by GJ Kelly
He raised the sword again, then struck the heavy blade against the ash-covered floor. Dust flew from the sword, revealing its former glory. Then he raised it high above his head, beams of sunlight lancing through the gloom and chasing ghosts around the shattered walls.
"By this blade I swear,” Gawain said coldly, his voice echoing back at him, strangely distorted, "Justice. And vengeance. For my home. For my people. I am Gawain, son of Davyd, King of Raheen."
The sunshine seemed to flicker and fade, and a breeze wafted through the Great Hall. Gwyn leapt to her feet and let out a great screeching whinny. The ground beneath Gawain's feet seemed to shift, and a new light filled the room. All around him, a glowing, emanating from the strange symbols etched in the scorched marble floor, etched into the Circle of Justice.
"The Fallen!” Gawain cried, and the sword seemed to become suddenly lighter in his hands, so light he could hold it aloft with one hand, and wield it with ease.
Again Gwyn whinnied, and pawed at the stone floor, the sound echoing like the applause of ten thousand ghosts as the ground shook, ash billowed, and a terrible resolve gathered up the pieces of Gawain's shattered heart, and bonded them together with a single, cold purpose as relentless as sunset.
oOo
9. Ramoth's Eye
Sunset found Gwyn and Gawain at the foot of the Downland Pass. There was no food to be had in Raheen. No water. No grass for Gwyn. There was nothing in Raheen. There was no Raheen. Only ashes.
The inns clustered at the foot of the pass were abandoned, but the wells were full, and both Gawain and Gwyn drank their fill. Food too, in one of the traveller's rests, a testament to the rapidity of their abandonment. Jars of preserves, kegs of ale and skins of wine, mouldy bread and the rotting remains of a wild boar decaying on a spit above a fire long since dead.
It was difficult to tell when the place had been abandoned, for the layers of dust over everything had a ghastly similarity to the ash high above on the plateau.
Gawain did not care when it had happened. Whether a day, a week, or a year ago. He only knew that Raheen, all that he had loved and cherished, all that defined him, shaped him, made him Gawain, was gone.
All he cared about now was his oath, and the cold fire which raged within him. Justice. And vengeance. For Raheen.
While Gwyn grazed, Gawain gathered provisions from the abandoned kitchens, bundled them into sacks, and tied them to his saddle. It was while he was fetching a jar of dried beef that he spotted an ancient Pellarn longsword hanging above the empty fireplace at one of the inns, and he took it down, examining the leather and iron-bound scabbard. The sword itself was rusted and blunt, useless. It was the scabbard that held his interest.
Outside in the fresh air he unstrapped the Raheen Sword of Justice from his saddle, and tried it in the scabbard. It was a loose fit, but not bad, and with a few judicious blows from the pommel of his knife upon the iron rivets, he tightened the scabbard's hold on his new blade, and strapped it around his neck so that the sword's pommel stuck up behind his right shoulder.
He reached up, grasped the hilt, and drew the blade in a single flowing motion. Then sheathed it, and continued practising drawing and sheathing the longsword until he was satisfied.
He didn't know why it felt so light in his hand. Whitebeard magic, probably, from the days when whitebeards did something useful for the land and its people. In truth, he didn't care. It was light, that was all that mattered, not the reason for it. He could wield it as deftly as his old shortsword, which experience had taught him was very deftly and effectively indeed. The extra length and superior steel the longsword afforded simply meant that he could allow a greater distance between himself and any attacker stupid enough to offend him.
Someone had. Someone had offended him greatly. The ash that clung to him and Gwyn was testament of that. And when he found that someone…
But he wouldn't find anyone here. He patted Gwyn, climbed into the saddle, and turned his back on the dead plateau, heading back along the track that only yesterday he had thought not to see again.
Hours later they were riding through a small copse in the shimmering moonlight, when they heard the sound of an axe striking wood. Gwyn turned towards the sound, and a short time later they emerged into a small clearing. A poorly-dressed man was chopping firewood, hastily and badly from the look of it, and so intent was he at his labour he did not hear Gawain's approach until he was within easy striking distance of the longsword.
