vex, and here he stood, a wanted man by
Crown’s decree and warrant, declaring that very same Crown a Morloch
Collaborator…

It was Serat who broke the silence, and he did so by gently
clapping his hands.

“Oh well done, Raheen, a pretty speech worthy of a great
leader of men. A pretty speech made by one whose name adorns a warrant and who
by his own words convicts himself of the charges levelled by an outraged
people. It was not the Toorseneth who asked Juria for aid in bringing you to
justice, but Thallanhall. And Thallanhall speaks for the people of Elvendere!
All of them! A people afflicted by an ancient curse wrought and inflicted upon
innocents by your infected queen! A people robbed of its beloved guardian and
keeper of the…”

“Shut up,” Eggers declared, and again clapped a meaty hand
upon the elfwizard’s shoulder as the latter once more made to rise from the
table. “This is not your place to speak.”

“Indeed it is her Majesty’s place to speak!” another
declared. “Orders, your Majesty! Your Guard stands yonder and awaits your
orders!”

But Hellin, her once gentle beauty robbed by grief and made
pinched and pallid by cruel circumstance, hair once shimmering long and
ink-black now cropped and faded, sat gazing around the table, her head moving
one way, her eyes dull and lifeless, another.

“Your Majesty,” the Chamberlain said softly, his voice rich
with concern, and he leaned over, and reached out a trembling hand to touch his
queen lightly on her wrist. “Your Majesty?”

But no response came from her lips, and no reaction did she
give to the wizened hand gently tapping hers.

“Your Majesty,” the Chamberlain repeated, alarmed.

“Her Majesty is ill!” Serat declared at once, “Allow me to
attend her!”

But again, Eggers restrained the elfwizard.

“Take the queen to her chambers, Lord Chamberlain,” Gawain
commanded, “And wait with her there until the Crown’s healer arrives. Captain
Ector, if you would despatch a man for the healer?”

“My lord!” Ector replied, and Gawain heard boots descending
the spiral stairs in a hurry.

“The rest of you will remain seated. Toorsengard will not
move.”

“No, they certainly won’t,” Ector announced, and from behind
him, Gawain heard the men adopt a ready position, crossbows doubtless cocked
and bolted brought sharply from the port to readiness.

“This is an outrage!” the Lord Chamberlain cried.

He was leading Hellin by the hand, she like a mindless child
following without a word, seemingly completely unaware of events around her,
and the old man’s face was aghast when he turned to face them all from her
chamber door.

“Usurper!” he cried at Gawain.

“Not so,” Gawain announced. “Your Crown’s fate is in your
own hands, Lord Chamberlain. I am here for Serat of the traitor’s tower, and
when I have the answers to my questions, I shall leave. Take Hellin to her
room, and await the healer, then by all means, return to your place and witness
what you shall.”

There was an uneasy silence then, while the witless Hellin
was led into her private rooms and the healers, two of whom Gawain vaguely
recalled had tended to Willam years before, rushed through the Crown’s Door on
the far side of the table. They gaped, briefly, at the tableau before them,
until Gawain pointed to the room into which Hellin had been taken.

Once the chamberlain had retaken his place, Gawain, who had
noted Allazar and Venderrian still obscured in the corner near that Crown’s
Door, turned to stare with undisguised disgust at Serat.

“Where is the orb and shadow you used to destroy the
Hallencloister, and what is the Toorseneth’s intention for it?”

“I refuse to dignify this calumny with a reply,” Serat
sniffed. “I am a guest in this land and Ambassador of Thallanhall. Protocol
guarantees my protection by the Crown and I do not have to answer to
unsubstantiated accusations made by a known and wanted criminal.”

“In deference to the sensibilities of some at this table I
have refrained thus far from drawing my sword. My patience is ending. I will
have answers, Serat, if I have to cut off your arm and beat them from you with
your own hand.”

“You would risk war with Elvendere for this nonsense?”
Kahsen, the soolen-Viell, spoke. His voice was soft, almost girlish, and his
features likewise.

“There is madness in the south, Serre Viell,” the chamberlain
declared, “A madness in southern lands which has set Brock against the Empire
and now sets Raheen against both Juria and Elvendere!”

