The highlander hawked and spat. “Aye,” he growled.
“That is the clan upon whom we are taking our vengeance. We are simply here to ask if you'd consider joining us.”
The man slung his weapon and walked off the road to make way for the column to pass through. He pointed towards the centre of the village where the distant longhouse awaited them. “It isn't my decision, Ironstone. Speak to the chieftain, but I'll wager you'll have an addition to your number one way or another.” He winked and grinned.
Vyder nodded his thanks and pushed Storm onward. The horse stopped before the longhouse, and Vyder stepped out of the saddle. He tied her loosely to the tie-up rail near the mighty front doors. The majority of Ironstone warriors remained atop their horses, although some dismounted and stood in groups talking. Henry, Ahitika, Torgun, and a few others who could not be dissuaded otherwise accompanied Vyder into the longhouse.
The chieftain, a short, stick-thin man sat at the head of the table, elbows upon the wooden surface, the fingers of his open hands making a pyramid upon which he rested his chin.
That is not the chieftain.
Vyder grunted his agreement with Gorgoroth.
“That is chieftain?” Ahitika whispered, although Vyder was not oblivious to the slight chuckle which accompanied her question.
“It can't be.”
I'm telling you, little brother, that is not the chieftain.
“Let's find out, shall we?”
Stubborn little monkey.
Vyder stopped, withdrew his dagger and handed it to Henry. “Hold that, lad.” He gestured at the small group. “You lot stay here, as some of you well know, it is an offence for a foreign clansman to carry arms when in the presence of any chieftain.”
The assassin strode on, holding the thin man's watery, weak eyes. “Greetings, Chieftain, I am Vyder Ironstone, chieftain of Clan Ironstone and wish to seek your council.”
The spidery man shifted in his seat and shot a glance towards the doors Vyder had recently walked through. His attention returned to Vyder.
“My name is Arn, you are welcome at my table.” He pulled out a chair nearby.
Vyder sat. “I see Firestorm hit your clan, as well.”
Arn's eyes narrowed and suddenly he did not look so weak. His brows creased. “Aye, some time ago. We hit them in reprisal but lost nearly half our number in the battle.” He drew a breath, his eyelids closing. “We've been living on our knees ever since.”
Vyder leaned forward and placed his forearms upon the table. “I'm sorry to hear that, Arn.”
The assassin allowed the silence to grow, interested to see how or if Arn would fill it.
“I'm not sure what kind of council you seek, Vyder, but I fear I may not be able to help.”
Vyder stared at the chieftain, sitting slumped, looking downtrodden. “I was once told that the highlands are a tough place, filled with some of the fiercest warriors ever to have walked. I was advised that I didn't have to stand tall. But…” he stopped and waited until Arn turned to hold his stare, before continuing, “if I wanted to succeed, that I must stand up.”
Arn nodded. “I haven't heard that in a long time.” A weak smile broke his lips, and his back straightened a little.
A blur of movement caught Vyder off guard, and the flame-haired warrior sat beside him. “You already have your answer chieftain. Name's Bordrog.”
“Vyder.” He clenched the proffered hand. “So, I take it you are the true chieftain of Windeagle?”
“You're an observant lad, aren't ya?”
Arn stood. “If I'm no longer needed?”
“Aye, Arn, thanks.”
The fake chieftain excused himself and walked away. Vyder noticed his back was ramrod straight.
“An interesting tactic you have there, Bordrog.”
He shrugged. “You can never be too careful, especially in such a weakened state as we are. Deception is the only way when outnumbered.”
“Good point.”
“How many swords do you need?”
“As many as you can spare.”
“I shall speak with the clan tonight and have an answer come the dawn. Will that suffice?”
“Aye,” Vyder stood and shook hands with Bordrog once again. “It will.”
“While the clan is meeting, there is a town square half a mile east of here. You are welcome to feed and water your horses there. I'll see that fodder for the animals and meals for your clan are brought.”
The assassin smiled. “You have my thanks.”
