by GJ Kelly
Some of the other dwarves chuckled, and Gawain smiled. Elayeen would be a good three or four inches taller than Rak, and the top of her head would barely reach his shoulder.
"Our wizards advised his majesty to tolerate their presence," Rak continued, "And not to offend this creature Ramoth and the dark wizard Morloch. But the day these shave-head chanting imbeciles count a crowd of dwarves among their number is the day the Dragon's Teeth fall and Ramoth himself darkens the sun!"
Gawain nodded. "I first saw them in Callodon, heading south towards Raheen."
"They'll get short shrift there, I daresay. The Raheen may be aloof, and look down on us all from their lofty perch, but they're a good people, and their king is not one who'll readily allow Ramoths to taint his lands."
"You know the Raheen?” Gawain asked, trying to contain the sudden beating of his heart at the mention of his homeland from this broad-shouldered yet thoughtful man.
"Aye. My father took me once, and I actually stood in the Great Hall there. I was young then, perhaps four or five. It was after the Pellarn war, before that great western kingdom was swallowed up by the Gorian Empire. I saw Davyd of Raheen, though of course I never spoke with him. I met Brock of Callodon there too, though that was before his father died and he ascended to Callodon's throne."
Gawain desperately tried to remember, but it was hopeless. Rak was a good two or three years older than himself, and so Gawain would likely have been a mere infant when these events occurred.
"I did not know that dwarves had visited so far south."
"Oh yes, we get around here and there. Back then, when Pellarn was overrun by the Gorian praetorians, Raheen and Callodon gave as much aid as they could to keep Pellarn free of the imperial yoke. When the kingdom fell, it was Raheen and Callodon held the border, and stopped the Gorian advance.
"For some time afterwards Davyd of Raheen tried to unite the seven kingdoms, to form an alliance which would support each other, to keep the empire at bay."
"It failed."
"Aye. The elves were content within their great forest, for one thing. They seem to think nothing can get in or out of there without their express permission. Threlland sent my father as ambassador to Raheen to pledge dwarvish support, but we're so far away there was little we could do. Without Juria's consent, and Mornland's too, we could not send military aid across those borders and down into Callodon.
"Eventually the wizards announced that they'd read their great prophecies, consulted the stars, and generally mumbled in their damned white beards and come to the conclusion that the empire would advance no further. So Davyd's attempts at alliance simply waned, and nothing came of it.
"But I did stand in the Great Hall, and I did see him, and young prince Brock of Callodon. It was then that I decided I would follow in my father's footsteps. There is a whole world, and Threlland is but a small part of it. We must none of us become so elvish that we turn our backs on our neighbours."
Nods of agreement from the merchants mimicked Gawain's own, and he found himself drawn to this strange man. A dwarf, yes, powerfully built and doubtless more than able to wield that battle-axe of his to great and deadly effect, but a diplomat too, and surprisingly forthcoming for a member of a race considered by all others to be 'a suspicious lot'.
"I have travelled much of late," Gawain said quietly, "and find that most people, perhaps even the elves, have a great deal in common. But I wish the whitebeards that lurk behind all thrones were not so feared and respected."
"Why so?"
"I fear they made a mistake all those years ago. True, the Gorian empire has not advanced any further east since Pellarn fell. But these Ramoths seem to me to be a greater threat than even the Gorian praetorians, and had King Davyd's alliance succeeded, there might not be so many high towers growing like malevolent Dwarfspit trees all over the land."
"Aye, Traveller, you may be right. They're a poisonous lot for sure, and like the sap of a Dwarfspit tree, one touch is deadly."
Merrin rose quietly, and bade them all goodnight before retiring to a small tent that had been erected for her comfort. Rak watched her go, a soft light in his eyes.
"Will it be soon?” Gawain asked.
"We should reach Tarn in time, weather permitting. Our lands lie on the western foothills of Threlland. Three weeks, if there's no snow, and we'll be home."
"I should still like to see Threlland. Would I be welcome there?"
Rak's eyebrows arched, and then he glanced at his travelling companions. No-one gave any hint of objection. "Aye, if your mind's set on it, why then journey with us, Traveller, and I'll show you the Black Hills."
