A breeze, cold and damp, swept in from the north, and made the fire roar and throw out a shower of sparks. Gawain watched them, wondering, as Elayeen faded from his mind and Morloch flooded in to take her place.
Martan's words came back to him. They'd have an easy route up their side, not so easy coming down on ours. Like the sparks that flew from the fire in the breezes, Gawain thought. If that dark army did manage to breach the Teeth, the great wall of mountains would not suddenly burst asunder like a dam at all, there'd just be a steady flow from the breach, spreading out like a stain, or like a shower of sparks…
You vex me, Morloch Gawain thought. Why go to so much trouble? A relatively small force of archers at the base of the breach could pick off the dark soldiers as they clambered down the mountainside. None would live to set foot on the farak gorin, much less the plains of Juria…All thoughts of Elayeen were suddenly driven from his mind completely, and a new, cold clarity washed over him. The only archers worthy of the name this far north were the elves. Dwarves used short curved bows for hunting game, but could never hope to draw a longbow or a yard-long shaft. They were miners. Strong, tough, and tenacious. Fearsome in battle with hammer, axe, and shortsword. But that meant hand to hand combat, and against black riders, they would stand no chance.
If the Teeth were breached, only elven archers could stem the flow before the trickle was allowed to pool on the scree and form ranks, muster into an army…Gawain suddenly rose from his blankets, and gazed out into the darkness, towards the mountains in the gloom, realisation dawning.
The Ramoths had never penetrated Elvendere. Why not? The whitebeards there, particularly the Morloch spy Gawain had slain at the circle of Faranthroth, had done their level best, and succeeded too, in preventing Gawain from learning the meaning of elven throth. Prevented him from remaining in Elvendere, prevented his union with Elayeen, would rather have seen her dead. Why?
Morloch had appeared to him on the plains almost at the moment Gawain had left the forest. How had Morloch known where he was? The whitebeard had shown him, that's how, using the dark aquamire lens around his neck. The black riders Morloch had despatched to kill Gawain had never penetrated Elvendere's forest. Why not?
Gawain paced as the familiar chill spread through his chest. What do you want? Gawain had asked that wizard…to see you gone from Elvendere… Why?
Why? And now thalangard had arrived in Threlland, though the whitebeards taught the elves that dwarves would kill elves on sight. Why? Who would profit from keeping Elvendere and Threlland apart? Who would profit from keeping Gawain and Elayeen separated, Gawain, who had travelled all the southlands, and knew that Threllanders bore no animosity towards the elves, and Elayeen, a royal crown of Elvendere? Who would profit?
Morloch.
Gawain paced, chewing frak, sipping Jurian brandy. Morloch's power, before the destruction of the Ramoth lens, had been staggering, incomprehensible. It made the combined magic wielded by all the whitebeards south of the Teeth look like party tricks. With aquamire, Morloch had devastated Raheen. Burned a tunnel through the mountains which had for millennia stood guardian between the southlands and Morloch's dark home. Burned a tunnel through the mountains which prevented his magic from touching the seven kingdoms, until aquamire, and until his servants had crossed the great rift beneath the Teeth. Gawain knew Morloch now. And he knew wizards.
In the early hours, sleep elusive, Gawain drew the longsword, and waved it idly, the blade swishing as he wielded it, deep in thought. Morloch vexed him. Gwyn snuffled, and backed away to the trees as Gawain paced and swung the blade.
There was a patch of virgin snow beside the boulder, and Gawain gazed down at it, then idly swept the blade down, cutting a long straight line in the snow. He paused, looking at the mark. Then, frowning, and using the longsword like a patrol captain drawing a map in the dirt with a stick, he drew in a jagged row of teeth, the mountains. Then a deep U, the Jurian plains, with Callodon at the bottom. To the west, on his map, he scraped at the snow, marking Elvendere, running the length of the U's left arm. And in the East, he marked Threlland, and Mornland, and Arrun, running parallel with the U's right arm.
He paused again, frowning, and then began pacing once more, for hours, eyeing the map in the snow each time he passed it by. The sky began to take on a steely hue, false dawn. Still he swung the sword absent-mindedly, still he paced, and eyed the map. Then he paused again, and with the blade sideways on, scraped a broad channel across the top of the U, representing the farak gorin.
Dawn broke, and he closed his eyes in remembrance. It had been a long time since he'd spent such a quiet time alone, outdoors, and although his cloak was damp and the sun weak, he smiled grimly as the first rays of sunshine sliced through the gaps in the trees and warmed his face. Then his eyes snapped open, and he stared at the map he'd drawn. There was a gap, between the farak gorin and the line of jagged teeth he'd scraped in the snow. The scree.
His eyes flicked to the left of the map, and with a swish of the blade drew in the northern reaches of the Gorian Empire. To the right, he did not know. He did not know if Threlland sloped gently down to the coast, or dropped in sheer cliffs like Raheen to the ocean below. Or if Mornland's borders ran all the way up the east coast to the Teeth themselves. Then, as birdsong faded, the world seemed to take on a black tint…
Slowly, the blade reached out and down, and carefully, deliberately, Gawain drew in two parallel tracks, running the length of the virgin snow which represented the scree. Running from west to east, like a wagon's ruts…
Anger, cold and dark, washed through him, and he knew he was seeing the world through the dark tint of aquamire eyes. Anger at his own stupidity. Anger at the love which had blinded him, distracted him, which had kept him from the dread realisation that stiffened his frame and made the point of the longsword tremble as it drew the final lines.
"Hai Gwyn." He whispered, his voice chill.
The horse padded closer. With a swish, the longsword was sheathed, and with a scrape of his boot, Gawain erased the map in the snow. Then he bundled together his bedroll, and saddled Gwyn, and with a final glance at the Teeth, he mounted.
Gwyn set off down the track towards Tarn, Gawain's expression set grim with determination. He rode straight for Rak's house, unhesitating, straight past the stables, dismounting and leaving Gwyn waiting by the back door as he waved a confused Lyas away. "I am not staying, Lyas, and neither is Gwyn."
"Serre." the lad replied, grateful to hurry away from the black-eyed warrior.
Gawain pushed open the back door and marched in. At table, Rak and Merrin gasped at his sudden entrance. His glowering eyes flicked around the room. Elayeen was there, radiant, but shocked at his appearance. Meeya, and Valin, looking well-rested and comfortable. And Allazar, gaping, and looking from Gawain to Elayeen.
"My brother…" Rak exclaimed, rising from the table.
"You have a map, Rak, of the southlands?" Gawain demanded, his voice hard as glass.
Rak hesitated, and Gawain turned his cold dark gaze full upon him.
"I do," Rak gasped. "It is this way…"
Rak left the table and hurried out of the kitchen, Gawain sweeping past them all without a second glance, in spite of Elayeen's gasp.
"It is here," Rak said nervously, leading Gawain into a small study. "What has happened, Traveller? What ails you? To come here so, unannounced…"
"Nothing ails me. The map, Rak. Please."
"Longsword…" Allazar announced, striding in and closing the door. "Have you taken leave of your senses? To charge in so, with your Lady unprepared…"