"You are neither sun nor moon. If Morloch you be, then you shall feel my blade."
"Your prattling bores me. You are nothing. Vex me no more, nothing, or feel my Breath."
"I shall feel your breath, Morloch, as you gasp your last, I shall be there, twisting the blade in your foul guts!"
The apparition shimmered, and began to fade.
"I warn you, nothing, you shall not cross the Teeth. Set foot on the farak gorin, and I shall destroy you."
Then the blackness shimmered once more, and was gone.
Gwyn stepped forward a pace, her bright blue eyes confused, looking around.
"You saw it too then, Ugly? I thought I was mad." Gawain muttered, studying the ground around them. There was no sign that anything other than the breeze had tickled the grass, let alone stood upon it.
"Dark wizardry". Gawain mumbled with a sigh, and mounted.
But he could not deny the pounding of his heart nor the sweat that ran at his temples. He had not known such terror since the day he and Gwyn crested the Downland Pass at Raheen.
With a cry, he gave Gwyn free rein, and they thundered across the plain, fleeing from the dreadful spot.
That night, when he made camp, he set about making his stone arrow-points with a haste that bordered on desperation. The evenings were drawing in, and he was still some days' fast ride from the region where he'd first met Rak and his party. A year ago, with time on his hands and no desire to rush from adventure to danger, he had allowed Gwyn to amble on their journey north. Now he had a dread purpose, and wanted to waste no time reaching Tarn. Once there, he would await Allazar's arrival if the wizard hadn't already reached that gentle dwarven town before him, and then set off for the Teeth.
Somewhere there must be a pass, or a route across the mountains. How else were the Ramoth emissaries entering the southlands?
Morloch must be there. And Ramoth. Cut off the snake's head, and the body dies. So Gawain hoped. If he could destroy one or the other, or both, then all the lands would be free. Justice and vengeance for Raheen would serve also to liberate the downland kingdoms.
Why he now considered the other lands he did not know. Perhaps his time in Elvendere, in serene surrounds and gentle company, had left a mark upon his heart, smoothed some of the edges as he was smoothing the razor-sharp points while he fitted them to elven shafts.
Perhaps. Elayeen haunted him, and called forth memories of happier times in Raheen. His first kiss, the first time he'd held hands…he cut his finger on a shard of flint and it served to bring him back to the present.
He must forget Elayeen, and Elvendere. At least for now. He could not face black riders, or Ramoth, or Morloch, if a part of him feared death, if his courage failed him. And it would if he permitted foolish youth and yearning to tug at his conscience. He must be like the black riders he had faced. Single-minded, relentless, utterly careless of death.
He finished fitting the cruel stone points to his arrows, and then drew the longsword, to clean it. In the failing light, he noted strange black stains on the blade, deep within the steel, and they would not rub away. No matter, they did not dull the edges of the weapon, which remained sharp and straight.
He remembered Raheen. As it was before his Banishment, and as it was now. The coldness in his chest spread like the chill of elven Eeelan-t'oth, cooling his blood, freezing his heart, darkening his visage. The terror he had felt on seeing Morloch's apparition was swept away by his resolve.
I am Longsword, he thought, realising that everyone in Elvendere had called him by his old name, Traveller, a name from a bygone time, a bygone life. And I come for you, Morloch. I shall vex you until the very moment I destroy you.
He thought more about Morloch's warning as he continued north-west. Why had it been issued? Gawain knew little of wizardry, dark or otherwise, but imagined it must take a great deal of power to transmit such an apparition such a vast distance. In all his travels and all his years, he had never heard of whitebeards appearing thus, except in dreams.
More, how did Morloch know that Gawain yet lived? Could the black riders somehow communicate with their dark creator? It didn't make sense. If that were true, then Morloch could have appeared at any time while Gawain recovered in Elvendere. Why wait until he had left that place?
Gawain could find no ready answers, only more questions. They buzzed around inside his head like angry hornets, and in the end he had to dismiss them all, and take comfort in the fact that Morloch had appeared at all.
It meant only one thing. Gawain's allies, fear and terror, had struck a chord within the dark wizard. In the weeks while Gawain had struggled with Death in Elvendere, something of importance must have happened in the land. Something important enough to rile the wizard lurking far beyond the Teeth. Gawain would ask Allazar when they met at Threlland. If anyone might know, then it should be he. He had, if he'd obeyed Gawain's request, travelled the eastern kingdoms after leaving Juria.
There was, of course, always the slim possibility that the destruction of the black riders was what so galled Morloch as to force his appearance, and the expenditure of so much magic to do so. Gawain had expected to encounter more of them as he hurried across the plains, but he saw no-one save for Jurian herdsmen, who ignored him.
One question remained though, and refused to be chased away. How did Morloch know where to find Gawain at all?
17. Friends
At the border-crossing between Juria and Mornland, Gawain was greeted with the same awe and nervous attention he'd received when he crossed from Callodon into Juria, but this time no lancers thundered into view.
Rather than simply crossing the river with the small groups of travellers and merchants, Gawain dismounted, and approached a worried-looking Jurian guardsman.
"Well met." Gawain said quietly.
"Well met, Serre." the guard replied nervously, anxiously looking to his colleagues for support. None came.
"How fares Juria?"
"The Crown?"
"Aye."
"He fares well, Serre. He is much recovered from his illness, last we heard."
"I am glad. This is good news. And the land?"
"The land? It is as was, Serre."
"You have heard no news of any import?"
"No Serre…uhm, about what?"
"The Ramoths?"
The guard glowered, and spat. "They still come through, in small parties, but their escorts increase. There is little we can do about them."
Gawain nodded, but felt suddenly depressed. He had hoped to hear that Juria had slain every Ramoth in the kingdom, and that it was this that had so vexed Morloch.
"Well. Thank you, guardsman, for your time."
"Good journeys, Serre."
Gawain mounted, and the guard stepped forward, hesitantly.
"Serre?"
"Aye."
"You are he, Serre? The Longsword? The one who fires the towers and lays waste to the Ramoths?"
"I am he."
The guard looked suddenly relieved.
"Why ask you?"
The guardsmen looked sheepish. "We heard you were dead, Serre." One said.
Gawain snorted. "Not yet. I still have much to do. You might mention it to the next Ramoth procession that passes this way."
They grinned, and Gawain eased Gwyn forward into the river.
There was no point asking the Mornlander guardsmen the same question. The two sides were friendly, and even before he crested the rise into Mornland, he glanced over his shoulder and saw the Jurian guardsmen wading across the river to share the news with their Mornlander counterparts.
The land seemed somehow cheerless as Gawain rode on towards Threlland. Gone was the sense of wellbeing he'd noticed here before, when Karl and Rak had ragged him about Mornland cider and wine. Instead, the gentle folk Gawain passed looked more like distant kin of the Callodons at Jarn. Heads bowed, eyes filled with fear and suspicion, no cheer or greeting for a stranger.