Gawain smiled. One day, he thought to himself, not so many months from now, he would be home. Seated by the fire, his family around him, and he would tell of Rak of Tarn, and in the telling, perhaps rekindle his father's old dreams of alliance. It hurt a little, to know that lowlanders considered the Raheen to be aloof, but he took comfort from Rak's assertion that they were also considered to be 'good people'.
When the hour drew late, the dwarves and the three Jurian merchants retired to bed, sleeping under simple canvas shelters. Gawain unsaddled Gwyn, drew out his bedroll, and elected to sleep by the hearth of the campfire and its glowing embers. He was keenly aware that several pairs of dwarvish eyes watched him all the while, until at last they were content that he was settled and no threat.
He didn't blame them. For all Gawain knew, the goods in those great bundles could be anything from casks of Jurian brandy to precious gemstones, or even goldweave silkcloth from the east coast principality of Arrun. On his travels, Gawain had heard frightening tales of despicable brigandry, whereby a lone bandit would befriend a caravan of merchants, and then betray them from within…
It was in that darkest hour of night, when death is known to stalk the unwary in their beds, that Gawain snapped awake and heard Gwyn's quiet snuffling snort of alarm. The fire was out, just the faintest glow of dull purple from its ashy heart. He listened, cocking his head this way and that, trying to identify the threat and the direction from which it came.
With a rising sense of disgust, Gawain realised that it was raining, and the sounds were being muffled. Still he listened, and steeled himself. They were being surrounded, on at least four sides judging by the clink of harness and the occasional metallic noises he discerned through the pitter-patter of cold rain.
Gawain hissed through his teeth, hoping to alert his new-found friends. They gave no sign of stirring. He hissed again, and still nothing.
"Hai, Gwyn." he whispered, knowing that the horse would hear and understand. She let out a single snort, loud enough for all to hear in the camp. Gawain doubted that the unseen enemy would regard it with any sense of alarm.
Still no movement from his friends, no sign that they'd heard.
Dwarfspit and Elve's Blood! Gawain thought. Are these dwarves deaf?
He slowly slipped the heavy blanket off, and turned onto his stomach.
"Rak!" he whispered. "Rak!” In the direction of Merrin's tent, and the black shape outside its flap where he knew Rak was sleeping.
Still nothing. Gwyn snorted again, and Gawain knew that the danger was imminent. He felt around on the ground until his fingers touched the smooth surface of a pebble, and he hurriedly prised it from the wet soil. Slowly, trying to make little sound, he tossed it at the slumbering dwarf fifteen paces away. It hit the black shape, and Gawain could've sworn he saw movement.
He hissed again. Nothing.
Then he heard the unmistakable sound of a blade being drawn from a sheath, out in the darkness. There was nothing else to be done now.
"Alarm!" Gawain yelled, jumping to his feet, drawing his sword with his right hand and his knife with his left.
Black shapes were suddenly rushing into the camp from all sides, and Gawain knew that the dwarves must now fend for themselves, as he must fend for himself.
The nearest shape lunged at Gawain with what seemed a familiar curved blade. He do
dged it easily, and screaming "The Fallen!" the battle-cry taught him by the old one-eyed soldier so long ago, he cut his attacker down with a single flashing sweep of his own sword.
Another was on him in an instant, but was too close to use his curved blade with any effect. Gawain sank his knife to its hilt in the attacker's stomach, angled upwards, and felt the dying man's hot and rancid last breath explode into his face.
"The Fallen!" he yelled again, pushing the body away and racing to the tent in which Merrin lay.
Screams and the clash of steel rent the night, and Gawain heard the awful but thrilling sound of Gwyn screaming a battle-cry of her own. It was a high-pitched whinny of outrage that her chosen mount was in jeopardy, and it was followed by the sound of a mighty, thudding impact. One of the attackers would never rise again, his chest crushed by a devastating kick from Gwyn's hind legs.
