"There is no king but Ramoth, friend.” A shaven-headed woman announced, "You should make way for him in your heart."
"Release that man," the guard said again, louder, himself taking a pace forward, "Or make way for my blade in yours. This is Callodon. I serve Callodon's King, and in his name I say no-one shall treat the king's loyal subjects so villainously. Let him go."
"We do not fear death, friend. We mean no harm here, we are spreading the word and the will of Ramoth." the woman replied, smiling, bells on her bracelets tinkling as she waved a slender hand to encompass everyone in the square.
"Release him."
"Be at peace, brother, let Ramoth speak to you."
The guard drew his sword, and Gawain's hand shifted to rest on the grip of his own. He was pleased to see that the point of the officer's weapon trembled not once, but hovered, poised threateningly, as steady as a rock.
The four other Ramoth soldiers eased forward through the robed acolytes, forming a protective line between them and the guard.
"Release that man now or by this sword I swear I shall free him myself."
A deathly hush fell across the square, broken only by sounds of animals and livestock. There was a rustling, and Gawain knew instinctively that the crowds were easing further away from the conflict brewing in the middle of the market.
Gawain studied the soldiers before him, and noted the resolve in their expressions and the tightness of their grip on their weapons. They would not easily back down. Everything seemed to hinge on the bald woman with the jangling bracelets and bells.
She smiled, a sickly smile that did not reach her blank and lifeless eyes, and was about to speak when Gawain took yet another pace forward.
His movement worked. All eyes swung in his direction, including the empty gaze of the Ramoth woman.
"I'd do as he says, were I you.” Gawain said quietly. "I know him of old. He is relentless."
"We must all face the world and endure, brother." The woman announced, "It is the will of Ramoth."
"Indeed? I would have thought that Ramoth would prefer his followers alive to spread his word, rather than spreading their blood all over the cobbles.” Gawain sighed dramatically. Then he drew his sword. "But have it your own way."
The six Ramoth guards took an involuntary step backwards, and raised their blades as Gawain advanced to stand side-by-side with the Callodon guardsman. Then they looked to the woman, waiting for her response.
Moments ticked by as hearts beat rapidly and steel faced steel.
"Beware you Ramoths!" a familiar voice shouted from the crowd. It was Allyn, the farmer, unseen among the throng. "That warrior slew seven single-handed but a few hours ago!"
The Ramoth soldiers stared at Gawain's blade, and at the tall young man standing so casually before them. But Allyn's words galvanised the old man in the centre of the Ramoth circle.
"Let me go!" the old man pleaded, struggling anew against the two followers who still held his feeble arms in a tight grip.
The woman turned and regarded him for a few moments. "There is no room in this one's heart for our Master," she sighed, "He is unworthy and cannot make way. Release him, and chant for him against the day when Ramoth comes."
The two robed figures immediately released their grip, and as the old man scurried away into the crowd as fast as his ancient legs and his heavy basket would allow, the Ramoths began humming, and jangling their bells, eyes closed.
The officer took a pace backwards, and sheathed his sword, keeping his eyes on the soldiers all the while. Gawain sheathed his own blade, and together the two men withdrew, back to the fruit-stall where Gwyn swished her tail and twitched her ears, blue eyes ever watchful.
"Thank you, friend traveller." The guard sighed. "That was a perilous moment."
"It was. But honour and duty are sometimes hard taskmasters."
"Indeed.” The guard studied Gawain with a professional eye as the Ramoths began marching away towards their tower, still chanting and ringing their bells.
He saw the bloodstains on Gawain's tunic, and the blood spatters on Gwyn's forelegs and chest.
"Tell me, friend traveller, and friend indeed you be by your honourable actions. The voice calling from the crowd, did the unknown man speak truth?"
"He did.” Gawain acknowledged.
"Then duty binds me again. I must ask you, who were these men you killed, and why were they slain?"
"I know not who they were. Brigands, by speech and deed. They meant to slay an honest family in my company. I prevailed."
"Brigands, you say? Describe them."
"I heard one name. Edvard. The leader was a tall man, bearded, with long grey hair tied back with a leathern thong."
"Stanyck, by the sounds of it, and his band of cut-throats. As much a bane in these parts as are the Ramoth. Where did this take place?"
"In the forest, less than an hour's ride on a horse with good wind."
"I have such a horse. In the name of the king, friend traveller, I command you to remain in Jarn until my return from the scene."
"Am I then in custody?” Gawain asked, arms folded.
"No. There is an inn of good repute, you may remain there in comfort if I have your promise that you shall remain there, and your arm on it."
"Then here's my promise and my arm.” Gawain clasped the guardsman's forearm, and he his, and allowed himself and Gwyn to be led to the inn, describing in detail the attack earlier in the day.
The officer left them at the inn and went off to his duty, and Gawain set about his. Gwyn needed a good washing and rub-down, and he needed time to reflect on all that had transpired in so short a time since his Banishment.
When Kevyn had returned after his year and a day in the downlands, his stories of adventure and fighting and the strange ways of lowlanders had seemed almost too impossible to believe. Kevyn had travelled north, almost as far as the Dragon's Teeth, and had even ventured west, to the border with the Gorian empire. That was four years ago. But in none of his stories had he made mention of Ramoths, or old gods.
There were brigands, and ruffians, and bandits who would attack and rob a defenceless victim on some lonely road or backstreet. The downland kingdoms simply did not enjoy the tranquillity and order that Raheen and its subjects took for granted. According to Kevyn, he'd been attacked on numerous occasions, and obliged to kill the foolish ruffians that so offended him and his honour.
Now Gawain knew what it was to kill. It was not pleasant, far from it. As he wiped and brushed the gore from Gwyn's forelegs, it is true that he felt a certain pride; pride in his horse, in his training, and skill, and how it had come to the fore in such critical circumstances. Proud too, that a family of lowland farmers would see the sunrise another day thanks to him.
But there was sorrow too, and disgust which threatened tears when he remembered the look of horror Lyssa had bestowed on him. In his mind's eye, it had seemed to Gawain that the young girl, she could be no more than a year younger than he, might have preferred to have died at the hands of those brigands rather than witness such efficient and ruthless slaying from a young man to whom she'd just served with her father's ale…
What would his father say? He would probably place a hand on Gawain's shoulder, and nod sternly, and remind his son of duty, and honour, and the ancient law that no man should be suffered to draw steel against a crown of Raheen.
His mother, though, would understand her son's turmoil. There would be no preaching, no platitudes. Just an understanding look that would say "It is right that you live, and wrong that others should strive to see that you don't. Be a friend to all, except to those who would be enemies, and if they should choose to be the latter, be utterly ruthless that you may return home, to those who love you."