"Traveller!” It was Rak's voice, anguished.
Gawain turned, and sheathed his weapons.
"Are you hurt?” Merrin asked, her voice trembling and fearful.
"No, my lady. And you?"
"I am unharmed."
"Traveller!” Rak gasped again, and when Gawain looked up he saw that the company was drawing closer, some nursing wounds but all staring around the ground at the campfire and near Merrin's tent.
"Rak, are you injured?" Gawain asked, wide-eyed.
But the blood was washing from Rak's face in the drizzle, and was clearly not his own.
"Eight.” said Karl, one of the dwarves. "Elve's Blood and Dwarfspit. I count eight."
Gawain followed their eyes, and noted the bodies strewn from the campfire where he had been sleeping, and to Merrin's tent. Eight there were. He could not remember having killed so many, it was all a desperate blur.
"Our lives are yours, Traveller.” Rak choked, moving to slip an arm around Merrin's shoulders as she rose from the tent. "This is a debt we can never repay."
"There is no debt.” Gawain announced softly, again seeing horror in the eyes of women, and this time in the eyes of men as they surveyed the carnage Gawain had inflicted on their attackers. "For I fear I may have brought this attack upon you."
"You? How so?"
"I have seen weapons such as these before." Gawain sighed, kicking one of the curved swords. "They are carried by Ramoth guardsmen, and I may have offended them in Callodon some months past."
"Then you have not brought this upon us. The Ramoths travel south, not north." Rak announced firmly.
"If these are their guardsmen, it was our goods they wanted, friend Traveller, not you, and we carry a rich cargo."
"True.” Rak confirmed. "And how could they know you were with us? More likely they are simple brigands."
"With such weapons?" Gawain asked softly.
"Ramoth guardsmen are little more than mercenaries. It takes money to hire the likes of them, not the empty promises of ancient gods. This is still Juria, Traveller, wide open plainsland. No place for brigands to hide in ambush. Most likely they saw our fire last night, and made their plans against us in the darkness."
"Aye, saw our fire as you did, Traveller." Karl insisted.
"Our lives are yours, Traveller." Rak insisted. "If not for you, it would be us laying cold on this wet grass."
"Your lives are your own, my friends," Gawain announced, looking at them all. "And I am glad for your company."
"My lord," Merrin shuddered, turning to her husband, "Let us leave this place?"
"Aye. Threlland lies yonder, and I yearn for home."
Gawain walked slowly towards the ashes of the campfire to collect his bedroll and cloak.
"Traveller," Rak called. "Last night you said you could make no claim for birthright or homeland. I tell you now, you shall always have a home in Threlland, on the western slopes of that fair kingdom, in Tarn. In truth, this I swear on my beloved wife, and our unborn child."
Gawain turned to face them again, and smiled, and nodded his heartfelt gratitude. Still, he couldn't help the lump in his throat, and the memories of Raheen that Rak's sincere words summoned forth. In six months, when these plains were basking in summer sunshine again, Gawain would be home. He could use his own name again, he could wear the bright red and gold colours of Raheen, and could proudly declare his heritage.
Until then, he was Traveller, and home, and his name, and all things Raheen, were forbidden him.
6. Tarn
They travelled for two weeks, that strange mixture of Jurian, Dwarf, and Raheen, crossing the river at a sluggish ford guarded by cheerful Mornlanders on the one side and somewhat less cheerful Jurians on the other.
It was there that Gawain noted the deference shown to Rak by the guards on both sides of the river, and he began to suspect that Rak's quiet insistence that he was "just a minor emissary" was little more than modesty on the dwarf's part.
On the Mornland side of the river, plains soon gave way to rolling chalk hills, and lush grass became bush and shrub, and then orchards and vineyards. According to Varn, one of the Jurian noblemen merchants travelling with the caravan, Mornland's wines and cider were justifiably envied even by the inhabitants of Arrun, where the sun, they said, shone brighter and warmer than anywhere else in the land.
They were crossing the northernmost reaches of Mornland's domain, and the hills grew steeper as they went, and it grew considerably colder. The trees and shrubs provided some shelter from the wind, more than could ever be had on the plains they'd left behind them, but they also carried with them a greater threat. The entire company were considerably more vigilant than they had been before the attack in Juria, and they were learning to pay more attention to both Gawain and Gwyn whenever the latter pricked her ears or snorted out of turn.
It was clear that they all regarded Gawain with a mixture of profound friendship, and fear. Their evening conversations around their campfire were quiet but good-humoured, and though Gawain knew that his questions must have seemed strange to his new comrades, they never voiced any surprise or concern.
For someone who called himself Traveller, he seemed to know very little about the lowlanders and their customs, and seemed very anxious to learn.
Rak had obviously decided that Gawain was on some sort of quest or adventure, having spent his life in some remote southern or eastern province, and was happy to provide as much information as he could. Besides, Gawain's right arm had spared his wife and unborn child from harm that fateful night, and though the younger man was far too tall ever to be considered a brother, there seemed to be a recognition of a kindred spirit in both men.
"So you believe it's the wine and the cider that explain these Mornlanders being so cheerful all the time?” Gawain frowned, and then noticed the smiles around him as they rode. "Ah. I see."
"Take no offence, Traveller," Rak grinned, "sometimes we fear you are too serious in your thirst for knowledge and would lighten your burden with a little laughter."
"I heard once that dwarves were not noted for their sense of humour." Gawain said sourly, but the gleam in his eye belied his tone.
"I heard it said that giants had no sense of humour at all.” Rak countered, looking up at him.
They laughed, but not for long. Gawain suddenly frowned.
"What is it?" Rak asked quietly.
"Your people live closest to the Dragon's Teeth."
"Aye. You can see them from Tarn. There's a broad stretch of badland that runs down from the Teeth like a river of stone, and washes right up against Threlland's northern slopes here in the east, and Elvendere's northern reaches in the west. Although, the elven forest is thin there and I doubt any of our elvish cousins dwell therein.
"We call the badland area 'farak gorin', which means 'land of nothing' in our language. Little grows there, the ground is spiteful sharp, and runs all the way down to Juria's plains."
"Do you believe in these old myths? Giants, and gods, and Ramoth?"
Rak smiled, and shrugged. Often, in the evenings when they made camp and huddled around the fire for warmth, Traveller had steered the conversation to the Ramoths.
"I do not.” Rak sighed. "But I suppose I can see the attraction for those that do."
Gawain looked horrified. "You can?"
"Of course. What man is ever truly content? Those who toil in the fields or at the looms will envy a king his castle and his luxury. A king will protest the weight of the crown that circles his head, and envy the simplicity of life enjoyed by those that toil in the fields or at the looms.