by GJ Kelly
"Later, though," Allazar sighed, "I may return to Callodon. Brock is his own man, and a good one. A good king. He will see the value of Longsword's plan to create likenesses of himself. I can hear Brock's laughter now."
"Well." Gawain sighed, "I must rise early. I think I shall retire."
He stood, and gathered his cloak and sword. "Good dreams."
"Aye. And good journey, in the morning." Allazar sighed, his eyes filled with sorrow.
"I shall bid you farewell now, my friend." Rak announced, "I shall leave for Juria with first light, and it lies in the opposite direction to your path."
"Then farewell, Rak of Tarn. Peace to you and your house. Good journey tomorrow."
They clasped hands, firmly, as if each were reluctant to let go. "Farewell, friend. Wear the cloak tomorrow. If you stumble on the farak gorin, it will spare you many cuts."
"I shall."
Allazar rose, and headed for the door to return to his room at the inn. "I shall watch for you from the point, in the morning."
Gawain nodded. "I shall watch for you too, on my return."
Allazar nodded, but there was despair, and loss, in his eyes. Then he turned, and was gone into the night.
"A strange one, that wizard."
"Of all them, the one that least offends. Sometimes I even feel for him."
Rak let go of Gawain's hand. "Do not judge all men by the actions of a few. He is unlike any wizard I have ever met. I truly believe he would follow you into fire."
"It is not into fire I travel, friend Rak. Use him well, that whitebeard, if it comes to pass that I cannot return. In truth, Brock of Callodon sets much store by that one."
"I shall. Good night, my brother, and fare well."
Gawain nodded, and retired to his room. He sat on his bed, and in the light from the lamps he checked his weapons. The strange black stains in the longsword's blade fascinated him. They seemed to swim deep within the steel. But it was sharp, and strong as ever, and he sheathed it knowing it would serve as long as his arm could command it.
His arrows received more attention. Their stone points were wickedly sharp, sharper than any steel could be, and the shafts true. One thing elves knew well, was the making of arrows. Tomorrow, three of these shafts would be put to the test. Perhaps more, further across the farak gorin.
"I come, Morloch." Gawain whispered in the gloom, settling back on the bed, "Prepare to be vexed some more."
oOo
19. River of Nothing
Before sunrise, Gawain rose, and washed. Then he wrapped himself in his new cloak, and slipped the longsword over his shoulder. Taking up the pack which Merrin had prepared for him, he cast a last glance around his room. Not through any sentimentality, but from the practical standpoint of ensuring he hadn't left anything of importance behind. He had not. The elven arrows hung snug and reassuringly heavy in their quiver under the cloak. His short sword hung from his hip, and his knife in his right boot. It was time to leave.
He let himself out of the house quietly, and strode around to the stables for a final farewell to Gwyn. Her sadness at his departure without her was evident in the way she snuffled and snorted, and pressed her great head into his chest.
"I shall return, even though you really are an ugly old nag. If I'm delayed too long, and your vanity demands new ribbons in your hair, you know where to go."
With a final pat on the great Raheen mare's neck, he turned, and left the stables, taking the path that led out of town, down the northern slope of the hills. Halfway down the track, as it wound around the hill through the trees, he caught up with Martan, and fell in step with the old man.
"Mornin', Serre." the old miner grinned in the gloom.
"Good morning, Martan. You travel light, it seems."
"Aye. Don't need much, in truth. Got some cakes of frak, some water, an' a few tools and clothes. Not much else needed out there at the Teeth."
"Frak?"
"You've not had frak?"
"I don't think so."
Martan grinned. "It's meat, dried and cured and spiced, and pressed into cakes. Pressed 'ard, mind, so's you could fit almost 'alf a cow in yer pack. There's those that can't abide the taste, but you don't need nothing else to keep the blood flowin' in yer veins out there."
"I think Lady Merrin put something in my pack that might be frak. A round cake, brown and heavy, big as a plate but thick as my arm."
Martan grinned. "She's a fine lady, that one. Not surprised she'd know the old ways, and would 'ave the good sense to pack frak in a man's pack when it's the Teeth at the end of 'is road."
