The Wide World's End Read online

On the first night of the month of Rain (ill-named in that bitterly cold year), deep in the southern marches of the Whitethorn Mountains, Sharvetr Ûlkhyn was shaken out of his nest by an insistent knabe.

  Sharvetr had been the Longtooth of Graytown for five years now, and he had almost grown to like the job. But he did not like it—he would never like it when he was awakened in the middle of the night to deal with some terrible crisis. A cow that had failed to return to its pen, or the terrible discovery of a horde of cookies secreted by some ill-informed youngling.

  So he snarled, “What is it?” at the knabe who came to wake him, and be damned to kithness.

  The knabe, a female named Vyvlidh, said curtly, “Morlock’s here. He says there’s trouble.”

  “Thanks, kithling. Where’s my kilt?”

  “You’re wearing it.”

  Sharvetr rolled out of his nest and strode away to the guest hall. Morlock was sitting there, drinking wine from the guesting cup. He set it by and stood as the Longtooth entered.

  “Longtooth Sharvetr. I come with bad news, I’m afraid.”

  “Morlock, my oldest friend: you are welcome here with whatever news you choose to bring, or none. Sit. Drink your wine. We’ll talk it out.”

  Morlock was an old friend to everyone in Graytown. He was one of the few who had argued against killing the mandrakes, born by the hundreds in the Year of Fire, hatching out of the teeth of slain dragons.

  The mandrakes had been planted carefully in an empty valley of the North and tended like plants. When their minds awoke they were taken and taught the New Way of Theornn, gently but urgently, as if their lives depended on it.

  Which they did. The Graith of Guardians was ruthless when it came to threats, or even potential threats. If the mandrakes could not resist the dragon-change, they were too dangerous to live in the Wardlands.

  But the New Way blossomed in the hearts of the Gray Folk: the words of patience, hospitality, generosity, loyalty. Most resisted the dragon-change, and they took on themselves the honor and burden of destroying or exiling the occasional throwback.

  Now Morlock sat on the couch and Sharvetr sat beside him and listened to his troubles.

  “Khnauronts, are they?” Sharvetr said at last. It was the word used in Dwarvish of a being that eats the flesh of those that think and speak—often, but not exclusively, used of dragons. “They took the wrong turn in the Whitethorns, then. I doubt they would relish a bite of one of the Gray Folk, eh, ruthen-Morlock?” The Gray Folk, like Morlock and his Ambrosial kin, had blood that burned in open air.

  “It’s true,” Morlock agreed. “But there are the folk of Ranga and its colonies—of Haukrull Vale—the Silent Folk in Kwelmgrind Vale—”

  “Say no more,” Sharvetr stopped him. “We are of one blood, harven coruthen, with all the people of the North. They could have killed us in the tooth, yet they let us live and taught us the New Way, so that we could be people and not mindless greedy animals. We will do what we can do to help. I take it kindly that you have come to us first. Unless you have already . . . ?”

  “No, I go next to Thrymhaiam, and then to the Silent Folk. I hope I’m not too late.”

  “Then send a message through us to Thrymhaiam. You go to the Silent Folk. Your friend Naevros syr Tol is here—”

  “He is?”

  “He is, although he does not say why.”

  “Can we go to him, Longtooth? There’s no time to lose.”

  “We can, but unless I am mistaken, here he comes to us.”

  Naevros burst into the greeting room and fell shouting on Morlock and embraced him. In the century or so that Morlock had known Naevros he had never seen him do something like that; he was embarrassed and honored and confused. He gently pounded Naevros on the shoulderblades with his fists.

  “Now we’re talking!” Naevros said, letting go of Morlock at last. “You know of the invasion, of course?”

  Morlock told him what they had seen at Raenli farmstead.

  “I was visiting with Illion’s people at Three Hills when the news came to us, via message sock,” Naevros explained. “The Graith sent me to rally the peoples of Northhold. Because half a millennium ago I was born in a fishers’ cottage on the Broken Coast. Ridiculous. But you were on the road and no one could reach you. My apologies, Longtooth,” he said, turning to the elected leader of the Gray Folk. “I should have told you my news when I arrived, but I was not sure what to ask—what I should ask—I—”

  “You are not our blood, harven ruthenclef, as Morlocktheorn is,” Sharvetr said with steel-cold civility.

