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

8. ‘Weed and Watchmen

There was no convenient line marking the ground at the
border between Arrun and Juria, though the fact of the Hallencloister on the
western horizon was a fair indication that Gawain and his companions would have
crossed it some time ago had there been one.

“We’ll not reach it by nightfall,” Allazar declared
emphatically, and he was right. Dusk, a dark and threatening grey-black, was
already falling, the moon in its first quarter already above the horizon in the
south, clouds drifting slowly in front of it testifying to the continued
strange calm of the weather in the vicinity of the D’ith citadel.

“No,” Gawain agreed. “It’s some way off. When you said it
was on a rise I didn’t think it would be so pronounced as to lift the place
above the far horizon like that.”

The wizard shrugged. “The slope is gentle enough, Longsword,
once you’re upon it. It seems higher than it is because there is something of a
dip or a hollow around the rise.”

“Arr, so we
are
in a hole then,” Ognorm sniffed,
beaming.

“Hardly a hole, master Ognorm,” Allazar grumbled.

“Lights, miThal,” Venderrian declared, shattering the
bucolic calm.

“Where?”

“Distant, to the northwest.”

Gawain shifted in his saddle. The D’ith Hallencloister stood
proud of the horizon perhaps fifteen miles or so due west of them, its
silhouette beginning to blend into the darkening skies behind it.

“Which way are they going, Ven?”

“South, I believe miThal. It is difficult to say, they are
at the extent of my range and fading quickly.”

“How many?”

The elf shrugged. “More than five, miThal, less than a
dozen. I am sorry…”

Gawain held up a hand to still the apology. “There’s no
cover here but low shrubs. We’ll have to do the best we can. From their
perspective it’s darker here to the east of them, and they don’t have the Sight
to aid them. We may have escaped their notice, and being in something of a hole
in the land has put higher ground behind us.”

“Heh,” Ognorm beamed at Allazar, and sniffed.

“Dismount. We’ll walk to that patch of imp-brush and rest
there until dawn. If those were Greys out of Castletown on long range patrol,
they’ll be bedding down soon too. There are no villages or habitations nearby
for them to take shelter in and it’s getting too dark now to risk horses even
in such open land as this.”

“Odd though, melord, riders patrolling these parts. Wouldn’t
have thought anyone would want to get too close to the ‘allencloister.”

“Perhaps Hellin hasn’t entirely lost her mind, and since it
was a wizard of the D’ith killed her father before her very eyes, is making
sure none of the whitebeard weasels sneak out from there again. If so, it’ll
make our business there that bit trickier.”

“Arr. Though if it be the Greys we all know and love,
melord, they’ll likely lend us a hand with the knockin’ on the doors.”

“Can you see any lights within the citadel, Ven?”

“No, miThal. It is much too far.”

“I suspect even close to, the walls are so thick that Ranger
Venderrian’s Sight will not be able to penetrate them. Do not forget the mystic
nature of its construction, Longsword.”

“They’ll have that Blue Guard on watch on the battlements,
if they’ve any sense at all. They’ll be in plain sight of ordinary eyes, never
mind Ven’s.”

“True,” Allazar agreed, wrapping his cloak tightly about him.
“And we in sight of them long before you knock upon their doors.”

“Me? It’ll be you doing the knocking, wizard, you’re the one
with stick, beard and robes.”

“Me?” Allazar squeaked. “If they recognise me they’re liable
to drop molten lead upon my head. I am not one of the Hallencloister’s
favourite alumni, Longsword, and never have been. It would be better if you
were to knock, Zaine’s first mandate would prevent them from dropping anything
on yours.”

“They have the Blue Guard, clodwit, I doubt any of Zaine’s
mandates would prevent
them
from dropping something unpleasant on me.”

“Ah.”

“Besides, you have Barugon’s Shield to protect yourself.”

“
Baramenn’s
Shield. Much good it’ll do me if a master
of the D’ith Sek decides to end my days.”

“Beggin’ yer pardon, melord, but you
do
have a plan
for when we get there?”

Gawain blinked.

Allazar blinked.

Ognorm eyed Venderrian, who raised his eyebrows and gave the
most discreet of shrugs.

“Beggin’ yer pardon, melord, but you
do
have a plan
for when we get there? I only ask again ‘cos I thought p’raps my voice ‘ad
failed me or you’d suddenly gone deaf.”