There seemed to be no end of them, these black-clad brigands. They were brutal and savage, but utterly lacking in skill at arms. Their lack was their loss, and Gawain met every attack with the deft skill of years of royal training.
Once he saw Rak from the corner of his eye, the battle-axe gleaming in the faint light of pre-dawn as the leaden sky turned a steely hue.
Cries, screams, and the clash of steel against steel, and then it became strangely silent, the din of furious battle replaced by nothing but heavy, laboured breathing in the night, and then a distant sound of hooves as one, then two riders fled south.
Gawain remained where he was, his back to Merrin's tent, his heavy sword held poised en guarde in his right hand, the knife ready in his left. His breathing was even, slow and deep, all senses alert, eyes peering into the false dawn, scanning for the slightest movement, ears cocked for the slightest sound.
There was a sudden break in the clouds, like a tear in sackcloth, and silvery-grey light illuminated the campsite. Gawain glanced around hurriedly. Merrin sat in the tent's opening, one hand clutched to her mouth, a dagger in the other as she gazed fearfully up at Gawain and then down at the six bodies scattered on the ground in front and beside him.
He saw Rak, standing six paces away, battle-axe clenched in both hands, an expression of unspeakable rage on his bloodstained face.
By the horses, bodies lay around the bundles of goods as if they were part of the merchants’ baggage, Gwyn standing over them, pumping her head up and down as though nodding and saying "I warned you, did I not?" at the corpses.
The sky lightened still further, and Gawain counted the standing. Eleven, and Merrin at his feet made twelve. They had survived the assault.
Dawn broke, weak and insipid as ever in winter. There was no sun to warm his face, but Gawain turned east, and closed his eyes anyway. The Fallen… he remembered, standing motionless as the drizzle washed over him and his pulse slowed. His biggest fear during the fighting was that, in the darkness, he might mistake friend for enemy, and slay one of the dwarvish company, or one of the three taller Jurians. He had not, and for that, he was grateful to all The Fallen for guiding his blade, through the teachings of old soldiers like the one-eyed veteran of the Pellarn war.
"Traveller!” It was Rak's voice, anguished.
Gawain turned, and sheathed his weapons.
"Are you hurt?” Merrin asked, her voice trembling and fearful.
"No, my lady. And you?"
"I am unharmed."
"Traveller!” Rak gasped again, and when Gawain looked up he saw that the company was drawing closer, some nursing wounds but all staring around the ground at the campfire and near Merrin's tent.
"Rak, are you injured?" Gawain asked, wide-eyed.
But the blood was washing from Rak's face in the drizzle, and was clearly not his own.
"Eight.” said Karl, one of the dwarves. "Elve's Blood and Dwarfspit. I count eight."
Gawain followed their eyes, and noted the bodies strewn from the campfire where he had been sleeping, and to Merrin's tent. Eight there were. He could not remember having killed so many, it was all a desperate blur.
"Our lives are yours, Traveller.” Rak choked, moving to slip an arm around Merrin's shoulders as she rose from the tent. "This is a debt we can never repay."
"There is no debt.” Gawain announced softly, again seeing horror in the eyes of women, and this time in the eyes of men as they surveyed the carnage Gawain had inflicted on their attackers. "For I fear I may have brought this attack upon you."
"You? How so?"
"I have seen weapons such as these before." Gawain sighed, kicking one of the curved swords. "They are carried by Ramoth guardsmen, and I may have offended them in Callodon some months past."
"Then you have not brought this upon us. The Ramoths travel south, not north." Rak announced firmly.
"If these are their guardsmen, it was our goods they wanted, friend Traveller, not you, and we carry a rich cargo."
"True.” Rak confirmed. "And how could they know you were with us? More likely they are simple brigands."
"With such weapons?" Gawain asked softly.
"Ramoth guardsmen are little more than mercenaries. It takes money to hire the likes of them, not the empty promises of ancient gods. This is still Juria, Traveller, wide open plainsland. No place for brigands to hide in ambush. Most likely they saw our fire last night, and made their plans against us in the darkness."
"Aye, saw our fire as you did, Traveller." Karl insisted.
