Worms' Ending: Book Eight (The Longsword Chronicles 8) (9 page)

“Flagellweed, dying,” Allazar announced, wiping rain from
where it dripped off his eyebrows. “It must have been sown in the spring, or
the summer, perhaps even all around the Hallencloister.”

“We’re still a good three or four miles from the place, why in
sight of the sun would the Viell wish to seed such a wide circle?”

Allazar shrugged. “Perhaps they dared not approach too close
to powers which would oppose them.”

“Why seed it all? Flagellweed would be no obstruction to the
whitebeards in the citadel, and why would anyone in their right minds wish to
approach the place with its gates closed and barred against the people of these
lands?”

“Perhaps it was laid to prevent the child from Fallowmead
summoning aid and thus alerting the Hallencloister to the presence of Pelliman
Goth?”

Gawain favoured the wizard with a sceptical look, and
surveyed the scene before them. What might once have been a band of Flagellweed
broad enough to deter any incursion by man or beast unable to summon white fire
now lay limp and mouldering like week-old cabbage leaves rotting on market
cobbles. A slight fizz off to their right, and they glimpsed a puff of purple
smoke, dragged to the ground by the rain and gone in no time.

“It’s poppin’ off all over the place,” Ognorm sniffed,
“Manky stuff. Is it safe to cross like that, Serre wizard?”

Allazar wrinkled his nose as another rotting ‘weed fizzled
and was gone.

“I would not wish to ride a horse across such a stretch of
land so afflicted,” the wizard replied after a little thought. “The ‘weed will
have lost all of its sting, limp on the ground and rotting as it is. But the
aquamire it contains is unstable, larger drops of rain are all that is needed
to cause the spontaneous liberation we are seeing. For a horse to step on such
mouldering debris might cause a nasty burn.”

“Can you burn us a path through it?” Gawain asked, “Such
larger drops of rain as you’ve described are few and far between, and if
anything, the drizzle is getting lighter; you can almost see the shape of the
citadel on the horizon through it now.”

It was true. Although great clouds of fine and misty rain
swirled in the gentlest of breezes and made for a grey and wet curtain hanging
between them and the horizon, they could glimpse from time to time the rise far
ahead, and their destination atop it.

“I can, Longsword, but this close to the Hallencloister, I
fear it would announce our presence as clearly as the knocking of a door or the
ringing of a bell.”

Gawain shrugged. “It would announce
your
presence,
and since you’re the one who’ll be doing all the knocking or ringing, I doubt
it matters whether they know we’re coming before we get there or not. I don’t
really want to sit here hoping for heavy rain while watching what rain there
actually is diminishing. Clear a path for us Allazar, and let’s be on our way.”

“I shall.”

Allazar dismounted, and trudged forward, and Gawain caught a
glimpse of the wizard unconsciously rubbing the small of his back. He smiled,
grateful that his running earlier had relieved the sore relics of his own miserable
night.

Nearing the edge of the broad band of Flagellweed, which
seemed to extend to the north and south for miles, Allazar held the White Staff
horizontally before him. If anyone had expected white fire to clear their way,
they were perhaps disappointed. The wizard simply loosed a wave of Baramenn’s
Surge at a slight angle downwards before him, the force of the wave striking
the rotting ‘weed much harder than large raindrops might and stimulating at
once the liberation of their aquamire.

Thus, Allazar advanced, clearing a path perhaps fifteen feet
wide before him, through which Gawain and the others advanced on foot, leading
the horses carefully as they went.

By the time they’d crossed the field of ‘weed, Allazar was
actually smiling, and seemed to have forgotten the aches and pains of a night
spent trying to sleep sat huddled in a cloak on a wet saddle on the ground.

Gawain grinned at the wizard, and handed him the reins of
his horse. “If you’re expecting a compliment for finally doing a wizard’s work,
you’re in for a disappointing time.”

“I have learned well the lessons of the past, Longsword,”
Allazar smiled, “And am merely grateful to my king for his not slapping me on
the back of the head for taking so long to clear the path.”

“Actually, I was coming to that,” Gawain beamed, and as the
wizard turned to climb into the saddle, slapped him on the back of the head.

Venderrian blinked back his astonishment, Ognorm chuckled
and gave the elf a wink before dragging himself up into the saddle, and they
set off once more.

