Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (4 page)

“He
did
expend considerable resources against us on
our quest for the Orb,” Allazar mused.

And though the mood around the table remained melancholy,
Tyrane at least looked a little less distressed than he had after the meal and
the commencement of the meeting.

“And on that cheery note, I hope you will forgive me, but I
have some final preparations to make.”

Gawain stood to a chorus of ‘milords’ and retired to his
apartments, leaving the small gathering, including Elayeen, discussing the
bombshell that was the announcement of his imminent departure, and the arrangements
which would be needed before dawn.

He was packing his well-worn saddle-bags and checking and
replenishing the contents of a familiar pack with clean bandages and silvertree
powder when Elayeen joined him there, closing the door softly behind her. On
seeing the pack of medicines, unguents, needles, thread and bandages, she
blinked, and gazed at him accusingly.

“It’s just a precaution, E. You know how useless Allazar is
on horseback. There’s no harm in being prepared for a scraped knee should he
fall off yet again. I don’t intend to stop and smell the flowers along the way,
nor to chase rabbits and waste time cooking them. Our ride to the
Hallencloister will be every bit as rapid and as stealthy as the one we three
made to Raheen from Ferdan.”

Satisfied the pack contained all it should, he rolled it,
and tied it.

“Are you suffering one of those dangerous moods Valin and
the others warned me about?”

Wordlessly, Elayeen took the saddle-bag and its fresh cakes
of frak from Gawain’s hand, laid them on a chair, and slipped into his arms,
holding him tightly. He held her close, rocking her slightly, his eyes closed,
and when several minutes had passed, he spoke softly.

“I meant what I said about your safety, E. At the slightest
hint of trouble I want you in the down-below and surrounded by all the strength
we have here in Last Ridings.”

He felt her nod, her head pressed tight against his chest,
the top of her head under his chin.

“I love you,” he whispered, “Even more now than you could
feel when we were bound together in throth. You are so much more than the cold
and shivering lady I found pinned in a wicked cruel trap. So much more than the
lady who called to me her name in clear sight of all her people. So much more
than the fire and ice, pain and beauty of she who nursed me. I’ve seen you
grow, Elayeen, and blossom, and become the queen you truly are, filled with
fierce strength and courage, and filled with gentle kindness and compassion. Of
late, I have lain abed in the darkest of hours here in our room, feeling your
warmth and hearing your breathing, and I’ve wondered, E, how I’ve wondered,
what I could possibly have done, or still have left to do, to deserve such a
queen as you.”

“Don’t, G’wain, please,” he heard her whisper, and he felt
and heard her desperation. “Just hold me. Don’t make this a good-bye. Don’t
make it impossible for me to let you go, I could not bear Eldengaze to return
and rob me of this night.”

Gawain felt a bubble growing deep within him, felt it rise,
and swell, and burst like a maroon in a chest too feeble to contain such love
as he felt for her, and he wept silent tears, and held her to him in an embrace
no force in sight of sun or moon, mystic or common, could ever hope to break.

oOo

4. Tomatoes

Dawn found Gawain at the quay, he and his companions quietly
waiting for Morkel the ferryman to heave the great raft across the southern
flow of the Sudenstem. On the far bank, Reef and Lyas watched from the rail of
the corral, joined there by half a dozen horses which the young dwarf, now
apprentice horse-master, tended twice daily. Up the path to Gawain’s right
stood the new guardhouse, little more than a sturdy hut which afforded warmth
and shelter to the two guardsmen within, but today those two, both dwarves of
Sarek’s Rangers despatched by Eryk of Threlland, stood outside, thumbs in
belts, watching the goings-on.

“An auspicious day, Longsword, and something of a miserable
one, too.”

Gawain, arms folded, swivelled on his hips to glance at
Allazar. In truth, the day had dawned grey and drab; an unpleasant dampness,
neither mist nor rain, seemed to hang in the air, making exposed skin feel
clammy and chill.

“Perhaps it’s brighter over at the Jarn Gap, and Igorn’s
advance across the Ostern will be uneventful.”

“Perhaps,” Allazar grumbled. “Though autumn is well upon us.
It is a depressing season, in spite of what the girlish might say concerning
the colour of woodland leaves. All the bare-legged hopes and dreams of summer
are gone, cloaks like prisoners are dragged from their languishing in closet
and chest and shown the dull light of day for the first time in months, and
over the horizon advances winter like an army of dried up old men, grey and
white and cold.”

“And a cheery ‘good morning world’ to you, too. Did you not
sleep well?”

“No,” Allazar confessed. “In truth, I didn’t sleep much at
all.”

“Nor I,” Gawain sighed. “And you, Ven?”

“I slept well, thank you, miThal. I was prepared for a
mid-range patrol later in the week, and so needed to make few additional
arrangements for this journey.”

“Excellent. The wizard and I will probably fall asleep in
the saddle on the way to West Forkings, so it’ll be up to you keep us going in
the right direction.”

“MiThal.”

“His Majesty is of course joking, Ranger Venderrian,”
Allazar yawned, “It is a trait with which you will become rather familiar on
our way to the Hallencloister.”

