LITMIR.BIZ

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and blue-eyed, with a liberal dusting of freckles across his broad cheekbones, Mirryn was lounging full-length, propped up on one elbow, and chewing on a long grass stem like a farmer.

      ‘One of these days our miserly gwerbret’s bound to set up a proper tourney,’ Mirryn said. ‘Although everyone knows you’d win it, so I doubt me if I can get anyone to wager against you.’

      ‘Oh here,’ Gerran said. ‘It’s not that much of a sure thing.’

      ‘Of course it is.’ Mirryn grinned at him. ‘False humility doesn’t become you.’

      Gerran allowed himself a brief smile. Out in the meadow a new fight was starting. The rest of the warband called out jests and jeers, teasing Daumyr for his bad luck in drawing his sparring partner. Daumyr, the tallest man in the troop at well over six feet, stood grinning while he swung his wooden sword in lazy circles to limber up his arm. His opponent, Warryc, was skinny and short – but fast.

      ‘Ye gods, Daumyr’s got a long reach!’ Mirryn said. ‘It’s truly amazing, the way Warryc beats him every time. Huh – there must be a way we can use this at the next tourney.’

      ‘Use it for what?’ Gerran said.

      ‘Acquiring some hard coin, that’s what, by setting up a wager, getting some poor dolt to bet high on Daumyr.’

      ‘The very soul of honour, that’s you.’

      Gerran was about to say more when he heard hoofbeats and shouting. A young page on a bay pony came galloping across the meadow.

      ‘My lord Mirryn! Captain Gerran!’ the page called out. ‘The tieryn wants you straightaway. There’s been a raid on the Great West Road.’

      Mirryn led the warband back at the run. Up at the top of a hill, new walls of pale stone, built at the high king’s expense, circled the fort to protect the tall stone broch tower and its outbuildings. The men dashed through the great iron-bound gates, stopped in the ward to catch their collective breath, then hurried into the great hall. Sunlight fell in dusty shafts from narrow windows, cut directly into stone, and striped the huge round room with shadows. Gerran paused, letting his eyes adjust, then picked his way through the clutter of tables and benches, dogs and servants. The warband followed him, but Mirryn hurried on ahead to his father’s side. When he saw Gerran lingering behind, Mirryn waved him up with an impatient arm.

      By the hearth of honour, Cadryc was pacing back and forth, a tall man, tending towards stout, with a thin band of grey hair clinging to the back of his head and a pair of ratty grey moustaches. Perched on the end of a table was the gerthddyn, Salamander. Mirryn and Gerran exchanged a look of faint disgust at the sight of him, a babbling fool in their shared opinion, with his tricks and tales. When Gerran started to kneel before the tieryn, Cadryc impatiently waved him to his feet.

      ‘Raiders,’ Cadryc said. ‘Didn’t the page tell you? We’re riding tomorrow at dawn, so get the men ready.’

      ‘Well and good, your grace,’ Gerran said. ‘How far are they?’

      ‘Who knows, by now?’ Cadryc shook his head in frustrated rage. ‘Let’s hope they’re still looting the village.’

      ‘Bastards,’ Mirryn said. ‘I hope to all the gods they are. We’ll make them pay high for this.’

      ‘You’re staying here, lad,’ Cadryc said. ‘I’m not risking myself and my heir both.’

      Mirryn flushed red, took a step forward, then shoved his hands into his brigga pockets.

      ‘For all we know, the raiders have set up some sort of ruse or trap,’ Cadryc went on. ‘I’ll be leaving you ten men to command on fortguard. Your foster-brother here can handle the rest well enough.’

      ‘Far be it from me to argue with you,’ Mirryn said. ‘Your grace.’

      ‘Just that – don’t argue,’ Cadryc snapped. ‘And don’t sulk, either.’

      Mirryn spun on his heel and stalked off, heading back outside. Cadryc muttered a few insults under his breath. Gerran decided a distraction was in order and turned to the gerthddyn.

      ‘Little did I dream our paths would cross so soon.’ Salamander gave him a fatuous smile. ‘An honour to see you, captain.’

      ‘Spare me the horseshit,’ Gerran said. ‘Did you see this raid or only find a burned village or suchlike?’

      ‘Ah, what a soul of courtesy you are.’ Salamander rolled his eyes heavenward. ‘Actually, I found refugees, who escaped by blind luck.’

      When Salamander pointed, Gerran noticed for the first time a tattered dirty lad and an equally ragged little boy, kneeling by the corner of the massive stone hearth. Dirt clotted in hair that was most likely mousy brown, and they shared a certain look about their deep-set blue eyes that marked them for close kin. Skinny as a stick, the older lad was, with fine, small hands, but the younger, though half-starved from the look of him, had broad hands and shoulders that promised strong bones and height one day.

      ‘They lost everything in the raid,’ Salamander said. ‘Kin, house, the lot.’ He pointed. ‘Their names are Neb and Clae.’

      ‘We’ll give them a place here.’ Tieryn Cadryc beckoned to a page. ‘Go find my wife and ask her to join us.’

      When the page trotted off, Neb, the older lad, watched him go with dead eyes.

      ‘How many of them were there?’ Gerran asked him. ‘The raiders, I mean.’

      ‘I don’t know, sir,’ Neb said. ‘We were a good distance away, up by the waterfall, so we could see down into the valley. We saw the village burning, and our farm, and then a lot of people just running around.’

      ‘Cursed lucky thing you were gone.’

      The lad nodded, staring at him, too tired to speak, most likely.

      ‘The raiding party won’t be travelling fast, not with prisoners to drag along,’ Cadryc broke in. ‘I’ve sent a message to Lord Pedrys, telling him to meet us on the road with every man he can muster. I’d summon the other vassals as well, but they live too cursed far east, and we’ve got to make speed.’

      ‘Your grace?’ Gerran said. ‘Wasn’t there a lord near this village?’

      ‘There was. What I want to know is this: is there still?’

      Neb watched the captain and the tieryn walk away, talking of their plans, both of them tall men, but red-haired Gerran was as lean as the balding tieryn was stout. Neither would be a good man to cross, Neb decided, nor Lord Mirryn, either. Salamander left his perch on the table and joined the two boys.

      ‘Well, there,’ the gerthddyn said. ‘Your uncle will be avenged, and perhaps they’ll even manage to rescue your aunt.’

      ‘If they do,’ Clae said, ‘we won’t have to go back to her, will we?’

      ‘You won’t. Judging from what you told me on our journey here she doesn’t seem to be a paragon of the female virtues, unlike the tieryn’s good wife.’ Salamander glanced over his shoulder. ‘Who, I might add, is arriving at this very moment.’

      Salamander stepped aside and bowed just as the lady hurried up, a stout little woman, her dark hair streaked with grey. She wore a pair of dresses of fine-woven blue linen, caught in at the waist by a plaid kirtle in yellow, white and green. Two pages trailed after her, a skinny pale boy with a head of golden curls and a brown-haired lad a few years older.

      ‘My lady, this is Neb and Clae,’ Salamander said. ‘Lads, this is the honourable Lady Galla, wife to Tieryn Cadryc.’

      Since he was already kneeling, Neb ducked his head in respect and elbowed Clae to make him do the same.

      ‘You may rise, lads,’ she said. ‘I’ve heard your terrible story from young Coryn, here.’ She gestured at the older, brown-haired page. ‘Now don’t you worry, we’ll find

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