He suddenly stopped, his back to Gawain, and his shoulders slumped. Then he turned slowly, his axe abandoned. When he saw Gwyn and Gawain, he fell to his knees in abject terror…
"Oh Serre! Serre my lord! Do not slay me I beg you! I am but a poor man, and needed the wood for cooking!"
Gawain frowned, until it dawned on him that his appearance must be truly horrifying. He and Gwyn, still covered in white ash, shimmering in the moonlight in this woodland glade…
"Rise, and gather your wits.” Gawain commanded, "And do so quickly. I'm in no mood to converse with a babbling idiot."
"Serre! Yes Serre!" the woodcutter scurried to his feet, still staring up the tall white rider.
"You live nearby?"
"I do, Serre, humbly, in a hut yonder, with my wife…"
"How long?"
"Serre?"
"How long have you lived here?"
"Many years…"
"Tell me, woodcutter. And tell me true. What has become of Raheen? The truth, or my blade."
The woodcutter sighed and shook his head, staggered back a pace or two, and sat heavily on a log.
"Speak.” Gawain ordered.
"It was Morloch's Breath."
"Morloch's Breath? What is this madness?"
"No madness, Serre, in truth. Many months ago, Ramoth sent an emissary to Raheen. He was sent away, and was much angered. Later, another emissary came. He too was sent away.
"I used to take wood to the inns at the Pass, some hours ride from here, and heard it from there that Raheen had warned the Ramoths not to return, lest they offend the king a third time."
"And?"
"And in midwinter, a third emissary came, in company with a host of guardsmen and chanters. There was fighting at the foot of the pass, and the Ramoths, it was said later, made it to the top.
"But the Raheen do not…did not…take well to offence, and the Ramoths were destroyed. The emissary was cast off the cliffs into the sea...
"In spring, some three months ago it was, a great host of Ramoths assembled on the plain at the foot of the pass. They brought with them representatives of all the lands. I even saw elves in their number, this I swear.
"They began chanting. They said that Ramoth was angered at the vile treatment of his emissaries. They said that even Morloch, the greatest wizard that lives, bows before Ramoth, and that to appease the god, Raheen must be punished."
"Punished..."
"So they said. And they began a great chanting, Serre, the like of which you've never heard! And ringing of bells, and swaying, and chanting…it grew cold, and dark, and suddenly a wind blew up as if from in their very midst.
"There was a flash of light, as sunlight glinting from a shield, high above the throng, high up above us all, from Raheen."
Gawain remained motionless in his saddle, staring down at the man. "And then?"
"And then a wind blew in from the Sea of Hope, and we saw a great cloud we took to be snow billowing from the cliff tops, streaming like windblown snow…
"It is done, the Ramoths said. Morloch's Breath has touched Raheen. Raheen is no more. Behold, they said, the fate of those who do not Make Way…"
Tears welled in the man's eyes, and his shoulders shook at the memory. Still Gawain sat motionless, waiting.
"Men were sent up the Pass. Men from all races. They came back hours later, covered head to foot in ashes, and in tears. Some were driven mad by what they had seen. Raheen is gone, they cried. Gone."
"The Ramoths did this."
The man nodded.
"Thank you."
The man looked up, wracked with emotion and puzzlement, but Gawain had already turned away, heading for the track through the trees.
Ramoths. The nearest tower was outside the small town of Stoon, about two hours fast ride north. Close enough, and it was not yet midnight…
Gwyn set a good pace, glad to feel soil beneath her hooves, to see trees and grass and life about her. Only when they approached the outskirts of the town, and passed the travellers inn that marked the beginning of population, did they slow, and come to a halt.
Gawain checked his weapons, clenched his teeth, and they set off at a quiet walking pace towards the silhouette of the tower rising above the trees to the east. When they emerged from the tree-line, Gawain paused again, eyeing the terrain.