When they were perhaps two miles from the Hallencloister,
they stopped, and eyed their destination. The misty drizzle had eased, but it
was cold, and chill, and the heavy overcast sky promised no relief from the
drab misery of the day, and no hint of sunshine to burn away the heavy
atmosphere.

“I see what you mean about the slope,” Gawain announced, “We
must have been on it for miles, but so gentle is it we hadn’t noticed.”

Allazar nodded. “Master Arramin would tell you that a long
time ago, it was established by calculations that the flat and level ground
within the Hallencloister is almost five hundred feet above the level of the
sea, and three hundred of those are above the average level of the plains of
Juria and Arrun.”

“And I would say a polite ‘oh’, respecting the old duffer as
I do for his service to the Crown. To you, I merely sniff with complete
indifference. Do you see any lights there, Ven?”

“No, miThal.”

“Not even on the ramparts?”

“Not even there, miThal.”

“Could the D’ith shield themselves somehow from view of the
Sight, Allazar?”

The wizard stared at Gawain so utterly nonplussed that Gawain
too was lost for words, and shrugged as if to say ‘well?’

“Kallaman Goth evaded the Sight at Urgenenn’s Tower,
Longsword, as did the Meggen with him. The walls of the tower and the pedestal
were thick, and of a vitreous stone which shielded them from view. The walls of
the Hallencloister are thick too.”

“Thick, and with no Blue Guard patrolling atop them?”

Allazar shrugged. “Perhaps, the place being impregnable,
they do not feel the need for such commonplace precautions as watchmen.
Besides, we have at least two miles of open ground to cross before we attain
the cobbled perimeter without the Hallencloister walls. There are, I am sure,
limits to what even the Sight can achieve.”

“My apologies, Ranger Venderrian. The wizard’s veiled chiding
reminds me that I am become far too accustomed to having the Sight beside me.
I’m in danger of becoming complacent and expecting too much of a ranger’s eyes.
Please, sing out as and when anything is revealed to you, and until you do,
I’ll try to abandon my habit of asking questions which your silence has already
answered.”

Venderrian nodded graciously, and raised his hand to the
faded emblem of the kindred on his tunic by way of a reply.

“Is it me,” Ognorm sniffed, wiping his nose and the rain
dripping from it on the back of his sleeve, “Or is it gettin’ a wee bit
breezier the closer we get?”

“It isn’t you, master Ognorm,” Allazar announced as they
moved off again. “The weather here is perfectly normal, wizards don’t control
it, as I have said.”

“What he means is,” Gawain declared, “We’re climbing up out
of the hole we were in and it’s windier up here nearly five hundred feet above
the level of the sea.”

“Heh,” the dwarf chuckled. “That’d been my reckonin’ too,
melord.”

A mile from the summit of the rise, Gawain paused, frowning,
and turned in his saddle to survey the land behind them.

“Longsword?”

“Curiosity. You can see the band of ‘weed clearly from this
height, now the drizzle has eased and the wind is dispersing it.”

From the vantage of height the dark band of dying
Flagellweed was clearly visible through wisps of misty damp, sown in an arc to
the east. Another lay to the north, and yet another to the south. Not a full
circle by any means, but enough to deter a casual incursion. Doubtless, he
thought, another swathe would lie to the west, on the far side of the citadel.

“Curious indeed,” Allazar mumbled. “Yet not as curious as
the lack of banners and pennants yonder at the ‘cloister. There was ever a
colourful display, flags of all lands flown from rampart and tower to show the
D’ith’s welcome to all.”

“Perhaps they took them down when they sealed the gates
against all the kindred, and abandoned the world to its fate, whitebearded
bastards. Now that we’re this close to it, it doesn’t seem so large and
imposing as it appeared before.”

“No, distance does provide such an illusion when nothing is
nearby to permit a measure of scale. I remember thinking the same when I left
to take up service in Callodon. But still, there should at least be the Star of
the D’ith flying from each of the four towers.”

“And if you find that a trifle discomfiting, Allazar,
consider this. Ven hasn’t started singing out yet. There’s still no sign of any
watchmen upon the walls.”

“Ain’t so much as a bird flappin’ up there, melord. Not to
my orbs there ain’t.”

