by GJ Kelly
The problem was, he knew, there was only one Gawain, and dozens of Ramoth towers between Callodon and the Dragon's Teeth. By the time he got to the vile wooden spire in Threlland, these crazed and relentless Ramoths would have rebuilt the towers in the southlands.
Nor could he expect any assistance, nor did he. Since the fall of Pellarn some sixteen years ago, the hastily assembled armies mobilised in each kingdom had dwindled. No need for armies in peacetime, and the whitebeards had assured their kings that the empire would cease its westward thrust once it had Pellarn in its dark clutches.
Of course, the kings had believed them, and of course, it takes coin to maintain an army. Thus, after such a lengthy peace, there simply were no armies. Most of the royal honour-guards each kingdom maintained had never seen combat. Most of the military, if they could be called that, were simple town guardsmen the like of Tallbot, charged with maintaining the King's Peace in their protectorates. Warriors they were not.
Thus the astonishment at Gawain's prowess with sword and arrow. Thus the fear in the Callodon patrol's eyes when they faced him outside Jarn. Thus the apparent ease with which the Ramoth towers fell, and the ease with which Gawain knew they would be rebuilt.
The cold rage which had boiled within him faded as Gwyn strode along the winding track through the woods atop Callodon's border hills. That rage now simmered, glowing darkly like the strangeness he'd seen beyond the Dragon's Teeth from the slopes of Tarn, in Threlland. It drew the light in, that strangeness, as if it would draw the sun from the very skies. Gawain's quest for justice and vengeance simmered likewise, drawing the life from his eyes and his complexion, leaving him hard-faced, stone-hearted, and single-minded.
North then, he'd decided. By way of Juria's castletown. According to the map, there was one tower waiting to be razed between him and Juria's capital. It lay on the outskirts of a small town called Bardin. It shouldn't take long. But the journey to the Dragon's Teeth would take longer, and that, Gawain knew, was the well-spring of the foul flow of robed chanters that plagued the land and called down destruction upon his homeland. Ramoth, and Morloch. Cut off the head, and the snake dies.
"Make way!" came a familiar call from ahead.
Gawain's mouth set in a cruel, thin smile. He'd seen Gwyn's warning signals and had expected simpleton brigands to emerge from the trees ahead as the ground sloped gently downwards towards the Jurian side of the border.
"Make way for Ramoth's Emissary!" he heard again, and Gwyn picked up her pace, rounding a bend in the track at a trot.
Ahead lay the border-post, little more than a collection of cabins. A trading-post, an inn, and several huts for the Callodon and Jurian border-guards, who even now were dragging aside the wooden trestles that blocked the road and marked the official border-crossing.
Gwyn, in response to her master's grim intent, slowed to an amble, continuing down the track even as the Ramoth procession began to wend its way upwards towards them.
The procession was identical to the one Gawain had seen on his first encounter with these despised vermin. A pole-carrier, eight robed acolytes bearing a sedan chair, and six mounted mercenaries. He brought Gwyn to a halt in the middle of the track, and waited, some two hundred paces away.
One of the Jurian border-guards spotted him as they were replacing the trestles in the wake of the Ramoth procession, and Gawain saw an arm raised, finger pointing in his direction. Still the procession advanced.
Replacements, Gawain thought, no doubt hastily assembled and hurrying to Stoon, or Jarn, or more likely the Callodon castletown. Ramoth must be anxious to reinforce his position in the minds of Callodon.
"Make way!" came the call again, this time directed at Gawain, who stood in plain view, simply waiting.
Behind the Ramoths, border-guards of both sides met in a small group, all faces turned up the slope towards Gawain.
"Make way for the emissary of Ramoth!"
Gawain blinked, flexed his shoulders, and checked his feet in the stirrups. Gwyn snorted derisively.
The procession slowed a little, bells jingling.
"Make way there!" the lead mercenary yelled, face flushed with indignation. And spurred his reluctant horse forward.
The main procession was a hundred paces away now, still moving forward. The mercenary was much closer, his skittish stallion jigging almost sideways up the slope to the solitary figure blocking the track.
