There were two more robed acolytes at each side of the doorway when Gawain strode into the room, and felled them both. The emissary, a woman, was kneeling in front of the black table at the foot of her bed, and at the sound of her two servants being slain she looked up, surprise wide in her eyes.
Gawain's nostrils recoiled at the sickly odour of incense that smouldered in a bowl on the table, and as the woman stood he strode forward, longsword in hand.
"You!" She gasped.
"I. Who else."
The eye-amulet hanging between her breasts cracked, and began to open. Gawain decided to wait.
"Ramoth sees you." the emissary said.
"Good. I told him I was coming. Perhaps now he'll start to believe me."
And he brought the longsword down, practically cleaving the emissary in two from shoulder to hip.
He left the tower and the long huts blazing in the still night air, pausing at the tree line to watch the conflagration and listen to the screams of its victims. It would shine like a beacon for all the inhabitants of Jarn to see. While they cowered in their homes and hovels, dreading Morloch's Breath, he, Gawain of Raheen, would breathe a fire of his own, and from the funeral pyres of towers and long huts, he would spread the ashes of Ramoths as they had the ashes of Raheen.
With his face set grim, and his stony heart hard against the destruction that lay behind and waited before him, Gawain turned Gwyn east, towards Callodon's castletown, and the largest Ramoth encampment in the kingdom.
Three miles along the road east, and with the sky still glowing in the west, Gwyn snorted. Riders were approaching, and fast. Gawain simply halted in the middle of the road, drew the longsword, and waited.
They were carrying torches when they hove into view some distance off, and Gawain could see flashes of gold in the guttering light they gave off. They were Callodon guardsmen, and they began slowing their gallop a few moments later. Gawain had removed the blackening cloths, and although the night was moonless, there was a grey cast to the low clouds…except behind him, where they flickered a dull reddish orange…
Eight riders, he counted, waiting patiently, sword still in hand, its point almost touching the ground and still as light as a feather.
When they drew up, they held their torches aloft, horses fidgeting nervously, harness and sheathed weapons jangling.
"Is it him?" a voice asked, tremulously.
"I don't know!"
"It must be. Look at the sword."
Still Gawain and Gwyn waited, motionless.
"You there…Serre."
"Yes?" Gawain answered.
"It's said, that is to say, reports have been received…"
"Dwarfspit, Erik, let me. You there, be you the longsworded stranger seen at Stoon, where the tower of Ramoth was burned?"
"I am a longsworded stranger. And I was at Stoon. Just as I was at Jarn, a few hours ago."
"Dwarfspit and Elve's Blood!"
"Take care, guardsmen of Callodon, " Gawain said softly, but all the more menacingly for it, "lest you offend me."
"You slew the emissary of Stoon? And fired the tower?"
"And the emissary of Jarn. And fired the tower."
The eight riders glanced nervously at one another, and then their gaze rested on the one called Erik, who blanched in the pale torchlight.
"Well then, stranger. We have our duty to perform, though we may die for it."
Gawain cocked his head, and flexed his right arm, remembering the words spoken by Tallbot of Jarn, so long ago.
"What is your duty, guardsman?"
There was a pause. Nervous hands crept towards weapons. Horses jigged nervously and Gwyn's tail thrashed.
"We are to take you to Brock of Callodon, our king."
"Am I in custody then?"
Fingers closed around hilts.
"Will you come?" Erik suddenly asked.
"I will suffer no man to draw steel against me. If you bid me come to your king, and if your blades remain sheathed, then I shall sheath mine, and come."
"In truth? Your word on it?"
"My word on it."
"Erik! What good is his word?" someone hissed.
"Have a care, guardsmen. I am easily offended. The Ramoths of Stoon and Jarn offended me recently. You see the results floating in the night breezes."
Ashes were indeed drifting, even this far downwind of the blaze dying in the west.
"Well then, stranger. If you will put up your blade, ours will remain in scabbard. My word on it."
Gawain flipped the longsword over his shoulder, the tip unerringly finding the scabbard.
"Then on. I would meet this Brock, who sits idle while his people suffer.” Gawain eased Gwyn forward, and he allowed himself to be flanked by the guardsmen before they set off at a fast pace, east.
But they did not make straight for the castletown. On crossing a small bridge spanning a fast-flowing river, Erik swung his horse onto the more southerly of two tracks, and it was the northerly that led directly to castle Callodon.
"Where is this Brock, then, if not at the castle town?" Gawain asked.
"Yonder is our headquarters. Word will be sent to his majesty, who will doubtless come to us. It is not safe to talk openly of the Ramoths at Callodon Keep."
Gawain fell silent, and thoughtful, pondering an uncertain future. However, it mattered not. He would have taken this route anyway. This fork in the road had only taken him a few more miles away from the Tower of Callodon. He could easily make up the time.
The headquarters turned out to be little more than a ramshackle group of log cabins, and day was breaking when they reined in and dismounted.
"Wait here, Serre, while I report to my commander."
"Be sure, guardsman, to tell him of our bond. I shall keep to my word, if he honours yours."
Erik looked up into the young man's eyes as the first light of dawn spilled over the land. Then he nodded earnestly, before hurrying off to the larger of the buildings.
Gawain stepped away from the horses, and the group of nervous and inquisitive guardsmen, and turned to the sun, closing his eyes. "Raheen," was his new remembrance. All were The Fallen, now.
Doors banged a few moments later, and Gawain opened his eyes, surveying the countryside with a disinterested eye. He didn't care for it. What did it matter that Callodon had trees, and fields, and the morning chatter of dawn chorus birdsong? Raheen was ashes.
"That is he?" a loud voice almost laughed.
"Yes, Serre."
"Don't look like much to me, Serre," another voice rasped. "And why, Corporal, is that prisoner armed?"
Gawain turned slowly, facing them. To his left, the group of seven guardsmen that had escorted him stood nervously, awaiting orders.
In front of him, a well-presented officer, clearly the commander, with Erik beside him, standing on the stoop of the cabin. But five more guardsmen had emerged onto the grass, and the speaker, a bearded sergeant, scratched his chin, and turned to glare at Erik.
"Well man?"
"He gave his word, Sergeant, as I explained to the commander."
"Oh did he indeed? Orders, Captain? Shall we disarm him?"
"May as well. I doubt the king would be impressed to find a prisoner armed to the teeth thus."
"Serre…!" Erik protested, but already the sergeant and four other guardsmen were advancing on Gawain.
"Have a care, Callodon, let you offend." Gawain announced.
"Oh really, well pardon me your high and mighty, but you are a prisoner of the King's Own Guard and that means you do as we say! Off with those weapons, now."
Gawain remained still, and then sighed as the five advancing men drew steel. He drew his longsword, and flourished it one-handed, casually, as one might swat at a fly with a stick.
"Come then, if you're so anxious to die."
They backed away a pace, aware of the tremendous reach that the weapon gave the tall young man.
"Serre!" Erik urged, "This man has left a trail of death in his wake from Stoon to Jarn! Single-handed!"