Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (32 page)

The wind died, and the six chanting Viell advanced. Gawain
simply scowled, drew an arrow, and hurled it. Only to watch it curve away
harmlessly up and over his target’s cowled and gem-studded head. Ognorm gave an
immense battle-cry and hurled his arrow, but it too arced away into the
distance. Venderrian squatted on one knee, they heard the creak of his bow as
he drew the full length of the elven longshaft, and loosed the shot. Which also
swerved in flight, narrowly missing the head of the Viell he’d been aiming at, the
arrow deflected by some mystic force.

“Allazar!” Gawain commanded, and the wizard stood, and
presented the staff.

“Behind me, my friends!” Allazar commanded, and they moved
to stand thus. “I shall wreak pitiless vengeance upon those who stand in our
way!”

Sparks fizzed at each end of the Dymendin. Allazar frowned
and thrust it forward again, chanting louder. More sparks fizzled and popped,
and Allazar began shouting the chant. Nothing. Sparks, fading, popping, and
then not even sparks came in answer to his mystic summons.

“Allazar?”

The wizard tried again, a different chant, a stream of
chants, screaming them furiously, and still the Viell drew closer, coming to a
halt only ten yards from them, whispering sibilant rhythmic chants of their own.
Venderrian loosed another shot and again it missed the mark, the arrow curving
straight up and then dropping like the useless stick it had become, tumbling as
it did so.

Allazar fell to his knees, his face a picture of sudden
shock and anguish. He dropped the staff, and stared from his hands to the three
gaping at him.

“It’s a binding!” he cried, “They are performing a rite of
binding! I can do nothing! Gawain! I am become nothing! The staff is useless!
Gawain!”

There was so much desperation in Allazar’s voice and
expression Ognorm drew Nadcracker and screamed “There’s something I can do, by
the thrukken Teeth!” and he charged forward towards the nearest chanting Viell,
the Meggen mace clutched in his two mighty fists.

There was a crackle of grey lightning, and Ognorm lifted off
the ground and was flung back towards them, landing heavily, stunned, eyes
rolling. Venderrian uttered a stream of Elvish invective and began loosing shot
after shot at the Viell whose mystic force had assailed his friend, hoping one
of the arrows would strike the mark. None did.

“Allazar!” Gawain cried, and stooped to shake the wizard’s
shoulders. “Bring forth the Eldenbeard! Bring him forth!”

“I cannot! I cannot! It is a binding! This is how Morloch
was bound and chained! I can do nothing!”

On the rise to the west less than a quarter of a mile away,
a noise. Horses. Many of them.

“Vakin Dwarfspit,” Gawain sighed, mind wheeling.

Thirty-six horses advanced in a block six abreast, and moved
at a leisurely walk halfway down the slope towards them. Then they stopped.
Horses bobbed their heads. Saddles creaked, metal clinked against metal. In the
front rank, riders of the RJC, four of them, and they parted to allow riders
from the second rank to advance through their line.

The Ahk-Viell, clad in long robes which shimmered black and
hung heavy with glistening stone gems, eased forward, long staff held in plain
sight, four elfguard of the Tau riding escort in box formation around him. They
continued down to the foot of the slope, and ambled towards the group of four
companions, bound now in a circle of barely visible rotating mist tinted the
faintest of greys.

Rage billowed in the pit of Gawain’s stomach, and with
Allazar on his knees, Ognorm flat on his back and being tended by Venderrian,
he was the only one left standing. He hurled another arrow, this time towards
the distant riders, but once it passed through the circle of chanting Viell it
seemed to lose all energy, and simply fell like a twig from a bough some twenty
yards away. Still his arms tingled, becoming almost numb from the energy
swirling around them.

If horses could be said to be swaggering, those approaching
were. The Ahk-Viell clearly was in no hurry, and the force of crystal-coated
elves and men on the slope behind him certainly weren’t; they simply sat
saddle, watching the spectacle unfold as if bored and anxious for home.

 “It is a binding!” Allazar cried, and shook the Dymendin as
if to coax it into life. Tears of rage and frustration welled in his eyes and
slid down his cheeks, the wizard uttering chants and mumbles and curses and
twisting his hands on the White Staff as if he would wring the very magic from
it.

But none came.

“It is a binding!” Allazar sobbed, head bowing, rocking back
and forth and staring at the useless Dymendin as if betrayed.

For him, perhaps, it was a betrayal. The world betrayed by
Toorsen, Morloch’s foul seed sown. The kindred betrayed by Toorsen, left standing
alone at Far-gor with only the one-twelve with them to represent the great
forest in the war. The D’ith betrayed by the Toorseneth, and destroyed utterly.
And now, the White Staff had betrayed him, too, and Eldenbeard, and all the
powers gifted him by the Circles of Raheen.

