Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (24 page)

25. Hubris

It was bitterly cold when they mustered in the lamplight
outside Rak’s house before dawn, breath pluming, noses dripping, cheeks flushed
red by the chill. Travak and Merrin were there, the child swaddled in blankets
and standing behind his father’s legs, sleepy-eyed and blinking, regarding the
giants all around him with confused interest and more than a little anxiety.
The well-wrapped bundle Merrin had given Gawain was now securely strapped to
his saddle, and the letters for Elayeen in his tunic.

“You will give Elayeen my love?” Merrin asked softly. “And
tell her to expect us soon?”

“I shall,” Gawain promised, releasing his hold of Merrin’s
hands as she stepped forward to embrace him. “She’ll count the days ‘til
summer, we all will.”

Sniffing and damp-eyed, Merrin drew back, and patted Gawain
on the chest lightly, over his heart. Then she moved away, and stood before
Allazar. She said nothing, but reached up, slipping her hands around the back
of the wizard’s neck and drawing his head down beside hers. She whispered
something in Allazar’s ear, and Gawain saw him nodding, and embracing her with
his free hand, the staff, as usual, in his right.

Rak stepped forward, and Travak fled to hide behind his
mother’s cloak. Arms were clasped, shoulders slapped, but no further words
spoken in the gloom. None were needed. The riders mounted, hooves clopped on the
cobbles, and then the four rode away at the trot, eyeing their shadowy
surroundings as they went as if memorising the details of a place they were
seeing for the last time. They didn’t look back, which of course was as it
should be, but it took immense strength to refrain from casting what Gawain felt
might be a final look at Rak, his lady, and his son, the noble family watching
them depart from within the halo of lamplight which had shone with such welcome
on their arrival.

Four days later they were in the northwest corner of
Mornland and a week from the Juria Castletown line. Gawain had taken a wide and
hurried track around the river border crossing and then swung back east, and with
the great bend in the River Shasstin well behind them over their right
shoulders, they knew they were on the Mornland side of the border with Juria,
and consequently, felt a little safer. Their path would be due south, or
thereabouts, though of course taking what precautions were needed to avoid
habitations and where necessary to avoid any obstacles nature might have placed
in their path.

Those four days had begun quietly enough, but the
realisation that they were homeward bound for Last Ridings had lifted their
spirits, and even Allazar seemed less inclined to hide himself in the shadow of
his cowl when they made camp. Gawain flicked a glance in his direction, noting
the sceptre snug in its tubular map-case and strapped tightly across the
wizard’s back. Allazar’s robes beneath his cloak remained black as night, the
colour of the mystic dye used when they’d slunk like thieves into Juria.

The Dymendin staff was also wrapped in black cloth, and while
riding the wizard had tucked it like a cavalryman’s lance through loops on his
saddle under his right leg. It seemed odd not seeing it in the wizard’s hand,
but on the journey to the Eastbinding Allazar had discovered the comfort of
carrying it thus, and enjoyed the convenience of having both hands free. Gawain
sighed. Allazar had been right, in Arramin’s Cabin. The wizard was himself, but
not the self he had been. From a distance, at least, Allazar had all the
appearance of military man, and so at least the map-case on his back would draw
no particular attention from a casual observer.

When dawn had lit the sky enough to separate the land from
the heavens and thus make for a visible horizon, they broke camp, and by the
time they resumed their travelling the sky was a clear pale azure. There’d been
a light dusting of frost on the ground and on their blankets, and it twinkled
before succumbing to warmer air stirred by the sun. The moon was still bright
in the west, and now, an hour later, still was, though fading slowly and
dipping lower towards the horizon even as the sun was rising and shining a
little brighter. It was cold, winter sneaking up on them since they’d left Last
Ridings in September.

Ognorm was nattering to Venderrian about the flight through
the forest of Calhaneth with the Orb of Arristanas when he suddenly stopped,
and gazed at the ranger. Venderrian had stopped listening and was staring high
up into the sky to the east. Gawain felt a frisson of alarm, and then a curious
sense of excitement.

“MiThal,” the ranger declared quietly. “Condavian!” And he pointed
to a black hyphen high in the sky, clear for all to see in stark contrast to
the pale blue backdrop.