"You! Out of the way or be a bloody carpet on which my master'll walk!"
Gawain didn't move, and simply transferred his gaze from the sedan chair to the Ramoth guardsman now a mere ten paces away. There was not the slightest hint of recognition in the mercenary's eyes. Only malice, arrogance, and blood-lust.
Gwyn lunged forward as Gawain whipped the longsword from over his shoulder, cutting the mercenary down. Gawain didn't so much as look behind him as the onlookers below gazed dumbstruck while the guard's body slipped from the saddle and the horse bolted off towards Callodon, dragging the corpse behind it.
The Ramoth guardsmen were still fumbling for their weapons when Gwyn smashed into the pole-carrier and crashed into the group of chair-bearing acolytes. Gawain's blade flashed in the sunlight, and screams mingled with the clash of steel.
The two mounted guards either side of the sedan chair were cut down in moments, taken completely unawares by the reach of Gawain's sword. Gwyn kicked and stamped, the longsword rose and fell, and the border-guards below stood agog.
One of the mounted guardsmen in the procession's rearguard must have realised who this madman was that brought such violent and remorseless death into their midst, and jumped from the saddle, discarding his sword. He'd almost made it to the border crossing when he heard the thundering of hooves on the track behind him, and the snorting counterpoint of Gwyn's excited breath.
Twenty paces from the trestles and the watching border-guards, Gawain leaned from the saddle, and the longsword swept down in a massive arc. Blood from the terrible wound the blade inflicted on the fleeing mercenary sprayed the track, almost to the trestles.
Gwyn came to an abrupt halt some five paces from the crossing, showering the border-guards with grit and dust and small pebbles. Gawain gazed down at them, blade held high and dripping blood. It was as though they weren't there, so cold and dismissive was the look they received.
Then the mighty horse and its awful rider had turned, and were charging back up the slope, towards the figure climbing shakily from the overturned sedan…
The emissary of Ramoth, a tall and gangling man with close-cropped hair, gazed at the carnage around him, the eye-amulet hanging from his neck wide open, as if mirroring the stunned expression on the man's face.
Recognition, when he saw Gawain, told the younger man everything he wanted to know. This emissary had come from the north, and yet knew Gawain's face. The dark wizardry in the eye-amulet was real, Tallbot of Jarn had been correct. The emissaries could communicate with one another.
"You!" The emissary sneered. "Ramoth sees you!"
"Tell him to prepare, scum. Tell him he will not wait long for my coming. I have a gift for him, and I am anxious to deliver it."
"He sees all, and hears all!" the man screamed, pointing an accusing finger. But the emissary's voice was shrill with fear and dread, and Gawain smiled.
The acolytes might be mindless, vacant followers, but the emissaries were not so vacuous. They valued their lives, unlike their followers. Terror, Gawain knew instinctively, would make for a valuable ally in this quest.
"Good," he replied, and Gwyn nodded. "Then this conversation is at an end."
The sword swung lazily, destroying both the emissary and the eye-amulet.
Gawain turned again, and Gwyn began walking slowly to the crossing. In the distance, he saw two Jurian riders galloping away across the plains, probably to the castletown itself. But already the Callodon guards were hastily dragging the heavy wooden trestles aside at his approach.
The Jurians, realising what their Callodon count
erparts were doing, rushed to open their side of the track. All stood as far to the sides of the track as they could as Gawain ambled slowly past them, sheathing his blade and eyeing them disinterestedly.
A mile further down the track he allowed himself a faint grin. Word of his approach was spreading far ahead of him. In black towers all across the land, Ramoth emissaries would suffer. They would sleep fitfully, all of them, surrounded by their mercenaries. They would know fear. They would know that the mercenaries would make for poor bodyguards. They would take to their lofty towers, and hopefully stay there.
Which meant that the ordinary folk in these lands would be spared the constant cries of "make way" and "open your heart". Spared the jingling of loathsome bells in their market squares.
