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 few 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?"
Hellin drew in a breath, and wiped her eyes on a small white handkerchief. "The emissary of Ramoth alone keeps my father from death. All healers who have been summoned are at a loss. No healing art can save Juria, save that of the Emissary in Castle Town. If you kill him, you kill my father too!"
Gawain studied the woman in front of him. That she was telling the truth was evident. Whether there was indeed truth within that truth remained to be seen.
"And the whitebeards, what say they?" he asked, unable to disguise his loathing of all wizards.
"They too are powerless, and know not the nature of my father's illness."
"Powerless is indeed a word I would use in the same breath as 'wizard'. Yet they can make nothing of the cure this filthy Emissary peddles?"
"The cure is kept with him. A green liquid, in a phial, which he administers once each week. Without it, my father succumbs to terrible convulsions, and has to be carried to his bed like a child. He is wasting away before our very eyes, and the only relief to be had is from this Emissary's medicine."
Gawain gazed off into the distance. Justice and vengeance, he knew, could be every bit as cruel as duty, and honour.
"You will honour my command? Now that you know the reason for it?" she asked, as regally as possible, but the plea was clear in her eyes.
Gawain remembered the day of his Banishment, when his mother had said "Your brother shall be king," and Kevyn had replied "Not for some considerable time, I hope!” None could imagine a day so dread as the death of their father.
"Yes," he lied. "For Juria, I shall."
The relief that flooded through the young woman was so obvious it was like a signal to the lancers behind her, and there was a sighing of leather and a clinking of tackle as riders relaxed in their saddles. For the briefest moment, Gawain actually thought she might reach out her arms and hug him…
Instead she smiled weakly, and said "Thank you, Longsword. Speed your journeys."
Gawain bowed, his face expressionless, and watched as she returned to the line with her escort.
Jerryn dismounted behind him, and Gawain turned.
"You have done a noble thing this day, Serre. I hope none of us live to regret such nobility."
"When did Juria fall ill?" Gawain asked quietly, intensely.
Jerryn frowned. "Some time past. Not long after we received news from Callodon that the tower in the castletown there had been razed, and a longsword warrior was scything Ramoths like a reaper in the fields. Why ask you?"
"Why have you not?"
Jerryn frowned. But movement behind Gawain caught his eye, and he suddenly held out his hand. "The Crown is preparing to leave. I must rejoin the column. Honour to you, Longsword. Would that I did not have duty, and could join you on your quest. These Ramoths took from me a sister, and I would see them all burn."
"Where is your sister, friend Jerryn, at the tower in Castle Town?"
The officer's eyes clouded with grief. "No. She is gone. She and her husband raised beef, and took two fine bulls and six milk cows to Raheen, hoping to trade for a breeding pair of Raheen horses. They did not return."
"Then you have my sorrow for your loss, and my arm, friend Jerryn."
Jerryn nodded, and mounted, and within moments was hurrying back to the column. Gawain watched them go, noting that Hellin of Juria looked back at him twice as they cantered away.
"Hai, Gwyn." He called softly, and waited for his horse to pad quietly up beside him. "Eat your fill of this lush grass, you ugly nag. It'll be a slow ride to the Castle Town, I need time to think."