Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (26 page)

27. Crystal Clear

Two days north of the imaginary line drawn straight across
the map from Juria Castletown in the west to Princetown Harbour on the east
coast of Mornland, Venderrian cocked his head, and they eased to a halt. It was
November 27
^th
, and five days since Morloch’s visitation had given
them all renewed hope and purpose, and those five days had seen the rising of
good humour, the wizard doing his best to shirk off the melancholy of grief and
loss.

Now though, they sat saddle, all senses alert, silently
eyeing the landscape around them through the drizzle while Venderrian cocked
his head this way and that, frowning and peering into the gloom of an overcast and
wet noon. No-one spoke, none wishing to disturb the ranger.

Here, the terrain was all typical rolling hills and
woodlands, streams and small rivers in the valleys, copses and larger stands of
trees on the peaks. They’d just emerged from one of those stands of trees,
branches winter-bare and spindly, the route through them chosen to avoid a
settlement whose smoke rising from the hearths of good people’s homes they’d
seen drifting up in the east. Ognorm sniffed, and wiped his nose on the back of
his sleeve, the dregs of his winter cold finally abating.

“MiThal,” Venderrian announced softly, uncertainty in his
voice, “I cannot say for certain, but I think there are lights in the woodland
to the west, yonder,” and he pointed.

“Where the trees cover the hill in the shape of a widow’s
peak?”

“Mithal?”

“The v-shaped stand of trees on the crown of the rise.”

“Ah. Yes, that is the place.”

“It’s only half a mile away at best, is your Sight impeded
somehow?”

Venderrian shrugged. “The lights are faint, as if behind a
thick wall, as at the tower in the Eastbinding.”

“Allazar, is this geography likely to contain such vitreous
stone as Urgenenn’s Tower was made of?”

“I do not know, Longsword. Met Corax would be the one to
answer such a question.”

Gawain sniffed, and wiped rain from his face with a gloved
hand. “Could the lights be behind the hill, Ven?”

“No, miThal. They are in the trees. The light of the trees
is dim, the sap low, life resting until spring. Those other lights I see with
eldeneyes are dimmer still.”

“Dwarfspit, and we’ve walked out into the open in plain
sight of any who might be lurking yonder and watching. I really wanted to avoid
people on our journey home. As much as I would help anyone making a demand on
our oath, I would prefer to get back to Elayeen and Last Ridings quickly, and
not be diverted as my Ranger Leeny was when she herself made this journey.”

“Are you sure they are people, Ranger Venderrian?” Allazar
asked quietly, sharing Gawain’s concern for any delay. “Might the lights be
birds in the trees, or small animals?”

The look Venderrian gave the wizard would have been comical
in less threatening surroundings, and spoke volumes.

“Ah. My apologies.”

“Someone approaches, miThal, three lights, much brighter
than the others. They must have been shielded behind the dimmer ones. They are
on horseback.”

Moments later, three riders of the Royal Jurian Cavalry
emerged from the woods at the point of the widow’s peak Gawain had described,
and began their slow ride down the hill and across the valley from the west.

“Greys,” Gawain sighed, “Bearing a flag of truce. I like
this not one bit. Why would friends feel the need to bear such a flag?”

“And why are they so many miles deep inside the border with
Mornland, as we surely are?” Allazar muttered.

“We’ll find out when they get here. It’s those dim lights
they’ve left behind them which concern me most.”

“Oh I do ‘ope it’s not trouble,” Ognorm sighed, “I don’t
want to go up against our old mates, and I only just started feeling meself now
me cold’s gone.”

“The flag means trouble,” Gawain announced quietly. “Else
why carry it at all? And now they’re a little closer, I think I recognise the
officer leading the trio.”

Allazar wiped beads of drizzle from his brow and peered at
the three riders crossing the valley below them at the canter. “Yes, Longsword,
there is something familiar about the fellow’s bearing in the saddle.”

At length, the riders cantering up the slope some hundred
yards from Gawain, they slowed respectfully and perhaps a little anxiously
given the makeshift flag tied to the lance one of them bore as proud as any
banner. At fifteen yards, they stopped.

“Captain Byrne,” Gawain announced. “I never thought to see a
friend approach so warily, and on friendly Mornland soil, too. Well met, and
honour to you.”

