Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (40 page)

“My son will not be some heartless wolf, Allazar!” Gawain
pleaded, desperate for reassurance.

But the wizard’s features remained utterly bereaved.
“Perhaps not heartless... I do not know. But he shall be the wolf reborn of
Minyorn’s myth. He shall be the reaper of the darkness described in the
Arathalaneer, the ancient song for the fallen Thalangard. My friend… he shall
bear qualities rewritten from all three of us who stood together in the
circles. He shall be the Word, the Sight, and the Deed. He shall be of
humankind, and elfkind and… of wizardkind.”

Gawain gaped, his stomach churning, heart pounding and head
thumping. A strange voice, weak and feeble, asked the question he himself was
too afraid to ask. “My son… a whitebeard?”

Allazar’s hand reached out and gripped Gawain’s shoulder.

“Oh my friend and my king,” he whispered. “I do not recall
the illustration in the final panel of the Book of Thangar, but the panel was
one of many, and arranged in a circle. Master Arramin will send a copy to me
from the vaults of Crownmount if he can, but that the illustration was a circle
made up of individual panels alludes to the reason for Sardor Eljon’s
expression when I mentioned the final panel. The circle, Gawain, always
turning, with neither beginning nor ending. How can there be a final panel? The
world has turned, and now come again the days of Issilene’s warriors, the
rebirth not just of the Sight, but of Nature’s warriors, the Shimaneth Issilene,
to drive into the shadows once more the darkness which blights our world.”

Gawain blinked, his mind in turmoil. “Then, my deed is done,
and your words have been spoken? Is this it? Is this all there is of us now?”

“No. We have only begun our work. Our task now is to
safeguard our lady and your son, and to teach him all we know. It is he who
shall defeat the Toorseneth and release Elvendere from Toorsen’s grip. It is he
shall restore elvendom, and scythe the darkness like a reaper in the fields. So
says the prophecy of Minyorn. Why else do we bear the sceptre, but for him to
wield? Who else but one of wizardkind
could
wield Dymendin? The Sceptre
of Raheen shall be his, as the Sword of Raheen is yours.”

Gawain could hear the sound of his own blood rushing through
his ears. His son. A heartless wolf of a man, doomed to roam the lands seeking
out the darkness to avenge all affronts against Nature? Not even a man, but
some bizarre hybrid elf-man-whitebeard, so cold and terrifying to behold that
all of the kindred would turn away from the sight of him, and bar their doors
against him… it was clearly some grotesque joke that the wizard was playing.

But the dampness in Allazar’s eyes and on his cheeks was not
rain, and Gawain knew it was no joke. He should have seen it. It was so obvious,
now that Allazar had explained it. So obvious. Elayeen knew. Doubtless all the
Kindred Rangers knew. Even Morloch and the Toorseneth knew but like Gawain
preferred not to believe ancient tales and prophecies.

Know this, king of nothing! Know this now! No futile
relics or prophecies of darken days dimmed by the dust of millennia can defeat
me!

So said Morloch at Far-gor.

You are nothing! No victory was yours! Where are your
wizards? Where is your King of Ashes? Where is your prophecy!

So said Morloch, at Tarn.

Do you really think the Toorseneth cares for childish
tales croaked by cackling crones around their reeking peat-fire flames? D’you
think we are here for the sake of some pissant peasant’s prophecy? Do you think
the Creed would risk war with Callodon for a story?

So said Oze of the ToorsenViell, at Dun Meven, or so Elayeen
had recounted.

But Elayeen believed it. She had believed it enough to risk
everything on her journey from Tarn to Last Ridings, to keep their son far from
Morloch’s dreaming influence. Meeya and Valin believed it. The Kindred Rangers
believed it. And now, Allazar, the Word, First of Raheen and Last Sardor of the
D’ith, believed it.

And Gawain, stunned into gaping silence, his heart and
stomach in the grip of icy dread, believed it too.

“I can bugger off again if’n you need me to, melord?” a
gruff voice called softly in the dark.