“Juria is invaded, Lord Chamberlain, and you are a fool
blinded by years of unquestioning service to the Crown and its archaic
protocols which have led to this catastrophe,” Gawain sighed, and flexed his
shoulder. “The Hallencloister is gone, the D’ith destroyed. Your own wizards
are dead, and you are now defenceless against any mystic powers which might be
brought to bear upon you. Even this soolen-lapdog far from the domain of the
Viell could, I don’t doubt, influence your judgement given half a chance. I do
not propose to allow him that chance.”

“Evidence!” the chamberlain cried, and slammed a bony fist
onto the table. “Evidence! You have brought us nothing but words! They spoke of
you, our honoured guests and friends of Thallanhall spoke long of you, and how
you blunder about the world, leaving havoc in your wake! War and death follows
in your footsteps! Chaos is your name and catastrophe your bedmate! Give us
proof! Give us evidence! Give us something to stay the warrant that bears your
name! Give us the Sardor, that we may hear his testimony, else calumny be thy
name and in chains you shall go!”

Gawain blinked, and clenched his jaw, his breathing becoming
deeper, his muscles tensing.

“Oh, my lords,” he breathed, “Now comes the pass. You really
do not wish to see the Sardor, not this night.”

Serat, smug perhaps at this new defence and aware of the
staff behind him, smiling in recognition of Gawain’s earlier assertion about a
lack of mystic defences, folded his hands upon the table.

“Oh, my lords,” he parroted, “Now comes the pass. For the
Sardor is many leagues away, sealed within the walls of the Hallencloister, his
gates drawn up, hiding from the world. This calumny now is exposed, no witness
can this longsword horse-king produce, no evidence is there but words, and his
lies now lie exposed.”

Eggers sniffed, and drained his goblet. He wiped his lips on
a napkin with great care, and eyed the Ahk-Viell beside him.

“You seem to be forgetting something, elfwizard, and by
Raheen’s leave I’d prefer to be sitting somewhere else before I jog your
memory.”

Gawain nodded, braced for treachery, but the rotund Jurian lord
stood, replaced his chair under the table, and walked calmly around the great board
to take a vacant space nearly a full diameter from his last, well clear of
Serat who now had nought but empty chairs twixt him and Gawain.

“There,” Eggers declared, filling another goblet as others
shuffled their chairs further away from the soolen-Viell too, shuffling as far
from the targets of Gawain’s ire as they could.

Serat’s staff, propped against the bookcase eight feet
behind him, was in easy reach of the nearest elfguard, who could simply reach
out and toss it across the gap to the Viell. Gawain was aware of it. Gawain was
aware of everything now, even the slow movements from the dark corner of the
room where Quintinenn’s Cloak still held and Venderrian was slowly bringing his
bow to the ready.

“What you forgot, elfwizard,” Eggers sighed dramatically,
“And what the Lord Chamberlain seems to have forgotten, but the Guard clearly
hasn’t, is that his Majesty Gawain of Raheen walked in here a free man, of his
own accord, knowing full well of the warrant and its implications. Still he did
so. And he did so for answers from you. And that, for any reasonable fellow
possessing a reasonable quantity of wits, is all the evidence needed to know he
speaks truth. And now, he has a clear swing for his famous blade, to take that
arm of yours and beat those answers out of you with your own hand.”

Serat blinked, and then smiled, but Gawain could see the
elf’s tension rising. Again the old Chamberlain banged the table, startling the
nervous diners.

“Evidence! Proof! I have the warrant, signed by her Majesty
and by myself! Bring us this Sardor or I shall order the Guard to execute the
warrant!”

“Very well,” Gawain announced, and all eyes in the council
room began to widen as he took a pace backwards away from the table. “On your
own heads be it. Behold then the Last Sardor of the D’ith.”

oOo

21. Truth and Horror

There was a sudden draught of chill air which swept through
the room as Allazar strode forward into plain sight. The Dymendin glowed in his
right hand, and his left he held outstretched. No-one had any time to react so
sudden was his appearance and that of the elf ranger, bow drawn, the arrow
aimed at the head of the Ahk-Viell. Allazar’s lips moved, and with a sharp
clattering, Serat’s staff flew from its resting-place against the bookcase,
slammed into the polished oak table, cartwheeled once in the air, and slapped
into the Last Sardor’s outstretched hand.