Allazar clutched the stick as though it were an immense
snake and he throttling the life from it. Then he threw back his head, and gave
an immense cry, a cry which had horses starting, ears twitching and eyes
rolling, a cry of such despair and rage few had heard before, save those few
who had witnessed Gawain’s rage at the foot of the Threnderrin Way.

Gawain glimpsed the desperate light burning in the wizard’s
eyes moments before those eyes closed and screwed tight shut, as if Allazar hoped
that denying himself sight of the world around him would make the pain and
anguish disappear.

Something seemed to lurch within Gawain’s chest as he looked
down at the wizard, on his knees, bent double over the White Staff, hands like
talons burying themselves deep in the soft and yielding soil, clutching great
fistfuls of southern Mornland. That something lurched once more, and seemed to
break, like a string drawn too tight or a twig bent too far. A sudden calm filled
him, as it had when long ago he’d stood before a great black lens, and seen his
friend, Martan of Tellek, wounded and bloodied on the cavern floor within the
Dragon’s Teeth.

He glanced up then, teeth clenched, and waited for the
Ahk-Viell, glowering.

And if the Ahk-Viell, his escort, and the thirty-one riders
on the slope hundreds of yards behind him could have seen the darkness in
Gawain’s eyes, they would have turned as one, and not stopped running until the
Toorseneth’s high walls were wrapped snug and warm around them.

oOo

33. Instinct

“I’m all right, Ven mate, noggin’s a bit dizzy is all,”
Ognorm mumbled, and from the sound of it, dragged himself to his knees behind
Gawain. Then the dwarf let out a gasp of surprise as if punched in the stomach.

“Bugger me! Where’d them all come from?”

“Peace, my friend,” Venderrian whispered from behind and to
Gawain’s right.

The five elven riders drew to a lazy halt a few cautious
yards from the chanting circle of Viell binding Allazar’s mystic powers and holding
the four of Last Ridings trapped in a wispy, swirling circle of grey mist; the
elfwizard himself sat sneering in the centre of the line flanked by two
elfguard either side, bows held ready, arrows nocked.

“I am Kanosenn, Ahk-Viell of the High Council of Toorsen,
Advisor to Insinnian the Steward of Juria, and Commander of Retribution. You
shall render unto me the Sceptre of Toorsen.”

“I shall not,” Gawain called back, and clenched his teeth,
desperate to maintain the strange calm in the eye of his fury. It allowed him
not only to think, but through the strange aquamire and the lingering effects
of the Shadow of Calhaneth in his arms, to
feel
events around him.

He could feel a slight pulse in the swirling, grey-tinted
power revolving around them, feel the pulsing of it as it passed from each
shrouded Viell’s stick to the next, the elfwizards’ rods and staves amplifying
it, keeping the mystic energies in motion, keeping Allazar bound and utterly
powerless. Keeping them all contained within a wispy, insubstantial wall
against which not even Ognorm’s great strength could prevail.

“Let there be no mistake, horse-king. Let there be no
confusion. Let there be no false hope for negotiation or bargains of any kind. This,”
the Ahk-Viell swept a hand in an arc, “This is your ending. Your story is over,
your deeds all done. Your lives are spent. None of you shall leave this place,
and none shall know your fate but those of Toorsen’s Creed here present to
witness it. You may choose to end swiftly, or in great misery and discomfort.
But you shall render unto me the Sceptre of Toorsen. And you shall end.”

Gawain felt the veins in his temples pulsing, but still he
held himself in that strange calm centre deep within.

“The Sceptre of Raheen shall be the ending of your reeking
creed. It shall fell the putrid tower in Ostinath and burn from the rubble of
its walls the lingering stench of Toorsen’s treachery. None shall live to bear
Morloch’s madness into the world, and nor shall you. Run. Now. While you may.
Run. If you make it to the trees on the ridge, why then you will have made it
to the trees on the ridge. But still I shall destroy you. Run. Now.”

Kanosenn of the Ahk-Viell smiled a thin, cruel smile, and
his heavy dark robes glittered as he shifted in the saddle to lean forward.

“Bluster!” the elfwizard declared, and uttered a cruel
laugh.

“Stay down, Ognorm. You too, Ven,” Gawain whispered, and
heard the sound of Venderrian’s clothing shift as the ranger knelt as ordered
beside the dwarf.

“Bluster from a horse-king of a dead land and a dead breed
now made ashes and scattered, grey and cold, neither light nor dark. Your
wizard weeps, broken and bound at your feet, the white staff a futile stick, its
light fading, an ancient tree which shall be mine, and the Sceptre of Toorsen shall
be returned to its rightful place. I know the Sceptre is with you. I can feel
it. It, like the Toorseneth, bears the imprint of its master’s power, so long
did he wield it.”

