firesides.
It was a morning in late summer. Winter was only a short step away. A great crowd of fighting-men had already gathered at the Heel Stone by first light that day. Many more would follow on. There was a handful of blood-tied Wises, Hogspurs, Bogarts, and other lesser kinsmen among the throng, though they were mostly Wishards by name, answering to their grayne. There were Wishards of the Three Dells: Tyne Dell, Fixlie Dell, and Dingly Dell (who were my own closest kin). There were Wishards from as far away as Carr Law. Wishards from Flat Top, and Wishards from Arch. They had come from all parts of the South March, and further. Many had travelled a long way already that morning and yet the real journey – whether it was to be a Long Riding or a Short Riding – had not yet begun.
The Heel Stone, the meeting point, was a giant solitary rock that lay toppled at the corner of Pennen Fields: a sweep of open moorland above Dragoncliffe, almost at the southern edge of the Great Sea. It was the Mark of the Wishards: a historic place of gathering.
Old-man Wishard, Headman of the Wishards of Carraw Peel, and more importantly, Graynelord of all Graynelore, had called his surname to the Mark.
Almost to a man, they sat upon their sturdy hobby-horses: the small, stolid and sure-footed fell-horses, native to the land. Creatures so lacking in height they left their rider’s feet and the tips of their rider’s iron war swords – that hung from their waists – dangling close to the ground as they rode, in what appeared an almost foolish manner for full grown men. Each man wore a reinforced handmade jack of leather or of rough cloth, as they could afford, inlaid with irregular scraps of metal to serve as make shift armour (more for show than an effective defence). In their saddle-packs they carried griddles with flour enough to make their daily bread. Some, skilled in the art, also carried a hunting wire to snare fresh meat. Only the poorest of men, or the unluckiest, those who had recently lost their mounts upon a frae, stood a-foot; and they gathered together in small packs, ready to fight at each other’s back.
Each fighting-man there was virtually the same then. Yet each man was different. These were homemade soldiers. This was a homemade army of reivers…
Among them you must look hard and find me out again; Rogrig Wishard, now fully grown to manhood. There was as yet nothing obvious about me to distinguish me from my close companions. I was still quite the ordinary man. Unexceptional, except perhaps for this: I, alone among the gathering, sat not upon a simple hobby-horse but upon a unicorn. I fear, I must explain. Do not be impressed. I…exaggerate (as is my want). My unicorn was not of flesh and blood. Rather, for a fancy, I had fashioned my mount a stout leather mask – a head-guard – struck through with a single metal spike that stood a full sword’s length proud of her nose. My hobb seemed an awesome sight to look upon. If only she might learn to use her weapon upon the frae. Still, she was a good man’s pack animal, and more than capable of carrying a full day’s toil.
I named her for another foolish whim and called her Dandelion (Dandy for short) with no better reason in mind than I liked the title.
I was sat upon Dandy then, a little away from a closed huddle of my nearest kin; nearly, though not quite, out on my own; I was keeping the wary eye. There was mostly silence here, expectant if thoughtful silence; only the rough breath of the hobbs, the odd clump of shifting hooves…hacking coughs, the breaking of wind. It was too early of a day for beer-fuddled heads (and there were enough). Where a few serious words were passed about, it was done in tight whispers. Otherwise it was an idle banter between scared men trying to talk themselves up to the fight ahead of them.
‘Mind, this Riding is to be no deadly feud…’ said one.
‘No…How so?’ answered another.
‘We must not blunt the sword, cousins – it is a simple, common lust!’ returned a third.
Now, though all of these men were well known to me, and spoke openly within my earshot, I chose only to listen…
‘They are saying the Old-man means to find himself a new wife this day.’
‘Aye, and it is rumoured he is after taking the daughter of Stain Elfwych.’
‘What, are you serious? Norda Elfwych? If it is a fighting wildcat he wants he will need to be at his guard.’
‘Aye, well…he will be taking her by force if he must.’ There was a spurt of careless laughter among the men that did not quite convince. Then a clumsy silence fell again.
In truth, whatever the cause, among the Wishards it was generally considered healthier to turn up when the Old-man commanded. Only a fool ignored the call of The Graynelord, would openly go against his grayne; man or woman. At best it left you for an outcast, a broken man without kith or kin, though more than likely it left you for dead.
That this raid was also the perfect opportunity for many a Wishard to settle old arguments of their own – to steal from their distant neighbours, to plunder, to pillage, to do murder, to set blackmails and kidnaps – is a cold dry meat. Excuse your narrator’s common bluntness. I try to speak plainly of these things. A call to the Mark was a familiar event, and this foul business a day-to-day routine. Upon Graynelore, there was nothing unusual in our gathering.
This day it was to be a Wishard riding against an Elfwych. Tomorrow it might be a Bogart riding against a Troll. Each was a grayne ready to take advantage of its lesser guarded neighbour – when the opportunity arose, or when needs must. And the Headman of every house among them would fancy himself The Graynelord; and every Graynelord was The Graynelord of all Graynelore (self-professed). Excepting, let any of these conceited men stand before Old-man Wishard and deny him his rank this day. It was a simple calculation; a balance of numbers. Try it. Count the swords at his command.
However great or petty the cause, whatever the nature of the risk, the Old-man, by virtue of holding the balance of power between the graynes (real or imaginary), was ever required to make a show of his strength. If he himself did not carry the sword to his enemies then at least he must deliver the swords of his blood-tied kinsmen to ring out a resolution. For if he did not, among others, there were two younger brothers who would make a dreadful noise over it, who would each look to their own advantage and aim to take The Graynelord’s place. They were both stood upon Pennen Fields among our number. Unthank Wishard, who was called Cloggie-Unthank, and Fibra, the younger…both faithful to their grayne this day; but what of tomorrow? I fear neither would be beyond planting the assassin’s knife, leaving the Old-man the gift of the dagger’s arse. It was their blood that tied these men together, not their love. It was likely blood that would separate them, in the end.
Whichever way I looked at it, I could safely say, more than a few men would surely meet their deaths this day, and as many return to their houses with sorely broken bodies, new scars in the making. It was ever so.
We were all of us waiting upon the Old-man’s arrival.
I was already growing restless, not eager for the fight; but it is better to be about the business than to be standing in endless contemplation of it. I am not a thinking man. On a whim, I let my eyes carry up towards the heavens. The sky looked burdened and worried this day. A long way above the Heel Stone, a ragged, windswept horde of black birds, winged scavengers – crows most likely – wheeled silently between broken banks of steel grey cloud and patches of glaring sunlight. It seemed the birds were already well aware of our gathering, already expectant of things to come. I saw their presence as a good omen. They were welcome company. Whatever the outcome for men this day, theirs would be a feast and nothing left to waste. It was more than easy pickings; it was a gorging fit for the fortunes. And the fortunes liked a spectacle.
On the ground there was a sudden new commotion, new arrivals, and come at a measured