"Not surprised? Her family were miners then?"
Martan chuckled. "All dwarven families 'ave miner's in 'em, Serre. But she being the King's niece, she'd know the old ways."
Gawain was stunned. "And Rak?"
"His lordship? Aye, he'd know 'em too. 'Is father was the second most respected man in all Threlland afore 'e died. His lordship is following 'is father's footsteps as I followed mine. Exceptin' my father weren't a great statesman nor an ambassador."
They trudged on in silence as the clouds above them turned a steely gray. As they rounded a bend in the track, the farak gorin hove into view, and they were nearing its harsh and uninviting surface with every step they descended.
Gawain paused as the first rays of dawn scythed over the horizon, and he turned his face to them. Martan walked a few paces on, standing a respectful distance away.
The old one-eyed soldier's words, spoken so long ago, whispered in Gawain's mind: "There are those who cannot see the dawn, your highness. I do this for them all."
Gawain remembered them all, and wondered who would remember The Fallen if he himself were unable to see another daybreak. He opened his eyes, turned back to the track, and together he and the old man set off again.
"When we set foot on that," Gawain said quietly, "Best if you stayed behind me. Those black-masked monsters wait for me ahead, and their weapons are lethal."
"Aye, so I 'eard at the inn last night."
"And yet you came?"
"Doubt you'd find the workings without me, Serre."
"Are there many?"
"Oh aye. There's been so many myths over the ages, 'bout them mountains. Lost gold, sleepin' giants and the like. For hundreds of years, dwarves have set off across this blasted river o' nothing in search of it all. You ever dug through rock, Serre?"
"No."
"Them Teeth have stood there since the world was born. Greatest forces in nature ain't been able to shift 'em but an inch. Can't count the number of irons that've been broke against 'em down through the ages in search of ore. Or men's backs, come to that. 'Ard stone and pain, that's all as been found there."
"But still you dug."
"Aye. Weren't much older than you at the time. I dug. I found 'ard stone and pain through all the old workings, as did we all back then. Some gave up earlier than others. Yonder, to the east? Six died when the roof collapsed on 'em. Yonder, slightly west? I came upon a great chasm. Never seen the like. It were as though the very world was split asunder. You couldn't fire a shaft across the width of it. It'd fall less than a third of the way across that great rip in the world. Me, I chucked a rock down there, and waited for the sound."
"How long?"
Martan shrugged. "Dunno. Sound of it striking bottom never came. Which way did you 'ave in mind, Serre, seen as we're about to set foot on this blasted bitchrock?"
Gawain paused. 'Slightly west' was the direction from which the occasional shimmering of aquamire could be seen from high above them. He turned, and glanced up at the hills, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he could see a tiny white-robed figure in the trees, but he'd probably imagined it.
"Slightly west, I think. I have a yen to see this rip in the world."
"Then that's the way we go, Serre. Watch yer footing from this point. You slip, this bitchrock will flay yer skin from yer bones without a second thought."
"Best I lead the way. Once we're on, t
hose black-masked demons will know it, I don't doubt."
"Aye. Head for that peak then, Serre, an' if yer boots don't succumb, we'll be there this time tomorrer, I shouldn't wonder."
Gawain stepped onto the farak gorin. It looked for all the world like a river of dark brown glass, frozen and shattered into spiteful edges. Where the rock was smooth, it glistened in the morning sunshine, but its beauty was all on its glazed surface, and it waited to slice unwary or careless flesh. The old miner's term for it was appropriate, he thought. Bitchrock.
He set a careful pace, until he became more used to the feel of it beneath his feet. Then he grew more confident, and allowed his eyes to linger in their scanning of the horizon. Nothing grew here. Nothing impeded his view, the river of nothing was almost perfectly flat. That was how the black riders had seen him, and how he now saw them, converging on him from a distance.
No wonder they were on foot, and Gawain was glad he'd left Gwyn behind. Even with steel shoes, this was no place for a horse. It was no place for a man, either, come to that, but here they were anyway.