For a fleeting moment, Gawain thought he had made a dreadful
mistake in summoning Allazar out from under his Cloak of Quintinenn. The fury
in the wizard’s face was plain to behold, the snarl on his lips, and that
dangerous cast to the eyes which spoke silently of immense power on the brink
of release. A word, mumbled, and Serat’s staff burst apart with a deafening
crack, showering the table with splinters and leaving for a moment a column of
smoke which faded to the fresh smell of lightning.

Serat, perhaps in shock, made as if to stand and push
himself back and away from the table.

“Nai murthen vizzarn! Stent thool!” Venderrian screamed, and
Serat froze.

“Don’t move!” Ector cried, almost at the same moment, though
his command was to the six elves of the Tau, three to each side of the room, a
trio behind the soolen-Viell, and the other three behind Serat.

Behind Gawain and Ognorm, the sound of clothing rustling,
crossbows being brought to bear, and the clicking of a dozen safety catches
being thumbed.

For a heartbeat, perhaps a little longer, the tableau
remained frozen, elves poised with swords half-drawn, their eyes fixed upon
various targets, and much to the alarm of some at the table not all of those
targets were standing newcomers. Wizards faced each other, mutual hatred
burning in their eyes, the air charged with ozone, sparks fizzling atop the
lustrous white Dymendin.

And then the door to Hellin’s private chambers opened. It
was, Gawain noted before instinct drove him to his knee and dragged a poised
Ognorm likewise to the floor, one of the healers, alarmed by the noises in the
council chamber perhaps, come to see what had caused a disturbance which might
have upset his patient.

But the opening of the door, of course, triggered a burst of
violence so short-lived none could describe afterwards the sequence of events
they witnessed. Bolts flew from crossbows, swords were drawn, including
Gawain’s crackling blade, an arrow was loosed, there was a bright flash and a
deafening concussion, and a bright arc of light swept forward from Allazar’s
staff like a lashing of mystic whipcord over the heads of those seated at the
table.

Eyes yet living blinked, and vision regained sought target
or threat, and found none. At the walls either side of the great table, six of
the Toorsengard slipped lifeless to the floor, one shot through by an arrow,
all shot through by steel bolts, and all with their chests gaping black, split
asunder and cauterised by the white fire which had lashed them.

Gawain rose, slowly, and let out a breath. Serat was still
alive, and entirely unharmed. The door to Hellin’s chambers banged shut.

“Don’t move!” Ector cried again, “Stay where you are, all of
you!”

Shock again, and the diners once more knew fear, eyes wide
with it, and most of those eyes were fixed upon the humming darkness swimming
within the steel of the famed Raheen sword held casually, its point angled
upwards, though in the general direction of Serat of the Ahk-Viell.

“My lord Raheen,” Ector declared. “You have the floor. Men
of the Guards, two paces back, and reload.”

Boots on stone punctuated the terror, and as the elderly
chamberlain raised a tremulous hand and made as if to speak, there came the
sound of a dozen crossbows being cocked, men straining, hooks dragging back
strings, and sears clicking into place.

“Behold, Allazar Meritus, Sardor of the D’ith,” Gawain
declared, his voice cold, his breathing deep and controlled.

“Behold,” Allazar replied, all heads swivelling to regard
with fresh alarm the wizard and his glowing staff, the Dymendin a pure white
now, almost painful to the eye. “The dream-visions of Benithet, Master of Sek!”

Above the oak table a smoky mist began to form, and
billowed, and roiled, and in it then came images. The Hallencloister, from
without and above, as if seen from an Eye borne aloft by a Condavian, its gates
all drawn up, banners hanging limp from walls and towers alike. The image
swooped down and around, hundreds of wizards, masters and students and boys,
and men of the Blue Guard, all about their business. Nightfall, lamps lit. A
gate, opened, and cloaked elves in uniforms of crisp blue and white, bearing a
litter on which an ornate casket sat. Leading them, an elfwizard bearing a
staff, his face hidden from view in the shadows of his cowl.

