Darkspell (8 page)

“Done, then. You ride at my orders, and I promise you, you’ll have your chance for vengeance.”

In sincere gratitude they grinned. In those days a warrior who lived through a battle in which his lord died was a shamed man, turned away from everyone’s shelter and mocked wherever he went.

As the warband made its way south to Cerrmor, they picked up other men like Abryn and Draudd—some, other survivors from the Stag’s warband; some, stubbornly close-mouthed about their past, but all of them desperate enough to lay aside their amazement at finding a priestess at the head of a warband. Eventually Gweniver had thirty-seven men, just three short of the number that Avoic had pledged to bring. In fact, they pledged to her so gladly and accepted her so easily that she was surprised. Their last
night on the road, she shared a campfire with Ricyn, who waited upon her like an orderly.

“Tell me somewhat,” she said to him. “Do you think these lads will still follow my orders once we’re down in Cerrmor?”

“Of course, my lady.” He seemed surprised that she would ask. “You’re the one who took them off the roads and gave them the right to feel like men again. Besides, you’re a priestess.”

“Does that matter to them?”

“Oh, twice over. Come, now, we’ve all heard those tales about Moon-sworn warriors, haven’t we? But it’s twice a marvel to actually see one. Most of the lads think it’s an omen, you see. It’s like dweomer, and you’re dweomer-touched. We all know it’s bound to bring us good luck.”

“Luck? Oh, it won’t bring that, but only the favor of the Moon in Her Darktime. Do you truly want that kind of favor, Ricyn? It’s a harsh thing, a cold wind from the Otherlands.”

Ricyn shuddered as if he felt that wind blowing. For a long time he stared into the campfire.

“Harsh or not, it’s all I have left to me,” he said at last. “I’ll follow you, and you follow the Goddess, and we’ll see what she brings us both.”

Cerrmor lay at the mouth of the Belaver, the watercourse that formed the natural spine of the kingdom, where the estuary had cut a broad harbor out of the chalky cliff. With over sixty thousand people sheltering behind its high stone walls, it was the biggest city in the kingdom now that Dun Deverry had been laid waste. From a long line of piers and jetties, the city spread out upriver in a sprawl of curved streets like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. As long as its gwerbrets kept it safe, its trade with Bardek kept it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low, artificial hill in the middle of town not far from the river. Inside a double ring of walls were the stone broch complex, stone outbuildings, and stone barracks, all with slate roofs; nowhere was there a scrap of wood that
might be fired with a flaming arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened and shut with a winch.

When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the king’s colors of red and silver ran to greet them.

“My lord,” a lad burst out. “We heard you were slain!”

“My brother was,” Gweniver said. “Go tell the king that the Lady Gweniver is here to honor Lord Avoic’s vow.”

The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back into the broch. Ricyn rode up beside her and gave her a grin.

“They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?”

“Just that. Here, you’ve been acting like the captain for days. It’s about time I told you that you officially are.”

“My lady honors me too highly.”

“She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be so now.”

With a laugh he made her a half bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.

While she waited for the page to return, Gweniver stood beside her horse and looked over the broch complex. Although her brothers had told her about the splendor of Cerrmor, she’d never been there before. A full seven stories high, the massive tower joined itself to three lower half brochs, and the dark gray complex rose like the fist of a giant turned to stone by dweomer. Nearby stood enough barracks and stables to house hundreds of men. Over it all flew a red-and-silver flag, announcing proudly that the king himself was in residence. When she glanced round at the swelling crowd, she saw all the noble lords watching her, afraid to speak until the king gave his judgment on this strange matter. Just as she was cursing the page for being so slow, the ironbound doors opened, and the king himself came out with a retinue of pages and councillors in attendance.

Glyn, Gwerbret Cerrmor, or king of all Deverry as he preferred to be known, was about twenty-six, tall and heavyset, with blond hair bleached pale and coarsened with lime in the regal fashion so that it swept back from his square face like a lion’s mane. His deep-set blue eyes bore such a haunted expression that she wondered if he’d just lost some close kinsman. When Gweniver knelt before him, she felt an honest awe. All her life she’d heard about this man, and now here he was, setting his hands on his hips and looking her over with a small bemused smile.