“I have learned much already, Serre wizard, since the tower
in the east.”

“Hmm,” Allazar mumbled again, eyeing the ferry now halfway
across the river, “Yes, you were there with us. Lately I have been concerned
with other matters, and allowed that recent adventure to slip quietly into
history.”

Gawain snorted. “Or you’re simply old, age advancing like
winter and all that. I’m surprised you could forget Urgenenn’s Tower after so
short a time. Its horrors and those preceding it are yet fresh in my mind.”

“It’s not that I’ve forgotten it, Longsword, simply that I
was engaged in important matters which pressed to the fore, and in so doing,
pushed the business of our recent quest to the back of my mind. Where, I might
add, I would be happy for it to remain. I liked not that tower, nor the
Eastbinding itself, come to that. A dreadful place.”

“Which?”

“Both.”

Gawain nodded, and decided to grant Allazar a little peace,
at least until they reached the south bank of the river. Farewells back at the
hall had been short, breakfast hasty, their departure made almost in silence so
as not to rouse the entire settlement. Elayeen had seemed almost grateful for
the speed of their leaving, though Gawain knew she would suffer the threat of
Eldengaze until the river had been crossed, and he beyond recall. Only then
would the threat abate, allowing her to relinquish her hold over her emotions.
He had felt her turmoil all night, and envied not the emotional tightrope
walked by ladies in the months before motherhood. She was probably even now
atop the watchtower on Crown Peak, casting her Sight through the mist, watching
for his departure.

A quick glance to his left showed the ranger casting a
Sighted watch of his own around them and above them in the air. Venderrian was,
Gawain knew, a good choice. At Urgenenn’s Tower the elf had shown himself to be
efficient, effective, and fiercely loyal to the Ranger’s Oath.

Elayeen had further described Venderrian as ‘vengeful’ where
the Toorsencreed were concerned; it had been wizards of the ToorsenViell who
had interfered with Venderrian’s plans to marry his childhood sweetheart, she
also of Minyorn Province. The Toorseneth had exerted its influence to bring
about the sweetheart’s marriage to a minor official in a neighbouring province,
and thus ended all Venderrian’s hopes.

Worse still, the lady herself was said to have died in
childbirth, an uncommon though not entirely rare event in the forest realm.
Elayeen now believed the arranged marriage, and possibly even the demise of the
lady Venderrian had loved, was the result of the Toorseneth’s secret labouring
to prevent the return of the Sight to elfkind.

When Elayeen had revealed that information, Gawain suddenly
began to appreciate the power of Minyorn’s traditions, and the reason why so
many of the ninety-five were of that southern region of Elvendere. It also
explained why Venderrian had practically flown up the steps and in through the
gaping void of the portal of Urgenenn’s Tower, there where the vengeful elf had
hoped to wreak havoc upon an ancient enemy in the name of all of his kind.
Alas
poor Ven,
Gawain thought,
I and Allazar got there first.

“Murnin’ melord,” the ferryman’s gruff voice declared as the
craft bumped ashore. “Just the three of ye this murnin’?”

“Aye, Morkel, just the three of us. And a damp and dreary
morning it is too,” Gawain replied, suddenly feeling Allazar’s melancholy.

“Allus is, melord, this time o’ the year. Cider-makers’ll be
busy, though, and we’ll all be glad enough o’ their labours when them perticuler
barrels come upriver.”

“Any news from the Forkings?”

“Nah, none but the usual. Wool’s been and gone to the
registers. Harvest celebrations mostly done, crops mostly in, stores bein’ laid
up. Beggin’ yer pardon, melord, I’ll heave away?”

Gawain nodded his thanks, and the wiry ferryman took to his
work, calloused and leathery hands heaving on the wet rope, dragging them
across the flow under watchful eyes on both banks of the river.

Reef stood with his arms folded, some five yards from the
landing when the ferry bumped ashore on the south bank. He was trying his best
to look inscrutable and watchful, Lyas behind him with a bucket of oats fresh
from feeding the horses in the corral. But he failed. Gawain could see the
disappointment in the big man’s eyes, and perhaps too a little anger at being
left behind after their adventures together in the east.

But he saluted, formally, and Gawain returned the salute,
and climbed up into Gwyn’s saddle. With a polite thank you for the ferryman and
a polite refusal to enjoy the beer in the barrels within the staging post, the
three riders turned to the west, and began the ten mile journey to the
riverside town of West Forkings at the canter.

The bustling sprawl of the town was larger than Gawain had
imagined from his viewing of it by boat or from a distance on the far side of
its southern brassica fields, those fields now pregnant once more with
late-season varieties of that green and leafy vegetable. It was his first visit
to the place, though Allazar had been here before, long ago when Brock had sent
him out to map Ramoth Towers.

The first thing Gawain noticed was a complete absence of
defences of any kind, and the second thing he noticed was a complete absence of
any kind of orderliness to the place. Dwellings surrounded storehouses, animal
pens stood side by side with workshops, taverns next to merchants and eateries
next to metalworkers. The town had grown without thought to planning, and was
even now expanding to accommodate a growing settlement on the north side of the
river.