Clan Ironstone weaved along the narrow streets, watched all the while by curious groups. Some of the Windeagle clansfolk carried weapons and looked more than ready to use them. Others shrunk into the shadows, their wide eyes belying the fear assaulting them.
Torgun walked his horse beside Storm. He glared at one such terror-filled family. “They have forgotten what it is to be highlanders.”
“Perhaps.” Vyder shifted in the saddle. “Time heals many wounds. In the following weeks, they may defeat their fear.”
“Doubt it.”
“Never be so sure, lad. A hero can only be such by defeating bone-numbing fear. Some of the bravest warriors I've ever seen were riddled by fear until circumstances demanded their action.”
Torgun grunted.
As the gloaming settled upon the village, Vyder and his clan spread out into a large square upon the flat, open ground of the village green.
As promised, over the following few hours, food was delivered to both horse and rider. Vyder ensured Storm had eaten before settling down to eat the hot stew from a deep, wooden bowl. When he'd finished, he sunk to the ground beside storm and lay on his back, hands behind his head. Ahitika and Henry lay together on the far side of their horses. They whispered to each other. Vyder concentrated, although he had no interest in what the lovers spoke to one another. He was more drawn by the dull noise of the clan meeting in the distance. Cheers, clapping, shouts, both of glee and anger, rolled across the village in a muffled bur. Silence followed for a moment, then jeering and booing broke free. Storm stopped chewing on her meal and swung her powerful neck towards the sound, her ears flicked forward.
“It's alright, lass.” Vyder reached across and stroked one of her forelegs. “Nothing to worry about.”
Vyder closed his eyes and allowed exhaustion to sweep over him. A rapid thudding filled his ears. It was the beat of a tiny heart. He searched through the darkness and was drawn to the branch of a tree high above him. The beating was coming from a bird.
It is a sparrow, little brother. Shall we?
“Aye,” he whispered.
His stomach lurched, and he flew upward, speeding through the cool night air faster than a bolt of lightning. Coming to a sudden halt, his eyelids parted to reveal the open expanse of the village green far below. Directly beneath him lay his sleeping body, hands resting behind his head.
Are you up to flying?
Vyder tried to answer, but only a series of chirps echoed from his beak.
Good, you have control, little brother. I only have one request. Be careful and don't hurt the bird.
Vyder chirped, stretched his wings and leapt free of the branch. They soared across the night, banking to avoid trees, flapping to gain altitude. They flew over the village, aiming towards the chieftain's longhouse. They closed the distance, and with the sparrow's sharp night vision, Vyder saw clansfolk unable to fit into the crowded longhouse, standing on tiptoes at each of the longhouse's doors, struggling to listen to the meeting.
They swept above the heads of the highlanders and flew into the longhouse, ascending to the upper beams high above the long table. The room was packed with the people of Clan Windeagle. Bordrog sat at the head of the table, elbow on the surface, head in hand, listening to a nearby man.
“I mean, can we trust them?”
The red-headed chieftain leaned back in his chair, his chest expanding and contracting fast. “Horkon, I told you I've spoken to Vyder chieftain to chieft
ain, and it is my belief he and his clan can be trusted. Is my word not good enough?”
Horkon held out his hands. “Oh no, it's not that, it's—”
“Shut up, Horkon!” a massive highlander roared from further down the table.
Horkon lurched to his feet. “How dare you interrupt me during a clan meeting?”
The man mountain jumped to his feet and waded through the clansfolk until he was staring down his nose at Horkon. “I told you to shut the fuck up, Horkon,” he spoke through clenched teeth. “I want to know what my chieftain has to say, not listen to the drivel of a weasel.”
Horkon's eyes were wide, his face losing colour by the moment. He licked his lips and chuckled, although the sound was a high-pitched staccato. “A weasel, is it?”
“You heard me, Horkon.”
Bordrog cleared his throat and stood. “Lads, that's enough. Horkon, Harald, take your seats. There is no reason to be bickering.”