“Rise, Lady Gweniver,” Glyn said. “May I not sound like a churl, but never did I think to see the day when a woman would bring me men.”

Gweniver made him a curtsy as best she could in brigga.

“Well, my honored liege, never has the Wolf clan broken its sworn vow, not once in all these long years of war.”

“I’m most mindful of that.” He hesitated, picking careful words. “I’m informed that you have a sister. Later, no doubt, when you’ve rested, you’ll wish to speak to me about the fate of the Wolf.”

“I will, my liege, and I’m honored that you would turn your attention to the matter.”

“Of course. Will you shelter with me a while as an honored guest, or do you need to return straightaway to your temple?”

Here was the crux, and Gweniver called upon the Goddess in her heart.

“My liege,” she said, “the most holy Moon has chosen me to serve Her as a Moon-sworn warrior. I’ve come to beg you a boon, that you’ll let me keep the place I have as head of my warband, to ride with you in your army and live at your command.”

“What?” He forgot all his ritual courtesy. “Here, you must be jesting! What would a woman want with battles and suchlike?”

“What any man wants, my liege: honor, glory, and a chance to slay the enemies of the king.”

Glyn hesitated, staring at the tattoo as if he were remembering
the old tales of those who served the Darktime Goddess, then turned to the warband.

“Now, here, men,” he called out. “Do you honor the lady as your captain?”

To a man the warband called out that they did. At the back of the line, Dagwyn boldly yelled that Gweniver was dweomer.

“Then I’ll take it as an omen that a Moon-sworn warrior has turned up at my court,” Glyn said. “Well and good, my lady. I grant your boon.”

At a wave of Glyn’s hand, servants descended. Stable boys ran to take the horses; riders from the king’s personal warband hurried over to Ricyn to take him and the men to the barracks; councillors appeared at Gweniver’s side and bowed; two underchamberlains trotted up to escort her into the great hall. The sight of it amazed her. Big enough to hold over a hundred tables for the warbands, it had four enormous hearths. Red-and-silver banners hung among fine tapestries on the walls, and rather than straw, colored slate tiles covered the floor. Gweniver stood gawking like the country lass she was as the chamberlain, Lord Orivaen by name, hurried to greet her.

“Greetings, my lady,” he said. “Allow me to find you accommodations in our humble broch. You see, since you’re both noble born and a priestess, I’m honestly not sure what rank that gives you. Perhaps the same as tieryn?”

“Oh, my good sir, as long as the room has a bed and a hearth, anything will do. A priestess of the Dark Moon cares not for rank.”

Orivaen kissed her hand in honest gratitude, then took her to a small suite in a side tower and sent pages to bring up her gear.

“Will this suffice, my lady?”

“Of course. It’s splendid.”

“My thanks. So many lords are, shall we say, overly mindful of what their accommodations might mean.”

“I beg your pardon?”

“Er, well, that they might be slighted, you see.” Gweniver didn’t see, but she smiled and nodded. Once
the pages had been and gone, and Orivaen with them, she paced restlessly round. She wondered if the king would consider the Wolf lands worth holding now that the Stag clan had suffered such losses. In a few minutes a knock sounded on the door.

“Come in!”

A possible weapon in her battle to save the clan walked in, Lord Gwetmar, a lanky, lantern-jawed young man with an untidy mop of dark hair. Although his birth was noble enough, his family was land poor and considered somewhat disreputable among the great clans. Gweniver’s kin, however, had always treated him as an equal. He grabbed both of her hands in his and squeezed them hard.

“Gwen, by all the gods, it gladdens my heart to see you alive. When the news came in of Avoic’s death, I was sick, wondering if you and your sister had come to harm. I would have ridden north straightaway, but our liege wouldn’t allow it.”

“Doubtless he didn’t want to lose you and your men along with ours. Maccy’s safe in the temple, and Mam along with her.”

With a grin, Gwetmar draped himself in a chair. Gweniver perched on the windowsill and considered him.

“Now, here,” he said, “are you truly going to ride with us?”

“I am. I want a chance at vengeance even if I die for it.”

“I understand that. I pray to every god that they’ll let me cut down Avoic’s killer. Listen, if we live till autumn, I’ll join my men to yours and join the feud.”