“Of course there’s a plan, Ognorm,” Gawain declared. “When
we get there, Allazar will ride up to the nearest gate and ring the bell.”

“Arr. Well that’s all right then, melord,” the dwarf
sniffed, “Glad to know you ain’t suddenly gone deaf, too.”

“Any further sign of the riders, Ven?”

“No, miThal.”

“Glad you ain’t gone deaf neither, Ven mate.”

“We could always send master Ognorm up to ring the bell,
Longsword,” Allazar muttered, eyeing the fading silhouette of the distant
citadel.

“I doubt even Nadcracker would make a dent in doors such as you’ve
described,” Gawain declared, lifting Gwyn’s saddle clear of his horse-friend.
“Besides, if they haven’t cut the grass in a while they might not see him from
the vantage of the battlements. No, it’ll be you gets the honour, Allazar,
you’ve got those robes, that beard, and a stick which together are a cunning
disguise and make you at least look like a wizard if nothing else. We’ll need a
good watch this night, now we know other riders are in the area.”

“Rain later,” the wizard sighed.

“Aye,” Gawain agreed as the moon faded behind the clouds
again, “That misty muck Tyrane doesn’t like. It’s a dislike I’ve come to
share.”

“Shall we employ darkening cloths, miThal?”

Gawain eyed the skies and their terrain. “No, I don’t think
there’s much point. With nothing but imp-brush to hide behind and with our
horses standing tall, we’d be seen by anyone we allow close enough to be a
threat. We’ll sit on the saddles and sleep in our cloaks though, the better to
make a quick and quiet departure in the morning.”

Later, while they sat wrapped in their cloaks waiting for
rain to dampen spirits and clothing, it was Allazar who spoke again concerning
the inevitable events they knew awaited them all.

“If they don’t admit us, Longsword, what then?”

“You’re worse than a dog with a bone, Allazar. We had no
clue what awaited us when we left Ferdan for Raheen, yet still you made the
journey with nothing but the usual complaints about not being able to roast
rabbits along the way.”

“That was a little different.”

“We had no idea what awaited us in that city in the south of
Elvendere yet still you greeted the prospect of Arramin’s route with
equanimity, and trusted implicitly in the  old boy’s navigation.”

“Arramin is brilliant, and he is not here,” Allazar mumbled.

“We hadn’t the faintest hope of victory at Far-gor yet there
you stood, and again, when we returned to Calhaneth for the Orb and faced once
more the unknown, just the usual ‘oh look, rabbits!’ every five minutes. Even
when we set off for the Eastbinding not knowing whether we’d actually find
Urgenenn’s Tower there or what we’d do if we did, still it was nothing but
‘Look! A rabbit!’ and the only grumbling came from your stomach.”

“That too was different.”

“Different how? In each case we had no idea what the outcome
might be, only that the journey must be made.”

“It was different, Longsword, because we faced the unknown,
and trusted in ourselves and in you to overcome any obstacles encountered along
the way.”

“Oh, so now you don’t trust me?”

“Now, we do not face the unknown. I know what we face. I
lived there, and I learned there. I know the walls, how high and impenetrable
they are, and have walked them many times. I know the gates, and how heavy the
mechanisms needed to move them. I know the brethren. Those gates would not have
been sealed without good reason. If they refuse us entry, we shall not enter.
Not by any means you or I can hope to devise.”

“Then, beardwit, if we are refused, and if the place is as
indomitable and impregnable as you believe, then we shall return to Last
Ridings, there to make our home, knowing that at least we tried our best. But
not until we’ve tried our best may we so do.”

  Allazar fell silent, then, and lowered his head, drawing
the hood of his cape over his white hair. Gawain pondered the wizard’s question,
and his answer, drawing up his own hood against the first fine mists of
dampness drifting over them and presaging the heavier drizzle yet to come. Just
as the wizard always managed deftly to avoid questions concerning his true age,
Gawain had succeeded in circumventing other, perhaps more discomfiting
questions recently. Most of them had come from Lyssa of Callodon while
listening to some of his tales.