The Fountain of Zaine, waters cascading, the casket hoisted
up and placed atop the upper dish and left there. The elves withdraw, the gate
is closed. Morning. A crowd gathers, segments of the casket fall slowly
outward, gold and silver petals blooming. The horror within, amorphous, black,
sliding through the water and out of sight of the sunshine. Fire, then,
radiating. Wizards and Blue Guards burning, writhing. Lightning, a putrid colour,
a glowing brown, striking, a blinding flash, and men and wizards staggering.

Stains and shadows in the courtyard, wizards hammering at
the gates from within, desperate to flee the horror. Twilight, and they are
exhausted, barely able to summon mystic light and fire in the glow from the embers
of all that remains of the cloister of Sek in the aftermath of its
conflagration. The Shadow comes, then. It passes under the long tables in the
refectory, leaving mould where once young lives thrived. The Shadow returns to
the succour of the orb, a Graken comes, its rider closes the orb and bears it
from the Hallencloister. A gate opens, and elves come once again, hunting for
survivors, ending life, destroying, pillaging. Nothing remains when they
depart.

The Hallencloister is become a mausoleum, vast, and empty,
nothing but ashes and mould interred within.

The light died and with it the mist Allazar had summoned.
Silence, save for the sounds of choked breathing, men utterly astonished by the
scale of the cataclysm they had witnessed, and the horrors which not even
wizards could hope to defend against.

“This…” the chamberlain croaked, “It is some kind of trick?
Surely?”

“No,” Gawain declared. “It is the ending of the
Hallencloister. So it was seen, so it was done.”

Then Gawain stepped forward, and holding out the sword as
easily as it were a feather duster, he moved its tip to within inches of
Serat’s face. The humming, everyone noticed, grew louder the closer it moved to
the wizard of the Tau.

“You will tell me now the whereabouts of that orb and the
Toorseneth’s intentions for it.”

“I do not know!” Serat grinned, and there was a worrying
quality to that grin which sent a thrill of warning the length of Gawain’s
spine. “Can’t you guess though? Can’t you? I do not know, but I can guess!”

“Madness!” the chamberlain declared, as though of late it
had become his favourite word. “He is fallen into madness!”

Another chill breeze seemed to waft through the room, and
Gawain caught sight of Allazar sweeping around the table, stepping over the
bodies of the fallen elves, to reach down and heave Serat from his chair. With
impossible strength born of unspeakable rage, Allazar lifted the elfwizard into
the air and slammed him down onto the table.

Crockery shattered, goblets overturned, food scattered and
crashed to the floor as Allazar dragged the grinning and recalcitrant Ahk-Viell
down the table and hurled him to the floor.

“You! Shall! Speak!” Eldenbeard’s terrifying voice
commanded, and even Gawain stepped back.

Guards pressed themselves back against the wall behind them,
dinner guests leapt from chairs and likewise sought shelter against the
bookcases, and in a flash, Venderrian’s arm was around the soolen-Viell’s neck
and whispering a warning not to move into the very junior elfwizard’s ear.

Serat gasped, his grin fading, the maniacal laughter
building in his throat dying instantly.

“Where is the orb!” Gawain demanded, and stepped forward,
and thrust the tip of the sword into Serat’s wrist, neatly between the bones of
the forearm behind the right hand.

“I do not know! I do not know!”

Gawain twisted the blade a little.

“I do not know!” Serat screamed. “I do not know!”

“Speak!” Eldenbeard commanded. “Your name! Who do you
serve!”

“Serat! Serat of the Ahk-Viell and Toorsen is my master! He
shall consume you all!”

“Alive Allazar!” Gawain screamed, “Alive!”

“Light and Shadow!” Serat cried, “The balance shall be
maintained! They will take it west! They will take it west!”

And as soon as those words passed from Serat’s lips, Serat
passed from the world in a bursting blast of white fire, Allazar’s staff thrust
under his chin.

Silence again followed, and Gawain wiped the elfwizard’s
blood from the tip of the sword, and sheathed it.