“Lights, miThal, from the north!” Venderrian whispered.
“Dark! Three of them!”

Again, Gawain clenched his teeth and held himself calm in the
centre of the storm. He felt the relentless circling of the Viell’s binding
energies, felt the pulsing of their rods and staves, and felt the answering
vibrations in the sword on his back, and in his own veins. He heard the humming
of the sword, pulsing too in time with the energies around them. Felt his heart
slowing, felt the skin on his forearms keeping time with the rhythm of the
Viell’s silent chanting.

The world seemed tinted grey, as if seen through faint-smoked
glass. He flicked a glance to the north, and saw three unmistakeable hyphens
growing there in the sky, advancing, drawing nearer with each pulse of the
binding.

He looked down then, and the pulsing within him surged too.
His friend lay clutching great handfuls of Mornland as if hoping to squeeze but
a single drop of natural magic from the verdant soil with which to strike at
the enemy. His friend. Allazar, a wizard, the Last Sardor of the D’ith, who had
walked with him in darkness and in light. His friend. Who had stood with him in
war, and stood by him in peace. His friend. His long-suffering friend, who’d
earned every lump on the head he’d ever received from Gawain. His friend. Who’d
faced the darkest servants Morloch could send against them, and prevailed. His
friend. Whose world lay in ruins and who lay now likewise but still attempting
to summon mystic power in spite of a binding which had once held Morloch
himself. His friend. Allazar.

Another glance to the north. Three winged creatures larger
now, and approaching swiftly. Another glance down at his friend, that word
pulsing too in time with the whispered chants of the Viell, and then Gawain closed
his eyes, feeling the tensing of his muscles in time with the rotation of the
binding energies revolving about them.

“No more bluster?” Kanosenn sneered, his arrogance taking
Gawain’s pose as a gesture of surrender. “Excellent. I have not this far come simply
to endure witless conversation with a blundering imbecile. Render now unto me the
Sceptre of Toorsen. And I shall end you quickly.”

Of course, Gawain knew that just as those outside the circle
of binding were safe from missiles launched from within, those within were safe
from missiles launched from without. Insight. Else why bother with talking at
all? If they truly knew the Sceptre was in the map-case beneath Allazar’s
cloak, a simple arrow-storm from those on the slope would have sufficed to
remove all threat and leave Kanosenn free to take it from a group of compliant
corpses.

The clarity of strange aquamire. It was like a drug, and
Gawain understood why Allazar feared it. So much had Gawain imbibed too, along
the way from Calhaneth. He’d drunk a veritable flood of it in the Eastbinding
through the strange power of the ancient blade, and now it pulsed within him,
and in that very sword too.

Insight. Four of the six chanting Viell performing the
binding carried Rods of Asteran and were therefore of lesser rank than
Ahk-Viell. And they were very far from their domain. They were, therefore,
reliant entirely upon false aquamire Toorseneth-made to enhance their energies,
here, in Mornland, so far from home, so far from their domain where their
powers knew only the boundaries of their rank and learning.

Gawain opened his eyes, and raised them. From the corner of
his right eye he saw the Graken gliding silently, swooping. This time, the line
of five riders
did
see the darkness in his expression, and blinked, and
horses instinctively took a faltering half-step backwards.

“No more bluster,” Gawain declared, and horses snorted, eyes
white and wide. “You shall have nothing from me but death, and those of your
creed shall have nothing from the Sceptre of Raheen but terror and destruction.
So it is said. So it shall be.”

And he reached up, and grasped the hilt of his sword. The
pulsing energies within him flared, and the steel began to crackle as he drew
it from the scabbard. Behind him, he heard Ognorm and Venderrian gasp and throw
themselves flat onto the ground, covering their heads.

To his right, he saw three Graken, wings outstretched,
levelling out from their swooping dives, iron-masked riders leaning forward
over the winged lizards’ necks, Rods of Asteran outstretched and black smoky
spheres forming on their ends.

“You! Should have! Run!” Gawain screamed, and loosed his
fury, drawing the crackling, sparking longsword and whirling it once around his
head, feeling the strange aquamire boiling within him.

Above the ridge, balls of black fire fell, blasting great
holes in Mornland’s lush slopes, and blasting great holes in the close-gathered
formation of men, elves and horses gathered there.

Gawain gripped the sword two-handed and swung it in a mighty
circle, screaming the name of his lost and beloved land loud over the rolling
concussions of the fireballs on the slope and the screams of men and horses four
hundred yards away.

