They were grotesque, but almost laughably so. Clad in black armour, which seemed to draw in the daylight, and wearing large and ornate painted masks. Perhaps enough to frighten a child or a simpleton, but not a warrior.
In the distance, Gawain could see the six riders who'd approached from the north still cantering towards him. If this was the best Morloch could do, then Allazar had indeed nearly killed a perfectly good horse in trying to give a warning. They were slow and cumbersome in their armour, and with Gwyn's superior speed and agility, they were no match for Gawain.
He let his horse regain her composure after the charge, and casually strung another arrow, ready for throwing. As he advanced slowly to meet them though, something caught his eye on the ground by the remains of one he'd killed. Or destroyed, for he couldn't tell if there were men within the armour or not.
The crossbow laying beside the body had been fired, but still had three shafts clipped to its stock. With a rising sense of alarm, Gawain eased Gwyn to a halt. The tips of the bolts were black steel, streaked with red. Elve's Blood. Almost as deadly as the rarer sap from the even rarer Dwarfspit tree.
Gawain shuddered, and glanced up at the advancing riders. Closing remorselessly, and all of them with crossbows cocked and held ready in one hand, while the other held reins…
Again Gawain eyed the crossbow. Of wood, it would not outrange a Raheen arrow. Probably. He eased Gwyn forward, waited until the riders were in range, and then hurled his arrow, then another, and then turned Gwyn back towards Elvendere at the gallop. Two of those high-pitched death-sounds told of his aim, and after putting a safe distance between himself and the four remaining riders, he turned again.
This, he knew, was going to be a cat and mouse game that might last all day. Or until he ran out of arrows, whichever came sooner. Then to his horror, as he prepared to launch another volley of arrows at his pursuers, he saw through the gap in their ranks; their comrades advancing from the east had increased their pace and were speeding towards him!
He hurled two more arrows, watched them strike their mark, and watched as crossbow-bolts tipped with evil Elve's Blood arced towards him, and fell harmlessly short.
Eight. Eight Black Riders. He turned Gwyn towards the distant tree line of Elvendere and rode fast while his fingers counted the shafts remaining his quiver. Six.
Again he brought Gwyn to a shuddering halt, and again hurled two arrows at the approaching menace. Two more hits, one death-screech and black light-blast. The other shaft hit the horse, which lurched and threw its rider. But already the six riders from the east had closed the distance, and rode over their fallen comrades. Crossbows twanged, and this time the shafts landed dangerously close to Gawain. As he turned Gwyn towards Elvendere once more, he saw the thrown rider get to his feet, and start walking towards him. Allazar was right. These creatures were relentless.
The stop-start gallops Gwyn was forced to make were tiring her fast, but she could sense her mount's concerns and charged on. Gawain only had time to loose one arrow each time he stopped and turned, and a rising sense of desperation gave power to his arm and sharpened his aim.
By the time the forest loomed a hundred paces away, Gwyn was exhausted, and Gawain had but one arrow left. Two riders were bearing down on him, their horses near death yet still coming on. Crossbows twanged, and the shafts fell short yet again. The creatures behind the leering, garish masks seemed slow to learn. But Gawain was not.
He dismounted, and as Gwyn turned to face the enemy with him, he pushed her away. "Go, ugly! Go! I command it!"
The horse, lathered in sweat and breathing hard, stared blue-eyed at her chosen mount.
"Go Gwyn, please! We are all that remains of Raheen…one of us must survive! Go you hideous brute!” and again he shoved her massive head away.
Gwyn snorted, ribs heaving, and swayed a little, but remained motionless.
"Well then…" Gawain said softly, and with one eye on the approaching riders, loped away south, putting distance between himself and the advancing riders.
They were slowing, and as their crossbows raised to fire again, one of them went down, the horse buckling, dead, beneath the weight of the armoured rider. Just as Gawain threw his arrow…
His shaft crossed the harmless flight of the crossbow bolt, and carried on to fly through the spot which, had the poor horse chosen not to expire at that moment, would have been occupied by the black rider.
Gawain sighed, and drew his longsword, and seeing Gwyn still gasping for breath but trying to force her exhausted legs towards him, began running south again.
The one remaining rider's horse staggered and lurched onward, and another crossbow bolt sang as it whistled past Gawain's head. He heard the noise of the animal going down, and then turned. Both riders were dismounted, one still pinned beneath his dead steed, arms flailing, struggling against the dead weight of the beast and the weight of his own armour.
The other was on his feet, cocking the crossbow, advancing slowly towards Gawain. In the distance, a short way off, the solitary third dismounted rider, striding purposefully but clumsily towards them all.
Gawain charged towards the creature with the crossbow, legs pumping, longsword in hand, trying desperately to close the gap between them. An ordinary man might have panicked in the face of Gawain's charge. An ordinary might have fumbled with the crossbow. The black clad creature with the garish mask was no ordinary man.
Gawain heard the string click into place on its sear, saw the glint of dark steel as a bolt was removed from the clip and fitted in place in its slot. He was still too far. The creature raised the bow, and when Gawain was sure he was about to fire, he dove to the ground, rolling, and heard the twang of the string and the whizz of the shaft. There was no impact, he felt no pain. Regaining his feet and his momentum, he charged onward.
The armoured figure had already cast aside the crossbow and was drawing its blade. This close, Gawain could see that even this weapon was streaked with red. Elve's Blood. A poisoned blade to match the poisoned arrows. Not very honourable.
Gawain struck on the run, the great longsword slashing downward, slamming into the creature's shoulder and dragging a great furrow through the steel chest-plate. But the thing did not die. No blood emerged from the wound. No bones had been broken. The blow from the longsword would've cleaved an ordinary man in two, had done so in the past. Against ordinary men.
The thing counterattacked with remarkable speed, forcing Gawain to parry the blow. Oh how he rued his remarks to Allazar! The thing fought relentlessly, thrusting and parrying, all the while driving Gawain back towards the trees.
Gawain grew more and more desperate, and more and more tired. The other black riders had fallen to his blade so easily…but then he realised his error. He feinted, dodged, and swung the longsword in flashing flat circle, the blade just above his enemy's shoulder.
The jolt of something seared through Gawain's arm as the garishly-clad head flew from the creature's shoulders, followed by the eerie death-blast. This close, the sound was intense, and distressing, and the black blast of light that shot from the thing's neck was almost dazzling.
Gawain staggered back as the body toppled forward to the ground, and rubbed his eyes, shaking his head to clear it. The whistling sound was still ringing in his ears when something hit him in the thigh and made him start. He looked down, and saw the black feathered fletching of a crossbow-bolt sticking out of from his right thigh, and he groaned. The creature pinned beneath the dead horse had freed himself sufficient to cock, load, and aim his weapon.
"Aaah, Dwarfspit!" Gawain spat, disgustedly. To have come so far.