"Nasty looking, ain't they?" Martan muttered.
"Aye. Poisoned blades and points too, so keep tight behind me when they close."
Gawain heard the old man spit. "Any closer and I'll be under yer cloak."
The young man smiled in spite of himself.
"If'n you don't mind me asking, Serre?"
"Ask.”
"You do have a plan for those monsters?"
"I do. I've dealt with them before. They're not so tough."
"You'll pardon me if I choose to remain unconvinced at this point, Serre."
Again Gawain grinned, and judged the distance. It would still be a few minutes before the first came in range of his arrows. The sun was rising quickly, and glistened and sparkled on the farak gorin as though it were a vast body of water. It reminded him almost of the Sea of Hope, but there was no hope here. Only dead brown bitchrock waiting patiently for another victim. Gawain was surprised at its expanse, too. It stretched far off to the east and the west, as though the very Teeth themselves had wept a flood of bitter tears that lapped against the hills of Threlland and the Gorian Empire, and then frozen hard into this wasteland.
They were closing fast now, and Gawain swung his cloak aside to draw three arrows.
"I 'ate to mention it at this point, Serre, but you forgot to bring yer bow." A worried voice muttered from close behind him.
"No, I carry it with me always." Gawain said quietly, fitting the Raheen bowstring around the first shaft. "As our dark friends are about to learn to their cost."
Gawain planted his front foot firmly on the harsh rock, drew back his arm, and hurled the first shaft with full force. He was stringing the second and walking forward again, both he and Martan watching the arrow's lazy flight. It struck the middle of the three black riders, and for a moment nothing seemed to happen. Then the creature toppled forward, and from three hundred or more paces they heard the eerie death-screeching as black light shot skyward.
Aquamire 'liberated', Gawain thought, catching a fleeting glimpse of understanding from his conversation with Allazar. Then he threw his second shaft. It was in mid-flight when the two armoured demons raised their crossbows and fired back. Martan instinctively ducked behind Gawain, but the bolts fell harmlessly short.
Another whistling screech told of Gawain's aim, and then the third was felled while it was still cocking its crossbow.
"That's it?" Martan gasped. "That's all?"
"That's it." Gawain acknowledged, flipping his wrist to coil the string back in place.
"Well then, I am pleased to say I 'ave reconsidered my former reservations, and do 'umbly accept that they ain't so tough after all."
"No, they're not. Which is a good thing, but a little worrying all the same."
A sudden shimmering in the air in front of them had Martan ducking back behind Gawain's cloak.
"I like not the look of this, Serre!" he croaked, peering around Gawain's arm and clutching a rock-hammer in his fist.
"Nor I. But I think I know what it is. Stay calm. It cannot hurt you."
"You'll pardon me if I refer you to my earlier comments."
The shimmering took shape, long and thin and black, and Gawain folded his arms. Morloch, seeming to crystallise out of thin air.
"Still you vex me, nothing. Still you vex me."
"You'll not have long to wait, Morloch. And then nothing shall vex you ever again."
"Cower. Beg mercy. Grovel, nothing, or know my wrath."
"No. You shall know mine."
"Futile. You shall perish. You shall not set foot on the Teeth."
"You said that about the farak gorin, scum, yet here stand I."
"You are nothing. You shall die."
"Not while you live."
"Go. While you may, nothing, I grow weary of this game and shall play with you no longer."
The vision began shimmering again, and Gawain smiled cruelly as it faded and disappeared.
"That...man...did not look well." Martan grunted.
"No," Gawain agreed, setting off again, "No he did not, did he."
"It was Morloch?"
"It was."
"Then you'll pardon me for saying so, Serre," Martan said, his voice quavering, "But I shouldn't be at all surprised to learn 'e ain't ever been married, looking like that an' all."
Gawain laughed, and nearly slipped on the treacherous glaze underfoot. Immediately the tension evaporated just as Morloch's vision had, and Gawain knew that Rak had been right to allow this old miner to serve as his guide. Old the man might be, but yet possessed of amazing character.