“Nor to mine, friend Ognorm,” Ven muttered.

“Arr, p’raps they’re just a lot more sensible than us lot,
and are keepin’ dry out the rain.”

“Perhaps,” Allazar agreed, attempting a cheerful lie to
dampen their rising anxiety.

He failed.

oOo

9. Eyem D’ith

“Those gates are big,” Gawain mumbled as they crested the
summit of the rise.

The walls of the immense citadel were perhaps four hundred
yards from the flat top of the rise where the companions sat saddle, and for
the last hundred of those yards a great cobbled way had been constructed running
the full perimeter of the Hallencloister. Set into the wall facing them, three
gates of iron-bound and studded oak, the one in the centre immense, the lesser
gates set seventy yards either side of the main portal. Even those lesser gates
were imposing.

So too were the walls. The east wall before them was two
hundred and forty yards long, thirty feet high, and according to Allazar,
fifteen feet thick. They were made, he said, of white-stone blocks fitted so
closely together no joints or seams were visible. No handholds. No footholds.
Just sheer, vertical rock, mystic hard. At the top, no sharp edges for
grappling hooks to snag, the outward-facing crenels and merlons of the
battlements radiused to prevent just such a means of ingress. No trees nearby
for the construction of siege engines or ladders. No windows, no loopholes, no
openings in the wall of any kind. Except the gates.

Gawain would grudgingly admit to being impressed, if anyone
had asked him. But all of them were too busy staring in disbelief at the sheer
rock wall before them, and looking for movement atop it. Even this close,
Venderrian had seen no lights, either within the walls or on top of them. And
it was deathly quiet. Not even the sound of dripping rainwater run-off, except
from themselves and their horses and those fell on wild grass and soft earth;
there were no projections on the wall or jutting from it from which such drips
might fall noisily onto the cobbles below.

“Well,” Gawain sighed, drawing himself higher in the saddle.
“We can sit here and gape at this boring spectacle, or watch with excitement as
the wizard boldly strides forward and rings the bell.”

“There’s a thing an’ no mistake,” Ognorm announced, his
voice gruff, “Didn’t think we’d get to vote.”

Gawain snorted his appreciation, and glanced across at the
wizard to his right.

“Something is very wrong here, Longsword. Even with the
gates sealed, some sign of life should be apparent. Sounds, if not sights.”

“Didn’t you say the walls were thick?”

“Yes, but the five cloisters were filled with noise in
daytime, all manner of concussions and explosions and failed experiments
disturbing the peace. The crackle of white fire, shouts of alarm when targets
were missed, hoots of laughter from the younger boys when others failed in
their attempts at simple tasks… all these are absent. All those sounds I heard
when I left through the south gate, so long ago now.”

“The gates were open then, and you said they were thick
too.”

Allazar blinked, and nodded as much to himself as to Gawain.
“Yes, yes that is true. Well then. I shall advance, and try the east gate,
though it was always the least used of them, few coming in from or going out to
Arrun when I studied here.”

Gawain nodded, keeping his expression regally inscrutable.
Allazar’s shock was almost palpable now that they found themselves on the
threshold of the citadel, and had found it silent, and utterly bereft of welcome.

The wizard nudged his horse with his knees and moved off
towards the east gate. Gawain gave him a twenty-yard head start and then
followed quietly behind, waving the others forward too, eyes fixed on the
ramparts. Still Venderrian remained silent, and when Allazar’s horse clopped
onto the cobbled perimeter road, the sound was as startling as thunderclaps to
their ears.

Directly ahead of them lay the east gate, and Gawain tried
hard not to gape. It was set and mounted so that its iron-studded face stood
flush with the wall about it, and there seemed not a paper’s thickness of a gap
between its wood and the wall anywhere around its perimeter. He looked for a
joint which might give some indication as to the manner in which it opened,
inwards, outwards, cracking down the middle into a pair of leaf doors swinging
on heavy hinges, or perhaps even rising or lowering by means of some immense
winch. Alas he couldn’t say, for he saw none.

But this close, Allazar’s horse now clopping slowly some
thirty yards from the vast portal, they could see the dull gleaming of a small
brass bell fixed to the wall to the right of the arched entrance, a long and
slender rope dangling limp and almost to the ground from the clapper.

