good sir, that will take some doing, truly. First we lost our hearth kin, and now our uncle. It was all so horrible at first, it had me thinking we’d escaped the raiders only to live like beggars in the streets.’
‘Now here, the folk in this part of the world aren’t so hard-hearted that they’ll let you starve. One way or another, we’ll find some provision for you and the lad.’
‘If I can get back to Trev Hael, I can make my own provision. After all, I can read and write. If naught else I can become a town letter-writer and earn our keep that way.’
‘Well, there you go! It’s a valuable skill to have.’ Salamander hesitated on the edge of a smile. ‘Provided that’s the craft you want to follow.’
‘Well, I don’t know aught else but writing and suchlike. I’m not strong enough to join a warband, and I wouldn’t want to weave or suchlike, so I don’t know what other craft there’d be for me.’
‘You don’t, eh? Well, scribing is an honourable sort of work, and there’s not many who can do it out here in Arcodd.’
Neb considered Salamander for a moment. In the dancing firelight it was hard to be sure, but he could have sworn that the gerthddyn was struggling to keep from laughing.
‘Or what about herbcraft?’ Salamander went on. ‘Have you ever thought of trying your hand at that?’
‘I did, truly. Fancy you thinking of that! When my da was still alive, I used to help the herbwoman in Trev Hael. I wrote out labels for her and suchlike, and she taught me a fair bit about the four humours and illnesses and the like. Oh, and about the four elements. Is that what you meant by elemental spirits?’
‘It is. The different sorts of Wildfolk correspond to different elements. Hmm, the herbwoman must have been surprised at how fast you learned the lore.’
‘She was. She told me once that it was like I was remembering it, not learning. How did you –’
‘Just a guess. You’re obviously a bright lad.’
Salamander was hiding something – Neb was sure of it – but probing for it might insult their benefactor. ‘Govylla, her name was,’ Neb went on. ‘She lived through the plague. Huh – I wonder if she’d take us in, Clae and me, as prentices? Well, if I can get back there. Some priests of Bel were travelling out here, you see, and so they took us to our uncle.’
‘And some might well be travelling back one fine day. But for now, we need to get the news of raiders to the right ears. I happen to have the very ears in mind. I’ve been travelling along from the east, you see, and the last place I plied my humble trade was the dun of a certain tieryn, Cadryc, noble scion of the ancient and conjoined Red Wolf clan, who’s been grafted upon the root of a new demesne out here. When I left, everyone begged me to come back again soon, so we shall see if they were sincere or merely courteous. I have a great desire to inform the honourable tieryn about these raiders. Oh, that I do, a very great desire indeed.’
As he stared into the fire, Salamander let his smile fade, his eyes darkening, his slender mouth as harsh as a warrior’s. In that moment Neb saw a different man, cold, ruthless and frightening. With a laugh the gerthddyn shrugged the mood away and began singing about lasses and spring flowers.
Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would pick out wooden swords and wicker shields, then face off in the much-trampled grass. The rest of the troop sat in untidy lines off to either side and yelled comments and insults as the combat progressed. Gerran, the captain of the Red Wolf warband, sat off to one side with Lord Mirryn, Tieryn Cadryc’s son. Brown-haired 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
