Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (43 page)

They chuckled quietly, shaking their heads and marvelling at
the humour of dwarves.

“We should probably go back up top,” Gawain sighed. “I know
it’s another three months or so before E is due, but now we’re back I don’t
like being too far removed from her sight and her side.”

“Which is as it should be.”

“I told her the very same thing.”

“Perhaps a little of a wizard’s wisdom is beginning to rub
off on you after all this time.”

“I rather think it more likely a bit of my blundering
stupidity is rubbing off on you, you whitebeard goit. And speaking of, I
haven’t seen Corax today, what’s he up to?”

“He is with Harribek Anhelo, helping to accelerate the
training of the pigeons. In the evenings, he works upon devising a means of
overcoming the protection afforded to those wearing the ToorsenViell’s
crystal-coated garb, and is also seeking a means of defeating the rock-crystal
coating on the Toorseneth’s Grimmand.”

“Good,” Gawain announced, and stood, stretching after
sitting on the stone bench for so long. “I suppose we can take comfort from the
knowledge that the Creed won’t be able to make a crystal-coated Kiromok. Not
unless they find a way to make the crystals disappear from sight too.”

“Hmm. It is precisely such trains of thought which doubtless
led Urgenenn astray. Let us hope the Toorseneth has no such thinkers in their
ranks.”

Gawain adjusted the sword over his back, while Allazar
leaned on the Dymendin in customary pose. They gazed around the expanse of the
down-below, at the ante-chambers cut into the rock walls, short tunnels now
filled with Tyrane’s carefully chosen winter stores and supplies. Allazar shone
a Light of Aemon at the wall above the water-spout, illuminating the map and
admiring the sparkling dots which Dannis, Curator of Dun Meven, believed marked
other such refuges as this. They too believed likewise, now.

The light winked out, and for a long moment, they regarded
each other with great respect, great friendship, and a hint of sadness for all
they had endured, and all that lay ahead. And then without a word, they turned,
and began the walk up the sloping ramp which led to the exit, the rap of the
Dymendin on the rock floor in time with their footfalls echoing in the cavern
behind them.

oOo

43. Hark, The Herald

On February 2
^nd
, Gawain was seated at the long
table with Elayeen, perusing lists of the supplies stored in the down-below.
Arbo hovered in attendance, answering occasional questions while his queen
absent-mindedly worked her way through a plate of his fresh-baked butterscones
topped with jam and lightly dusted with ground cinnamon, which had been her
favourite since Fallowmead. Gawain didn’t get a look-in where the scones were
concerned.

The logs in the fire crackled, and wind whipping against the
shutters testified to the gusty squalls without the warmth of the hall. Gawain
took another sip of mulled wine, nodding contentedly while Elayeen detailed the
expenses incurred by the hall in his absence.

But the peace was suddenly shattered by the thundering of
hooves which had all eyes drawn to the portals.

“Four horses,” Gawain muttered, and flicked a gaze to the
longsword propped against the table to his right. “Arbo, the door if you
please.”

“Sire,” the youth acknowledged, and hurried to open one of
the two immense doors, admitting wind and a spray of rain along with four
bedraggled riders.

Two of them were the dwarves of Sarek’s Rangers sent by Eryk
of Threlland last summer, an escort from the quay. One was Tam of Westfalls. The
fourth Gawain recognised, and the profound concern etched deep in the man’s
face and his bedraggled appearance made hearts sink.

“Rollaf!” Gawain gasped, and stood, and indicated the
hearth. “Come my friend, warm yourself by the fire! Arbo, hot wine for our
unexpected guest, and bring an early lunch for us all. Notify Major Tyrane that
a well-known scout from Callodon has arrived, and send for Allazar and Corax too.”

“Sire!”

Rollaf shrugged off his drenched cloak and hung it on a peg
beside the immense stone fireplace. He was shivering, and from the state of his
clothing had been riding for a long time.

“Warm yourself up, my old friend, get the blood flowing.
Food and friends are on the way.”

“Aye…” the scout replied through his chattering teeth, his
weather-tanned features hidden by an unkempt beard and shaggy hair plastered
about his face, “Ta milord…”

Arbo returned to announce that food was coming, and that so
too were Tyrane and Allazar. Elayeen passed the lists of supplies they’d been
perusing to the steward, who took them carefully and returned them to a small
curtained alcove which served temporarily as the hall’s chancery. Moments later
the portal blew open again, and Tyrane and the wizard blew in. The tall and
immaculately-dressed Callodon Major took one look at Rollaf, and blanched, and
his worried expression did not pass unnoticed by those yet in the hall.

In no time, it seemed, word had spread, and while hot and
steaming food began to pile up on the long table, Gawain’s official and
unofficial lieutenants began to gather in the hall. To their credit, all of
them allowed the rangy woodsman to warm himself, and eat a fresh-baked bread
roll stuffed with cubes of stewed beef so quickly it almost seemed to disappear
whole.

“Milord…” Rollaf turned to face Gawain, the latter standing
at the head of the table, Elayeen seated to his left. “Thanks, milord… though
you won’t be thanking me, not for the news I come with.”