Still Venderrian remained silent, casting his gaze up and
around. But for the sound of hooves on cobbles, Gawain felt sure he would’ve
heard his heart pounding, such was the tension now rising about them as misty
clouds of damp swirled.

He saw Allazar draw his horse to a halt by the archway,
transfer his staff to his left hand, and then reach out with his right to grasp
the bell-rope. He jerked that rope sharply three times, the sound of the bell
sweet, loud, and clear, the high note drifting all around them, and though it
might have been nothing more than freakish coincidence, the breezes chose that
precise moment to abate, stilling the misty rain around them for a few brief heartbeats
while the sound of the last peal decayed, and became a memory.

Nothing.

Ognorm’s horse snorted and shook its head, the bridle
rattling and drops of rain flying this way and that.

Allazar backed his horse a pace or two, and shouted up at
the ramparts:

“
Eyem D’ith! Dar me enthra!
”

Nothing.

Again Allazar cried out as if to the heavens, his voice
mystic hard and ringing clear like the bell. “
Eyem D’ith! Dar me enthra!
”

Again, nothing.

“Wots ‘e sayin’, melord?”

“I think, Ognorm,” Gawain whispered, “He’s saying I am D’ith,
open the vakin door you whitebeard bastards or I’ll rip off your heads and poop
down your necks.”

“Arr. Trust a wizard to use five words when it’d take us lot
about twenty.”

Gawain couldn’t hold back a smile, and he turned to acknowledge
the dwarf’s humour, and almost broke into an outright laugh when he saw the
serious look Ognorm gave him in return.

But the clopping of hooves on cobbles drew his attention to
the gate, watching Allazar moving off slowly, heading towards the lesser gate
seventy yards further north. They followed, and there, again Allazar leaned
from the saddle, and rang the bell fixed beside the smaller arch. Again he
repeated his calls, and again, nothing.

On the wizard rode, gathering pace, around the northeast
corner of the east wall, and riding along the north. Three more doors there
were, the Hallencloister symmetrical, and at each of those three doors, Allazar
repeated his ritual. He rang the bell three times. He waited. He called up to
the ramparts to demand entry, and receiving no reply, moved on.

For Gawain’s part, he studied the northern horizon, and saw
nothing but the rolling plains of Juria through the drizzle. Nothing of course
except the arc of decaying ‘weed laying dark against the paler grasses of the
plains some three or four miles away.

The sound of the wizard’s horse trotting along the road drew
him back, and they followed Allazar around the northwest corner, and watched in
silence and increasing puzzlement as the ritual was repeated. Ring the bell,
demand entry. Nothing. Gawain noted absently that he’d had been right. There
was
an arc of Flagellweed to the west, dying like the rest. But it was smoke on the
south-western horizon that drew his attention, and he pointed towards it.

“I don’t recall a village or hamlet yonder,” he declared.

“No good askin’ me, melord. Ain’t from ‘round these parts,
sorry.”

“I too am unfamiliar with the geography of these plains,
miThal.”

“Sorry. I was thinking out loud. Allazar!”

The wizard almost jumped out of his skin at the sudden
shout, and Gawain’s two companions flinched and stared up at the ramparts.

“Honestly, if they’re not going to put in an appearance with
all the noise the wizard’s been making, I hardly think they’ll bother with me,”
Gawain grumbled.

When Allazar rode up, Gawain drew his attention to the
distant smoke.

“Is there a habitation over there?”

“Not that I recall, Longsword, though it’s possible a new
one has sprung up on the plains. A homestead, perhaps, or a farm or hamlet. Who
is to say? It has been a long time since I was here or hereabouts.”

“I’ve never been here or hereabouts, I’m relying entirely on
the memory of your map, and others. Come, let’s see you ring the bloody bells
and shout at the clouds on the south wall, and then we’re back to where we started.”

“I like this not, Longsword, truly. Ever since the
Hallencloister was built, long before darken days of yore, no wizard of the
D’ith has ever been refused entry. This, this fortress, this citadel, this
enclave, was always the one place a wizard might depend upon for peace and
protection! To utter the ancient call for sanctuary and find the gates opening
not is a grievous wrong bordering on sacrilege!”