But Gawain shook his head, and in silence, and in misery,
the three companions sat in their cloaks, waiting for the rain to stop, waiting
for the sun to rise, and waiting to leave the last miles of their journey
behind them.

oOo

41. Last Yards

Those last miles took longer than they’d imagined, the
distance from the edge of the wetlands to the eastern edge of the forest of Last Ridings further in reality than maps suggested. It was late afternoon on the
11
^th
of January when the forest loomed before them, and they took
the path which would lead to the settlement, and to the very door of Gawain’s
Hall. Ranger Yago put in a brief appearance, waving a farewell before resuming
his easterly patrol, and all three of them were surprised when a handful of
stout-looking fellows stepped out onto the path to bar their way.

But then Gawain and Allazar were recognised, and the men, a
mixture of old and young Gawain vaguely recognised from the volunteer infantry
at Far-gor, saluted, and stepped back, one of them raising a horn and blowing a
long note, loud and clear. Moments later a faint note came back down the forest
track by way of a reply, and Gawain’s eyebrows twitched at the new precautions
someone, possibly Elayeen or Tyrane, had put in place in his absence.

They were all tired. The horses were tired too, even the
stoic and relentless packhorse seemed on the verge of giving up, laying down,
and sleeping until the end of days, its packs all but exhausted, carrying now
only salvaged weaponry, threadbare clothing and blankets, and the remains of
commandeered elven supplies.

For Gawain, the last miles through the forest were a blur of
trees, light and flickering shadows, weak sunshine lancing through the treetops
and the puffy clouds of what had thankfully been dry heavens thus far. Not that
it made much difference to the discomfort of cold, damp clothing which was the
legacy of a miserable twenty-four hours of ceaseless misty rain. He had tried
all night to gainsay in his mind the truth of Allazar’s explanation for the
sadness so often seen in others at mention of his unborn son. Now, he was
trying to forget that truth, and he was doing so for Elayeen’s sake, as well as
his own. Just as she had, for his.

In the early hours before dawn, he’d tried to imagine her,
swollen and heavy with child, but while he could remember her hazel-green eyes
her features eluded his mind’s eye, and the image of her splendour and beauty
was robbed by visions of a snarling Seekmaw dressed in Red and Gold and
wielding a short stick of Dymendin. It was an image Gawain was desperate to
expunge, and now that they were so close to his hall and Elayeen, he was
yearning for nothing more than their reunion, and no ancient prophecies or
nightmare imagery born of exhaustion to ruin the joy of it.

When they emerged from the western tree line of the forest,
Gawain caught his breath. Last Ridings had grown since September.
Brightly-coloured Arrun-made cottages proliferated where once only a handful of
dwellings had stood, fields now fallow much enlarged and forming a great
patchwork expanse to the north and to the south. Pens had been built too, for
sheep and pigs, and coops for chickens, and to the north, a cattle-shed. Smoke
rose from chimneys, the smell of cooking on the air mingling with the familiar
odour of farmlands everywhere.

“Is it me, melord, or has Last Ridings more’n doubled its
size since last we saw it?”

“It’s not you, Oggy. It looks as though it’s more than
doubled.”

“You have many friends, Longsword. It is no surprise that
many of those would wish to dwell near your hall.”

“Elayeen has many friends, Allazar, I doubt I have anything at
all to do with this new growth.”

“What’s that up on the hill, melord? Glinting up on the
watchtower?”

“I believe it might be the carriage-bow, mounted up there
somehow as a defence against Graken, perhaps. Or something similar, I’d say.
It’s difficult to tell from this distance.”

“Then let us ride the last miles a little faster, Longsword,
if the horses can manage it?”

“Aye. Up to the trot then, and to hearth and hall and the kind
hearts waiting there for our arrival.”

And so they picked up the pace, hooves crunching on a track
now strewn with gravel and pebbles dredged from the river’s edge, new-laid to
strengthen this well-trod path and hopefully to prevent it becoming a quagmire
in winter rains. People came from their cottages and emerged from the sheds of
their cottage industries, and waved, and smiled, and given the brightness of
the dwellings around them, all Last Ridings seemed filled with joy at their
king’s return.

