Turning his back upon the distant enemy, Tovi laid the claymore blade on his shoulder and strode down the long road to home. He was high above Cilfallen and from here the buildings seemed tiny set against the green hills and the mighty mountains. Newer dwellings of stone alongside the older timbered houses, and ancient log cabins with roofs of turf, all clustered together in a friendly harmony of wood and stone. Aye, thought Tovi, that is the mark of Cilfallen. The village is friendly and welcoming. There were no walls, for up to now the people had lived without fear.
Cilfallen was indefensible. Tovi sighed, and paused for one last look at the village he had known all his life.
Never will you look the same to me again, he knew. For now I can see the lack of walls and parapets. I see hills from which cavalry can charge into our square. I see buildings with no strong doors, or bowmen’s windows. There is no moat. Only the stream, and the white rocks upon which the women and children beat the clothes to wash them.
Tovi walked on, aware also of his own weakness, the large belly fed with too much fresh bread and country butter, and a right arm already tired from holding the claymore.
“I’ll find the strength,” he said aloud.
Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps. The weight of his chain mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron’s orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.
A mixture of honey and wine had been applied to his blood-drenched back. Three of the deeper cuts had needed stitches, twenty-two in all. Yet here he was, within a fortnight, sitting his saddle and leading his men.
He did not question the Baron’s change of heart, and had accepted the commission with a burbled speech of gratitude that the Baron had cut short. “Do not fail me again, Chard,” he had warned. “How many men will you need?”
“Three hundred, sir.”
The Baron had laughed at him. “For a village? Why not take a thousand?”
“There are nearly two hundred of them, sir!”
The Baron had lifted a sheet of paper. “One hundred and fifty, approximately. Fifty of them are children under the age of twelve. Around forty are women. The remainder are men. Farmers, cattle herders—not a good sword among them. Take one hundred and fifty men. No prisoners, Chard. Hang all the bodies so they can be clearly seen. Burn the buildings.”
“Yes, sir. When you say no prisoners . . . you mean the men?”
“Kill them all. I have chosen the men you will have with you. They are mercenaries, scum mostly. They’ll have no problem with the task. When they’re finished let them loot. They will also—most certainly—keep some of the younger women alive for a while. Let them have their enjoyment, it’s good for morale.” The Baron’s cold eyes fixed on Chard. “You have a problem with this?”
Chard wished he had the courage to tell the man just how much a problem he had with butchery. Instead he had swallowed hard and mumbled, “No, sir.”
“How is your back?”
“Healing, sir.”
“You won’t fail me again, will you, Chard?”
“No, sir.”
The sun was high and sweat trickled down onto the whip wounds. Chard groaned. An officer rode alongside as they reached the valley floor.
“Beyond that line of hills, isn’t it?” the man asked and Chard turned his head. The officer was thin-faced, with protruding eyes, his face marred by the scars of smallpox. Several white-headed pimples showed around his nostrils and a boil was beginning on the nape of his neck. “Many women there?” asked the officer as Chard ignored the first question.
“Set the men in a skirmish line,” Chard ordered.
“What for? It’s only a pigging village. There’s no fighting men likely to ambush us.”
“Give the order,” said Chard.
“Whatever you say,” answered the officer, with a thinly disguised sneer. Twisting in the saddle, he called out to the men, “Every second man left skirmish. All others to the right!” He swung back to Chard. “You have orders for the attack?”
“How many ways are there to attack a helpless village?”
“Depends if they know they’re going to be attacked. If they don’t, you just ride in and get the headman to call all the people together. When they’re all in one place you slaughter ’em. If they do know, then they’ll all be locked in their houses, or running for the woods. Lots of different ways, on foot, in a charge. It’s up to you.”
“Attacked many villages, have you?”
“Too many to count. It’s good practice. I’ll tell you, you can learn a lot about your men by the way they conduct themselves in a situation like this. Not everyone can do it, you know. We had a young lad once, fearless and damn good with a sword or lance. But this sort of mission, useless. Blubbed like a baby . . . ran around witlessly. Know what happened? Some young kid ran at him and slashed his throat open with a scythe. It was a damn shame. That boy had potential, you know?”
“Send a scout up to the high ground. He’ll see the village from there.”
The officer wheeled his horse and rode to the left. A young mercenary kicked his horse into a run and Chard watched him climb the hill and rein in at the top. The soldier waved them on.
Chard led the men up the hill. The officer came alongside and the two men stared down at the cluster of buildings. A narrow stream cut across the south of Cilfallen, and there were two small bridges. Chard examined the line of water; the horses could cross it with ease. Beyond the stream was a low retaining wall, around two feet high and some thirty feet in length. Beyond that were the homes he had been sent to destroy. As he watched a young woman walked from one of the buildings; she was carrying a wicker basket full of clothes, and she knelt at the stream and began to wash them. Chard sighed, then he spoke. “Send fifty men around the village to the north to cut them off from the hills. The rest of us will attack from the south.”