“I like it not either, Allazar. Come, to the south wall, in
the hope of some kind of answer. I think I would have preferred the sight of a
Blue Guard sticking his head over the parapet and yelling at us to bog off than
this unbroken silence.”

But the south wall yielded no different result than any
other. Three bells rung, six calls for sanctuary unanswered. And then finally
all four of them were back where they’d started, though this time, dismounted,
and standing on the cobbles some twenty yards from the central east gate.

Gawain chewed frak fresh-pared from a damp lump, and nodded
towards the immense door. “How does it open, Allazar?”

“From the inside,” the wizard replied.

“No, you clod. Has the rain got through the shrubbery in
your ears and damped the cloth you have for wits? In what manner does the gate
or door open?”

“From the inside,” Allazar insisted. “There is an alcove cut
into the wall where the machinery for opening the gate is found.”

Gawain sighed, and held the lump of frak between his teeth
while he used his hands to gesticulate and indicate his meaning.

“Ahk iss,” he held up both hands side by side, little
fingers touching, and then swung them apart like a pair of gates, “O ahk iss…”
then repeated the gesture, opening his hands inwards, “O ahk…”

“Yes, apologies Longsword, I now understand the question.”

Gawain took the lump of frak from his mouth and pared
another slice from it with his boot knife.

“The main gates are hinged at the bottom and drawn up by
winches from within, much like a drawbridge of old. Ordinarily they repose flat
upon the cobbles, creating a step up, though their edges are chamfered to facilitate
easier entry or egress for heavy-laden wagons without the need for additional
ramps.”

“Hmm. Then the arch is likewise chamfered to accommodate
edges of the gate, and thus the portal seals flush with the walls when drawn
up. Clever goits.”

“As I said, the cunning of humankind was considered in the
design and architecture. A battering ram hammering on the gate would simply
make the fit of the doorway tighter, like ramming a tapered plug into a tapered
hole.”

“How about mystic battering rams, were they considered?”

“Longsword?”

Gawain shrugged. “You’ve tried ringing the bell. You’ve
tried shouting. You haven’t tried pounding on the door with your stick and
demanding entry under threat of loosing white fire upon them for the sacrilege of
denying you entry.”

“I hardly think that my knocking on an oak portal thicker
than my arms held wide will have any more success than my ringing of the bell
or the uttering of the ancient plea for sanctuary.”

“Only one way to find out. We’ll stand back here in case
someone appears up there and tries to drop something unpleasant on your head.”

“I almost wish they’d make the attempt,” Allazar sighed. “It
would at least be an acknowledgement of our existence.”

“I know what you mean,” Gawain agreed, grimacing up at the
vacant ramparts. “I’m becoming rather annoyed at being ignored like this. Give
it whack, Allazar, and if they don’t answer, give it a tree of lightning. Maybe
that’ll draw their attention.”

Mumbling and shaking his head, Allazar strode towards the
portal, the White Staff rapping on the cobbles as he went. He positioned
himself at the exact centre of the arched door, and drew back the staff as if
he were a pole-vaulter about to make a run. Instead, he thrust the staff
forward to slam its base into the mighty oak.

There was a deafening boom, a bright flash, and Allazar was
suddenly hurtling towards them through the air, arms and legs outstretched,
staff clutched tightly in his right hand, and screaming in shock and surprise.
He landed hard upon the smooth cobbles, and slid another foot or two on the
rain-slick road.

“By the vakin Teeth!” Gawain gasped, and they rushed
forward, fearing the worst.

But Allazar simply lay there, blinking in astonishment,
gazing up at the three faces peering back down at him.

“Allazar?” Gawain demanded, “Are you hurt?”

“Surprised, rather,” the wizard croaked, and heaved himself
up onto his elbows.

“Well then, get up off your lazy arse and knock again.”

“You don’t understand, Longsword, the gate is sealed.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll have Oggy standing here ready to catch
you next time.”

“No, Longsword, you don’t understand!” Allazar gasped,
heaving himself to his feet, “The gate has been held shut by mystic seal! From
this side!”

Gawain blinked.

“From this side?” Ognorm asked, rubbing his chin. “What does
that mean, then?”

“It means the gate has been locked from the outside, and
then sealed by great mystic force, preventing entry from without!”