But still Gawain’s heart pounded in his chest as he clenched
his teeth against a sudden billowing of fear. Fear that Elayeen would see the
worry in his expression, the dread of impending fatherhood, the terror of the
unknown and the horror of dread prophecy. The track became a road, gravel and
pebbles giving way to cobbles. Hooves clopped, and in the fields behind the
Orb’s Ending away to the south as they entered the square, horses whinnied a
greeting.

Dwarves stood grinning in the faint bloom of a glowstone
lamp hanging from the porch roof over the raised decking of the tavern, pipes
clenched in teeth and fuming, pints clutched in calloused hands and lifted in
salute. All around the square, people, dwarves and elves and men and women, all
beaming with joy in the gloom as late afternoon faded to evening and dusk.

And there, on the deck surrounding the New Hall of Raheen,
there clad in Red and Gold and radiant, there stood Elayeen, with Meeya
Thalangard, and behind them, Wex, Reef and Tam of the Guard. Tyrane, and Corax,
Valin, and Arbo, steward of the hall.

And if Gawain had feared for his expression those fears
melted as ice before a flame, and still fifteen yards from the Hall he leapt
from Gwyn’s back, and with great strides almost breaking into a run swept
across those last yards, cloak billowing, as Elayeen in full sight of all
rushed forwards into his embrace, and there they stood, clinging to each other
as if to let go would mean the world’s ending…

Hours later, bathed and scraped clean and in fresh clean
clothing, the King of Raheen regarded his lady, holding her hands and gazing at
her, taking in the new and quite frankly astonishing girth of his queen and
marvelling at it, then leaning forward to kiss her, letting go of her hands to
cup her face and revel in the damp and wide-eyed gaze that held him as if in a
wizard’s binding.

For a long time they stood, smiling at each other, as close
as they could, as close as they dared, the buzz without their apartments in the
long hall reminding them that preparations were being made for a small homecoming
dinner, a greater feast to be held later when the travellers fresh returned had
rested from their journeying.

“Your hair’s a little longer,” Gawain whispered, running his
fingers through it.

“Yours needs cutting,” Elayeen replied. “And your beard.”

“Tomorrow. I’m too tired for such things now.”

“Are you trying to hide the scar above your eye and hoping I
would not notice it, miheth?”

“No,” Gawain lied, and his sheepish smile gave him away.
“Have you opened the bundle and the letters from Lady Merrin?”

“Briefly, while you were bathing. I shall give them the
attention they deserve later. Much later. Do not try to change the subject.”

“It was a small wound, miheth, don’t fuss. It was had in the
battle when Venderrian fell. There’ll be time enough to tell of it later. For
now I just want to hold you, and look at you. There were times along the way…”
Gawain’s voice faltered, suddenly choked with emotion.

“Times along the way?” she prompted softly, after a pause.

“There were times along the way I could not recall your
face. I tried so hard but I couldn’t summon the memory of you standing as you
are now, and I never, never want to forget again.”

“Silly G’wain,” she whispered. “I am not a memory to be
carried in your mind. I live here, in your heart. You have but to hold me
there, and nothing else matters.”

Gawain sniffed, and kissed her. “So, you forgot what I
looked like, too, then?”

It was Elayeen’s turn to look sheepish for a moment before
turning in his arms, the better to stand closer to him, his arms wrapped around
her and resting lightly atop the bulge that was to become their son.

“I’ll take that as a yes, then. By the Teeth, E, you are
become bigger than I imagined on my journey home. Are you sure the new prince
will come in April and not in the next five minutes?”

“I am sure. And thank you for noticing that I am become
bloated and ungainly.”

“Bah. More for me to hold. I have missed you so. And worried
so.”

“I know. But all here is as well as is to be expected.
Though there is much news to be shared, of course.”

“It can wait until dinner. The new fireplace out there is
impressive, it warms the hall nicely.”