There were two long huts either side of the tower, which rose like a charred black finger, pointing at the moon. A low wooden palisade fence marked a boundary around the Ramoth enclosure, but it was little more than symbolic in military terms. Barrels of oil blazed at intervals around the perimeter, and outside the huts. Two Ramoth guardsmen stood at arms by the entrance.
Two. Futile. Gawain strung an arrow from his quiver, and held another ready in his left hand. Then he allowed Gwyn to set off down the slope and out of the trees, into full view.
The guards spotted Gawain at once, and even from a hundred paces he could see them exchanging curious looks. He must indeed have presented a spectacle, shimmering a brilliant white in the moonlight astride a mighty white horse. The guards may have been mercenaries, but if they'd heard enough talk of ancient gods and dark wizards, then whitebeards only knew what they made of the lone figure ambling towards them.
At fifty paces Gawain threw his first arrow and was stringing the second by the time the first guard fell to his knees. The second shaft was in flight while the guard on his feet was still watching his comrade sink lifeless to the earth. A few moments later, both were dead, and Gawain entered the Ramoth enclosure unchallenged. He left Gwyn outside, keeping watch, while he picked his way silently towards the tower.
There was a low door set in the base of the tower, and Gawain paused, listening, his ear to the wood. After a few moments, he lifted the latch, and swung it open slowly, lest its hinges squeal. They did not, and from the smell of the wood, this structure was quite new. Probably built in the aftermath of Raheen's destruction.
Stairs wound their way upward, spiralling around the centreline of the tower. He didn't bother unsheathing either the shortsword hanging from his left hip, or the longsword from his back. They would be useless on the stairway. Instead, his right hand hovered lightly over the hilt of his knife as he made his way upward.
At the top, the stairs opened out onto a single room which took up the whole of the top of the tower. A great circular bed lay in the middle of the room, surrounded by hanging lace curtains. The air was rich with the smell of sickly incense, and sconces around the walls provided an eerie dull light.
A large black table, topped by black candles and a familiar snake-like symbol stood at the foot of the bed, facing the doorway in which Gawain stood.
There were shapes writhing on the bed, dark silhouettes and shadows dancing on the lace curtains. Gawain drew his longsword, and advanced slowly.
A floorboard groaned under his weight, and he paused, noting the sudden stillness from the bed…a curtain was flung back, and a shaven-headed woman appeared, naked, eyes dull and lifeless, vacant. Another curtain swished open, and a second woman appeared, almost identical to the first. And then a third…
Gawain advanced, oblivious to the disgust which tried vainly to compete with his cold rage. A fourth figure then rose up. A man, dressed in a short white robe, and wearing a strange amulet on a chain around his neck.
All four pushed through the curtains, to stand facing Gawain. Of them all, only the man's eyes held any life, any emotion. The women gazed vacuously, without fear, without any trace of feeling or awareness of danger.
"Who dares disturb the emissary of Ramoth?" the man's lilting voice lisped.
"I do." Gawain glowered.
"Foolish. Make way for Ramoth, and he shall spare you."
"Tell him to make way for me. I shall spare none of you."
"He sees all, and hears all." The emissary replied, and glanced down at his amulet.
Gawain, longsword poised ready to strike, watched, fascinated. The front of the amulet was crusted over like the bark of a tree, but as he watched, a crack appeared in the middle of the amulet, and then opened, the two halves peeling back like eyelids, to reveal a glistening dark eye within.
"He sees all, and hears all. What he sees, my brothers see. What he hears, my brothers hear." the emissary repeated, leering arrogantly.
"Good. They have offended me. Tell them all I'm coming." And with that, Gawain struck, the longsword whistling over the top of the female's heads as it severed the emissary's. Another stroke felled the blood spattered wenches, who died without a sound, seemingly careless of their fate and their master's.
Gawain stepped forward over the headless corpse of the emissary, and gazed down into the black eye-amulet.
"I am coming for you next." He said, his voice flat and utterly unperturbed. And then he thrust the point of his longsword into the eye-amulet, bursting it and impaling the corpse's lifeless heart.