“Come, sit, everybody. There’s more food and hot wine,
Rollaf, help yourself. You look exhausted.”

“Aye, milord. Been a long ride. Long ride for us all was at
Pellarn.”

“Is Terryn with you?”

“No milord. I don’t know where Terryn is. We got split, in
Pellarn. Last I heard, he went southwest, t’ward the Eramak. Ain’t heard
nothing since. Milord…” Rollaf paused, and took a gulp of hot wine, and those
gathered around the long table held their breath.

They knew of him, of course; one of the pair of Callodon
woodsmen who’d joined Gawain and Elayeen on the journey from Jarn and through
southern Elvendere, all the way to the Morrentill and to Far-gor. That he was
struggling to retain his composure was obvious. That something dread had
happened, likewise.

“Steady lad, all friends here,” Tyrane said softly, and
Rollaf nodded in gratitude.

“Sorry milord.”

“For nothing. We’ve travelled far together, and you further
still it seems. Take your time.”

“Won’t help milord. Time won’t help me none. It’s disaster,
milord. Total. Pellarn’s lost again, all us Black and Gold routed, those of us
who got across the Ostern. More coming in all the time, up from the South-halt
and in through the woods, mostly. They come so quick at us, over the Eramak…”

“Who lad? Who came at you?” Tyrane gasped.

“Simanians from Goria, from the northwest. Floods of ‘em,
running. Running like the world were afire behind ‘em. We were spread so thin,
we couldn’t hold ‘em back, couldn’t get them barriers up at the Eramak before
we saw ‘em coming down the slopes o’ the west bank like a flood… Got word,
milord, from ‘is Majesty, told me to get this to you…” Rollaf fished out a
waxed leather packet, and held it as though it contained some poisonous
dark-made creature.

Tyrane took it, and gave the scout a reassuring squeeze on
the shoulder before the woodsman would release the packet into his care. Then
it was carried around the table and given to Gawain.

“Weren’t nothing we could do, milord. Spread thin, we were,
chasing down mercenaries, helping in the villages and towns and such. Then the
flood came like a tide, swept across the Eramak, and soon everyone was running
east, us of Callodon and them of Pellarn, even the Gorian Resistance. Last I
‘eard, milord, the enemy held all, right up to the Jarn Gap.”

There were gasps around the table at that, eyes wide, heads
turning towards Gawain as he peeled open the layers of waxed leather to
retrieve the letter Brock had written. Short sentences, made in haste, and
Gawain read them hurriedly before sighing, stunned, and then passing the pages
to Allazar to read aloud. Gawain reached out to take Elayeen’s hand, a gesture
which was not lost on any of them.

The wizard drew a breath, held the leaves before him, and in
sombre voice, conveyed Brock’s message:

Gawain,

All is chaos. All is disaster. So close we came! Pellarn
liberated, its people free, the flag flying proud at the Keep! Then came word,
a great horde. A great horde fleeing in panic, driven one way by Zersees’
legions from Zanatheum, driven another by foul-made horror in Simatheum!

Maraciss is dead we hear, but know not for certain if
this be truth. Prisoners snatched near the Ostern declared it so. Simatheum is
lost, they said, lost in fire and in shadow, some dread device unleashed upon
them, burning all by day, striking all with horror by night. Their city in
flames and in ruins, what few who could, fled. The survivors were first to
cross the Eramak. They ran clear to the Ostern and welcomed capture.

The remains of their armies came next, fleeing Zersees’
legions, without order, all in chaos, driven by fear and dark masters on the
wing. They took Pellarn for their own, and with dark mystic energies stronger
than any power our own wizards could wield did what we ourselves had not time
enough to do; they raised the barriers at the Eramak. Zersees’ legions were
halted there, and though they tried, they could not cross to aid us. Alone, we
could not face the horde which is all that now remains of Maraciss and his
ambition.

All is chaos, Gawain. Callodon is powerless. We regroup,
our men return in rags across the Ostern. We look to our own borders now, in
hope of keeping the Simanian horde west of the Ostern. Now we know, my friend,
why elves strengthened the southern border of Juria, to keep out the horde from
the west. To keep out the survivors of Pellarn’s second falling.

Look to your borders, Gawain. Guard them well! All now is
chaos. Pelliman Goth they say now rules the Keep which Igorn in the name of
freedom liberated, and lost. Darkness now holds sway in the Old Kingdom. Our
lights were not bright enough nor strong enough to keep it out.

Look to your borders, my friend. We cannot help you. You
cannot help us. All is chaos, and we must fight to hold what is our own. Dark
days new are born, and the brighter the lights, the larger and fouler the moths
which circle in search of immolation. And you, my young friend, have ever
burned brightly.

Tomorrow I lead my men with Igorn to re-take Jarn and
hold the Gap. What comes after, I do not know. Tyrane is your man, and those
with him. Use him, and them, well.

Honour to you, my friend Raheen,

Brock

Silence in the hall thereafter, marred only by the hammering
of hearts, and the ominous crackling and spitting of logs in the fire, as
though the conflagration in the hearth had a voice, and the voice was a herald,
and the world’s doom foretelling.

End of Book 8