With the scream came an immense release, a great writhing
snake of grey fire pouring from the tip of the blade like a mystic lash, and
Gawain whipped it around, revelling in the outsurge of power, revelling as the
lash ripped through the puny wisps of energy in the binding, revelling as it ripped
through the chanting Viell, laying them open, bursting crystal-coated robes and
chests asunder, making smoke of staves and rods and the hands and arms that
held them.

He spun on his heel, the lash extinguished, and gazed with
raw hatred and fury at the five stunned riders before him. The wreckage of six
of the ToorsenViell smouldered in a circle about him, and Kanosenn gaped in
terror.

“Allazar,” Gawain hissed through clenched teeth, as the
three Graken wheeled around to make another diving run at the scattering
survivors on the ridge, what few there were left from the first assault.

“I am he,” a distant voice rasped, and the wizard, tear-stained
eyes blazing, drew himself up, and turned to face the five.

“Run,” Gawain told them in a soft voice which seemed to
carry for miles.

Allazar raised the White Staff, a growl of a chant growing
from deep within him. A sharp pulse of
something
swept forward from the
Dymendin, and the black stone gems adorning the elfwizard’s robes and the
crystal riders’ armour, and all of those on the horse-blankets beneath them,
thousands of them, shattered into clouds of black dust, momentarily enveloping those
mounted in a dark and choking fug. Allazar began another chant.

Kanosenn fled. His escort fled. South, the horses ran, south
down the corridor of uncertainty as an immense tree of lightning surged into
the sky, its roar deafening, and then it was gone, the air rich with the smell
of bleach and ozone. Gawain could see Kanosenn holding aloft his own staff, a
rippling shield defending his own back, his riders ignored.

Allazar strode forward, thrust out the staff, and another
immense torrent of white fire chewed a trench in the soil, ripping towards the
fleeing riders as the staff was raised, only for the lightning to flicker and
dance harmlessly behind them as they rode out of the wizard’s range.

Venderrian leapt to his feet, and loosed a shot, and a rider
of the Tau passing behind Kanosenn at that moment took the shaft in the back
and fell.

“Hold, Ven,” Gawain ordered, and the stunned elf did as he
was bid.

Gawain nodded towards the Graken landing just out of range
near the carnage black fire had wrought on the slopes, the other two circling
and swooping and dropping fire upon the few survivors galloping for the safety
of the trees. The Graken settled, took two paces forward as it folded back its
wings, and it uttered a screeching cry which seemed to those who heard it a
victory celebration. The rider raised a Jardember, and Gawain stood poised, the
sword silent now in his hand.

The air shimmered between them and the Jardember, and an
image, faltering but recognisable nonetheless, formed a circle from which a
familiar face peered.

“I! Am! Morloch!” he cried. “I! Shall! Not! Be! Diminished!
I!
Shall! Not! Fade!”

And the image diminished, and faded, and the Graken-rider
stowed the Jardember, the creature taking to the skies to join its comrades,
the three winged beasts rapidly disappearing into the north past the drifting
plume of smoke which had been Morloch’s Condavian, it and its Eye no longer
needed.

Allazar turned to face Gawain, and the light of Eldenbeard
blazed, flared, and faded. “We cannot allow them to return to Juria,” the
wizard announced. “There they would raise reinforcements, and come at us
again.”

“True enough,” Gawain agreed. “The riders of the Grey are no
more now than wreckage scattered upon the ridge. Kanosenn would lay the blame
for that at our door should he return to Insinnian. Are you well enough to
ride, Ognorm?”

“Arr melord!”

“So be it. We’ll mount, and take a westerly course, and keep
our quarry running due south to the border with Arrun. That’s our destination
too, after all.”

Gawain gave a low whistle, and Gwyn, leading the other
horses, heard the call, and began the trot back towards them from the north.

“Are you well, Allazar? The binding did no lasting harm?”

“I am, and it did not. I am sorry, Gawain. My stupidity led
us into near disaster. If I had held the staff unwrapped and bare-handed, I
would have felt the vibrations of new Cloak the Viell clearly now possess…”

Gawain shrugged away the apology and shook his head, and
eyed the blade. It was still dark grey, vestiges of strange aquamire still
swimming therein, but there was no grey mist now when he closed his eyes. He
was empty, though the blade itself yet retained some of the dark energies of
false aquamire. He sheathed the sword, and eyed them all, feeling the pulse of
life returning to normal, his fury leaving him almost bereft, but relieved, and
resolute.

“I am sorry too, miThal. I should have paid more attention
and called a halt when first I thought I saw a light.”

Gawain shrugged away that apology, too. “And I ignored my
own instincts, and mistook Gwyn’s signals for a reflection of my own. We live,
and thus we have learned from our mistakes.”

“Morloch, melord,” Ognorm blinked, “I don’t understand it.
Was he on our side?”