A quick glance around revealed little cover which would
shield them from an Eye in the sky. The taller shrubs hereabouts would make for
a good ambush, and there were copses dotted here and there in the rolling
landscape, but they were too far away, and in this season most of the trees
were bare-limbed. Besides, Gawain knew, running would merely draw attention if
they hadn’t already been seen, and most likely they had.

“Melord?”

“Ognorm.”

“Do we leg it, melord? There’s some big bushes yonder we
could squeeze under?”

Gawain smiled. “No, Oggy. We’ll continue on our way. If it
comes within range, we’ll try to bring it down. If not, let it look at us. Keep
good watch, Ven, we are now forewarned, and may expect consequences from this
sighting.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, melord, but that seems something of an odd
plan.”

Gawain nodded happily. “’Eadscratchy odd?”

“Arr.”

“I can think of only one reason for a Condavian circling in
this region so soon after our departure from Tarn. And only one pair of eyes
interested in what may be seen through its lofty Eye.”

“Morloch,” Allazar declared.

“Aye. And if he’s as weak as all would wish to believe, then
there’ll be a Graken-rider with a Jardember nearby commanding that winged spy
above us.”

“But how would ‘e know we’re ‘ere, melord?”

Gawain shrugged. “How did he ever know anything? Spies, in
Threlland or in Juria. I suspect the latter. Remember, when we left Juria
Castletown bound for Calhaneth on the quest for the Orb, Morloch appeared soon
after to threaten the people of Tarn. There may yet be a dark wizard or two loyal
to Morloch, perhaps in the far north of Goria where the Meggen dwell, and spies
in these lands active still.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon again, melord, you want this
Graken-rider to come a-calling?”

“I do, Oggy. And if he does, Allazar, please hold your peace
and give no hint of your nature. With your hood up, you look more like a
Callodon lancer wrapped against the cold than a wizard, and it’d be nice if you
can keep it that way.”

“An insight, Longsword?”

“Yes. Morloch would not pass up an opportunity to gloat, and
this may be the last one he gets. Come, there’s a clear rise yonder, and if we place
ourselves on it the view of our surrounds will be much improved.”

“Aye, and the Condavian’s of us an’ all,” Ognorm mumbled
fretfully.

“Indeed, that an’ all,” Gawain agreed cheerfully. But there
was a steely edge to his voice and a glint in his eye which made them all stiffen
in their saddles as they turned their horses a little to the east of south,
heading for the rise.

They didn’t have to wait long. Perhaps fifteen or twenty
minutes later Venderrian declared “There, miThal” and pointed to the northeast.

“Graken,” Allazar announced, “Unmistakeably so, and come
from around Threlland’s eastern flank. I had thought it would come from the
west.”

“It doubtless did originally, when we left Juria, and then
it settled in the Barak-nor or thereabouts while the Condavian searched for us.
With all the new defences in Tarn and neighbouring peaks, and Kindred Rangers
patrolling Threlland’s western reaches, it would have wished to avoid a
daylight flight anywhere near them. Thus, it has sneaked around the east,
perhaps even over the sea there for a time.”

The Condavian dipped lower, circling around them, and the
flapping winged lizard still some way off continued making its cautious way
towards them from the north. They were on a ridge running roughly west to east,
the ground hard and windblown, all wild and scrubby grasses. Plenty of room for
a Graken to land. Plenty of space for a clear shot from an elven longbow.

“Remember, Allazar, hold your peace. Unless it attacks, and
then by all means deprive Morloch of another of his dwindling stock of loyal
servants.”

“I shall do my best, Longsword.”

“Your best to hold your peace or your best to bring it down
should it attack?”

“Both.”

“Ah. Well, can’t ask for better than your best, I suppose.”

The Graken dipped lower, and for a moment looked to be
turning away, but it was merely manoeuvring on the wind in order to arc around
and approach them along the ridgeline. At perhaps three hundred and fifty yards
due east of them, it rose, back-winged, and settled on the ground, folding back
its wings.

“Canny bugger,” Ognorm sniffed. “Too far for me to nail in
this wind.”

“And for me, my friend,” Venderrian sighed, his Sighted gaze
fixed upon the Graken rider. “He raises a dark object, miThal.”

