by GJ Kelly
"Maybe." Gawain paused, and drank a mouthful of water from the skin that Martan offered him. "Maybe even further than that."
"Aye!" Martan chuckled, "And if not, it's got more dignity to it than sitting in a brother's house, boring all and sundry with tales of olden times. When they learn of it, Serre, then they'll all weep tears o' shame they weren't 'ere with us."
"You think so?"
"I knows so, Serre." Martan asserted as they set off again. "Why ask you?"
"The wizard believes this a fool's errand."
Martan laughed again, and spat. "Wizard said you was dead, Serre. Shows 'ow much wizards know."
They walked until their yawns came almost as frequently as normal breaths, and then with great reluctance, they stopped to make a temporary camp. Even with all their blankets beneath them, and in spite of Gawain's arrowsilk cloak, the ground was uncomfortable. Yet they slept, fitfully, and each time Gawain awoke he expected to hear Gwyn snorting a warning.
They'd been walking for an hour before the sun rose again, and Gawain greeted it with custom and with a sense of relief that he'd met another one at all. He still could not believe that the three black riders were all that stood between him and the Teeth. Perhaps Allazar was perfectly correct, and Morloch truly was weakened beyond further threat. Or perhaps a greater danger awaited them at the foot of the mountains, almost near enough to touch.
"See that gray stuff yonder?" Martan pointed at the ground ahead, perhaps a thousand paces away.
"Aye."
"That be scree. The end of the farak gorin. That's fine gravels, washed down from the Teeth over the years. Once on that, we're off the blasted bitchrock, and can say we've reached the Teeth."
"And the workings you spoke of?"
Martan gazed up at the peak towering high above them. "See that shadow, where it's shaped like a bird?"
"Yes."
"There. A natural rent in the rock. Best sort o' places to begin a works, where nature's already done some o' the ground-breaking."
They walked on, and Martan seemed to sense Gawain's rising tension. The young warrior was clearly expecting some new and dreadful threat at any moment. Where Morloch was concerned, Martan wouldn't be surprised if an army of black-masked monsters emerged from the rocks in front of them.
Soon, though, and without incident, the ground underfoot gave way to crunching gravel, and the farak gorin was left behind them.
"Welcome to 'ard rock and pain, Serre." Martan muttered, paring a lump of frak from a cake and handing it to Gawain. "Might as well break fast now, we've some climbing ahead afore we make the shafts."
"Thank you. Is it always this quiet?"
Martan shrugged, and chewed. "Sometimes you might 'ear an eagle. In the shafts, you 'ear water drippin'. That, and the wind's about all. There's plants around, but not much life. Rock's too 'ard for more than lichens and mosses. See, we just crossed the river o' nothin'. And though no-one's ever seen the other side o' the Teeth, I'll bet there's more miles o' bitchrock over there too. Not surprising then, that you don't find nothin' on the Teeth, them just being an island of nothin' in the river o' nothin'."
"Not quite nothing, Martan."
"Eh?"
"Look yonder. In the scree, running to the west. Those are ruts. Wagons pass this way."
"Well poke a wizard in the eye and call 'im whitebeard!"
oOo
20. Hard Rock
The wagon-wheel ruts were scarcely visible, but they did indeed run from west to east along the scree that marked the edge of the farak gorin. From the Gorian Empire, to the eastern coast, around the flank of Threlland. Heavy rains had probably washed more scree down from the steep slopes of the mountains, all but obliterating the ruts in the gravel in places. It was impossible to see where, if anywhere, they'd stopped.
"An 'ard road to travel." Martan had opined, and Gawain had agreed. To the west lay the frozen wastes of the northern empire. To the east, the sheer cliffs that dropped from Threlland's flanks to the ocean below.
"No food to be 'ad, neither, except what you bring yerself. Game's rare as horse-feathers in these parts."
"Nothing to be done about it now." Gawain announced, gazing up at the mountain. "There's where we're headed. Up there."
"Aye. I'll lead the way this time, Serre, though if'n we meet any more o' them monsters I'll thank you to nip ahead at the appropriate moment."
