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.