“A Jardember, no doubt. Wait behind me, and stand fast
unless I call you forward. Stand ready though.”

With that, Gwyn ambled some ten yards forward, leaving a
trio of worried-looking companions behind him readying weapons, or in Allazar’s
case, tucking the cloth-wrapped staff under his arm in the manner of a lancer making
ready to ride for the charge.

A familiar shimmering in the air above and in front of
Gawain, and a dark-edged circle appeared, and then the image crystallised as if
from a wavering fog. In it, they could see two figures, both robed in heavy
dark cloth, one seated at a desk, scribbling, the other standing to one side
clutching a small bundle of scrolls, to which a new one was added when the
scribbling was done.

It was the standing figure which suddenly seemed to notice
they were being observed. That figure, man or woman none could say, turned its
black-eyed gaze towards them, and blinked. Black thread veins pulsed, thin and
blackened lips gaped for a moment, and then the scroll-bearer bent low at the
waist to whisper urgently into the seated figure’s ear.

It was Morloch who sat upright and tossed a glance over his
shoulder at the immense lens through which Gawain could be seen. He handed a
final scroll to his underling and made a perfunctory shooing motion which his
hand, waited until a nearby door had been closed behind the acolyte before he
stood, and then approached, his features looming large.

“You. Nothing. I thought never to be vexed by you again. Yet
there you stand once more. Did you think you could pass so close to my domain
and go unnoticed by me?”

The tone was conversational, and so matter-of-fact that Gawain’s
companions were astonished. But not Gawain. His heart hammered, a familiar rage
flaring, a rage he thought dead, feelings he thought lost in a world become a
grey and hopeless chaos. And then he smiled, thin-lipped and grim, and gazed up
at the loathsome image, and then spoke:

“What, no bluster? No tantrums? And what’s this, lord of
filth, you seem to have lost another tooth since last I saw your miserable
visage, the day I plunged your army into the abyss, and all your hopes with
it.”

But Morloch cackled, and grinned, revealing the moist black
cavity where now indeed only a single tooth stood rotting defiantly.

“What need have I for bluster now, Nothing, now that the
final blow has been struck? Did I not warn you, fool? Did I not tell you I
would unleash upon your stinking lands and putrid people such wrath as this
world has never seen? And have I not done so? Where are your wizards, Nothing?”

“Where are yours, filth?”

For the briefest moment, Gawain saw a flash of intense anger
darken Morloch’s expression, the black veins of his neck and face pulsing. It
was enough for Gawain to press forward again.

“Oh, did you think yourself safe from the insanity of
Toorsen’s creed? Did you think they would strike only at the light and spare
your acolytes in their quest for balance? How many images now swim in your
lens, where once there were hundreds? One? Two?”

“It matters not,” Morloch sighed, and blinked, and eased
back from the lens a little. “You shall fade and die, Nothing. Chaos shall
reign. Walls shall crack and towers tumble and war make ruin of the folly you
name civilisation. All shall perish who remember these days, and those that
live in years to come shall declare their flyblown hovels, caves and tree
houses the very zenith of kindred achievement.” Then Morloch leaned forward,
black eyes glinting in the reflection of the sunshine pouring from the lens.

“But. I. Shall. Live. Did you think me destroyed, Nothing? Did
you think me withering now upon the vine of your miserable lands? That which
you have seen beyond this foul mountain barrier is nothing. These northern
lands are vast beyond your witless imagining. Thrice ten times could I fit your
reeking realms into the north with room to spare! Fabled lands there are, and
islands in the sea, rich and verdant. They shall feed me. And when I am become
bored with the feasting and gorging upon them, then, Nothing, then I shall
recall this pitiful corner of the world and return. And when I do, Nothing, I
shall commence to devour whatever remains of the spawn of your loins, and breed
them like cattle for my table!”

“So there is bluster, after all. I vex you still. With
thrice ten times the feast within such easy reach of your festering arm, why
then expend so much time and effort snacking here? Not even the lord of
imbeciles would waste so many resources while easier pickings lay closer to
hand. Why walk a hundred miles to pluck an apple from a tree if you live in the
middle of an orchard?