Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (16 page)

He felt the old familiar anger too. Anger at whitebeards who
could have altered the course of the future so long ago, but who did nothing, nothing
but secretly copy their books and hide them under Morloch’s very nose. They
could have secretly hidden an army of mystic warriors below Crownmount, those
at least would’ve been of far greater use at Far-gor and in Pellarn than books
in vaults.

They could have marched on the Toorseneth while Toorsen yet
lived and there in Ostinath destroyed the creed, crushed it utterly before it
had time to grow roots and thrive like suckerweed on the trunk of a mighty tree.
They could have allied themselves with the mystic Sisterhood of Issilene in
Minyorn and put an end to Morloch’s doomsday weapon before it had a chance to
flourish and corrupt all elves in the great forest. Well, almost all of them.

But they had done nothing. Their unimpeachable source had
spoken, and with the unfathomable stupidity and dogmatic obstinacy of all
zealots and pious believers everywhere, accepted as immutable fact the
nightmares of a dying old man and done nothing except await their fate. Of
course it had come to pass. They had allowed it to, those few who’d known it
was coming, the Sardors of Hallencloister.

Now here he sat, King of ashes, while Allazar, Sardor of a
scorched ruin, pretended to sleep but lay grinding his teeth and furiously
holding back tears of a rage would shatter all the walls of Juria were it let
slip for but a moment.

Toorsen Grey-elf, dead for centuries, yet wreaking havoc
upon the lands from beyond the grave, the strings of his ghost gently tugged this
way and that from beyond the Dragon’s Teeth. Morloch, scorching earth he could
not conquer, spiting himself to spite the southlands.

Gawain should have seen it earlier, when the collapse of
Urgenenn’s Tower took with it most of the cliff upon which it had stood for
centuries. The writings on the black and glassy stone of the tower, the madness
of a wizard of the D’ith corrupted and working hand in glove with those of
Toorsen’s creed, and as Corax had inferred, leaving a last spiteful sting in
the tail of his demise. Corax had been quite correct, for indeed had the D’ith wizards
sent to destroy Urgenenn brought down the tower with their mystic power, they
themselves would have died when the ground beneath their feet fell into the sea.
And that was why they’d left it standing.

They’d acted in good faith, of course, those who’d left the
tower intact. They’d believed Urgenenn unique, a wizard corrupted and taking
his own perverted path to create his own horrors and loose them upon an unsuspecting
world. The D’ith had not known of Urgenenn’s alliance with the Toorseneth.

They’d acted in good faith, too, the Sardors of old, keeping
Benithet’s prophetic dreams to themselves, believing there was no hope of
altering a future foreseen by their unimpeachable vaticinator. But they had
been wrong, Gawain knew it with the same resolute conviction that had seen
Sardors prepare for the ending of the world. They kept to themselves Benithet’s
warning never to trust the Viell, and so those not privy to the Book of Sardor
had trusted them, and so the Orbs of Arristanas had been made.

Gawain should have seen it earlier. Much, much earlier. On
the road to Jarn, with Eldengaze rising and a Graken-rider bearing a Jardember
on the road before them, Morloch’s visage spitting bile:

Know this, king of nothing, know this! All the horror and
dread I shall unleash upon your festering world is the wages of your sins
against me! Did you think I could be destroyed so easily! Did you think some
feeble relic left by decrepit weaklings made dust before your reeking forebears
were conceived would be enough! I am Morloch! And! I! Shall! End! You! All!

No. The loosing of the great wave against the Teeth when the
circles of Raheen were unleashed had not been enough. Morloch had planned well.
Gawain should have seen it, but there were so many worms back then, all vying
for his attention.

Morloch had appeared over Tarn when the Orbquest had left
Hellin’s Hall in company with Jerryn. There, hovering over Tarn Square, Morloch
had spoken, and Elayeen had told Gawain what the dark lord had said. Gawain
should have known. They all should have known. Morloch had given them enough
clues.

Did you think yourself safe? Where are your wizards?
Where is your King of Nothing? While he feasts on Jurian sweetmeats and avails
himself of many comforts, what have you, Queen of Nothing?