Gawain grinned, and followed the miner's curious sidewards clambering up the sloping scree. It made for difficult going, until eventually the gravel gave way to hard rock. There, their progress slowed, Martan picking his route carefully, stopping from time to time to check for safer or easier routes as the slope steepened even further.
They were just at the point where using their hands was becoming more frequently necessary, when Martan froze, and picked up a handful of loose stone.
"What is it?" Gawain said softly. They were near the fissure that the miner asserted gave way to the old workings.
"Fresh dug."
"Fresh? There's moss there."
"Aye. Fresh dug. Within a year or two, I'd say. Moss breaks it down, in time. Ice in winter, sun in summer. Rains and wind do the rest. This is fresh dug, within a year or two."
"Dwarves?"
"Nah. I'd know. They'd 'ave sought me out."
"Then we proceed with greater care, my friend."
"Aye. With very great care, Serre. You'll oblige me by 'aving one o' them arrers at the ready when we top that ledge."
"I will."
Some time later, after a cautious and nervous climb, they crested the ledge in question. Martan bobbed his head up over the top. Then sighed.
"All's clear Serre. But I'll thank you to go first in any case."
Gawain smiled grimly, and eased himself over the ledge. The fissure in the rock face was like a cruel scar, jagged and deep. Slightly south facing, its depths were partially illuminated by the near noon sun.
Martan clambered over the edge with a nimble agility that defied his years. He was clearly at home in this unforgiving terrain. Immediately he began scanning the ground, and then beckoned Gawain forward, pointing at a patch of rubble.
"See 'ere, Serre. Fresh spoil. A year, maybe two."
Gawain eyed the ground, and then gazed at the serious-faced Martan. "You'll pardon me, Martan, if I question your definition of the word 'fresh' at this point."
Martan grinned. "Aye, well...it's fresh in miner's terms, as far as spoil goes. Means someone 'as been workin' the shaft recent. Always a worry, in case whoever it was left the tunnels in a state o' near collapse. Always a worry."
"Where's the entrance to the workings?"
"This way Serre."
Martan led them into the fissure, and then fumbled in his pack. From it, he produced two steel bottles, and handed one to Gawain, who looked momentarily puzzled until Martan showed him how to use the lamp.
"You 'olds it by the neck, and then you twists the body so..."
Twisting the body of the 'bottle' exposed a glass portal, through which shone a powerful beam of light.
"Glowstones." Martan began to explain, but Gawain nodded his understanding.
"I've seen them before, in Elvendere. They allow no fire there.”
"Very wise of 'em I'm sure, livin' in trees like they're said to do. An' very wise not to be lightin' no fires in the workin's neither."
They stepped forward into the fissure, and then Martan paused again. "Well, kick my arse an' call me whitebeard! See here!"
Gawain stepped closer, and added his lamp to Martan's.
"See there, Serre? Someone's been a-workin' the entrance! There, tryin' to make it bigger...that's 'uman workin', that is."
"How do you know?"
"Dwarf don't need to make the shaft so 'igh, does 'e? See there? They got what, about twenty paces in, then gave up."
"Why would they give up?"
Martan shrugged. "Dunno. P'raps they found a better way in or out? That explains the fresh spoil out
yonder though. I'd say these workin' were..."
"Fresh," Gawain interjected, "maybe a year or two?"
Martan's face cracked into a broad grin. "Why Serre, I do believes yer learning a miner's ways!"
Gawain smiled back, and shone his lamp on the ground around the entrance. "No sign of recent passage."
"No," Martan agreed. "Not for a year or two at least. You'll have to stoop low when we goes in, Serre. The workin's beyond these fresh cuts were dwarf-dug. And we speaks in whispers, Serre. Loud noises don't go too well in the mines, an' voices travel far."
Gawain nodded, and moments later they entered the tunnel. Twenty paces in, Gawain had to stoop, and it became pitch-black save for the light from their glowstone lamps. Yet further, and silence enveloped them like the darkness, and Gawain had an uneasy sense of the mountain's weight above him.
The tunnel ran almost arrow-straight at a steep downward slope for some considerable distance. Gawain lost all sense of time, and his back was beginning to protest by the time the shaft opened up into a small chamber and he could stand upright again.
