"Then if they started attacking the Teeth at the same time, they might almost be through?" Gawain gasped.
Martan shrugged. "Nah, ain't that easy. They'd have an easy route up their side, not so easy coming down on ours. Ain't like they can cut a tunnel clean through the Teeth."
"They already had. We saw it, and walked the length of it on our side of the rip. It was only the rip that held them back."
"Aye, there's that. But the tunnel's collapsed for sure after that quake."
Gawain considered for a moment, then sighed. "Well. They are coming, that much is sure. When, we can only guess. But come they shall."
"You'll pardon me for saying so, Serre," Martan grunted, topping up their tankards, "But you and me 'ad an 'ard enough time against fifty o' the sods. Don't reckon we'd fare too clever against ten thousand of 'em."
Gawain grinned. "In truth. But I'm hoping you can manage it on your own. With a little help from some close and trusted friends that you may know."
"On me own? That'd be somethin' to tell about on a cold winter's night at the tavern!"
"Aye."
"How then?"
"Have you ever tunnelled through bitchrock?"
Martan gasped. "Bitchrock? Kick me up the arse and call me Morloch as I sails beyond the moon!"
Gawain smiled grimly, and briefly explained his plans. Martan stared attentively, and then gazed into the heart of the fire.
"Well now Serre. You'll pardon me for saying so, but such works would need skilled miners, and plans, and great care. I'm but an old man, and can't command such. And the men would need to come off their usual work. You'd need the King's Works to plan such, and administer the purse and so forth."
"Not if they were men such as yourself, my friend."
Martan's bushy eyebrows shot up. "Ah! I begins to suspect, if you'll pardon my saying so, a somewhat mischievious undercurrent."
Gawain nodded. "It cannot be official at this stage. I have yet to speak with Eryk of Threlland. It may be that the crown does not share my concern for the southlands, nor believe in the pressing nature of the threat."
"I see. So, you would 'ave a bunch o' discarded old souls like meself workin' in secret?"
"I would not have put it so, but yes. The Ramoths may be slain, but on this side of the Teeth, I am certain Morloch still has his spies. When I looked into the lens, I saw many things, and I do not believe all that I saw came from Emissary eye-amulets. In truth, in Elvendere, a wizard wore a small dark lens with which means he doubtless communicated all to Morloch. Such spies may yet prosper in Threlland's castletown."
"Ah. So, if you tells the crown all, and of these plans of yours, then the enemy may very well take steps against us?"
"That is my thinking."
"Then p'raps the way you suggest has much merit. Certain sure, I know plenty o' miners such as meself, forbidden the workin’s through age and infirmity. We can do as you say, Serre, in truth, but it'll be slow goin'. There's none of us can cut ten times our length in a day, not no more."
"Five times your length in bitchrock would be a miracle."
Martan smiled. "Well now, Serre, I'm not so sure. I know of no workin’s as gone beneath the farak gorin afore. Could be, no-one's ever thought of it afore, or thought it too much 'ard rock and pain. But this I'll say, I'll give it a go, and pick such men as I know are trustworthy."
Gawain drew a small pouch from inside his tunic, and handed it to Martan. "This may help."
Martan opened the purse, and gasped in shock. "Gemstones! What be these for?"
Gawain shrugged. "You and your men will need equipment, tools, frak…all manner of things I imagine."
Martan frowned sternly, and took one small red gemstone from the pouch, and handed the rest back. "This'll do against food an' such. Tools we all 'ave, us being miners. And as for equipment, we have our brains and our 'ands, Serre."
Gawain accepted the purse. "I meant no offense, my friend."
"Aye Serre, I know. But this be plenty. The men I'm a-thinking of are such as meself, and will be proud to work again, and cut rock, and would do it for nothin' but the pride and fun of it. Besides, it'll be a real test, this dig. Normally, when we digs, we make it strong. You're asking us to dig, and make the workin’s weak! Now that, if you'll pardon my saying so, is a feat worth a ballad or two if we succeeds!"
Gawain smiled grimly. "Take care though, Martan. I do not want the bitchrock falling on your heads.”
"No Serre, have no fear. We'll dig it like you wants it."
"And can it be done in secret?"
Martan drew in a thoughtful breath. "Aye. I reckon so. It'll take a few days to round up all them I can rely on. Then p'raps a day or two of testing the way. Bit o' careful planning…I should say that within a week we'll commence our first shafts northbound. Then, it depends on the bitchrock itself."
"Can you send word to me, at Tarn, or wherever I might be? I would know of your progress."
"I can make such arrangements, Serre. You leave it to me. I know what you want, and what you want, you'll get. Might take longer than would be expected of a Threlland digging crew, but bearing in mind it's old bones doing the diggin', it can't be helped."
"Just be careful, my friend. I trust your experience and that of those you choose. But I would not leave you on the farak gorin, and I do not want to leave you under it."
Martan chuckled. "Aye. It'll be as you say, Longsword. Safe, until you say the word. And then, the word given, if Morloch's black army sets out across the farak gorin, they're in for a very nasty end."
Gawain smiled grimly. "Aye. A nasty end indeed."
They drank, and ate frak by the fire. Piter, and Martan's brother Steffan, returned home some hours later, and though Steffan gaped and would've done so all night, he was fresh from the mines, and retired to his bed, Piter taking the hint and following close behind. Gawain and Martan sat quietly, chewing frak and sipping port wine, long into the night, until both fell asleep in their chairs.
Next morning, at daybreak, Gawain reaffirmed his instructions that the old miner should take great care, and then took to the saddle, bound for Tarn, leaving Martan of Tellek beaming and filled with great purpose.
Gawain hurried Gwyn back to the inn at Tarn, but after a hasty conversation with Derrik the landlord, discovered that Allazar had yet to return from visiting Rak's house. Gawain dare not return Gwyn to Rak's stables, for that would mean passing too close to the house. His heart ached as he climbed into the saddle again, and he gazed across the square towards the dwelling wherein Elayeen rested. He sighed, and decided to take a back route up to the Point, so that he could overlook the farak gorin and the Teeth. He was just about to ease Gwyn forward when the rumble of hooves drew his attention to the road leading out of Tarn and down to the Mornland approaches. A Threlland guardsman was charging into town, and on catching sight of Gawain, began waving and reining in.
Gawain turned Gwyn and trotted over to meet the warrior.
"Well met, friend Longsword!"
"Well met, guardsman…?"
"Jak, Serre."
"Catch your breath, Jak. Then tell me what drives you up the slopes with such urgency."
"Elves, Serre!" Jak gasped. "Elves at the foot of the slopes!"
28. Thalangard
Gawain's heart skipped a beat. "Elves? Here?"
"Aye, Serre! Captain Sarek at once despatched me to fetch you, Serre, since your Lady be of Elvendere, and you knowing them, Serre."
"How many are there? Have they spoken of Elayeen?"
"They speak little, Serre, and mostly in their own language. They did speak your old name, Serre, Traveller, and your Lady's name Serre. There are two, a man and a woman, and the worse for wear I'd say, cold and wet."
Gawain nodded. "Take me there at once."