You are nothing! No victory was yours! Where are your
wizards? Where is your King of Ashes? Where is your prophecy! Where are your
defences? I shall grind you and your bitch-queen and all your molehill
mountains into dust! And I shall! Have! Vengeance!

Where are your wizards, Morloch had asked, twice. They had
thought the foul creature was referring to the lack of wizards in Tarn, or in Threlland, and perhaps in a way he was. Now of course Gawain understood. Like
the Sardors of Hallencloister, he should have seen, but now, as it was for the
Sardors and the Hallencloister, it was too late.

oOo

17. Three Lights

“Those are the vineyards,” Gawain nodded towards the distant
plantations from the cover of a small stand of trees. “We’re two days southwest
of the walls of Castletown.”

“It is the second evening of November,” Allazar declared.
“What grapes there may have been this year will have been harvested, there will
be little activity there now and none to concern us.”

“I see no lights, miThal,” Venderrian confirmed.

“Last time we came this way, melord, there was just the
village over to the west we avoided. An’ a lot less patrols about the place,
too.” Ognorm sniffed.

“Aye. We’ll need to be careful. The town of Vardon lies over the hills to the northeast, and there’ll doubtless be traffic from
Castletown moving to and fro along the Vardon road.”

“New moon tomorrow,” the wizard announced, his voice utterly
bereft of emotion, as it had been for the past eighteen days of their journey
north. “Its light will not trouble us for at least a week, and not even then if
the night is overcast.”

Gawain nodded. “When Jerryn was Defender of Castletown
before Far-gor he strengthened the northern defences. In places, he said, the
south wall was weakened to provide material to bolster the north. Are you
certain you will be able to scale the south wall with us, Allazar? Last time
you made a stealthy entrance to this place it was when we assailed the Ramoth
tower outside Willam’s Hall, and it was under Cloak of Quintinenn and by the
front door.”

“You need have no fear for me. I shall not hinder you, you
may be certain of that.”

Gawain glanced across at the wizard, what he could see of
him. They had been travelling by night for the past two days and all were
wearing darkcloths. Allazar had needed no reminders concerning the binding of
his staff in darkcloth either, and Gawain had been impressed by the speed with
which the wizard faded into darkness along with the rest of them. Allazar had
an advantage though, and had used it just as he had during the hunt for the
Kraal in the forest outside Jarn; he simply summoned mystic power to blacken
his grubby robes, cloak, and boots.

“It’s a high wall,” Gawain declared softly.

“And I shall not fall from it, Longsword,” the wizard
replied, his tone remaining flat though his eyes narrowed in irritation. The
rest of his face was hidden by a black scarf, but Gawain could imagine the
scowl.

Gawain nodded, and stifled a sigh. There would have been no
stopping
him
in the aftermath of Raheen. In fact, there
had
been
no stopping him in the aftermath of Raheen. Allazar’s rage at the destruction
of the Hallencloister would likewise take much time to fade. Eighteen days was
nowhere near enough to restore the wizard to his usual good humour.

“Well then, we need to move slightly west of north. Keep
good watch, Ven, we’ve done well to avoid attention this far, let’s try to keep
it up.”

“MiThal.”

And thus they moved out from the trees where they’d camped
and slept throughout the day, and into the vineyard and its seemingly endless
rows of vines. Those rows though were neither endless nor unbroken, avenues
running roughly north to south through them at intervals giving ready access to
wagons and vinedressers, and also to the small group of black-clad interlopers
making their way in near silence towards Juria’s capitol.

Allazar had been quite correct, too; the harvest made, vines
were all the colours of autumn and resting after their long summer. Gawain and
his small band of brigands saw no sign of the Flagellweed said to have been
sown hereabouts by Graken-riders of the Toorsencreed, but that mattered not.
What mattered was that they were able to pass through the vast expanse of vines
that produced the famed Jurian brandy unseen, for there were none there to see
them when they rested in the daytime.

From the vineyards to the castletown their way was made with
great caution, and they relied almost entirely on Venderrian’s Sight and what
little starlight there was to avoid detection. They passed well to the east of
a village and its great wine presses, and slept fretfully in the daytime taking
what cover they could. But the villages here were well ordered and well spread,
the business of producing the low wines and famed brandy dispersed against a
single catastrophe laying waste to the entire production, and with folk busy at
their labours Gawain was confident they had passed unnoticed.

