"It is not into fire I travel, friend Rak. Use him well, that whitebeard, if it comes to pass that I cannot return. In truth, Brock of Callodon sets much store by that one."
"I shall. Good night, my brother, and fare well."
Gawain nodded, and retired to his room. He sat on his bed, and in the light from the lamps he checked his weapons. The strange black stains in the longsword's blade fascinated him. They seemed to swim deep within the steel. But it was sharp, and strong as ever, and he sheathed it knowing it would serve as long as his arm could command it.
His arrows received more attention. Their stone points were wickedly sharp, sharper than any steel could be, and the shafts true. One thing elves knew well, was the making of arrows. Tomorrow, three of these shafts would be put to the test. Perhaps more, further across the farak gorin.
"I come, Morloch." Gawain whispered in the gloom, settling back on the bed, "Prepare to be vexed some more."
19. River of Nothing
Before sunrise, Gawain rose, and washed. Then he wrapped himself in his new cloak, and slipped the longsword over his shoulder. Taking up the pack which Merrin had prepared for him, he cast a last glance around his room. Not through any sentimentality, but from the practical standpoint of ensuring he hadn't left anything of importance behind. He had not. The elven arrows hung snug and reassuringly heavy in their quiver under the cloak. His short sword hung from his hip, and his knife in his right boot. It was time to leave.
He let himself out of the house quietly, and strode around to the stables for a final farewell to Gwyn. Her sadness at his departure without her was evident in the way she snuffled and snorted, and pressed her great head into his chest.
"I shall return, even though you really are an ugly old nag. If I'm delayed too long, and your vanity demands new ribbons in your hair, you know where to go."
With a final pat on the great Raheen mare's neck, he turned, and left the stables, taking the path that led out of town, down the northern slope of the hills. Halfway down the track, as it wound around the hill through the trees, he caught up with Martan, and fell in step with the old man.
"Mornin', Serre." the old miner grinned in the gloom.
"Good morning, Martan. You travel light, it seems."
"Aye. Don't need much, in truth. Got some cakes of frak, some water, an' a few tools and clothes. Not much else needed out there at the Teeth."
"Frak?"
"You've not had frak?"
"I don't think so."
Martan grinned. "It's meat, dried and cured and spiced, and pressed into cakes. Pressed 'ard, mind, so's you could fit almost 'alf a cow in yer pack. There's those that can't abide the taste, but you don't need nothing else to keep the blood flowin' in yer veins out there."
"I think Lady Merrin put something in my pack that might be frak. A round cake, brown and heavy, big as a plate but thick as my arm."
Martan grinned. "She's a fine lady, that one. Not surprised she'd know the old ways, and would 'ave the good sense to pack frak in a man's pack when it's the Teeth at the end of 'is road."
"Not surprised? Her family were miners then?"
Martan chuckled. "All dwarven families 'ave miner's in 'em, Serre. But she being the King's niece, she'd know the old ways."
Gawain was stunned. "And Rak?"
"His lordship? Aye, he'd know 'em too. 'Is father was the second most respected man in all Threlland afore 'e died. His lordship is following 'is father's footsteps as I followed mine. Exceptin' my father weren't a great statesman nor an ambassador."
They trudged on in silence as the clouds above them turned a steely gray. As they rounded a bend in the track, the farak gorin hove into view, and they were nearing its harsh and uninviting surface with every step they descended.
Gawain paused as the first rays of dawn scythed over the horizon, and he turned his face to them. Martan walked a few paces on, standing a respectful distance away.
The old one-eyed soldier's words, spoken so long ago, whispered in Gawain's mind: "There are those who cannot see the dawn, your highness. I do this for them all."
Gawain remembered them all, and wondered who would remember The Fallen if he himself were unable to see another daybreak. He opened his eyes, turned back to the track, and together he and the old man set off again.
"When we set foot on that," Gawain said quietly, "Best if you stayed behind me. Those black-masked monsters wait for me ahead, and their weapons are lethal."
"Aye, so I 'eard at the inn last night."
"And yet you came?"
"Doubt you'd find the workings without me, Serre."
"Are there many?"
"Oh aye. There's been so many myths over the ages, 'bout them mountains. Lost gold, sleepin' giants and the like. For hundreds of years, dwarves have set off across this blasted river o' nothing in search of it all. You ever dug through rock, Serre?"
"No."
"Them Teeth have stood there since the world was born. Greatest forces in nature ain't been able to shift 'em but an inch. Can't count the number of irons that've been broke against 'em down through the ages in search of ore. Or men's backs, come to that. 'Ard stone and pain, that's all as been found there."
"But still you dug."
"Aye. Weren't much older than you at the time. I dug. I found 'ard stone and pain through all the old workings, as did we all back then. Some gave up earlier than others. Yonder, to the east? Six died when the roof collapsed on 'em. Yonder, slightly west? I came upon a great chasm. Never seen the like. It were as though the very world was split asunder. You couldn't fire a shaft across the width of it. It'd fall less than a third of the way across that great rip in the world. Me, I chucked a rock down there, and waited for the sound."
"How long?"
Martan shrugged. "Dunno. Sound of it striking bottom never came. Which way did you 'ave in mind, Serre, seen as we're about to set foot on this blasted bitchrock?"
Gawain paused. 'Slightly west' was the direction from which the occasional shimmering of aquamire could be seen from high above them. He turned, and glanced up at the hills, and for a fleeting moment, he thought he could see a tiny white-robed figure in the trees, but he'd probably imagined it.
"Slightly west, I think. I have a yen to see this rip in the world."
"Then that's the way we go, Serre. Watch yer footing from this point. You slip, this bitchrock will flay yer skin from yer bones without a second thought."
"Best I lead the way. Once we're on, those black-masked demons will know it, I don't doubt."
"Aye. Head for that peak then, Serre, an' if yer boots don't succumb, we'll be there this time tomorrer, I shouldn't wonder."
Gawain stepped onto the farak gorin. It looked for all the world like a river of dark brown glass, frozen and shattered into spiteful edges. Where the rock was smooth, it glistened in the morning sunshine, but its beauty was all on its glazed surface, and it waited to slice unwary or careless flesh. The old miner's term for it was appropriate, he thought. Bitchrock.
He set a careful pace, until he became more used to the feel of it beneath his feet. Then he grew more confident, and allowed his eyes to linger in their scanning of the horizon. Nothing grew here. Nothing impeded his view, the river of nothing was almost perfectly flat. That was how the black riders had seen him, and how he now saw them, converging on him from a distance.
No wonder they were on foot, and Gawain was glad he'd left Gwyn behind. Even with steel shoes, this was no place for a horse. It was no place for a man, either, come to that, but here they were anyway.
"Nasty looking, ain't they?" Martan muttered.
"Aye. Poisoned blades and points too, so keep tight behind me when they close."