Twenty more paces and Gawain discovered what the carved alcoves were intended for. A bell sounded, low and booming…up ahead, the Ramoth woman side-stepped into an alcove, and Gawain had the briefest glimpse of something large and round and dark in the far distance, before a powerful hand grasped his cloak and dragged him back into an alcove. Moments later, the sizzling blast of aquamire light ripped through the tunnel…and was gone, leaving both Gawain and Martan feeling slightly singed and curiously dazzled.
"Not a nice place, this nest o' yours, if you'll pardon me saying so."
"No. Not a nice place at all. Come, friend Martan, I believe our quest is almost at an end."
They hurried down the tunnel, almost catching up with the Ramoth woman, and over her shoulder Gawain saw the great black circle again, and shuddered.
The tunnel emerged into a vast cavern, and they hurriedly sidestepped along the smooth walls away from the tunnel's mouth. Before them, a considerable distance away, a group of robed Ramoths, perhaps fifty of them, sat on the glazed rock floor, chanting the name of their obscene god over and over again. "Ra-Moth" echoed around the cavern's walls, which were studded with glowstones and sconces. On a raised stone platform at the far end of the cavern stood a massive black eye, and beyond it, another tunnel, shorter, at the end of which daylight shone weakly.
"Oh by my teeth! What're they doing?" Martan hissed.
The line of Ramoth lamp-bearers walked around the group chanting on the floor, mounted the great stone platform, and up a short flight of wooded stairs. At the top, they uncorked their phials, and poured the treacly liquid into an opening at the top of the great eye. Then they descended the stairs, and still carrying their tiny lamps, walked into the tunnel, and carried on, towards the outworld.
"I do not know." Gawain muttered, sheathing his short sword, and drawing his longsword. But that must stop, whatever it is."
Again, a bell sounded, and again, from the great black lens at the far end of the cavern, a mighty blast of black aquamire light crackled and lanced down the tunnel behind them. This time it did not simply disappear, but diminished to a steady pulsing stream. A black shimmering shape began to form in the air before the chanting Ramoths, whose worship grew frenetic and high-pitched.
"Morloch comes?” Martan gasped.
"No, I don't think so."
The shape crystallised into a dreadful figure, robed and almost human, but fully twenty feet tall, hovering in mid air above the worshippers. It was slender, but the massive bulbous head was grotesque, a snake's head, with two aquamire black eyes.
"Ra-Moth!" the chanters screamed, in a frenzy.
"You have been chosen." the creature announced, its voice familiar to Gawain, and from the puzzled expression on Martan's face, to him too. "And you have been chosen."
Two of the Ramoths stood, delirious with joy.
"Take up the amulets before you."
Gawain watched as the two shaveheaded Ramoths, one man and one woman, rushed forward to the great black lens, and picked up the familiar eye-amulets of Ramoth Emissaries.
"Wear them always. Do my bidding. Spread my word. Make way for my coming. Go."
The two Ramoths, thus newly-appointed emissaries, each hung the eye-amulets around their necks, bowed low, and hurried to the tunnel leading out from the Teeth.
"Pray. Make way. Soon you too will be chosen." Ramoth said, and the shimmering image faded, and was gone, and the black pulsing light too disappeared.
"You'll pardon me for saying so, Serre, but that voice sounded something familiar."
"Aye. Morloch."
"Aye. Odd, that. And the man, the one who was chosen?"
"Aye?"
"Recognised 'im, too. A Jurian, son of an iron-monger my brother trades with."
Gawain studied the cavern, and was making up his mind to rush forward, to destroy the black lens, when another familiar figure emerged from the tunnel to their left. A black rider, his mask grotesque, and turning slowly in Gawain's direction.
Gawain raised his longsword, bracing to strike as the hideous painted eyes turned his way, when there was a sudden blur of movement from behind him.
Martan shot forward, rockhammers crashing into the creature's head. The force of the hammer-blows ripped the mask clean off, exposing the hideous visage beneath. The head was human in shape, but nothing else. Hairless, colourless, save for the pulsing black veins that throbbed with aquamire, and the glistening black eyes that sparkled lifelessly. The creature was every inch as tall as Gawain, and stood gazing down at Martan, frozen with horror. Then the dwarf smashed his hammer into the thing's face, square between the awful eyes.
It blinked, and its hand reached down, fingers spread, to clutch Martan's tunic. Gawain swung his blade, and cleaved the vile head from its armoured shoulders.
Instantly, the deafening death-screech rent the air, and the jet-black death-blast shot upward to the cavern roof. Pieces of rock fell, hitting the ground just as the empty armour shell toppled backwards.
Martan leapt aside, and collided with a Ramoth lamp-bearer as he emerged from the tunnel, then he turned to cast a worried look at Gawain.
"Two more o' them things a-coming!"
But a more serious problem was approaching. The chanting followers were on their feet, and advancing towards them both. These were not vacuous slaves, yet. These were followers who had made way, and were emissary-candidates. Gawain and Martan had invaded their most sacred temple, committed unspeakable sacrilege. Martan followed Gawain's gaze.
"Ah, Dwarfspit!" he cried, and then rushed into the advancing throng, hammers flailing.
Gawain strode to the tunnel entrance and shot a quick glance at the advancing black riders. For a split second he considered his arrows, but it was too late. The first of the maddened Ramoths was already charging down on him, and he turned and cut the man down, and then another. Soon the melee was furious, and desperate. Gawain was forced to back away, and something slammed into his back. He glanced over his shoulder, and saw one of the black riders re-cocking its crossbow…
Rage suddenly flooded through him, and he felt a berserk power racing through him. Were it not for the cloak, and its arrowsilk lining, he would be dead, Morloch the victor. Blood flew in wide arcs as he cut a swath around him, advancing to where Martan lay bloody and being kicked mercilessly on the ground. Still the dwarf's hammers flashed this way and that, slamming into shins and ankles.
A crossbow bolt whizzed past Gawain's shoulder, and slammed into the chest of a Ramoth woman as she raised a boulder above Martan's head. She screamed and fell backwards, the rock dropping harmlessly. Gawain swung his blade with all his strength, slashing his way to his fallen comrade as another slamming impact smashed into his back, the cloak saving his life a second time. He'd just reached Martan when a bell sounded, and the grim realisation of what it meant cut through Gawain's bloodlust like a knife. He dived flat on his face across the old dwarf, and one kick landed on his thigh before a crackling blast of aquamire light scythed the air above him, and was gone.
When he stood, ashes marked the passage of aquamire energy through the throng, and there was one black rider less than there had been moments before.
The Ramoths suddenly found their numbers considerably depleted, and as Gawain leapt to his feet, they hesitated. The warrior reached down, dragged Martan upright, and they backed away towards the great dark lens. One or two braver followers charged forward, only to be cut down. The rest became less enthusiastic to join battle. Except for the masked creature, levelling its crossbow again. Gawain whipped his cloak around Martan and was nearly rocked off balance when the bolt struck. Again, rage filled his veins and charged his muscles. When he looked around, the black rider had discarded its crossbow and was drawing steel, steel tipped with Elve’s Blood.