Finally, on the night of the fourth, they knelt in the gloom
and spied the lights of dwellings, wineries, and distilleries without the walls
of Juria Castletown.

“Yonder is the inn,” Gawain whispered, pointing. “And there
is the paddock behind it. It’s busy too, by the looks.”

“Horses for the wagons,” Allazar announced, “From other
villages down the vines.”

“Good. Very good. We’ll leave our horses there and move to
the wall on foot. The best way in is up the angle between that bastion and
buttress and the main curtain wall. The mortar is so poor there it’s almost as
simple as climbing a staircase.”

“We’re leavin’ the ‘orses in the pub’s paddock?” Ognorm
whispered, stunned.

“Aye. Hidden in plain sight where none will pay them any
heed. Sunrise, Allazar?”

“In ten hours. Should we not wait a little longer? There are
still three hours to midnight.”

“No. That is a working village yonder, and those are working
people who dwell there. It’s dark, and cold, and they’ll be glad of a warm fire
and a warm bed before tomorrow’s labours begin again. If all goes well, we’ll
be long gone before they wake. Ven?”

 “A single watchman walks the length of the entire wall.
Other lights I see, but they are mostly sleeping, I think. Few are moving
inside the buildings.”

“At the wall, I shall go first. You’re sure you can climb it
without banging the stick into the stones, Allazar?”

“I am sure.”

“If we are discovered there will likely be bloodshed, and I
don’t want our friends harmed.”

“There will likely be bloodshed anyway,” Allazar declared,
strapping the black-wound staff over his shoulder.

“Alive, Allazar! Vakin Serat is to be taken alive!”

“I know,” the wizard replied, deadpan.

Gawain studied the figure beside him, but it was fruitless.
It was dark, and so were they all, clad as they were like brigands upon a
night’s foul business.

“Come then,” he whispered. “Horses to the paddock, then us
to the right of the stables, and on into the shadows ‘twixt wall and buttress.”

Bold as brass, Gawain led Gwyn out from the cover of the
shrubs where they’d lurked and across the muddy track towards the paddock, the
rest following.
Look like you own the place, and folk will think you do,
Hass had once told him, striding down a corridor at the Downland Barracks. The
ground underfoot was soft, recent rains leaving a well-worn path sticky and with
puddles here and there; these they avoided to prevent the sound of splashing
heralding their progress to any yet awake and alert in the stables or at the
inn.

Gawain remembered the place, and the time he had stayed
there before another night-time incursion, two years before, intent upon
destroying a Ramoth tower. A pleasant enough hostelry, and with the wineries
and distilleries busy after the grape harvest a popular one too; there were
perhaps eighteen other horses in the paddock, and a few more besides within the
stables. A word or two to Gwyn, and she led the way in, silently watched by all
the other interested equine guests in the muddy expanse enclosed by wooden
railings.

With a reassuring nod from Venderrian and satisfied that
their progress thus far was unobserved, Gawain led the way around the stables
and sheds, and paused at the corner to gaze out across the rutted road and
beyond to the south wall of Castletown. No-one out and about, though someone
scratching out a tune on a fiddle from a corner of the public bar at the inn
proved that not all the working folk of this working village were abed so early
this night.

He waited, catching sight of the sole night’s watchman
ambling along the walkway atop the wall, the fellow bored and making his way slowly
towards the southwest corner some three hundred yards or more away to Gawain’s
left. Only when the guard had moved well beyond the point where he might look
down and back towards the inn did Gawain stride silently forward, making his
way directly for the deep dark shadow where the great stone buttress propped
the wall and formed at its top a bastion from which arrows might be loosed or other
missiles launched in any direction.

There, in soggy ground and darkness which smelled of stale
urine, Gawain waited until the others had melted across the road and joined
him. A glance at Venderrian, a reassuring gesture from the elf ranger, and
Gawain rubbed his hands together for warmth and to give chilly fingers life,
and began the climb.

