"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 dodged 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.