“My thanks. I was hoping you’d say somewhat like that, because I’ve been thinking about the Wolf lands. They’re Maccy’s now, or they will be if the king grants my petition to let them pass in the female line. But I’m still the elder as well as a priestess, and she’s blasted well going to marry the man I pick for her.”

“And no doubt you’ll pick a good one.” Gwetmar looked away, suddenly melancholy. “Maccy deserves no less.”

“Listen, you dolt, I’m talking about you. I know
Maccy’s always been a coldhearted little snip to you, but now she’d marry the Lord of Hell himself to get out of that temple. I have no intention of telling any other land-hungry lord where she is until you’ve had a chance to send her messages.”

“Gwen! I happen to honestly love your sister, not just her lands!”

“I know. Why do you think I’m offering her to you?”

He tossed his head back and laughed, as bright as the sun breaking through storm clouds.

“Never did I think I’d have a chance to marry her. Taking the Wolf’s name and the Wolf’s feud seem a cursed small price to pay.”

Gwetmar escorted her down to the great hall. In the curve of the wall stood a long dais, where the king and the noble-born ate their meals. Although Glyn was nowhere to be seen, a number of lords were already sitting at table, drinking ale while they listened to a bard play. Gweniver and Gwetmar sat down with Lord Maemyc, an older man who’d known Gweniver’s father well. He stroked his gray mustaches and looked her over sadly, but to her relief he said not a word about the road she’d chosen to ride. Now that the king had given his approval, no one would dare question her choice.

The talk turned inevitably to the summer’s fighting ahead. Things promised to be slow. After the bloody campaigns of the last few years, Cerrmor simply didn’t have enough men to besiege Dun Deverry, nor did Cantrae have enough to make a real strike at Cerrmor.

“A lot of skirmishing ahead, if you ask me,” Maemyc pronounced. “And maybe one good strike north to avenge the Stag and Wolf clans.”

“A quick couple of raids and little else,” Gwetmar agreed. “But, then, there’s Eldidd to worry about on the western border.”

“Just so.” He glanced at Gweniver. “He’s been getting bolder and bolder, raiding in deep to bleed both us and Cantrae. I’ll wager he holds back his full force until we’re both worn down.”

“I see. It sounds reasonable, truly.”

On the far side of the dais there was a bustle at the small door that led to the king’s private stairway. Two pages knelt ceremoniously while a third swung the door open wide. Expecting the king, Gweniver got ready to rise, but another man came through and paused to look over the assembled company. Blond and blue-eyed, he looked much like Glyn, but he was slender where the king was heavyset. His long swordsman’s arms were crossed tight over his chest as he watched the lords with narrowed, contemptuous eyes.

“Who’s that?” Gweniver whispered. “I thought the king’s brother was dead.”

“His true brother is,” Gwetmar said. “That’s Dannyn, one of the old gwerbret’s bastards, the only lad among the lot. The king favors him highly, though, and made him captain of his personal guard. After you see him fight, you can’t begrudge him his birth. He swings a sword like a god, not a man.”

His thumbs hooked into his sword belt, Dannyn strolled over, gave Gwetmar a pleasant if distant nod, then looked Gweniver over. The yokes of his shirt sported embroidered ship blazons, the ship of Cerrmor, but all down the sleeves ran a device of striking falcons.

“So,” he said at last, “you’re the priestess who thinks she’s a warrior, are you?”

“I am. And I suppose you’re a man who thinks he can tell me otherwise.”

Dannyn sat down beside her and turned to slouch against the table. When he spoke, he looked out over the hall instead of at her.

“What makes you think you can swing a sword?” he said.

“Ask my men. I never boast about myself.”

“I already spoke with Ricyn. He had the gall to tell me that you go berserk.”

“I do. Are you going to call me a liar?”

“It’s not my place to call you anything. The king ordered
me to take you and your men into his guard, and I do what he says.”

“And so do I.”

“From now on you do what I say. Understand me, lass?”

With a flick of her wrist, Gweniver dumped the contents of her tankard full into his face. As the lords at table gasped and swore, she swung herself free and rose, staring at Dannyn, who looked up, as cold as winter ice, and let the ale run down his face unnoticed.