“I leave its care entirely to Arbo. We of the forest realm
are not raised to be comfortable preparing such conflagrations as he lights in
the hearth. He has insisted upon keeping the hall warm, day and night, for my
sake he says.”

“Good for him, says I. Can’t have you jumping up and down
and flapping your arms to keep warm. That’d be most unqueenly.”

Elayeen smiled, rocking gently from side to side in Gawain’s
embrace. “He works tirelessly as ever. Everyone has.”

“And Corax?”

“Especially wizard Corax.”

“Good. That’s one backside less to be kicked. Though in
truth, after the revelation of the Hallencloister, I find I have a certain
sympathy for those wizards yet loyal to the kindred.”

“Riders Cherris and Dirs described to us the horror. That
such catastrophe was wrought by elves shames all of us forest-born.”

“No, it does not,” Gawain declared softly, hugging her
tighter, “The crimes of the Toorseneth are no more the crimes of all elfkind
than are the crimes of Morloch to be laid at the kindred’s door. Did they stay?
Dirs and Cherris? I saw them not when we arrived.”

“No. They were made welcome, and Major Tyrane invited them
to remain at my request, but they declined. They had a duty, they said, and
meant to spread word of the Hallencloister’s fate and warnings to wizards all
along the southern border of Juria. I do not know what became of them once they
passed through Dun Meven.”

“Well. That’s another subject for dinner. How much time do
we have together before we’re expected at the table?”

“Arbo has yet to ring the half-hour bell. We have that much
time at least.”

“Ring the what?”

“He rings a bell half an hour before dinner is served. It
allows guests to prepare for the meal and to take their place, and gives me
time to waddle like a child carrying a sack of potatoes from here to the table.”

Gawain gave a gentle snort, and kissed the top of her head.
“Your sense of humour hasn’t deserted you, at least.”

“What makes you believe I was attempting humour, G’wain?”

“Oh…”

It was Elayeen’s turn to give a delighted giggle, and she
patted his hands, and turned her head for a clumsy kiss. Outside, a bell rang,
three clear, ringing chimes.

“Arbo’s bell, I presume?”

“Yes, miheth.”

“Good. Then I have at least half an hour to tell you how
much I love you, and how I ached for you in the dark hours of lonely watches in
the wilds you know well from your own travelling there. Captain Hass would be
disappointed if he knew how much time I spent thinking of you when I should
have been watching for signs of threat or danger.”

“And I would share his disappointment miheth, so do not tell
me. It is painful enough to know your life was imperilled and you now bear a
scar to remind me and all your friends that we were not there to aid you in
battle. Don’t add to my suffering by declaring you were careless on watch because
of me.”

“Are you chiding me, my queen?”

“Yes. Though gently, I hope. You only ever have one task,
G’wain, whatever else you are about when you leave me, and that task is to
return safely to me. If ever you leave me again, do not let thoughts of me jeopardise
the completion of that one task.”

“I won’t.”

“Good. May we sit a while?”

“Oh! Yes, of course… are you well? Should I summon the
healer?”

Elayeen giggled. “No, of course you should not. It is simply
that your son is heavy and standing for a long time makes my back ache, and my
ankles, and I stood for a long time outside the hall when word came you were
near.”

“Then consider yourself gently chided for standing thus,
when you could have been warm and sitting inside the hall, and not freezing
outside and standing until I was in sight.”

“I was, and I did, and my Sight held your light
uninterrupted from the forest end of the east road,” Elayeen sighed, plopping
onto the bed, smiling at Gawain’s concern. “You need not fuss so, miheth. I am
quite robust. Would you fret so for a mare in foal?”

“Pfft. You want me to throw an extra blanket over you and
leave you plenty of hay and water?”

“Nooo don’t leave me!” she squeaked quietly, like a little
girl.

Gawain grinned, and sat beside her, her head on his
shoulder, his arm around her, her hand in his. And there, together, talking
softly of their love and their hopes, they awaited Arbo’s final dinner bell.

oOo