But Gawain wasn’t listening. He was scanning the ground frantically in a hopeless search for some kind of cover.
“Longsword?”
“The west, Allazar,” Gawain cried, “Something approaches from the west! Back to the Keep!”
Allazar shielded his eyes. Something was approaching from the west, high above the ground, and it was growing bigger. “Elve’s Blood and Dwarfspit!” he gasped, “What is that?”
Gwyn whinnied from entrance to the Keep, her head bobbing frantically, pawing at the flagstones like a bull about to charge.
“Run! Allazar!” Gawain shouted.
But it was too late. A shadow, winged and broad, swept over them, a great wind following, and from above, a streamer of crackling black lightning crashed into the flagstones to the right of the wizard.
Allazar stumbled, then turned and began lurching towards the Keep, tripping on debris and finally ending face down upon the twisted remains of the great iron gates. He looked up to see Gawain stringing an arrow, and hurling it upward at something behind and above. As he stumbled to his knees, he turned his head, and to his horror he saw an image of ancient terror, an image which had graced many a page in the dusty tomes of D’ith Hallencloister’s library, an image which had troubled the dreams of many a sleeping child. Dust swirled, blinding him, as the immense form of the Graken back-winged into the courtyard.
Another arrow fizzed overhead as Allazar dragged himself up and ran, half blind from the swirling dust and half dazed from the sight of a dark-made beast not seen for centuries. Gawain’s arrow must have struck the creature somewhere, for the crack of the string that launched the shaft was drowned by a monstrous howl.
Allazar had cleared the wreckage of the gates and was turning, raising his hands and chanting, when another streamer of immensely powerful lightning blasted into the ground between him and Gawain, knocking them both off their feet. Gwyn whinnied pitifully, furiously, but seemed utterly incapable of leaving the shelter of the vaulted entrance to the Keep.
Silence, and then laughter filled the air, followed by a rhythmic snorting and a dragging noise Allazar couldn’t quite place. He pushed himself up, and glancing over his shoulder understood what the noises were. The Graken, breathing hard from its flight and with a Raheen arrow waving like a signal-man’s flag from the base of its neck, was moving slowly towards them, dragging its tail behind it. In the air it reigned unchallenged by any creature of Nature’s making, but on foot, on the ground, it was clumsy and slow.
The laughter, Allazar saw, came from the rider mounted in what looked for all the world like a high-backed armchair strapped to the creature’s back, holding braided rope reins attached to a complicated bridle and bit about the Graken’s grotesque, lizard-like head.
Another arrow fizzed over Allazar’s left shoulder, but the masked and laughing figure simply raised the long staff he was holding, a great black shimmering disk of smoke appeared, and the arrow flared into ash upon striking it.
“Foolish boy, do you not know who you face on this your end of days?” A malevolent voice, metallic and harsh rasped from behind the winged iron-grey mask the staff-bearer wore. The mask was plain, unadorned, and all the more menacing for it, just two simple holes for the wearer’s eyes, and half a dozen smaller holes drilled into the metal for the mouth.
Gawain hurled another arrow, and again the shield of smoke appeared before the staff, consuming the shaft. More laughter. Then Allazar, chanting at first under his breath and then crying the final words raised his hands and sent streamers of fire arcing towards the enemy.
This time, no black smoke shield appeared. The enemy wizard simply allowed the streamers to strike him, and laughed them off. Allazar felt a sudden sense of dread, of peril beyond his ability to describe.
“What’s this?” The masked rider demanded, pulling on the reins and bringing the Graken to a halt. “They have sent a child of a wizard to aid a boy of a king? Morloch commands I, Salaman Goth of Goria, to do the work of an apprentice!”
“You are of Goria?” Gawain called out, his voice strong, rich and powerful compared to the metallic rasp of his enemy. “And a Goth-lord?”
Sparks crackled at the ends of the staff the dark wizard held in his outstretched right arm. “I am Salaman Goth! Know you not my name, boy? Does your history not speak of me in fear and in trembling? Was it not I who created the Goth-lords in my image?”
Allazar’s shoulders slumped, and though a dread feeling of total helplessness threatened to overwhelm him, he still instinctively moved back a little at a time, and further to his right, allowing Gawain a clearer shot at the creatures before them.
More sparks showered from the ends of Goth’s staff, then a dazzling streamer of fire lanced into the darkening evening skies, great black thunderheads bubbling over them all the way from the eastern plains. Then Salaman Goth flexed his arm, raising the staff a little.
“Know you this stave, witless worm of the D’ith?”
“I… I know it not!” Allazar cried, and began mumbling anew under his breath.
More laughter. “Then learn, and know despair! For this is the body of the Dymendin tree, five thousand years in the making and beyond your infantile power to defeat! From the moment you crossed between the guardstones at the bridge you were doomed to know its wrath. ”
More sparks, and another blast of lightning sent skyward.
“If only there were rabbits!” Allazar cried pitifully, hoping Gawain would understand, and began chanting yet again.
“Now you die, worm of the D’ith.”
“Your stick has a problem, Slaver!” Gawain cried out, using the old insult reserved for all Gorians found east of the Eramak while Pellarn still stood. Salaman Goth’s head flicked around to Gawain, who hurled another arrow at the masked form. Again the black smoke shield appeared around the staff, and again the arrow was burned to ash in an instant.
“And there is your problem, Slaver,” Gawain shouted triumphantly, another shaft already strung and ready for throwing. “Your shield does not encompass your beast’s head!”
And with that, Allazar sent streamers of fire full into the face of the Graken. It reared up, blinded, screeching, and Gawain’s arrow slammed into the soft flesh beneath its jaw to bury itself deep in the bone of the neck beneath.
The Graken screamed in agony then, thrashing its head from side to side, spraying dark blood upon bleached stone courtyard, and rearing up and away from the direction of its pain toppled Salaman Goth from his seat.
In an instant, Gawain unsheathed the longsword and sprinted forward, a single swing almost severing the Graken’s head from its neck, ending its dark-made existence. Streamers of fire leapt from behind and to Gawain’s right, striking the Goth harmlessly, but providing enough of a distraction to make him stumble, bringing Gawain closer to his target.
Gawain brought the longsword down with all the outrage that coursed through him. But the steel struck a black shield, which seemed to envelope Salaman Goth. More streamers from behind, closer, Allazar standing close to Gawain now, and Gawain swung again, and again, smashing down upon the shield Salaman Goth had created, the sound of the blows mingling with the sound of the thunderstorm roiling up from the east, deafening thunder and great, earth-shaking cracks moments after lightning dazzled all.
But to no avail. The power of the dark wizard and his staff was too great, the mighty blade and Allazar’s weakening streamers could not penetrate such defences. Salaman Goth pushed out the shield while Gawain hammered upon it with righteous fury, but using the staff as a hiker would a stick, he dragged himself up off his knees to stand before them. He held the staff vertically, staring with aquamire black eyes through the iron mask, bringing forth the shield each time Gawain swung at him. And this time there was no laughter. He simply stood there, waiting for Gawain and Allazar to exhaust themselves.