"I go north."
Allazar sighed. "Then I shall come with you."
"No." Gawain said firmly.
"Are we no longer allies then?"
Gawain paused, checking his gear and the saddle. "These emissaries and their amulets, they can communicate with each other."
"True."
"Then here our paths diverge. They know I go north. I've told them often enough. They do not know you, unless you say otherwise?"
"They do not know me."
"Then you must go east. To Arrun, and to Mornland, and then on to Threlland. If this aquamire poison was being used in Juria, who's to say it's not being used in the eastern kingdoms?"
Allazar nodded, a little taken aback. He clearly hadn't considered the possibility.
"Besides," Gawain added, though without his usual conviction, "I would soon grow tired of your mumbling, and gazing at the stars, and useless advice. I'd probably end up killing you within the week. And for some strange reason known only to himself, Brock of Callodon seemed to set some store by you."
"In truth, it was he who ordered me ahead of you, to reassure the kingdoms against your coming."
"And here you are." Gawain sighed, climbing into the saddle. "A whitebeard, taking orders from a king. Wonders will never cease."
Allazar grinned in spite of himself.
"Speed your journey, Longsword."
"And yours, Allazar. Perhaps we'll meet again when I get back from cutting Ramoth's dwarfspit head off."
"Perhaps." Allazar said sadly.
Gawain was on the track and about to give Gwyn free rein when Allazar suddenly called out from the stable door.
"Longsword! The dark riders?"
Gawain turned.
"What about them?"
"Ordinary steel will not penetrate their armour! It is charmed!"
Gawain smiled grimly. "It matters not. My arrows are tipped with stone, and my blade is far from ordinary!"
Allazar stood helplessly by the stables, torn between going with the young man, north, and going east as he'd been asked. Finally, he nodded, and Gawain turned, and Gwyn broke into a gallop.
Allazar remained a moment longer, frowning. There was only one kingdom in all the southlands where foresters tipped their arrows with hand-made stone points. But that was long ago, and they were all gone, annihilated in an instant by Morloch's Breath…
13. Black Riders
Gawain rode steadily north, taking an arrow-straight route up the middle of the Jurian plains. He'd already passed to the east of the miserable town of Ferdan and paused a moment, remembering.
Almost a year ago to the day he'd made camp by the southern tip of Elvendere, and had met Elayeen. Memories tugged him this way and that. Almost a year ago to the day Raheen was alive and basking in glorious summer sunshine.
To the north-east, the gentle slopes of Mornland, and Threlland beyond. Rak and Merrin, and the infant Travak. To the west, Elvendere, and the elves that dwelled in the great forest. Dwarves and elves. Of all the kingdoms, only Elvendere had escaped the curse of the Ramoth, and Gawain wondered why.
There seemed to be no point to it all. The Ramoth were despised, and were it not for the whitebeards, and were it not for the utter destruction of Raheen, then in time all the kingdoms would have declared "enough is enough", and put the Ramoths to the sword, or cast them out.
Ancient gods did not exist. Perhaps Morloch did, but in what form and where, no-one knew. Sometimes Gawain's head throbbed with the thinking. Why destroy Raheen, and not Elvendere or Threlland? Why, with so much dark wizardry at their disposal, why this slow and insipid invasion of shaven-headed chanters? Gawain himself had proven at Juria how weak fifteen years of peace had left all the lands. It would be a simple matter for a small but dedicated band of ignoble invaders to rip the crowns from severed heads.
It was surprising that the Gorian Empire hadn't done so already, given the lamentable lack of any military presence this side of their vast border.
Gwyn snorted, and Gawain looked up. Riders, approaching at the canter, scattering steers before them. There was something about them that sent the briefest of shivers the length of Gawain's spine. A darkness, that seemed to draw light in, as if…
There were six of them, in line abreast, and Gawain had an arrow strung in his right hand and another ready in his left when Gwyn began cantering forwards to meet them. They were still half a mile away when Gawain spotted yet more, closing in from the east, and then a hasty glance towards the west revealed more. A quick look over his shoulder confirmed that his retreat was unblocked, but he had no intention of running.
But good, practical, military sense bred into him through years of regal training demanded he take action. Riding straight into the oncoming force would be military madness, for even if he prevailed he would be bracketed by the riders coming at him at a slow canter on the left and right.
He grimaced, and Gwyn charged off to the west, heading for Elvendere and the sun, low in the sky but still an hour or two from setting.
Six Black Riders, coming at him head on from the direction of Elvendere. Plus the first six from the north, and now presumably another half-dozen about a mile behind him. Gwyn charged on, closing the gap between them fast. Still the black riders cantered, seemingly oblivious of the danger.
Gawain let fly his first arrow as soon as the range closed, and his second was in the air before the first one struck. The first shaft missed its intended target though, and slammed instead into the broad chest of the horse it was riding. The animal went down, throwing its rider hard into the sun-baked grassland.
A third shaft was in the air when the second hit, this time exactly where it was supposed to, dead centre of the rider's chest. Gawain was momentarily stunned when a strange whistling screech went up, and then the rider seemed to explode with a jet of black light shooting from the top of its armour where the head had been.
The third shaft struck home too, and again the stone point sliced neatly through armour to the creature within. Again, that chilling screeching whistle, and the blasting shaft of black light that shot upwards from the body.
They were too close now for Gawain to try another arrow. Instead, he ducked as he saw a crossbow levelled and fired at him, and was drawing his sword as the bolt whistled dangerously close past Gwyn's flanks. With a sudden burst of outrage, Gawain realised that these foul creatures had not been aiming for him, but for his horse!
Gwyn realised it too, and bellowed with a rage of her own. And then they were into them, Gawain's sword flashing. The long blade took the head clean off the rider passing down Gawain's right side, and when the blade struck a powerful jolt of something shot the length of his arm. He nearly lost his grip on the sword for a moment, but as Gwyn powered into a turn and the whistling screech from behind them told of another downed rider, Gawain managed to grasp the hilt firmly enough to deliver a smashing blow to the armoured creature struggling to regain its feet after being tumbled from the dead horse.
Another powerful jolt of that something when the blade struck home, but this time Gawain was prepared for it, and was sheathing the longsword and drawing another arrow from his quiver as Gwyn finished the turn.
He let fly, the shaft hitting the right-hand of the two remaining riders square in the back. A burst of black light, the curious screeching, and the shattered remains fell from the horse.
Incredibly, the sixth rider was turning slowly, and still at a canter. Gawain strung another arrow, brought Gwyn to a standstill, and almost as if he was at target practice, let fly. The Black Rider had turned, slowly, carelessly, and met the speeding arrow chest-on. Gawain had just enough time to study the creature before him in detail before the screeching, whistling death-blast shot another black shaft skyward.