"Our lives are yours, Traveller." Rak insisted. "If not for you, it would be us laying cold on this wet grass."
"Your lives are your own, my friends," Gawain announced, looking at them all. "And I am glad for your company."
"My lord," Merrin shuddered, turning to her husband, "Let us leave this place?"
"Aye. Threlland lies yonder, and I yearn for home."
Gawain walked slowly towards the ashes of the campfire to collect his bedroll and cloak.
"Traveller," Rak called. "Last night you said you could make no claim for birthright or homeland. I tell you now, you shall always have a home in Threlland, on the western slopes of that fair kingdom, in Tarn. In truth, this I swear on my beloved wife, and our unborn child."
Gawain turned to face them again, and smiled, and nodded his heartfelt gratitude. Still, he couldn't help the lump in his throat, and the memories of Raheen that Rak's sincere words summoned forth. In six months, when these plains were basking in summer sunshine again, Gawain would be home. He could use his own name again, he could wear the bright red and gold colours of Raheen, and could proudly declare his heritage.
Until then, he was Traveller, and home, and his name, and all things Raheen, were forbidden him.
oOo
6. Tarn
They travelled for two weeks, that strange mixture of Jurian, Dwarf, and Raheen, crossing the river at a sluggish ford guarded by cheerful Mornlanders on the one side and somewhat less cheerful Jurians on the other.
It was there that Gawain noted the deference shown to Rak by the guards on both sides of the river, and he began to suspect that Rak's quiet insistence that he was "just a minor emissary" was little more than modesty on the dwarf's part.
On the Mornland side of the river, plains soon gave way to rolling chalk hills, and lush grass became bush and shrub, and then orchards and vineyards. According to Varn, one of the Jurian noblemen merchants travelling with the caravan, Mornland's wines and cider were justifiably envied even by the inhabitants of Arrun, where the sun, they said, shone brighter and warmer than anywhere else in the land.
They were crossing the northernmost reaches of Mornland's domain, and the hills grew steeper as they went, and it grew considerably colder. The trees and shrubs provided some shelter from the wind, more than could ever be had on the plains they'd left behind them, but they also carried with them a greater threat. The entire company were considerably more vigilant than they had been before the attack in Juria, and they were learning to pay more attention to both Gawain and Gwyn whenever the latter pricked her ears or snorted out of turn.
> It was clear that they all regarded Gawain with a mixture of profound friendship, and fear. Their evening conversations around their campfire were quiet but good-humoured, and though Gawain knew that his questions must have seemed strange to his new comrades, they never voiced any surprise or concern.
For someone who called himself Traveller, he seemed to know very little about the lowlanders and their customs, and seemed very anxious to learn.
Rak had obviously decided that Gawain was on some sort of quest or adventure, having spent his life in some remote southern or eastern province, and was happy to provide as much information as he could. Besides, Gawain's right arm had spared his wife and unborn child from harm that fateful night, and though the younger man was far too tall ever to be considered a brother, there seemed to be a recognition of a kindred spirit in both men.
"So you believe it's the wine and the cider that explain these Mornlanders being so cheerful all the time?” Gawain frowned, and then noticed the smiles around him as they rode. "Ah. I see."
"Take no offence, Traveller," Rak grinned, "sometimes we fear you are too serious in your thirst for knowledge and would lighten your burden with a little laughter."
"I heard once that dwarves were not noted for their sense of humour." Gawain said sourly, but the gleam in his eye belied his tone.
"I heard it said that giants had no sense of humour at all.” Rak countered, looking up at him.
They laughed, but not for long. Gawain suddenly frowned.
"What is it?" Rak asked quietly.
"Your people live closest to the Dragon's Teeth."
"Aye. You can see them from Tarn. There's a broad stretch of badland that runs down from the Teeth like a river of stone, and washes right up against Threlland's northern slopes here in the east, and Elvendere's northern reaches in the west. Although, the elven forest is thin there and I doubt any of our elvish cousins dwell therein.
"We call the badland area 'farak gorin', which means 'land of nothing' in our language. Little grows there, the ground is spiteful sharp, and runs all the way down to Juria's plains."