Martan was right about Morloch too. And so, in all probability, was Allazar. The dark wizard looked far worse than he had before, and this apparition was much shorter. The obscene round head had been a sickly pale hue, the black aquamire blotches standing out on the near translucent skin. Black veins had throbbed at his temples, and his aquamire eyes seemed somehow less penetrating, less malevolent.
With luck, and with good men like Rak of Tarn and Captain Jerryn of Juria behind him, Morloch would soon have something else to think about. By the time Gawain and Martan reached the Teeth, the young warrior sincerely hoped that a tall fair-haired warrior wielding a terrible longsword would be terrorising Ramoths the length and breadth of Juria. It might be enough to convince Morloch that Gawain had fled the farak gorin...it would certainly be enough to keep the Ramoths occupied. If it worked.
"Don't touch them," Gawain warned Martan as they passed the fallen remains of the black riders. "Those red streaks on their weapons are Elve’s Blood."
"They don't look so tough at all, now I sees 'em like this." Martan grunted, kicking the empty shell of armour. "Those arrers of yours, did that wizard enchant 'em or something?"
"No," Gawain chuckled, moving ever onward. "They are stone-tipped. That's all."
"Bit old fashioned, that. Don't know that I fancy the idea of folk taking to that old tradition, iron being my life's blood and all Threlland's too."
"Sometimes the old traditions are the best."
"Aye, like finding nothin' but 'ard stone and pain out 'ere. Them creatures certainly did."
"What say we try another old tradition? I've a mind to sample this frak of yours for breakfast."
"Ah! Now yer talking, Serre!" Martan grinned, and fished a lump from his pack, and cut it in half with his knife.
It had a curious taste, and not at all unpleasant. But it took a deal of chewing, and they walked for almost an hour in silence, eating their frak and enjoying the autumnal sunshine.
"The mountains don't seem to be getting any closer." Gawain remarked at length.
"It's the heat from the rocks, make's 'em look further than they is. Many's the faint-hearted turned back before they made it 'alfway across."
"When do you expect we'll find the workings?"
"Pends how long we sleep, or stop. We keep going through the night until tiredness creeps up,
well be at the foot of the Teeth this time tomorrer. Should find the entrance to the old shafts by noon, I reckon."
"Good."
"You don't like that lot much."
"Who?"
"Them Ramoths."
"No. I don't."
"Can't say as I blame you, Serre. Ain't too keen on 'em meself. None too keen on that Morloch, neither. Trouble is, us living so close to the Teeth, not much we could do about it. Talk all through Threlland is, what with us being a lot closer to Morloch than Raheen were, it'd been easier for the dark bastard to 'ave done for us what 'e did for those poor people."
"Perhaps it would." Gawain sighed.
"Aye. A whole land, gone. In but an instant. I cried, when I 'eard the news, and I ain't shamed to admit it. My one consolation were that my beloved wife weren't alive when it happened."
"You knew Raheen?"
"No. Never set foot outside Threlland all me life. Excluding the Teeth, of course. But I glimpsed a bunch of 'em once. Raheen cavalry, riding up the hills, proud as you like, Serre, escorting their ambassador, back in the days of that war in Pellarn. Never seen such a sight, nor never will now. They were like sunshine on a frosty morning, they were, Serre. Sitting tall on their steeds, great battle-chargers they were, all black and shinin' like fresh paint. Noble people, and friendly too, by all accounts. We were all for pickin' up our 'ammers and picks and walking off after 'em when they left, down south, to battle the empire. But we was forbid. Armies need steel, we were told, steel needs iron, and iron needs miners. And besides, our army couldn't cross Juria back then without a big to-do."
"So I've heard tell."
"Aye. Well, the way I looks at it Serre is this. I ain't got much of a life left in me these days, too long in the mines, too much bad air. Too old too, nothin' to do but sit and remember old days. But this quest o' yours, well. See, if I can help bloody the nose o' the bastards that did for Raheen before I die, why then I'll die proud as those cavalry looked all them years ago. Maybe if enough folk felt likewise, we could kick even Morloch's dark backside to the moon and yonder."