What if Martan’s web hadn’t brought down the whole of the
farak gorin
? she’d asked.
Why didn’t you die when you were shot with a
poisoned bolt? What if the Shadow had gotten into the blockhouse with you and Loryan?
What if you’d died when you struck it with your sword? What if it’d been you
who stood on the Spikebulb…

So many wide-eyed questions, and all of them neatly evaded,
until finally Gawain had chided her, gently of course, saying that the job of a
chronicler was to make a chronicle of events which had happened, and not waste
time, ink, and paper speculating on those which hadn’t.

Sometimes, in the dark hours, such questions robbed him of
sleep awhile, as they did now. But Allazar had a point, which was all the more
annoying for the fact of its veracity, and so too did Ognorm. There was no
plan. The only plan Gawain had had when he left Elayeen and Last Ridings was
quite simply ‘go to the Hallencloister and ask them
why
.’ Why had the
D’ith abandoned the kindred? Why had the D’ith allowed the rise of the Viell unopposed?
Why had Urgenenn’s Tower been left intact, and later left inhabited by the Viell?
Why
…

Here and now, though, with misty rain swirling in the dark
all about him, it was Allazar’s question that kept him awake a little longer.
Not
until we’ve tried our best shall we return to Last Ridings.
A nifty evasion
worthy of any whitebeard weasel. But Gawain knew, as images of the
Hallencloister swam through the mist of impending sleep, that if the best they
could do was knock on the door, ring the bell, and bugger off when told so to
do, then Lyssa of Callodon would have a very short tale to tell of Raheen’s
assault on the D’ith citadel, and it would earn her small beer indeed in any
hall she was brave enough to tell of it.

Dawn broke as dawn does for the weary, slow and cheerless, and
the drizzle remained incessant, obscuring the Hallencloister from view on the
far horizon. It had been an uncomfortable night for horse and rider both, and
the silence which accompanied their preparations for leaving the last
night-camp before attaining the home of the D’ith spoke volumes, both for their
mood and for the amount of sleep they’d achieved in the night. None dared
speak, lest the protests escaping their lips provoke ire, kingly or otherwise.

Breakfast was likewise pitiful, shavings of frak hastily
pared beneath cloaks in the hope of keeping the lumps dry, but such hopes were
of course futile in the all-pervading drizzle, and merely added to their
frustration. After that, they simply mounted, bones, muscles, and joints
aching, and with a nod of ‘all clear’ from Venderrian, they set off at the walk
and then quickened the pace to the trot, due west.

After ten miles or so and with no adverse reports from the
elf ranger, Gawain surprised them all by sighing aloud and leaping nimbly from
the saddle, running alongside Gwyn. His back ached, his hips and knees ached,
his everything ached, and though at first it hurt, soon the heat of motion and
exertion began to lubricate his muscles and joints. After another mile he was
moving freely, and though soaking wet with his cloak flapping uselessly behind
him, he felt much better.

Allazar and the others declined his encouragement to join
him in running off the rigours of a miserable night, and sighing theatrically,
he leapt back into the saddle with a practiced agility which left the less
accomplished riders in awe of his grace. He was about to attempt good natured
ribbing of the wizard when Venderrian called them to a halt.

“Strange, miThal,” he announced, peering through the gloom
ahead. “Darkness on the ground ahead, but shapeless, and pale.”

“Pale darkness?” Ognorm muttered, “Blimey, Ven mate, what’s
pale darkness when it’s at ‘ome? If’n you don’t mind me asking.”

The elf shrugged. “I do not know.”

“Allazar?” Gawain asked.

The wizard blinked, and shrugged.

“Oh well there’s a helpful opinion from a wizard,” Gawain
muttered. “How far ahead of us is this strange pale darkness on the ground,
Ranger Venderrian?”

“Five or six hundred yards, miThal.”

“We’ll advance slowly then, and see if we can identify it,
if it’s above ground.”

“An’ if it’s below ground, melord?”

“Then the wizard can poke it with his stick.”

They’d gone about three hundred yards, advancing cautiously,
when Gawain and the others caught a familiar odour on the breeze, faint, since
the dampness in the air was dragging the scent to the wet Jurian grasses here on
the plains.

“Something aquamire-made has been destroyed here,” Gawain
announced softly.

“Aquamire liberated, certainly,” Allazar agreed, frowning,
and sniffing.

It wasn’t until they’d advanced almost to the limit of
Venderrian’s estimate that the reason for the ‘strange pale darkness’ and the
stronger, acrid whiffs of liberated aquamire became apparent.