“I lost my family during that raid,” Harald shouted. “My wife raped and cut open like a fish while I lay unconscious, bleeding to death. Although she killed three of the bastards.” He lifted his shirt to reveal a large scar across his midriff. “Sometimes, I wish the healers hadn't done such a good job reviving me.” His huge chest expanded. “And I wasn't the only one who lost loved ones.” He swung around to face the crowd of highlanders crammed into the longhouse. “We all did!” he bellowed. He turned to stare at Horkon. “Well, most of us,” he muttered. “So, if another clan comes in peace, seeking revenge upon the people who slaughtered my family, I'll bloody well listen!”
This was met by roars of agreement, cheers, and clapping.
Bordrog held out his hands. “I agree, Harald,” he shouted over the noise. “But sit down, so we may continue.” The chieftain's eyes flicked to Horkon and bored into the smaller man. “And you. Keep your trap shut this time.”
Horkon's jaw bulged, the fingers of one hand curling into a fist. Finally, he nodded and sat. Harald grumbled under his breath and strode away to retake his place.
“As I was saying, I trust Vyder and his clan. My mother and father were burned on funeral pyres because of the Firestorm raid. As Harald said, we all lost something in that raid. Later, we learned we could not defeat Firestorm by ourselves.”
“If we had an army of clans, we'd wipe the floor with them!” a woman shouted from one of the doorways. Her words were met with tumultuous agreement.
“One thing at a time,” roared Bordrog. “For now, let's take a vote. Who's for joining Clan Ironstone?”
The noise that followed reverberated around the room, vibrated through the floor and rattled windows.
I take it that is a yes, little brother.
Vyder replied with a chirp.
Vyder leapt off the beam, plummeted towards the long table far below and flapped his wings, sailing around the room before shooting over the heads of the clansfolk wedged against the open door at one end of the building. Darkness and cool fresh air were a welcome relief. When he'd regained his night vision and bearings, he banked towards the village green and perched in the same tree he'd left from. He peered down at his sleeping form.
The little one does not appear to be hungry or thirsty, so we shall leave it and return to our body.
Vyder chirped, and his stomach lurched once more. He descended with rapid speed towards the ground, fear enshrouding his body, the grass ascending to meet him. He braced for impact, waiting for the pain to explode through his body, but his eyes snapped open instead, and he inhaled a deep breath. Vyder sat up. He stared at the closest tree towering over them. The sparrow sat statue still for several long moments. Then it shook its head, stretched its wings, and called into the darkness. A similar call answered it from a nearby tree. The bird took to wing and disappeared into the night.
* * *
After dawn broke, soaking the land in a mash of pink and orange, Vyder encourage Storm to drink what remained in the water bucket nearby. She stood in front of the pail looking at him, then nudged his shoulder.
“You can lead a horse to water,” he muttered, stroking her face.
Quiet movement came from all around as people awoke. A yawn, cough or groan accompanying a stretch spoke the end of slumber. A loud fart echoed around the village square.
A woman tutted. “You're such a pig of a man!” she hissed.
“Sorry, dearest,” the clansman boomed and farted again. He held out his hands, mouth open, eyebrows arching. “I couldn't help that one.”
She glowered at him, but amusement twinkled in her eyes. She turned away to roll up her bedding.
Vyder watched the exchange, chuckling to himself. A flap of wings caught his attention. Two sparrows sat beside one another on a branch, looking down at him, twittering to each other.
That is an old tree that one, little brother. At least seventy years in time as you know it.
A blur of motion across the sky, and a hawk slowed, performing a perfect landing on a branch in the tree's upper canopy. It appraised Vyder with glowering eyes.
“It seems the animals are aware of your presence, Gorgoroth.”
Storm finally drank her fill and raised her head from the empty pail, pushing a wet nose against Vyder's cheek.
“In a minute, lass,” he laughed, patting her neck.
He saddled Storm, and when the rest of the clan was ready to move, he stepped into the stirrups and swung up onto the horse's back. He walked Storm to the head of the column and led them away from the village green towards the northern entrance.
Torgun cantered up beside him and slowed. “I take it Windeagle decided not to join us, Chieftain?”
“Aye, lad, it'd appear that way. It was worth a try.”