“MiThal?” Venderrian asked. “What is to be done with this
one?”

“Soolen-Viell,” Allazar sneered. “Useless beyond the Viell’s
domain, and he will know nothing of the Toorseneth’s plans.”

And with that, the wizard strode forward, reached out and
grabbed the elfwizard’s robes under his chin. With a nod from Gawain,
Venderrian released the soolen-Viell Kahsen into Allazar’s custody.

Gawain had no idea what was about to happen and decided
later that he probably would not have intervened anyway. The memory of the
Toorseneth’s treatment of Elayeen was still too fresh in his mind, the
shortness of her hair a reminder of it until once again its full and lustrous
length was re-grown.

Allazar simply dragged the startled wizard of the Tau, the
markings on his robes clearly visible to all in the room, past the astonished
and in some cases blood-spattered nobles, gathering speed, towards the far wall
where stood the Guard. Finally as understanding dawned, the Guard parted,
revealing the large ornate window which overlooked the Embassy of Elvendere in
the courtyard below. Kahsen barely had time to scream before Allazar threw him
bodily through that window, watching grim-faced as the body flew through the
air to slam into the courtyard far below, to the ringing accompaniment of
shards of glass on the cobbles.

Now, the cold draft which swept over them all came from the
shattered window, and was fresh Jurian air, which seemed like some mystic broom
to sweep the odours of death, betrayal and destruction from the council chamber.

Later, once order had been re-established, bodies removed,
and a trusted guard set, Gawain sat at the fresh-cleaned table, Ognorm at his
back, and eyed the nobles around him. Allazar stood off to one side with
Venderrian, by the blood-spattered bookcases, unconcerned by the irony of their
position in a place once occupied by those they had so recently slain.

“What now, my lord?” Eggers asked, his pudgy hands folded on
the table.

“Now? Now Juria’s fate hangs in the balance, as does the
world’s.”

“Do you believe, my lord, Serat’s words?” the chamberlain
asked, his voice quavering.

Gawain pondered for a moment. “Their intent is to destroy
all wizardkind. It makes a kind of perverted sense that once they destroyed the
Hallencloister, where the Light and Fire of Aemon were forged, they would also
wish to destroy the dark wizardry now rife in Goria. Yet, never trust a
whitebeard has been my advice to all who would listen. To that adage must now be
added, not even a dead one. West lies Elvendere. They may simply have taken the
orb back to the Toorseneth.”

“Do you believe these Toorsen elves would use such a
despicable weapon against us? Against humankind?”

It was Eggers who asked the question, and it seemed to
Gawain in the aftermath of the destruction witnessed by those in the council
chamber, it was Eggers to whom all others deferred, except perhaps the
chamberlain.

“I cannot say,” Gawain admitted. “Truly, I cannot say. You
must remember, my lords, Juria is still to elven minds allied with Elvendere
and wed to Thallanhall. And Elvendere for the most part believes entirely that
the Toorseneth serves their best interests. That land has been elvish for so
long, cut off from all others for so long, their view is the only one they’ve
had to guide their lives. Though, I am told, there is likely much turmoil
within the great forest. We can but hope that in the event of civil war, it is
the Crown which prevails. If not, I cannot say what the Toorseneth might do
with such a weapon as Benithet’s Orb in its possession.”

“Is that its name, then?” the chamberlain asked.

“It is now,” Gawain sighed. “It’s as good a name as any,
since it was Benithet first saw it used.”

“That I should live to see this night, and its horrors. Our
queen, lost in her own mind, our allies shown to be enemies, our friends,
invaders, and a weapon of such destruction wielded with such cold cold
cruelty…”

“You have more pressing problems, gentlemen,” Gawain sighed,
and poured wine into a clean goblet. He suddenly felt very tired.

“My lord?”

“Your queen is unable to rule. The elven Ambassador and all
his retinue here in Castletown have been destroyed. Your lands, or at least a
goodly number of its southern and western towns and villages, are occupied.
There is a force too, at Vardon. I would suggest, my lords, that Juria is in
dire need of the wise stewardship of the queen’s council if it is to be safely
extricated from the Toorseneth’s snare.”