On his way out of the tower, he placed his booted foot against a barrel of blazing oil, and overturned it, the flaming liquid gushing forth into the base of the vile wooden tower. Then he strode to the long huts, and kicked over the oil-barrels blazing outside of them. Within moments, the tower and the huts were ablaze, and Gawain was striding towards the gates, and to Gwyn, whose blue eyes sparkled with the light from the conflagrations behind him.
He mounted, cast a satisfied eye around the blazing camp, and turned, and rode off into the night, heading north. There was another tower, he knew, at Jarn…
oOo
10. Longsword
If the eye of Ramoth had indeed seen all and heard all, then it was a poor messenger. Or merely an amulet, blind and deaf, some trick of wizardry intended to impress simpletons.
By the time Gawain had retraced his steps to Jarn he had expected to find a Ramoth army laying in wait outside the town. Instead he found a handful of mounted Ramoth guardsmen ambling along the familiar rutted track.
They barely had time to offer an arrogant "you there!" before Gwyn charged into them, and Gawain's longsword reaped another crop of justice and vengeance on the long road north.
It was evening as Gawain rode away leaving the mercenaries lifeless in his dust, and he had determined to wait until full darkness before destroying the Jarn Tower. Gwyn veered off the track some distance later, and they settled in the trees to eat and rest.
In the weeks since leaving the plateau, Gawain had ridden Gwyn through every river and stream they had come across, and groomed his horse and himself to remove all traces of ash and dust from them. In the silent hours before sleep, he had brooded, and drawn up his simple plans of attack upon the Ramoth. It was not a military campaign of which his tutors would be particularly impressed. He would simply ride in, destroy, and ride out. If he died in the attempt, so be it. All of Raheen was gone. He and Gwyn, and the longsword, were all that was left of his homeland.
The ghosts of his people cried out for justice and vengeance, but also cried out for Gawain, too. He did not wish to keep them waiting too long.
And if word spread of Gawain's advance upon the Ramoth, perhaps other men would take up arms against them too?
While he chewed on stale bread and dried beef, Gawain knew that he could count on no support. The seven kingdoms had been made five. Pellarn had fallen to the Gorian Empire, and Raheen had been wiped from the face of the land in a single moment. Which of the five remaining kingdoms would take a stand with such a terrible fate hanging over them? None.
Gawain was alone. And ever would be.
When it was time to go, he mounted Gw
yn, and turned her north-west through the trees. The thirst for vengeance and justice that drove him hadn't completely addled his brains; he would not blindly attack the tower without first sighting its defences.
The Ramoths were fools. An hour or more later, as he gazed motionless from the trees at the tower and the blazing oil-barrels in the Ramoth enclosure, he quietly acknowledged their stupidity. For reasons known only to themselves, the towers were built near copses, woods, or forests. He presumed it was a vanity, building the tower taller than the tallest tree, and in a place where such comparisons could easily be made. Or it might have been simple practicality, for the structures were of wood, and building close to the source spared the transporting of materials.
It didn't matter, and it aided Gawain's surveillance.
There was no army, no fortress. Just more guards than at Stoon. No matter.
He'd remembered the attack on the dwarven caravan so long ago, far away on the Jurian plains. He'd been impressed by how difficult it had been to spot the attackers, thanks to their black attire. It was a cowardly thing, not the act of an honourable foe. But Gawain dismounted, and from the packs on his saddle he pulled the black cloths and garments he'd made.
The large cloth he draped over Gwyn, covering the shining blonde main and tail. The black hood and gloves were for himself, and he drew the coal-black cloak tighter around him.
Quietly, and thus hidden from view on this moonless night, they stole across the open ground to the Ramoth encampment…
Why the Ramoth mercenaries patrolled outside of their palisade wall he neither knew nor cared. Perhaps the interior of the encampment was purely for devotees of the vile cult, or perhaps the guards were simply loath to be near the long huts and the tower, and wished to distance themselves from whatever foul practices were alleged to take place in there.
But it made Gawain's task of gaining entry unannounced that much easier. Only one of the half-dozen patrolling guards actually saw the shadowy figure that killed him, or the shadowy horse behind it, and even he fell silently.