Martan turned around, and shone the lamp up at the shaft's roof. "More 'uman work. See there? They was trying to heighten the tunnel at both ends. More fresh spoil 'ere an' all."
"Odd that they went to so much trouble, and then ceased." Gawain whispered back.
"Aye. Well, this be the first chamber. We can rest 'ere a bit afore we go on, if you needs a stretch?"
"I do. How long have we walked?"
"Lost time, eh? Goes like that in the mines. No sun nor moon to tell time by. By my guts, which're beginning a rumbling, it's evenin' in outworld."
"So long?"
"Aye. We're well down and under.” Martan sat on the bare rock floor, and fished in his pack for his cake of frak, while Gawain shone his lamp around the chamber.
Apart from the exit, three more tunnels gaped black and uninviting in the walls. One had been worked just like the exit, the roof chipped away to gain height.
"Which route do we take to the chasm you spoke of, Martan? Would it be that one?"
Martan, chewing a mouthful of the leather-tough frak, shook his head, and pointed to another.
Gawain frowned, and sat down, and rummaged in his own pack. Merrin had packed two great cakes of frak inside, and judging by the seemingly tiny amount shaved off one of them, they would last a long time.
While he chewed the tough but wholesome frak, Gawain mused. The chasm seemed somehow important, but the recent workings on the other tunnel suggested that they would be better following it, rather than the low-ceilinged route indicated by the old miner.
"Where does that one lead?" Gawain mumbled while he chewed, indicating the fresh-worked route.
"West, parallel to the farak gorin above. It dies out maybe ten mile along. No ore."
"Ten miles?"
"Aye. Not much of a dig, but when yer sees no traces, comes a point when it's easier to try another direction."
"Not much of a dig? Ten miles?"
Martan looked surprised. "Aye. You'll find loads o' little runs like that 'un all over the place. They leads nowhere."
Gawain was stunned at the scale of the works. That dwarven miners would consider a ten mile dig through solid rock to be 'not much of a dig' was astounding.
"How far is the chasm?" he whispered, not sure he wanted to know.
"Fair ways off, and fair ways down. There's chambers like this 'un along the way, so's you'll have a chance to stretch yer back afore it's bent permanent."
Gawain could see the old miner's eyes sparkling in the lamplight while he prized another slice of frak from his cake. A 'fair ways off'? Gawain thought. If ten miles was not much of a dig, how far was 'a fair ways off'?
When they'd eaten, Martan led the way through the tunnels once more. Time had little meaning, and the world was reduced to a tube lit for twenty paces ahead of them, darkness beyond, and damp walls either side. The rest chambers, as Martan called them, were really little more than small cave-like rooms, from which sprung other tunnels. They slept when they were tired, and moved on when they awoke. Soon, Gawain even began to lose count of the 'sleeps', by which he'd attempted to measure the days and nights.
Martan had chuckled at that, and explained that it mattered not. With no sun nor moon to tell time by, folk adopted a strange routine of waking and sleeping which bore no resemblance to the patterns and routines of 'outworld'. Gawain instead tried counting the number of times they paused to refill their waterskins from trickles and rivulets than ran down the tunnel walls at intervals. Even that was a poor clock.
Once, while filling their skins, Gawain followed Martan's lead and pressed his ear to the rock wall. A distant rushing and rumbling could be heard.
"Underground river, or stream." Martan explained. "That's why this tunnel veers sharp ahead, not a good idea to bore into that lot."
Gawain agreed, and shuddered, and drew his cloak tighter around himself. It was cold in the tunnels, a constant and unvarying temperature, and he was grateful for the cloak's fur lining.
Some time later, or at least five sleeps later, whatever that might mean in outworld time, Martan paused and cocked his head, listening. Gawain strained his ears, but heard nothing but the constant drip of water, and his own breathing.
"What is it?" he whispered at length.
"Thought I 'eard tooling. Iron on rock. We're nearing the chasm, no more chambers between here and that great divide."
"Where are we?"
"Near the chasm."
"But where, with respect to the mountain?"