It was, for him at least, as easy as it had been back when
chanting shaven-headed idiots occupied a wood-built tower in the courtyard
without Willam’s Keep. Crumbling mortar, ancient and weed-blown, weathered and
wind-lashed, gave footholds and handholds aplenty in the great stone blocks and
flint cobbles forming the hard but wizened face of the outer wall. When he
reached the top, he paused, peeping over the edge to confirm that the lonely
guardsman was still trudging his solitary course westward, and then heaved
himself up and over the parapet onto the top of the wall.

A low and castellated perimeter wall was set atop the
bastion, and there Gawain tied off a rope and lowered the end down the angle
between buttress and curtain wall. Allazar came up next, eschewing the rope
until, nearing the top and doubting his strength to heave himself silently over
the edge, he grasped it, and allowed Gawain to haul him the remaining few feet
to safety.

“Well done,” Gawain whispered, for the wizard’s commendable
silence during the ascent.

With nothing more than a curt nod, Allazar moved away to
crouch in the shadows, while Venderrian made the climb. This too passed
uneventfully, and entirely without the aid of the rope. At the top, the elf
paused, cast his Sighted gaze about and nodded to Gawain before taking his
place beside the wizard.

Ognorm, last of all climbed up as though abseiling in
reverse, choosing to heave himself up the rope and walk the wall. Gawain
assisted, hauling on the rope, fearful lest the crumbling mortar of the merlon
about which he’d tied that rope give way under Ognorm’s weight and jerking
advance, and thus send the dwarf plummeting to his doom with part of the wall
for a headstone.

When Ognorm was up and the rope once more coiled over
Gawain’s shoulder, they moved, silently, crouched in spite of the heavy
overcast which meant no backlight and thus no silhouettes above the ramparts.
At the town side of the wall near the buttress was a simple stone stairway running
at a steep angle clear to the ground, and this they took as rapidly as they
dared, casting frequent gazes over the tops of buildings towards the Keep, and
the courtyard in which the stone dwelling and Embassy had been built for Serat
and his Toorsengard.

Snoring brought them to a sudden halt. Set into the wall
beneath the steps was a great arched workshop, a smithy judging from the odour
of iron and burnt coals, and within it a blacksmith or apprentice was sleeping,
loudly. Down the steps they crept to ground level, and in the shadows near the
smithy paused again.

For Gawain, Juria’s lack of watchfulness was perhaps more
shocking now than it had been the first time he’d breached their defences.
Then, there was little threat from brigands, and only the Ramoth curse for
guardsmen to consider, and those shave-headed servants of Morloch had not only
breached the defences by simply walking in through the gates, but built their
tower in plain sight of the Keep. Now, the threat of Morloch and his minions
was well-known, survivors of Far-gor well acquainted with the enemy and the
threat still posed by dark forces. They should have been much better prepared,
much better guarded.

But then Gawain recognised the irony of his surprise. There
was of course no lofty Ramoth tower of wood in the courtyard outside the Keep,
there was instead Elvendere’s Embassy, stone-built, and an enemy of Morloch’s
making dwelling there, too, and also in plain sight of the Keep.

He nodded to himself then, his bearings taken, recalling his
last visits to this place, and wordlessly, he set off again, leading the way
through narrow alleyways and the passages between buildings which seemed to him
entirely unchanged since last he sneaked along them in the dark, almost two
years before. From time to time Venderrian hissed a warning and they paused,
waiting while someone drew curtains at windows or walked hurriedly along some
other alley about their business, but then at the cluck of a tongue for an
‘all-clear’ they moved on again.

It was at once thrilling and deeply worrying. Here they
were, sneaking like thieves in the night through a friendly town filled with
allies, unseen, uninvited, unexpected, and entirely unchallenged. Thrilling,
for the danger of becoming prisoners of the Toorseneth’s agents, worrying, that
they should be able to penetrate deep into the very heart of Juria’s capitol
and no-one aware of their presence.

They paused again behind a butcher’s shop, listening to
sounds coming from within; heavy blows, the butcher working late upon a
carcass, a pig or a cow perhaps, his work brutal as flesh and bone succumbed to
cleaver, hatchet, and saw. Gawain suddenly found himself wondering if he now
paused in the very same alley where his friend Jerryn once had stood rooted to
the spot, the Jurian watching while his first and unrequited love played
hop-skip on the boardwalk… But a cluck from Venderrian’s tongue and they were
moving again.