"Sorry if'n I disturbed you, Serre." the dwarf croaked.
"No. You did not disturb me. You don't look well."
"Not surprised, Serre, these bones are a bit too old to withstand too much pushin' an' shovin'."
"Can you stand?"
"Dunno, but I'll give it a go, if a certain Raheen warrior will lend me 'is arm?"
Gawain helped the old miner to his feet. "Forgive me, friend Martan, but I cannot bear to hear that name. It is too painful to me."
"Then forgive me for a blasted old fool, Serre, who only hoped to do honour to you and yer people."
Gawain smiled sadly. "I have no people now."
Martan nodded, and said softly "I know." Then he drew in a careful breath, which clearly pained him. "We're both of us a long ways from 'ome, Serre. I don't believe I shall see mine again."
Gawain's heart skipped a beat. "It is that bad?"
"I seen worse, but we got the farak gorin to cross, then twenty mile through snow to the slopes. No water, and just a lump o' frak twixt us and the yonderlife. I reckon, Serre, I might just sit a-while, and watch while you go."
"Take care not to offend me with such talk, dwarf." Gawain said firmly.
"In truth, Serre, no offence was meant. But I know my pains, and can barely stand, much less walk. Take the frak, and leave an old man with 'is dignity? And if you'll pardon me for taking the liberty of offerin' advice, don't be eatin' no yellow snow on the way 'ome."
Gawain's heart broke for a second time, and he stooped to pick up his cloak. With a sweep, it was around his shoulders, and the longsword slung in place. Martan stood proudly, offering the small lump of frak that was all that remained from his supplies.
Gawain stared at the old man for a moment, and a flush of anger swept through him. Suddenly, the world was tinted black again, and Martan looked shocked.
"I wish you wouldn't do that Serre, it's most alarmin' I must say."
"Do what?"
Martan raised a hesitant finger, indicating Gawain's eyes. "That."
Gawain slipped his knife from his boot, and stared at his reflection in the polished steel. His eyes were aquamire black, as Morloch's had been. No whites, no pupils, just a swimming blackness, the same as his sword. He sheathed the knife, and stared at Martan.
"I am Gawain. Son of Davyd. King of Raheen. No man offends me twice. And I do not leave a friend to die."
Martan's eyes brimmed. "Oh Serre…"
"You may not speak that name to a living soul, nor to me. It is too painful."
Martan nodded, and Gawain swept him up into his cloak, and started walking.
23. Reunion
It was night when Gawain reached the end of the farak gorin, and sank to his knees on the snow-covered grass of Juria. Martan was sleeping, and let out a single groan when Gawain laid him on the cold earth and wrapped him in his cloak. The night was clear, the moon and stars bright, and it was bitterly cold. Breath plumed from Gawain's mouth as he breathed on his hands. Twenty miles from Threlland, as best as he could tell. A long way, carrying a dying friend.
At that thought, Gawain glanced down at Martan, and was relieved to see faint wisps of breath in the cold night air. With a sigh, Gawain began scraping away a small clearing in the snow, exposing the grass beneath, and then he withdrew a handful of arrows from his quiver. Some were broken, probably from the tumble down the scree at the Teeth. But it didn't matter. Those elven shafts that were intact, he snapped into pieces anyway.
As an afterthought, he left three in the quiver. Who could tell how many black riders yet roamed the lands, looking for him or another of Morloch's enemies? He turned his attention back to the heap of carefully-laid shafts, and then began shredding the goose-feather fletching over the heap. When he was satisfied, he drew his knife, and began striking it with a flint arrowhead. Sparks flew, and after a little more effort, a small patch of goosefeather tinder caught a spark, and glowed, and with gentle breaths, Gawain blew the ember into flame. Soon, flames licked and crackled at the broken arrows, and then the fire caught.
Gawain sheathed his knife, and Martan stirred, his eyes open.
"Well poke me in the eye, if that don't be clever."
Gawain grinned. "Some old traditions come in useful from time to time."
"Aye." Martan agreed, smiling, and closed his eyes.
After the tunnels under the Teeth, night on the Jurian plains seemed bright as day. The fire burned splendidly, but Gawain knew it would be short-lived. The heat it gave out was welcome though, and kept the chill at bay. While Martan slept, Gawain stood with his back to the fire, surveying the gloomy horizon and the vast white blanket of snow that stretched in all directions. Then, from the south-east, something caught his eye.
Lights, tiny, like the distant glowstone lamps carried by the Ramoths into that dread chasm. Dozensof them, snaking through the gloom. Gawain smiled. Torches. He thought about waking Martan, but decided against it, and so he waited, his arms folded across his chest for warmth. As the fire died to embers, the ground began to vibrate, and a distant rumble thundered across the plain towards them.
Martan's eyes snapped open. "Another quake?" he gasped.
"No, friend Martan. Rest easy. Help is approaching."
"Ah."
Hoofbeats, thundering closer, dozens of torches glaring in the night, faint cries, drawing ever nearer.
"Longsword?" Martan grunted.
"Aye, Martan?"
"I shall keep your name safe."
"Thank you."
"No. You 'ave an old man's thanks, Serre, and I swear by me ancient 'eart, you have at least one loyal subject you can call yer own, in me."
The cries and halloes were clearer now, horses snorting a counterpoint to their galloping hooves. Gawain knelt by Martan's side, and rested his hand on the old man's shoulder. "And you have a friend."
"Ho there!" A gruff voice cried.
Gawain stood, and looked out at the line of blazing torches advancing in the darkness.
"Here, Threllandmen. Hurry, a brave and noble countryman requires aid."
Riders spurred their mounts forward towards the sound of Gawain's voice, and when they were close enough, great gasps ran the length of the line.
"Longsword! By the Teeth, it is he!"
The Threlland patrols, despatched by Rak in the name of the King a week after the two men had left Tarn, rushed to dismount and gather around. Martan was gently handled, wrapped in blankets, and born away by half the riders. Gawain donned his cloak, and gratefully accepted a bottle of Jurian brandy from a dumbstruck Threlland captain.
"How fares Rak, and Threlland?" Gawain asked, revelling in the liquid fire that coursed through his body on drinking the golden liquid.
"Both fare well, Serre. We thought you dead."
"So I heard when last I came to your land."
"Thrice we have heard it."
"Thrice?"
"Aye. Once, when the Callodon whitebeard came a-calling and the Ramoths declared you dead. A second time, weeks ago, when it was said you perished at the hands of the Ramoth, at a tower in southern Juria. And again, when the Teeth were blasted."
"Ah. At Juria? Weeks ago?"
"Aye. The Ramoth Emissary on the eastern slopes declared it had been seen by their dark magic. the Jurian Ramoths had set a trap, and cut you down for all to see."
Gawain sighed, and closed his eyes, remembering the tall fair-haired soldier in Juria. His plan, it seemed, had succeeded in part, explaining why Morloch had seemed so complacent at the Teeth.
"Are you well, Serre? Are you injured?"
Gawain opened his eyes. "No, captain. Just tired, and in need of friends. I would like to see Tarn, at sunrise."
"Then we'll ride, and have you there safe by dawn."
At Tarn, Gawain left the patrol with his thanks, and their assurances that Martan was well-attended by healers. The sky was greying by the time he slipped quietly around Rak's house to the stables, and released the bolts on the stable door. Gwyn rushed forward, and Gawain grabbed her ears.