  “Yes. Exactly.”

  “Ruthen Sharvetr,” said Morlock quietly.

  “I understand, ruthen. He does not know our ways and no offense is meant.”

  Naevros raised his eyebrows at the word offense and would have spoken, but Sharvetr raised a long seven-jointed gray finger.

  “Though you are not ruthen, I choose you as harven. We are of one blood, you and I. Ask what you would of me, kinsman, for blood has no price.”

  Naevros’ eyes crossed momentarily at the thought of being blood-kin to a mandrake. But his practiced suavity soon came to his aid, and he said, “The Gray Folk chose their Longtooth wisely. I beg pardon for any offense, and swear kith with you and your folk on any terms you choose.”

  “There is no oath. Say or say not.”

  “I say it, then, and say too that you honor me too much.”

  “You are my ruthen’s friend. That is already much. We’ll speak no more of honor, but of this danger in the land.”

  Morlock understood, as Naevros apparently did not, how angry Sharvetr was; many found the long-snouted, gray-scaled faces of the mandrakes hard to read.

  “Have you told him, Longtooth, about the banefires?” asked Naevros.

  “I have not.”

  “The night is deep and clear. Shall we go look?”

  They went, with Naevros and Sharvetr refusing explanations until Morlock had seen what they thought he should see.

  Morlock was deeply concerned. The banefires had been set on the gravehills in the Northhold a thousand years before. They were magical prisons for the Corain, the undead sorcerer-kings of the Coranians. While the banefires burned, the dead Corain could no longer wander the land by night and afflict it, stealing bodies and lives. That was ominously like the Khnauronts.

  Naevros led the way through the tunnel-like corridors of Sharvetr’s house to a doorway that faced north and west.

  The sky above was dense with stars. The major moons, Chariot and Horseman, stood high and bright above the ragged horizon to the west.

  The land below was not utterly dark. Beyond the shuttered lights of Gray Town, Morlock could see Ranga’s mining town, a sullen brownish glow to the north and east. He knew where Thrymhaiam was, farther north, but there were no lights to be seen: dwarves didn’t like to break the darkness with light unless they must.

  Due north were the gravehills, where the not-quite-dead Corain had been buried, and later imprisoned. Banefires were still burning there, as they had burned every night for a thousand years or more. One terrible night a century ago, the banefire on the Hill of Storms, oldest of the gravehills, had gone out when the Dead Cor within it died.

  But now there were more banefires missing—a long, meandering gap into the heart of the gravehills. At the end of the gap was a cluster of campfires. “The camp of the Khnauronts, or so I guess,” Sharvetr said, pointing.

  “Are the—the Khnauronts freeing the Dead Corain?” Naevros said in his ear. “Are they eating them? What are they doing?”

  Morlock shook his head. He didn’t know. But, “We need to know. Ruthen Sharvetr—”

  The Longtooth was only a red-eyed shadow against the lit doorway behind him, but Morlock saw him hold up his hand. “You Guardians will go into the gravehills. I will send a messenger to the Little Cousins under Thrymhaiam, and another to the Silent Folk beyond Kirach Starn. I think you had better write them a letter yourself, Morlocktheorn. Many
of them dislike the looks of us.”

  “Ruthen—”

  “Ruthen, enough. Blood of yours is blood of mine, whether they know it or not. I only speak the truth.”

  “And we should send a line south to warn the Graith of what we know,” Naevros added.

  “Harven,” said Sharvetr, “it will be done. If you write that, and Morlock writes the others, then we can dispatch the messengers and go back to our several nests.”

  Sharvetr Ûlkhyn was not greedy for gold, or power, or rage, or any of the things that led to the dragon-change. But he loved to sleep nearly as much as he loved those of his blood, be they harven or ruthen.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Evening in the Gravehills

  The gray plume of smoke coiled in the darkening sky over the invaders’ camp, deep in the gravehills.

  Evening soup, thought Naevros glumly. Just like mama used to make.