"From outworld, we're near the heart of the range." Martan shrugged. "Distance don't mean much really. We been goin' up an' down, east an' west, followin' the cuts as were made in search of ore. In the workin's, you can walk thirty mile, and end up 'alf a mile from where you started."
Gawain's heart sank. His back ached from stooping so low, his knees were scraped, and he was tired. But he took some comfort in the knowledge that Morloch and the Ramoths had not been able to take advantage of the old dwarven workings to travel straight through the teeth from one side to the other.
"Are you ready? Not far now ‘til we reach the rip. Then we can eat, and sleep."
"Aye."
And so they trudged on, Gawain's back and legs protesting every inch. Hours later, or so it seemed to Gawain, Martan stopped and listened again. Then continued on. Finally, the tunnel opened up, the ceiling became high enough for Gawain to stand upright, and the walls became jagged, natural rather than dwarf-dug. And a breeze began to waft over their faces, bringing with it fresh chill air and a sensation of a vast open space beyond the light from their lamps.
Moments later, Martan stopped. "Listen!" he whispered urgently.
Gawain cocked his head, and this time he too thought he heard a distant ringing, iron striking rock. But there was no telling from which direction the sound had originated. It echoed eerily, bouncing off countless rock walls, travelling countless tunnels.
"Tooling." Martan said, so quietly Gawain barely heard. "Best be hushed, Serre, what we hears, so can they, whoever they be. And dwarves they ain't, from the sound o' the tooling."
Gawain stepped forward, and shone his lamp down and around. They seemed to standing on a broad expanse of flat rock, and then Martan tilted Gawain's arm up, so the beam from lamp lanced skyward. He could not see the cave roof.
"How high?" Gawain gasped.
"Dunno. Never seen it. Stay close to me..." and with that Martan led Gawain forward. Forty paces, and the rock floor ahead of them disappeared into blackness. "The rip."
They eased forward, and then lay down, sliding close to the edge. A wind, cold and chill, ran the length of the chasm. Gawain played his lamp beam around, but could see neither the bottom nor the far side of the great gash in the world.
"Listen." Martan prompted, and picked up a rock, and dropped it over the edge. Nothing.
Gawain counted a hundred heartbeats. Still no sound.
&nb
sp; "How far you reckon you can chuck one of them arrers of yours?" Martan asked.
"Just for distance? Maybe three hundred and fifty paces, perhaps a bit more."
"Give it a try. Listen for the sound of it striking rock."
They backed away from the edge, and stood. Gawain threw open his cloak, strung an arrow, and hurled it into the darkness. The snapping of the bowstring as it released the shaft echoed sharp and faded, and they listened for the sound of the arrow striking. Nothing.
"You know what a grappinbow is?" Martan asked.
"No."
"It's a kind of crossbow. Big, 'eavy. Use 'em for bridgework in outworld. Idea is, you fire a girt big bolt, with a rope tied to it. Launch it across a river gorge, to make the startin's of a rope bridge. It'll fire a normal bolt a good thousand paces. I 'eard tell, from the old miner who led me down here when I was your age, they'd brung one down with 'em once. Fired a bolt yonder. Heard no strike. Can you imagine?"
"In truth? A thousand paces?"
Martan shrugged. "Dunno. Can't see any miner worth a spit dragging a grappinbow all the way down 'ere just to do that. See, if there ain't no-one on the other side to fetch up the rope, no point using it to try and build a bridge, is there? But we proved today, that rip's more'n three-fifty of your giant's paces across. More'n that deep, too."
"Which way does it run?"
"East to west, same as the Teeth above."
"How do you know?"
Martan shrugged. "I'm fifty years a miner, near as spit. East is yonder. West that way....Listen!"
More tooling sounds, and then Martan hissed "Stay here!" before hurrying, with alarming speed, to the edge of the chasm.
There, he flung himself down, hanging his head over the edge. Gawain waited, tense, standing in the middle of his lamp's small pool of light, watching the dwarf as he cocked his head this way and that.
Finally, after an age, the miner drew back from the precipice, stood, and hurried back to Gawain.
"Definitely 'uman workin's. From the west."
"From the west? Are you sure? How can you tell?"