“Alas, my lord, your recognition honours me more than you
could know, and breaks my heart, for I am sent not by friends to provide
comfort and escort as when first we met near the Morrentill, but by enemies of
yours.”

“The flag you bear is eloquent, Captain, and spoke much on
your approach.”

Byrne nodded. The Jurian officer had met them all at the end
of the Morrentill, after Gawain’s speedy but tedious journey along the Canal of
Thal-Marrahan, and at Willam of Juria’s command ensured their safety all the
way to Ferdan where Gawain was to take command of the Kindred Army.

“I hope this symbol speaks as eloquently, my lord,” Byrne
declared, and drew back his cloak to reveal the blank circle of stitches on the
left breast of his tunic. But then he opened that tunic, to reveal the emblem
of the Kindred Army sewn neatly inside. His two companions did likewise, the
emblem still worn proudly, it seemed, even though out of sight.

“It does, Captain. Discard that flag, men of the Greys, it’s
not needed here where honour knows honour and salutes it.”

“It’s why we were chosen by them to bring word to you. They
know, back there on the hill, they know we mean to turn away and ride for
Castletown once I’ve uttered the words I’m commanded to speak. Shameful words
no Rider of the Grey ever before had to bear to one as noble as you, my lord. I
am glad General Bek did not live to hear such orders given.”

“What’s come to pass in Juria, Byrne? When we left it, the
council there was preparing for stewardship.”

Byrne grimaced. “Aye, my lord. Word spread of the honour
done Major Jerryn and the risk taken in the doing of it. But Juria now is
undone, my lord. Some time past, Queen Hellin sent First Wizard Mahlek to her boy-husband,
Insinnian, in Elvendere. Insinnian returned with a large host at his back not
two days after you left Castletown. Those papers sent west with the wizard were
treaties, signed by the queen without the council’s knowledge, as is the
Crown’s right of course. Treaties ratified in accordance with all protocols, which
named Insinnian guardian of Tamsin and Pandalene, the queen’s sisters, and named
him Steward of Juria in the event of her Majesty’s illness or demise before
Tamsin is of an age sufficient to rule.

“My lord, Juria now is governed by Insinnian of Elvendere,
Crown’s Consort and Steward of Juria. The council is disbanded in accordance
with other papers signed by Queen Hellin should such circumstances arise as
have of late; she is declared unfit to rule and is now in the care of the
healers. The Crown awaits Tamsin’s head, but not for another eight years may
she wear it. Until then, it is the elf lordling Insinnian who holds the reins
of power, and with elfwizards and a host of elfguard to strengthen his grip
upon them. We have no wizards of our own in Juria now, Mahlek did not return
from the great forest. Studying, they say he is, in the library there, at her
Majesty’s orders, though all now fear you spoke truth when you proclaimed him
dead by the hand of the Tau.”

“And Lord Eggers, Hellin’s cousin?”

“Under house arrest on his estates west of the vineyards, my
lord. Juria is undone, and by the Queen’s own hand. Some say that is why she is
become mad, and thus unfit to rule, for the guilt of her betrayal.”

“And how came you to be here, Captain Byrne?” Allazar asked.

The officer grimaced. “Orders have been given for the
execution of the royal warrant, and amendments made thereto following
Insinnian’s discovery of the destruction of the embassy without the Keep. The
Steward did not believe accounts of a fiery accident occurring there, and by
wizardly means determined that you had presented yourself to the Crown. Serre
wizard Allazar is named now as culpable for her Majesty’s illness, and Serre
Ognorm and Ranger Venderrian named also on the warrant for trespass and
conspiracy to harm the Crown.”

“’Ope they spelled me name right,” Ognorm muttered, and
seemed quite delighted by the news.

“And you are here to execute that warrant?” Gawain asked.

“No, my lord. They know we would take no part in such a
deed. But they know too that those of us who wore the emblem of the kindred,
and many still do though it be hidden, are honourable men and women. They know
we can be trusted to deliver their word to the letter, and they know we can be
trusted not to turn against the Crown we are sworn to serve. Thus were we sent,
they knowing we would ride away, and not swell your ranks to oppose them. It’s
they who intend to execute the warrant, my lord, and all of you with it.”

“They?”