Yes, Gawain thought, fear and terror do indeed make for good allies in this quest. Not very noble, and certainly not honourable. But a lone warrior must make use of any weapon, any ally, and Gawain was certainly alone.
He reached the outskirts of the Jurian town of Bardin four days after crossing the border. It was here that Gawain decided to try a new tactic, to test the strength of his new allies. It was night when he reached the copse beside which the tower had been constructed. He and Gwyn slept lightly, waiting for the dawn.
After his remembrance, the first rays of sunshine warming his face, he ate a frugal breakfast, checked his weapons, and took to the saddle. When he rode out of the tree-line it was broad daylight, a glorious summer's morning.
The tower lay some three hundred paces from the trees, and he simply sat on his horse, motionless, staring at the tower and the guards at the palisade gate.
They saw him instantly he emerged from the trees, and he could hear their calls of alarm. Within moments, a dozen mercenaries were lined at the gate. Gawain simply sat there, and watched.
He could hear a muted chanting coming from the long huts flanking the tower, and half expected dark wizardry to assail him, but nothing happened. If Ramoth's followers were entreating their god to rid them of the unknown longsword warrior outside their gates, he was deaf to their pleas. If Morloch, the half man half mythical dark wizard were in league with Ramoth, then the whitebeard Allazar must be correct, and his powers all but spent after wreaking such total destruction on Raheen. No blast of fire, no thunderbolts, no dark magic blew Gawain from his saddle.
Nothing but the distant murmuring of futile chanting, and the stares of worried mercenaries to interrupt this otherwise fine morning.
Still Gawain remained motionless, idly watching the shadow he and Gwyn cast on the grass. A bumblebee, laden with pollen and struggling against the weight, droned by towards the trees behind the rider and his steed. Gawain admired its tenacity and strength of purpose. Few humans would labour so strenuously for their queen and their fellows without reward.
A few moments later, the Ramoth mercenaries let loose with bow and crossbow. Their optimism was little more than a sign of their desperation; all the shafts and bolts fell harmlessly a good fifty paces in front of Gawain. He sniffed the air, and Gwyn bobbed her head almost disparagingly.
A skylark twittered cheerfully somewhere above them, a much more pleasing sound on the ear than the twang of bowstrings and the irritating chanting from the long huts.
More arrows and bolts flew his way, and still they fell harmlessly short. Gawain smiled to himself, and Gwyn ambled slowly forward, almost to the line of spent arrows in the lush grass. There they stopped. And waited.
More time passed, and Gawain smiled again as more shafts fell harmlessly short. Then he drew his longsword, slowly and deliberately, allowing the sun to sparkle and glint on the blade.
It was too much for two of the mercenaries, who turned and ran into the compound, only to return moments later on horseback, charging through their former comrades and galloping off to the east, away from the tower, away from the solitary rider who sat so menacingly still, watching and waiting, longsword in hand.
It was enough. No sooner had the two riders become lost on the horizon in the glare of the morning sun than the sound of raised voices drifted to Gawain's ears on the gentle breeze. One of the mercenaries could be seen clutching at the tunics of the others as they bolted for the compound and their horses, until finally he stood alone. The man appeared to consider his prospects a moment longer, then he too hurried for his horse.
When last he saw them, the Ramoth mercenaries were charging towards the sun as fast as their steeds could carry them.
Gawain then eased his own horse forward, grim resolution etched on his features…
oOo
12. Allies
Three days north of the Jurian town of Bardin and the shattered remains of its Ramoth tower, Gwyn snorted anxiously. In the distance, a large party of riders were charging towards them at the gallop.
Here in the open plains there was no cover, nowhere to hide, nowhere to run. Gawain eyed the approaching throng and sighed. If they were enemy, it may not go well for him. He might fell a few with his arrows, and slay yet more with the sword, but one man against twenty is slim odds in a cavalry encounter. Not once did he consider fleeing. Instead, he strung an arrow, and waited.