The officer gave out his orders and two troops filed off to the northeast. Then he leaned across his saddle. “Listen, Chard, I’d advise you to wait here. From what I hear your back’s in a mess, so you won’t be able to fight. And I guess you won’t want any . . . pleasures. So leave it to me and my men. You agree?”
Chard longed to agree. Instead he shook his head. “I will ride in with the attack,” he said. “When it is over I will leave you to your . . . pleasures.”
“Only trying to be helpful,” said the officer with a wide grin.
They waited until the fifty horsemen had reached their position to the north of the village, then Chard drew his sword. “Give the order,” he told the officer.
“No prisoners!” shouted the man. “And all the looting to be left until the job is done! Forward!”
Chard wondered briefly if God would ever forgive him for this day, then touched spurs to his mount. The beast leaped forward. The soldiers around him drew their weapons and charged. The men were lighter armored than he, wearing leather breastplates and no helms, and the mercenaries soon outpaced him, forming three attacking lines.
Chard was some fifteen lengths behind the last man when the first line of mercenaries reached the stream. The woman there dropped her washing and, lifting her heavy skirts, ran back toward the buildings. The raucous cries of the mercenaries filled the air and then the horses galloped into the water, sending up glittering fountains that caught the sunlight and shone like diamonds.
The first line had reached the middle of the stream when d
isaster struck. Horses whinnied in fear and pain as they fell headlong, tipping their riders over their necks. For a moment only Chard was stunned.
Trip wire! Staked beneath the waterline. My God, they were ready for us!
The riders of the second line dragged on their reins, but they collided with their downed comrades in a confused mass. Chard pulled up his mount. Experienced in battle, he knew that the trip wire was only the beginning. Swiftly he scanned the buildings. There was no sign of a defensive force . . .
And then they were there!
Rising up from behind the low retaining wall, a score of bowmen sent volley after volley of shafts into the milling men. Wounded mercenaries began to scream and run, but long shafts slashed into them, slicing through their pitiful armor.
“Dismount!” shouted Chard. “Attack on foot!”
Scum though they were, the mercenaries were not afraid to fight. Leaping from their horses they rushed the bowmen, who stood their ground some thirty feet beyond the stream. More than twenty mercenaries went down, but Chard was confident that once hand-to-hand fighting began they would be swept aside by weight of numbers.
Urging his horse to the edge of the stream, he shouted encouragement to his men.
From behind the buildings came a surging mass of fighting men, armed with claymores, scythes, spears, and hammers—and women carrying knives and hatchets. They smote the mercenaries’ left flank. Chard saw the baker, Fat Tovi, slash his claymore through the shoulder and chest of a mercenary, and then the white-bearded smith, Grame, grabbed the pox-marked officer by the throat, braining him with his forge hammer.
The mercenaries broke and ran. But there was no escape.
Chard wheeled his horse and galloped along the stream, crossing a small bridge, then riding for the second group. All fifty were waiting as ordered in skirmish formation some twenty yards below the tree line. With these men he could yet turn the battle.
His pain was forgotten as he urged his stallion up the hill.
As Chard came closer he watched with horror as a dozen men pitched from their saddles with arrows jutting from their backs. Horses reared, spilling their riders.
A line of mounted bowmen rode from the trees, shooting as they came: grim, dark men, clothed in black and silver. As they neared the stunned mercenaries they threw aside their bows, drawing shining silver sabers. There were no more than twenty soldiers left. A few of them tried to fight, the others fled.
Chard, his force in ruins, his fragile reputation gone forever, shouted his defiance and galloped toward the attackers. From their center, on a jet-black horse, came a red-cloaked rider in silver armor. Chard raised his sword, slamming his spurs into the weary stallion’s flanks. The horse leaped forward.
The silver rider swung her horse at the last second and the two beasts collided. Chard was flung from the saddle as his stallion went down. The silver rider sprang from her mount and ran in just as he was trying to rise. Despairingly he swung his broadsword at her legs. She jumped nimbly and, as she landed, lashed her saber across his face. The blade struck his temple, biting deep and dislodging his helm.
Chard fell, rolled, and struggled to rise. The saber smashed down upon his skull, glancing from the chain-mail head guard. The blow stunned him and he sagged to his back. The saber lanced into his throat. Chard felt pain only briefly, for the sword plunged through his neck and into the cold earth beneath him.
All was quiet now, and he felt a curious sense of relief. No dead children, no raped and murdered women. Perhaps God would forgive him after all.
Perhaps . . .
Sigarni stepped back from the corpse and heard Asmidir order his men into the village to check on casualties. She was breathing heavily, yet her limbs felt light. Asmidir came alongside her. “How are you feeling?” As he spoke, his hand came down on her shoulder.
“Don’t touch me!” she hissed, pulling away and turning to face him. She saw the shock and the dismay, but it was nothing to the roaring panic his contact aroused within her. “Stay away from me!” she said.
“Sigarni.” His voice was soft, his eyes troubled. “You are in no danger from me. The battle is over, and I believe we have won. Calm yourself before the others see you.”
