"So I've heard tell."
"Aye. Well, the way I looks at it Serre is this. I ain't got much of a life left in me these days, too long in the mines, too much bad air. Too old too, nothin' to do but sit and remember old days. But this quest o' yours, well. See, if I can help bloody the nose o' the bastards that did for Raheen before I die, why then I'll die proud as those cavalry looked all them years ago. Maybe if enough folk felt likewise, we could kick even Morloch's dark backside to the moon and yonder."
"Maybe." Gawain paused, and drank a mouthful of water from the skin that Martan offered him. "Maybe even further than that."
"Aye!" Martan chuckled, "And if not, it's got more dignity to it than sitting in a brother's house, boring all and sundry with tales of olden times. When they learn of it, Serre, then they'll all weep tears o' shame they weren't 'ere with us."
"You think so?"
"I knows so, Serre." Martan asserted as they set off again. "Why ask you?"
"The wizard believes this a fool's errand."
Martan laughed again, and spat. "Wizard said you was dead, Serre. Shows 'ow much wizards know."
They walked until their yawns came almost as frequently as normal breaths, and then with great reluctance, they stopped to make a temporary camp. Even with all their blankets beneath them, and in spite of Gawain's arrowsilk cloak, the ground was uncomfortable. Yet they slept, fitfully, and each time Gawain awoke he expected to hear Gwyn snorting a warning.
They'd been walking for an hour before the sun rose again, and Gawain greeted it with custom and with a sense of relief that he'd met another one at all. He still could not believe that the three black riders were all that stood between him and the Teeth. Perhaps Allazar was perfectly correct, and Morloch truly was weakened beyond further threat. Or perhaps a greater danger awaited them at the foot of the mountains, almost near enough to touch.
"See that gray stuff yonder?" Martan pointed at the ground ahead, perhaps a thousand paces away.
"Aye."
"That be scree. The end of the farak gorin. That's fine gravels, washed down from the Teeth over the years. Once on that, we're off the blasted bitchrock, and can say we've reached the Teeth."
"And the workings you spoke of?"
Martan gazed up at the peak towering high above them. "See that shadow, where it's shaped like a bird?"
"Yes."
"There. A natural rent in the rock. Best sort o' places to begin a works, where nature's already done some o' the ground-breaking."
They walked on, and Martan seemed to sense Gawain's rising tension. The young warrior was clearly expecting some new and dreadful threat at any moment. Where Morloch was concerned, Martan wouldn't be surprised if an army of black-masked monsters emerged from the rocks in front of them.
Soon, though, and without incident, the ground underfoot gave way to crunching gravel, and the farak gorin was left behind them.
"Welcome to 'ard rock and pain, Serre." Martan muttered, paring a lump of frak from a cake and handing it to Gawain. "Might as well break fast now, we've some climbing ahead afore we make the shafts."
"Thank you. Is it always this quiet?"
Martan shrugged, and chewed. "Sometimes you might 'ear an eagle. In the shafts, you 'ear water drippin'. That, and the wind's about all. There's plants around, but not much life. Rock's too 'ard for more than lichens and mosses. See, we just crossed the river o' nothin'. And though no-one's ever seen the other side o' the Teeth, I'll bet there's more miles o' bitchrock over there too. Not surprising then, that you don't find nothin' on the Teeth, them just being an island of nothin' in the river o' nothin'."
"Not quite nothing, Martan."
"Eh?"
"Look yonder. In the scree, running to the west. Those are ruts. Wagons pass this way."
"Well poke a wizard in the eye and call 'im whitebeard!"
20. Hard Rock
The wagon-wheel ruts were scarcely visible, but they did indeed run from west to east along the scree that marked the edge of the farak gorin. From the Gorian Empire, to the eastern coast, around the flank of Threlland. Heavy rains had probably washed more scree down from the steep slopes of the mountains, all but obliterating the ruts in the gravel in places. It was impossible to see where, if anywhere, they'd stopped.
"An 'ard road to travel." Martan had opined, and Gawain had agreed. To the west lay the frozen wastes of the northern empire. To the east, the sheer cliffs that dropped from Threlland's flanks to the ocean below.
"No food to be 'ad, neither, except what you bring yerself. Game's rare as horse-feathers in these parts."
"Nothing to be done about it now." Gawain announced, gazing up at the mountain. "There's where we're headed. Up there."
"Aye. I'll lead the way this time, Serre, though if'n we meet any more o' them monsters I'll thank you to nip ahead at the appropriate moment."
Gawain grinned, and followed the miner's curious sidewards clambering up the sloping scree. It made for difficult going, until eventually the gravel gave way to hard rock. There, their progress slowed, Martan picking his route carefully, stopping from time to time to check for safer or easier routes as the slope steepened even further.
They were just at the point where using their hands was becoming more frequently necessary, when Martan froze, and picked up a handful of loose stone.
"What is it?" Gawain said softly. They were near the fissure that the miner asserted gave way to the old workings.
"Fresh dug."
"Fresh? There's moss there."
"Aye. Fresh dug. Within a year or two, I'd say. Moss breaks it down, in time. Ice in winter, sun in summer. Rains and wind do the rest. This is fresh dug, within a year or two."
"Dwarves?"
"Nah. I'd know. They'd 'ave sought me out."
"Then we proceed with greater care, my friend."
"Aye. With very great care, Serre. You'll oblige me by 'aving one o' them arrers at the ready when we top that ledge."
"I will."
Some time later, after a cautious and nervous climb, they crested the ledge in question. Martan bobbed his head up over the top. Then sighed.
"All's clear Serre. But I'll thank you to go first in any case."
Gawain smiled grimly, and eased himself over the ledge. The fissure in the rock face was like a cruel scar, jagged and deep. Slightly south facing, its depths were partially illuminated by the near noon sun.
Martan clambered over the edge with a nimble agility that defied his years. He was clearly at home in this unforgiving terrain. Immediately he began scanning the ground, and then beckoned Gawain forward, pointing at a patch of rubble.
"See 'ere, Serre. Fresh spoil. A year, maybe two."
Gawain eyed the ground, and then gazed at the serious-faced Martan. "You'll pardon me, Martan, if I question your definition of the word 'fresh' at this point."
Martan grinned. "Aye, well…it's fresh in miner's terms, as far as spoil goes. Means someone 'as been workin' the shaft recent. Always a worry, in case whoever it was left the tunnels in a state o' near collapse. Always a worry."
"Where's the entrance to the workings?"
"This way Serre."
Martan led them into the fissure, and then fumbled in his pack. From it, he produced two steel bottles, and handed one to Gawain, who looked momentarily puzzled until Martan showed him how to use the lamp.