The riders slowed when they neared, and formed a single broad line, light gleaming on their emblazoned tunics and metal helms. Jurian honour-guards, armed with cavalry swords and short lances. Not very good odds at all.
Yet the points of their lances were held up, unwavering, pointing skyward. An encouraging sign. As was the slender rider in the middle of the line, who carried no lance at all, and whose long, ink-black hair billowed around her like a cape in the breeze.
They came to a halt a hundred paces off, and they eyed him nervously as he regarded them with a coldly professional eye. The rider nearest to the girl handed his lance to a comrade, and eased forward, but came to a halt well clear of the longsword's reach. Still, he hadn't seen the arrow Gawain was holding until he was ten paces from the younger man.
Eyeing the shaft with a look of disgust at having brought the whole party within deadly range, the officer nodded a brief acknowledgement to Gawain.
"Serre. I am Captain Jerryn, of the Royal Jurian Guard."
"Well met, Captain."
"Well met. You are the one called Longsword."
"I am known by that name in Callodon."
"You slay the Ramoth, and fire their towers."
"I do."
"Then, Serre, speaking for myself, honour to you. Speaking for my lady, her most royal highness Hellin, first-born of Willam, King of Juria, you are commanded to stay your hand against the Ramoth in the castletown of Juria."
"I am commanded?"
Jerryn grimaced. "Aye. On pain of death."
Gawain sighed. "That is your lady? Hellin of Juria?"
"It is."
"I would speak with her."
"You may not do so armed."
"I may not be disarmed."
"Then you may not speak."
"My word on it, Captain. My weapons shall rest idle, and blades sheathed.” Gawain unstrung the arrow and returned it to its quiver.
Jerryn paused a moment. "We have it from Callodon that you are an honourable man."
"You have it correctly."
"Wait here."
Jerryn turned his horse and cantered back to the line. Gawain watched as he seemed to speak earnestly to the princess, and after some time, and some consultation with other officers, the girl nodded.
Jerryn rode back, and Gawain could tell from the man's expression that an agreement had been reached.
"You may speak," he announced, "But must dismount. And your horse must remain here, we have heard of its nature."
"Agreed." Gawain announced, his voice flat. Then he slipped from the saddle, patted Gwyn on the neck, and calmly walked towards the line, Jerryn mounted a few paces behind him.
The girl dismounted, and with an escort of one lancer, began walking towards Gawain. In the middle ground between Gwyn and the column of lancers, they met, and stood a respectful f
ew paces apart.
"You are Longsword.” She said softly, her pale young face showing signs of nervous tension, though her large brown eyes looked close to tears.
"I am. Well met, Hellin of Juria. Honour to you, and to the crown."
She tilted her head, acknowledging the formal salute. "It is for the crown I speak, and it is for the crown I command you stay your hand against the tower in Castle Town."
"So have I heard from your Captain. But no-one commands my blade but me, and it is my arm that stays it, or lets it loose. Long dead are those that once commanded my actions."
"Then my command to you is in vain?"
"If you fear Morloch's Breath, lady, look to Callodon. It still stands."
"It is not Morloch's Breath we fear, Serre. Some time past, a wizard came to our court, and spoke most persuasively. He said that Morloch spent his Breath upon Raheen. He too guided our eyes towards Callodon, and spoke of the destruction you have wrought upon the Ramoth there, without dire consequence to that fair land. It is not Morloch we fear."
"Then what?"
Hellin's eyes watered unashamedly. "My father's very life is in your hand, Serre. This is why We command you, stay your blade, in Castle Town at least."
"Juria's life depends upon this? How so? Is he then a prisoner of these vermin, or has he lost his mind, and now follows that vile snake-symbol to the tinkling of tiny bells?"
She grew angry then, and the anger quelled the outburst of tears that threatened flood. "You may not speak to me thus of my father! No Jurian Crown would follow these cursed Ramoth! They are a disease!"
Gawain stood unperturbed. "Then tell me, Hellin of Juria, in simple words that the simplest of men could understand. Why should I pass Juria by, and allow this disease to infest these plains at such cost?"