The heavy weight of disappointment pulled at Vyder's guts. The meeting of Clan Windeagle had appeared to be successful. Perhaps more bickering had occurred after he and Gorgoroth had flown clear of the longhouse?
Who knows, little brother? We'll smite these Firestorm monkeys by ourselves if need be.
Vyder smiled.
“It was worth a try.” Vyder looked at Torgun. “We'll take Firestorm down by ourselves if we have to.”
“I'm glad you think so,” muttered the younger man.
“We are Ironstone, lad. Don't forget that, Torgun. Some of our people have forgotten what it is to be highlanders, let alone Ironstone.” He held Torgun's stare. “Don't be like them, lad. We are Ironstone, now and forever.”
Torgun's jaw bulged, his brow furrowed and a fierce glint entered his eyes. The younger man nodded.
Shouting erupted from the rear of the column, the shrieks and bellows drowned out by a thunder of hooves. Vyder stood in the stirrups and stared over his shoulder. A column of riders galloped towards them, a cloud of dust drifting into the sky behind them. Cloaks billowed from shoulders, but the piece of tartan fixed diagonally across each chest told the assassin all he needed to know.
He smiled. “Clan Windeagle.”
Bordrog reined in beside him, the man mountain, Harald, slowing on the far side. The flame-haired chieftain grinned. “Trying to steal away in the wee hours without us, Vyder?”
“The wee hours?” Vyder laughed. “We slept in!”
Bordrog chuckled. “Aye, we of Windeagle do enjoy our sleep, I'll not lie!”
“I'm glad you joined us, my friend.”
The smile departed the redhead's face. “If it means taking those bastard Firestorm devils down, I would have come alone if the clan opposed the suggestion.”
“No, you wouldn't, Chieftain,” rumbled Harald. “There would have been two of us.”
Bordrog jerked a thumb in the giant's direction. “That's Harald.” He pointed at the assassin. “Harald, that's Vyder.” The highlanders nodded once at one another in greeting.
Vyder swept his eyes along the column of mounted Windeagle highlanders walking in file behind their chieftain. “A concern you need not entertain by the looks.”
“Aye, we bring two hundred swords to the fig
ht.”
“We now have five hundred highlanders.”
Bordrog patted his horse's neck. “Where to next?”
“By nightfall, I hope to make the village of Clan Waterborne.”
“Easy done,” said Bordrog.
The two clans melded into one large column. Several sets of bagpipes were retrieved from saddlebags and soon highland songs were peeling out over the landscape surrounding the riders. Some sang to the haunting tunes, others sat in their saddles, staring into the distance, no doubt thinking of happier times before Firestorm's raid had swept Shadolia.
By late afternoon, Vyder and Bordrog sat weaponless before Rafe, the chieftain of Clan Waterborne. Rafe was a well-built highlander of medium height, jet black hair reaching beyond his shoulders. His dark, brooding eyes were hard to read. The warriors standing behind Rafe, hands on sword hilts looked ready to kill to protect their leader.
When Vyder finished speaking, Rafe leaned back and snarled, fury washing over his face. Vyder clenched his fists, braced and prepared to fight a battle he knew neither he, nor Bordrog could win. They were outnumbered and unarmed.
Rafe turned his bright red face to the rafters, veins bulging from his neck. “Those bastards killed my daughter,” he roared. He slammed a fist onto the table and returned his attention to Vyder, a murderous glint in his eyes. “I want to kill every last one of Clan Firestorm. I will come with you, and I'll bring two hundred and fifty swords.”
“There's more than five hundred warriors in the clan, Chieftain,” one of the highlanders standing guard behind Rafe spoke.
Rafe turned in his chair. “What of it? We need fighting men and women to stay at home to protect our village.”
“Aye, I know, but I want to be one of the two hundred and fifty.”
“Me too,” the second muttered.
“Aye,” the third said.
Rafe swung back to Vyder, a grin breaking through the snarl. “You'll not want for swords, Vyder.”
* * *
On the evening of the third night, Vyder sat unarmed before Bulvye, the chieftain of Clan Earthforge. On Vyder's right sat Bordrog and on his left, Rafe.
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