The whole town, he thought as they trotted down a broad dirt
road, was a conflagration in waiting, and the sounds of Calhaneth’s death
sprang unbidden in his mind’s ear. It was no wonder the fire-watch remained
alert at all times, and if the Graken-riding ToorsenViell had struck in the
heart of the place rather than at the river’s edge, West Forkings might well
have suffered the same fate as that dread city in the south.

It was early, folk were hurrying about the day’s business,
and although their passing was of course noted (not every day was a king, an
elf and a wizard bearing a white staff seen riding through the town after all)
none of the residents would dream of hindering their progress, nor risk delaying
the trio even for the time it would take to return the courtesy of a greeting. Beaming
smiles of recognition were abundant though, and told Gawain all he needed to
know about the folk of West Forkings and their feelings for all those who
dwelled in Last Ridings.

“We must pass through the main market to the western track,”
Allazar announced, nodding at the sprawling, noisy agglomeration of stalls and
people ahead of them, “And thence beyond the docks to the Northside Ferry. Once
we’re beyond the market, the way will be clearer, and quieter.”

“We’d best dismount then,” Gawain declared, noise rising the
closer they approached to the throng.

“A good idea,” the wizard agreed, “Just keep heading west,
should we become separated.”

“Stay together!” Gawain commanded, “The sooner we cross the
Sudenstem the sooner we can achieve our destination. Take the tail of the horse
in front if needs be, but let’s not lose each other in the crowd.”

And crowd there was. Hundreds of stalls manned by hundreds
of vendors selling thousands of goods to residents, merchants and visitors
alike, goods for trade up and down the busy river. Wares from Callodon and
Mereton on Lake Arrunmere going east to Sudshear and thence north by ship.
Wares from Mornland and Threlland going west. Rich cloths and tapestries and
woollens, their vendors vying for attention with sellers of food, wine,
spirits, boots and shoes, knick-knacks, gewgaws, pots, pans, kettles, weapons,
books, tools and bolts of fine-woven cloth of all colours.
Get yer luvly big
tomarter, two coppers a pahnd! Get yer luvly big tomarter!

Shouts, wares advertised, laughter, good-natured and cheery,
word long since spread of the destruction of the flying threat from beyond the
Eastbinding, the monster which had seeded evil south of the fields and dropped
fire from the sky, its dark masters slaughtered, and its hidden lair destroyed
beyond all hope of reconstruction. And here, working their way almost
anonymously through the happy throng of Arrunfolk and Callodonians going about
their daily lives, three of those who’d removed that threat, and destroyed
utterly the dark stronghold beyond the mountain range.

Gawain was astonished. He’d never seen anything like this,
not on the scale of West Forkings’ immense market. Astonished, and suddenly
both happy and sad at the same time.

Happy, immensely so, for here was life, and good folk living
it, the war in the north forgotten, fear of the Graken abandoned, Morloch
defeated, and all about them the simple joy of simple people simply living. Get
yer luvly big tomarter.

Sad, for all those who had fallen along the way, those who
would no longer know the simple pleasure of biting into a ripe fruit, or hear
the laughter and cheery calls of the marketplace. Friends made and friends
lost, and friends he never met, robbed of all things, including the sights,
sounds, and smells all around him here in the heart of West Forkings.

At first, it didn’t seem right that the simple joys of life
could go on like this, as though the Battle of Far-gor had never happened, as
though all those lives had never been lost at all. But it was for precisely
this reason, simple folk living their lives in peace, that so many had fought,
and so many had died. The thriving marketplace was a monument to the sacrifice
of all The Fallen, and though the people thought of it not in such terms and
likely never would, it was every bit as sacred as any name-inscribed stone or
weather-beaten pedestal might be.

Jerryn had been right, Gawain knew now as they pressed their
way through towards the western edge of the market. There was no debt owed to
the dead. They did not fall who fell in battle in expectation of posthumous
honours or names inscribed in some hallowed place. There are names aplenty
scrawled on walls or carved in tabletops of taverns the lands over, owners long
forgotten, lives large or small long ended. Those who fought and fell did so in
expectation that those they left behind would continue living, not forever in
sorrow and hollow-hearted grief, but living their lives in full, and knowing
all the joys of a life made possible by the sacrifice.

And then anger came again, anger at the threats yet skulking
in the dark places of the world, which even now schemed and lurked unseen and
unknown to these good folk, plotting their ending. That was why Gawain, and
Allazar, and Venderrian were passing through the thinning stalls in sight of
the western track, glimpsing the great riverside warehouses on the docks ahead
and to their right. Just beyond those warehouses, past the steady stream of
wagons, hand-carts, and pedestrians with their baskets and barrows, the ferry
which would take them to the north bank of the unbroken Sudenstem, there to
ride for the Hallencloister, and the answer to the reason why those threats yet
lived unopposed by the D’ith.

“Mithal!” Gawain heard Venderrian calling him over the noise
on the busy road. “Mithal!”

He turned, and saw Venderrian pointing wildly towards a knot
of people and wagons making their way into the market behind them, a group that
had passed them on the right-hand side of the road while Gawain was making his
way out along the left.

“Ven?”