“In the trees yonder, my lord. Eighteen of Insinnian’s
crystal warriors, or so we’ve come to call ‘em. Elfguard, with bows and short
swords, but they wear strange new armour, my lord. It is of leather backed by
metal in the manner of the thalangard armour we have seen before, but each small
tile of leather is studded by a black stone gem of a kind we have never seen.
It is like smoked glass, but with facets cut as if for jewellery. Round, about
an inch in diameter, stuck somehow to each of the leather platelets. It’s even studded
on their helms, and their boots. Their horses likewise bear armour as if for
battle, studded with the same gems, but one of the stable lads whispered that
it’s little more than a tightwove cloth to which the stones have been affixed. No-one
knows the purpose of this new crystal armour; it would seem a poor defence
against sword, bolt, or arrow.”

“And so we have our answer,” Gawain sighed. “Its purpose is
clear to us, Byrne. The dark stone gems are intended to evade or obscure the
Sight of the Kindred Rangers.”

Byrne seemed to shrink in his saddle, as if beneath a fresh
weight heaped upon his shoulders. “So that is why we were sent to their rear.
To be hidden behind some mystic crystal cloak while you approached.”

“Eighteen you say?” Gawain demanded, though gently.

“Aye, my lord. We’re commanded to tell you that by order of
Insinnian, Steward of Juria, you are to surrender into their custody an
artefact known as the Sceptre of Toorsen, and render yourselves into their
custody along with it. You will be taken in good health and unharmed to
Elvendere, there to stand trial for crimes against the elven people. Should you
resist, force will used and if it be so, no guarantees for your safety can be
made. I am supposed now to entreat you to consider an honourable surrender.”

“Which should give us a little more time to talk,” Gawain
smiled.

“Aye, my lord. There’s more. There’s an elfwizard clad in
that crystal-studded armour. One who carries a long staff. They’ve deployed two
more groups that we’re aware of, one to the southeast, the other further south
and to the west. They mean to retrieve the sceptre they keep talking about.
Before I left Castletown with that lot, Serre Jawn, the Lord Chamberlain, quietly
took me to one side. He told me to tell you if we met that he had overheard
Insinnian speaking with elfwizards about the need for the sceptre to be
acquired quickly lest the Thallanhall slip from their grasp and they find themselves
surrounded in Ostinath. 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.”

“How did they know we were here?”

“I know not,” Byrne admitted. “Wizardry, we think. We’ve
been waiting up there now for three days, and patrols have been out day and
night looking for signs of your approach. My lord, the greater force waits to
the south of here, east and west of the line of valleys they assume you’ll take
to speed your journey home to Last Ridings. They have elfwizards in their
numbers too, six of them with short sticks and with long, three in each party.
And with other Riders of the Grey.”

“Dwarfspit.”

“My lord, if any Rider of the Grey should move against you,
be not afraid to take what steps as may be needed for your defence. There are
none who stood at Far-gor would ride against you now, so any that do are
certainly not your friends, and no friends of the true Crown of Juria,
neither.”

“Thank you, Byrne, though it will grieve me sorely to have
to loose against allies.”

“That’s likely their plan, my lord. A juvenile attempt at
turning opinion against you, and making you hesitate, and for all you and we know,
it’s Insinnian’s elves dressed in grey, and none of Bek’s pride and joy.”

“Serre,” one of the riders announced.

“Aye, I know. We must leave, my lord, our time is expired
and they’ll grow nervous on the hill. There’s eighteen up there, my lord,
another twenty to the southwest, and twenty more to the southeast, waiting to
close upon you. I know not if any were deployed to swing around to the north to
cut off your retreat.”

“Bows, swords and wizards, and nothing more?”

“Nothing that we’ve seen. My lord…”

Byrne’s despair shone from the officer’s eyes, and those of
his two companions. Gawain smiled and shook his head slightly. But Byrne spoke
anyway, great strips of his heart torn away with each phrase he uttered.

“What are honourable men to do, my lord? How are honourable
men to remain true to crown and country when it’s ill-intent that rules them
both and strangers on the throne? How can oaths be kept and honoured when
hearts and conscience cry out against the keeping? What are honourable men to
do, my lord, when those who rule know not the word much less the living of it?
What are we to do, my lord? What are we to do?”