  His mother’s cooking was infamously bad—one of twelve or thirteen reasons he rarely saw his parents in recent centuries.

  He and Morlock had been worming their way into the gravehills for most of a day, trying to keep out of the invaders’ way. So far it had worked, and this was their reward: a cold spring twilight was falling; they were days away from anything Naevros considered a civilized place to sleep; and a thousand paces away or less, a ghoulish tribe of cannibals was preparing their evening feast.

  And, in fact, just when things seemed their worst, they actually got worse (as Naevros often found to be the case). As darkness rose into the sky, the major moons opened their eyes above, and blue light bloomed on the gravehills’ ragged heights. These were the banefires, those magical prisons for the Dead Corain, buried in the graves that gave these hills their baleful name.

  The banefires’ blue light revealed nothing but itself. It cast no shadows and shed no heat. In fact, the gathering night grew suddenly colder as the banefire light leapt up on hilltops all around them, including the hill they were standing on.

  Beyond the blue ridge of fire upslope from them there was . . . something. Something within the flames ringing the hilltop. Something that moved and looked vaguely like a man.

  As Naevros watched in fascination, he heard a voice whisper his name. His name. . . . It was his name—yet no one had ever called him by it. Only this voice knew it; only this voice could touch that part of him. He climbed, against his own will, a step or two upslope. He heard the name that was secretly his again, louder this time.

  “Naevros,” Morlock whispered, and drew him back.

  “Eh?” Now he had lost the name, like a dreamer loses a dream on awakening.

  “Don’t look into the flames. The Dead Corain can draw you to themselves through the banefire. They hunger for your tal and your living flesh.”

  “Do they?” Naevros shook his head and said, “Well, they can stand in line with everyone else. I’ll get around to them eventually.”

  Morlock’s shadowy face wore a shadowy smile. He led the way around the hill’s shoulder, and Naevros followed him, taking care not to look at the dead shape whispering beyond the blue flames.

  Eventually, Morlock went down on his stomach and squiggled forward like a worm across the hard windswept slope of the hillside. Naevros nearly rebelled at that. But anything Morlock was willing to do, he could do as well. He got down on his belly and squiggled. But—damn it!— he thought he did it with a certain style.

  When they rounded the edge of the gravehill they could see the Khnauront camp in the valley below. But there were also many Khnauronts moving about on the slope of the gravehill opposite. What they were doing was not exactly clear in the evil light. But they were walking parallel with the ring of fire, not toward it—that much was clear.

  As Morlock and Naevros watched, the banefire on the gravehill opposite guttered and went dark.

  Morlock retreated instantly behind the shoulder of the hill and then drew to a halt. His face was unreadable in the shadows.

  “What happened?” Naevros whispered finally.

  Morlock whispered back, “I think somehow they killed the Cor who was trapped behind the banefire of that hill. The flame only goes out when its prisoner is dead.”

  “How do you know—?” Naevros started to ask, and then he remembered a story about Morlock. He changed his question: “Are they that desperate for soup stuff that they’re digging up half-alive mummies and boiling them down?”

  “Doubtful,” said Morlock’s shadow. “They want something else. The Dead Corain were entombed with great treasures. Maybe . . .” His voice trailed doubtfully off. “Anyway: for the time being, this is keeping them from attacking the Rangan settlements, or Gray Town, or Thrymhaiam. Maybe we can pin them down here. Somehow.”

  As Naevros was about to remark, And at least we weren’t seen, he noticed two skeletally thin ragclad figures creep around the shoulder of the hill he and Morlock were lying on. Morlock was looking past him with unaccustomed alarm, which meant there were probably other Khnauronts bracketing them on that side.

  The two vocates leapt to their feet.

  “Has to be quick,” Naevros gasped.

  Morlock said nothing but drew Tyrfing with his right hand and a long dwarf-forged stabbing spear with the other. He dashed north, while Naevros unsheathed his sword and turned south.

  It had to be quick before they sounded an alarm and called the rest of the Khnauronts down on them. If they hadn’t already.