The roaring receded and she began to tremble. “God, what is happening to me?” she said, dropping her saber and sitting down on the grass.
He moved to sit opposite her. “I think we should blame it on the reaction to the battle, though we both know that is not the truth,” he said sadly. “However, let us put that aside for now and enjoy the moment of victory. You risked it all, Sigarni. And I am proud of you. As I told you, I did not believe in the wisdom of this course. It was, in my view, too early for a confrontation. But you proved me wrong. Now perhaps you will explain why you were so confident.”
She smiled and felt some of the tension ease from her. “It was not confidence. You told me I must have special skills. Whether or not that is true only time will tell. But I knew I could gather no support without a victory. Who would follow me? An untried woman in a world of beaten men.”
“But why here in Cilfallen? How did you know they would come here? There are scores of hamlets and villages throughout the Highlands.”
“Indeed there are, and we won’t be able to protect them all. But Cilfallen was my village, and from here they took the hostages. It is also on largely open land. No major walls, no defenses. Added to this, it is the closest main settlement to Citadel.”
“And why did you believe there would be an attack?”
“I questioned Obrin concerning Outland tactics. He believed they would send between one hundred and two hundred men.”
Asmidir smiled. “We could have lost it all, my lady. We gambled everything on a single throw of the dice. That is not to be recommended for every occasion, I assure you.”
Sigarni rose, then extended her hand to pull Asmidir to his feet. He looked up and met her eyes, and she knew he could see there her fear at the prospect of his touch. Slowly he reached out and clasped her wrist, rising smoothly and disengaging his grasp. “That took courage, did it not?” he said.
She nodded. “I am sorry, Asmidir. You are a dear friend, and will always be so. But they took something from me and I cannot get it back.”
He shook his head. “I fear they took nothing. They gave you something . . . something vile, like a poison that eats into your heart. I am your friend, Sigarni. More than that, I love you. I would die for you. But you alone must find a way to defeat the monsters tormenting you.”
“What do you mean defeat them? I killed them!”
“You misunderstand me,” he said gently. “They may be dead, but you hold them to you. They exist in every thought you have; you see their faces on all men—even your friends. I cannot advise you, for I have no . . . no perception of what you have been through. But you are now a fortress, barred against those who love you. Yet you have the enemy trapped within also. I think you will have to find a way to raise the portcullis and allow your friends in.”
“Nonsense,” she retorted. “There is no portcullis.” Before he could speak again, she swung away and walked to her horse. “Let’s get to the village,” she said.
The two of them rode in silence.
The narrow lanes of Cilfallen were strewn with Outland corpses. Sigarni gazed on them dispassionately and guided her horse to the south of the town. The bodies of the mercenaries—stripped of all weapons—were slowly being carted across the bridge to an open field. Fell was sitting on the retaining wall surrounded by several of his foresters; they rose when they saw Sigarni. She dismounted and approached them. “You did well,” she said. “Did you suffer any losses?”
“Three men wounded, none seriously. Four of the villagers were killed. Eleven others sustained wounds, most of them minor.” She turned toward the waiting foresters, recognizing them all. Three of them had been casual lovers. The men stood silently, their expressions guarded.
“You have now seen how the Outlanders ke
ep the peace. Know this: In the spring they will come with an army. Their mission will be to annihilate all clansmen, and their families, and their children. I intend to fight them—just like today. I will drench the Highlands in their blood. Today we are few, but that will change. Those who wish to serve me should make their wishes known to Fell. Those who do not should make plans to leave the mountains. There are only two sides now: Outland and Highland. Those not with me will be deemed traitors, and I will hunt them down also. That is all.”
Spinning on her heel, she walked back to where Asmidir waited with the horses. “I need to see Tovi,” she said. They found him at the bakery, with the ovens heating. He had discarded his sword and was kneading a batch of dough.
“One last time,” he said with an embarrassed smile. “I don’t know why I wanted to.” He gazed around the long room with its racks of empty shelves. “This place has been my life.”
“Now you have another life,” she said sternly. “You were a warrior, Tovi; you understood discipline. You and Grame and Fell will train the Loda men. We will fall back into the forest and there I shall leave you. You will gather fighting men, organize stores for the winter, and put out scouts to watch for any further incursions into our territory. You understand this?”
“We can’t win, Sigarni. I understand that.”
“We just did!”
“Aye,” he said, wiping the dough from his hands and moving to stand before her. “We defeated a band of ill-led mercenaries. We tricked them and trapped them. What happens when the Baron marches with his regular soldiers? I watched your man Obrin fight today. He was deadly. What happens when there are thousands like him against us?”
Sigarni stepped in close, her eyes cold, her voice hard as a blade. “Has all your courage gone, fat man? Has it melted into the blubber around your belly? I am Sigarni. I am of the Blood. And I wear the Crimson. I do not promise victory. I promise war and death. Now you have two choices. The first is to take your family and run, leave the Highlands. The second is to drop to your knee and pledge yourself to serve me until the day you die. Make that choice now, Hunt Lord!”
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