Realisation dawned upon Gawain slowly, but then a new clarity of thought washed away his fury and outrage at Raheen being invaded a second time. A new resolve, grim and irrepressible, flooded through him. Holding the longsword poised, he backed away a single pace, Allazar behind and to the right, well clear of his swing.
“If you start walking now, you might make your squalid homeland before winter, minion of Morloch!” Gawain spat, breathing hard.
“Futile, boy-king, your end has come.”
“Do you not know me, slave of Morloch, do you not know my name? Does not your miserable history record the name of he who slew your lapdog Armun Tal, created in your own image, here, on this very spot?”
The black shield emanating from Goth’s staff disappeared, and he advanced half a pace to answer Gawain.
But no answer came. For at that moment, Elayeen burst through the ghosts of the north gate, guiding her horse towards the northwest corner of the Keep, intending to pass Salaman Goth on his right flank. Gawain, poised to strike, watched as though caught between two worlds, the one with his beloved at full charge, her face contorted with furious concentration, longbow drawn, aiming at Salaman Goth, the other, a bedraggled and tousle-haired Forester, Gillyan Treen, astride her horse-friend, her short-bow drawn, aiming at Armun Tal…
Salaman Goth, utterly unprepared for an attack from the rear, a direction he thought completely barren, stood rooted to the spot, agog behind his iron mask…
Gawain watched, as an elven longshaft seemed to float delicately from Elayeen’s bow, and flew straight and true across the courtyard. Elayeen was by no means a cavalrywoman. The woodlands of Elvendere were her domain. But she was Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ni Varan, daughter of Elvendere and thalangard trained. So, when she loosed her shaft, she took into account the speed and motion of her horse. And the arrow smashed into Salaman Goth’s right shoulder blade, drilled through it, and burst from his chest while Gawain danced forward and swung the Sword of Justice.
An upward swing it was, which took his enemy’s right arm off midway between elbow and shoulder. The arm, with its hand still clinging to the staff, fell, the sound of the staff clattering on the flagstones drowned out by more pealing of thunder and the hammering of hooves as Elayeen brought her horse around and to a skittering halt on the courtyard flags where once the stables stood. Rain fell, great cold drops of rain that splashed dark on the bleached stones of Raheen, rain that hammered Salaman Goth’s upturned iron mask as he collapsed to his knees.
“Know despair, vermin of Goria, for this is the Sword of Justice, and it is Gawain, son of Davyd, King of Raheen, who wields it and ends your pitiful existence!”
And before Salaman Goth could frame an answer or chant a spell, Gawain swung the sword again, the blade taking the dark wizard’s left arm clean off on its way through ribs and blackened heart and spine beyond. Gawain drew out the sword, and backed away from the corpse, the rain washing the blackness from the steel.
Elayeen dismounted from her trembling horse, the foam-flecked steed gulping great lungfuls of air, exhausted from a charge made after a long hard ride from Downland. At once, Gawain sheathed his sword, and in a few long strides Elayeen was in his arms, and he almost crushing her so fierce was his embrace.
Allazar kept his eyes fixed upon the corpse of Salaman Goth, as if fearful it would somehow spring into vengeful life. But when it did not, he crossed the dark-stained flagstones and placed his left boot firmly on the severed arm, just below the wrist of the hand still clutching the staff. He stooped, and prised the five-foot length of precious Dymendin from the dead hand’s grasp, marvelling at its weight; a rod of iron would be lighter. But for small bumps here and there, the staff was polished smooth, and had a deep sheen, and Allazar could see the world and himself reflected in a wood black as burnished jet.
“I seem to remember leaving a letter asking you to wait for us at the foot of the Pass, miheth.” Gawain whispered, relaxing his grip and gazing down into Elayeen’s hazel-green eyes with a fierce pride the like of which his elfin queen had never before seen.
“I am no horse-maid of Raheen, miheth,” she sniffed, smiling in the rain, “To be ordered so.”
“No,” Gawain smiled, and Allazar could not tell if either or both of them were crying in the rain. “No, you are Elayeen Rhiannon Seraneth ni Varan, daughter of Elvendere, and I love you even though you’ve half killed this poor brave horse…”
And with that, Gawain kissed her, his hands buried in her hair, until, finally, he broke away, and left her gazing at him breathlessly as he walked her horse around the shattered courtyard.
Less than an hour later the rain eased, and then stopped as abruptly as it had began. The storm continued its roiling journey west towards Goria, rumbling and flashing, the thunder fading. The light of late evening broke through low grey clouds here and there, sending shafts of sunlight down upon the glistening ruins, finding only the steaming carcasses of the Graken, and its maker.
Within the Keep, Allazar busied himself by leaning on the Dymendin staff and idly watching the pools of water which formed in the Circle of Justice wherein he stood, pretending to study the runes. At the sentry-post, Gawain stood holding wide and aloft the arrowsilk cloak Elayeen had returned to him, while within the vaulted alcove Elayeen changed out of her soaking wet clothes and into dry.
They took it in turns to change, and by the time Allazar was presentable a strange and unpleasant odour wafted occasionally from the courtyard entrance. Gawain went to investigate, prising his tingling hand from Elayeen’s in order to do so. Then he called both of them to the entrance, his voice a little alarmed.
Allazar grasped the heavy staff, and hurried to join the crowns of Raheen. Outside, in the fading red-orange glow of sunset, the carcasses were smouldering like a charcoal fire.
“Aquamire.” Allazar explained. “Salaman Goth was riddled with it, explaining his great age and power. And the Graken is a creature made and driven by that evil substance. Do not approach, my friends, I will try to speed the process with white fire and rid us once and for all of their presence.”
Gawain slipped his arm around Elayeen’s waist and they watched as the wizard picked his way through the rubble to stand some feet away from the smouldering corpses. He held the staff loosely in his left hand, resting on the flags, while chanting and pointing at the carcasses with his right.
“We may have a while to wait,” Gawain announced loud enough for the wizard to hear, “It took him an age to light a simple fire in charcoal less than a week ago.”
Suddenly, and seemingly to Allazar’s astonishment as much as his onlookers, a broad streamer of lightning, broader and brighter than any they had ever seen the wizard produce, shot from the top of the staff and struck the Graken. The enormous body twitched as though given a sharp kick by some giant boot testing for signs of life, and then with a whoosh burst into crimson flame, a flame which consumed the massive beast in moments, leaving nothing but charred and blackened mud on the flags where its ash mingled with pooled rainwater, and a billowing plume of greasy black smoke bubbling as high as the ruins of the Keep before the wind whipped it away to the west.
“Dwarfspit.” Allazar gasped, looking at his right hand, turning it over and back, and then at the staff held in his left.
“Dwarfspit indeed.” He heard Gawain mumble, and looked over his shoulder to see the young man drawing his lady back under cover of the vaulted entrance to the Keep.