  The Khnauronts: it was the first time Naevros had seen them so close. They looked like men who had been a year dead, their flesh sunk down into their bones. They wore no armor and very little clothing of any sort. They carried a pair of weapons: a long serrated blade with a forked tip and something that looked like a short staff. Except, he saw as he grew closer, they were hollow, like tubes.

  As he dashed up to the nearest one, he shattered the tube first. He didn’t understand it, and therefore it was the most dangerous thing.

  Whatever the Khnauront used for muscles, it was pretty effective. The one whose tube he had broken stabbed at him instantly with the forked blade. Naevros caught the fork with his own sword and twisted it out of his enemy’s hand. Without bothering to shake his blade free, he thrust straight through the Khnauront’s throat.

  One down. So he briefly thought.

  But the Khnauront’s body didn’t go slack. When he made to withdraw his blade, he found that the Khnauront’s throat, flesh, and bone (so he guessed from the grind he felt through his blade) had already healed around his sword. Meanwhile the other Khnauront was attacking him.

  With his left hand he snatched at the forked blade of the first Khnauront, trapped between the Khnauront’s leathery flesh and the guard of Naevros’ own sword.

  With his hand on the grip of the unfamiliar weapon he brought it up in a swift parry to strike aside the stabbing weapon of the second Khnauront. He glanced at the second Khnauront’s staff, fearing whatever use it might have. But he saw it was not being directed at him. The second Khnauront was pointing the tube at the throat of the first Khnauront.

  Was it a healing device rather than a weapon? Naevros wasn’t sure.

  The weaponless Khnauront was flailing with his arms, striking out at Naevros and the second Khnauront with equal hostility. Did he have good reason? Or was he deranged?

  Naevros swung his sword so that the Khnauront still impaled on it was between Naevros and the other enemy. Then he kicked the impaled Khnauront on the chest with his right foot, and kept up the pressure with his foot until his sword was free from the closed mouth of the wound.

  The weaponless Khnauront danced with frantic hate, spinning around and around with his arms and one leg extended, striking with equal fervor at Naevros and his fellow Khnauront.

  The second Khnauront kept his tube or staff or whatever it was directed at the first Khnauront.

  The dry white lips of the Khnauront’s wound opened in his neck again and emitted a whistling hiss. He dropped to his bulbous skeletal knees. His head fell askew, near
ly severed anew by the wound Naevros had made, which had so spectacularly healed and was now spectacularly unhealing.

  That was what the tube was for. It fed off life, the tal of the wounded or dying, and the Khnauronts were as prone to devour each other as anyone else.

  He threw the forked blade like a spear, straight into the slack, gaping mouth of the second Khnauront. The Khnauront flailed a bit and then ran straight at him, keeping the tube directed at his dying comrade.

  Naevros deflected the forked blade with his own and grabbed at the tube.

  The second Khnauront began a freakish dance much like the first had, only it had a weapon to stab with. But Naevros parried the forked blade with his own and kept his grip on the tube and spun against the Khnauront at every turn. Between the two of them, they soon snapped the Khnauront’s wrist and Naevros snatched the tube free in triumph.

  He turned the tube on the second Khnauront.

  Naevros didn’t expect anything to happen. Obviously, whatever the tube was, it didn’t take great intelligence to operate. These beasts (he could no longer think of them as even approximately human) clearly had none to spare. But he expected that they were in rapport with the instruments, somehow, that one couldn’t just pick up one and use it.

  But, as it turned out, he was wrong about that.

  The shock of new life rushing into him was almost more than he could stand. All of a sudden he was many people, many voices. He saw their lives and deaths. He could do all that they could do; he knew all that they knew.

  And then he was the master and they were all and forever part of him. He knew the Khnauront kneeling before him had been a farmboy until extreme poverty forced the farmer to fire all his workers. The ex-farmboy had returned in the middle of the night, using his knowledge of the house, and stolen one of the children. He ate it with great satisfaction over the next few days. Then, as there was no other place for him in the world, he had joined the Khnauronts.

  Then all the other voices, all their knowledge and their suffering and joys were gone. He could not get in contact with them any more than he could get in contact with his liver: they were that ineluctably a part of him. But their strength was now his.