"Well met, Threllandmen, and honour to you." Gawain said to them from the saddle.
"Well met, Serre, and honour to you." One gasped.
"This is Tellek?"
"Aye Serre, this be Tellek."
"I have a friend here, an honourable miner by the name of Martan. Know you his house?"
Mouths gaped. "Aye Serre, tis yonder at the end of the street, and its door is of green and blue."
"Thank you."
"Serre..?" one miner called as Gwyn began clopping away towards the house they'd indicated.
"Aye?" Gawain called.
"Serre…in truth…Martan's wounds?"
"What of them? Is he not yet recovered?"
"Oh, he is recovered well enough, Serre…but we was wondering…"
Eyes were downcast, sheepish, and at length the speaker, who was slightly drunk, found his courage again. "Were they truly from battle with Morloch's monsters? And not the quaking earth or the tumble down the scree?"
Gawain backed Gwyn along the street, so that he towered above the men. The tavern door was open, and a dozen more pairs of eyes gazed out and up at him, awaiting his reply.
Gawain cocked his head, and regarded them all for a moment, before he spoke with years of regal Raheen training: "Beneath the Teeth, in a chamber cut by Morloch's dark brethren, there stood the great lens of Ramoth. Between it and us, there were some fifty vile acolytes, enraged at our trespass. From behind us, there came more, and two of Morloch's black riders.
"Martan of Tellek, a hammer in each fist, pounded the first of these before my eyes. He took the monster's mask clean off, and smashed the thing between the eyes with a blow so fierce only Morloch's dark wizardry kept the creature upright. And while I did battle with it, and the other that followed, Martan fought with the Ramoths…"
Gawain paused, remembering, noting the wide-eyed awe, ale forgotten, in the dirty faces gazing up at him. Then he continued:
"I saw Martan go down, under a throng of the shrieking followers of Ramoth. I saw them beat him mercilessly, and kick him, and dash rocks upon him, yet in spite of his grievous wounds, floored, he fought them. His hammers smashing shinbones and legbones, and," Gawain elaborated a little, for it did no harm to do so, "all the while he cried 'For Threlland! For Threlland!' Yes, his wounds were got in battle, and though it was I who fell like an infant down the scree after, Martan of Tellek, a hammer yet in hand, rode it to the bottom, and would have slain the Ramoths waiting there were it not for my stumbling in his way.
"And on the farak gorin, in sore pain and near death, Martan of Tellek handed me the last of his water and frak, and bade me leave him, that I might live to see another dawn. I do not know your history, Threllandmen, but I tell you this, in truth… I know none more courageous in all the Black Hills, and I am proud and honoured to call him friend.”
The miners stood agog, eyes brimming with tears of pride, as Gawain nodded a final acknowledgement, and Gwyn set off once more to the house with the blue and green door.
It was a youth that answered when Gawain rapped upon the door, and the youth's chin dropped on seeing who it was on the threshold.
"Honour to you, friend," Gawain announced. "I am told this is the house where I can find Martan of Tellek?"
The youth nodded, dumbstruck, and opened the door wider, pointing to his left. Gawain stooped under the lintel, though the hilt of his sword rapped the woodwork as he stepped inside. Martan was sitting by the fire, his eyes bright, and on seeing Gawain, he struggled to his feet with a cry.
"Longsword! Well poke me in the eye and call me bitchrock!"
"Martan." Gawain grinned, and extended his hand. "I heard you were dead."
Martan laughed, and clasped his arm. "Funny that, Serre, I 'eard the same said of yerself a few times!"
"How are you, in truth?"
Martan's eyes clouded briefly. "Well, Serre, or rather healed, I should say. I grow weary of sitting by the fireside, truth to tell. Sometimes I wonder…" the old man trailed off.
Gawain nodded. "I would not have left you on the farak gorin."
"Aye. I know."
"Besides. Make the most of your fireside. I have need of you, my friend."
Martan's eyes lit up. "The Teeth again?"
"Not quite, but close enough. May we talk?"
"Aye. Piter!" Martan called to the youth still standing holding the door wide open. "He's my brother's boy, Serre, and a little slow. Piter! Close the door and get you to the kitchen and fetch two tankards! Then make yerself scarce, our talk ain't for young ears."
The boy slammed the door, rushed to the kitchen and hurried back with two tankards before Gawain could take the seat offered him by Martan. Then the lad was off out the door as if Morloch himself were chasing him.
"I despair of that boy, Serre… However, sit you and warm, I've a bottle here somewhere."
"I have some here too." Gawain held out a small sack. "I did not know how well you had recovered, and thought this might aid you."
"For me Serre?" Martan looked stunned.
"Aye."
Martan took the sack and opened it, his face cracking into a broad grin. Two great cakes of frak, a bottle of Jurian brandy, and a bottle of Mornland port wine. Martan sat, and clearly his ribs still ached from the flicker of a grimace when he did so, and he sniffed the frak, and broke into a cackle.
"The true stuff, Serre! None of yer tourist frak this, all spice and soft, but real frak! Why, Serre, we'll make a dwarf of you yet!"
Gawain grinned. "The shopkeeper tried to sell me some pretty stuff that smelled sweet as fresh Arrun olives."
Martan grimaced. "I trust you put 'em right, as clearly your purchase shows you did. And port wine, and Jurian brandy! I do not deserve such gifts, Serre."
"No, you deserve far more. Especially when I tell you why I yet need your aid."
Martan became serious. "Why then, we'll open the port, and drink a little, and then you'll tell yer loyal subject what is required of 'im.” Martan uncorked the bottle, filled the tankards, and they sat back to drink.
"Is your Lady well, Serre? A merchant passing when the roads cleared spoke at the tavern."
Gawain gazed into the fire. "She is not yet herself."
"Well then. I shall raise me mug to her health Serre, in the hope it shall speed her recovery."
Gawain smiled. "So shall I, with the same hope. And you, truly you are recovered?"
"Truly, I still ache a little. But the healer says the bones've knitted an' all danger's passed. Tis a minor discomfort, no more."
"Good. For now, it's your brains I need."
"A question of mining?"
"Aye. You saw the steps they'd carved in the great rip."
"Aye. Mad bastards all of 'em." Martan shook his head in awe.
"If there were ten thousand mad bastards, Martan, all attacking the slope of the teeth, how long before they break through?"
Martan's eyes widened. "All in one place?"
"Yes."
"Ten thousand you say?"
"A guess, nothing more."
Martan sat back, and sipped his port. "Ten years, maybe fifteen, to broach a pass, if the Teeth be narrow where they work."
"How long do you think it took them to carve those steps?"
"Dunno. But the workin’s I saw, the fresh ones, the second set o' steps they was cutting? I'd say if they started them when the Ramoths first appeared in the land, then it must've taken the mad bastards maybe ten 'ard years to cut the first lot in."