“Our land might be small, Henry, but we are warriors. In Lisfort, you have bakers, farmers, blacksmiths, clothes makers, road sweeps, merchants, wagon drivers, cooks, the aristocracy and, of course, the army. We have those trades, too. But the difference here in Shadolia is any one of those skills are secondary to the sword, spear, musket, and blunderbuss. Our primary profession is one of soldiering. We are, and always will be, a warrior race, so don't worry yourself with the size of a village.”
They rode in silence, the sun rising, casting warmth upon the land and drying sea-drenched clothes. Vyder scratched his arm. Dry salt settled upon his skin where ocean water had once soaked him. He brushed the white, powdery substance clear. The first tiny village came into view. Three longhouses built in a square horseshoe, the clear land in the centre was ploughed, a thigh length crop glistening green against the sun's power. In the centre of the crop stood several highlanders holding watering pails. They wandered down the lengths of the plough lines, watering each plant. All but one was bare chested, and brown trousers and black boots covered their legs and feet. The colours marked upon the tartan sash draped diagonally across their upper bodies suggested they belonged to clan Steelforge. The same as the sailors who'd brought them across the Shadolian Sea.
The highlanders stopped their work as the trio passed. Vyder waved at them, but his gesture was not reciprocated. One of the highlanders straightened, stretched his back, and rested a palm upon the butt of the pistol sheathed at his hip.
Henry cantered alongside Vyder. “They're a friendly bunch, aren't they?”
The assassin grunted.
“Vyder.” Henry paused and stared up at the single, small cloud drifting with lazy speed across the sky. He licked his lips. “I need you to be honest with me.”
Vyder appraised the young man, one eyebrow arching.
The prince tore his gaze from the cloud and returned the highlander's piercing glare. “Are we going to die?”
He shrugged. “Who knows, young prince? Maybe. Maybe not.”
“Well!” Henry took a deep breath and let it out with a mocking sound of refreshment. “I feel so much better!”
“We highlanders believe that Othin, the father of the gods, weaved our lives before we are even born. We call it our skane. The time and day of our death is marked out for us.”
Unless there happens to be a Wiccan nearby. Isn't that right, little brother?
Gorgoroth's laughter boomed in the vaults of his mind.
Vyder shifted in the saddle. “We cannot control the time of our deaths, or the way in which it occurs. So, there's no need to worry about it. If we die,” Vyder held out his hands, “then we die.”
Henry sighed and refocused upon the cloud, hands clenched so tight upon the reins his knuckles turned white.
“You worry too much,” Ahitika broke the silence. “Live more in now.” She came alongside Henry, reached across and held a hand upon his chest. “Live here.” She pointed at the cloud. “Not out there.”
Henry took Ahitika's hand in his and kissed it. He smiled at her, then looked at the assassin. “My skane, you say?”
Vyder nodded. “Your skane.”
* * *
By mid-morning, Henry's clothes were dry, although remnants of salt imbued into the cloth of his shirt drifted to the skin of his back. He scratched at the grit beneath his shirt.
“Need wash.”
He grinned at Ahitika. “I stink that bad, do I?”
She pinched her nose between index finger and thumb and winked. “Worse than dog turd.”
He chuckled.
They rode on through midday, eating in the saddle. The trio travelled near and sometimes through small villages. The colours and shapes of the tartans worn by the highlanders were the same for several villages, but as they advanced deeper into the highlands, changed to represent a new clan. One thing always remained the same, however. The highlanders watched them with distrustful glares, although Henry was aware most of the distaste with which they were welcomed was aimed at him. One man who Vyder later explained was the chieftain sneered at Henry, shouted a string of Shadolian words. Henry smiled at him and waved, but the chieftain's response was to drag an index finger across his throat. Despite the language barrier, the gesture was clear enough.
They really don't like we Wendurlund people.
Ahitika reined in beside Henry. “When we arrive at Yorv, I watch your back. But highlanders hate your people as much as my nation hate Huron.”
“I understand.” He smiled at the Kalote woman. “If I need to fight, I will.”
“No if, my love,” she reached across and squeezed his hand. “You…” She paused, searching the sky for the words she chased. “You need prove yourself. You will fight. No need to stand tall, but you must stand up.” She tapped her hunting knife. “I fight alongside, but strike fast when threatened. You understand?”
He nodded. You're the one who wanted to be a warrior king. You can't be a warrior without being willing to fight to protect yourself and those you love. Images of Steef, and the other guards who'd made his life a living hell inside the Huronian dungeon, drifted across his mind. I've been in worse situations. Anger, fury, and hatred soaked through his body. He gritted his teeth and snarled. “I understand.” Henry offered a tight smile.
When the sun touched the treetops carpeting the forest in the west, Vyder called a halt.
* * *
Vyder turned Storm to face the pair riding behind him.
“Soon, we will arrive in Yorv.” The highlander stared at Henry. “I fear my people are like no other you have come across.”
“I'm sure I'll manage, Vyder.”
The assassin paused. There was a flicker of something in the prince's eyes he hadn't seen in the young man since the day the King's Own, outnumbered and surrounded, hammered through the Huronian army, carrying their prince to safety.
Just more little monkeys, brother. Gorgoroth’s voice pervaded his mind. They might dress a little different or speak another language. The kin of your blood may live in a lifestyle foreign to Henry, but to me? You are all the same. I will uphold my promise, however. Only those deserving of death's touch will I send to the Frost River.
“Pleasing to know,” Vyder answered both Henry and Gorgoroth. He swung Storm away and urged her into a canter. When the sun disappeared beneath the western horizon and daylight started to die, Yorv came into view.
The southern entrance was as he remembered, save that the thick posts, once rising more than three times the height of a tall man standing either side of the road, were nothing more than blackened stumps. They passed through the entrance, and Vyder hesitated. The first home, belonging to a young couple close friends with his brother was an abject ruin. It'd been burned, one wall completely destroyed. Looking in through the absent wall, it was clear the dwelling was abandoned.
“This doesn't look good,” Henry whispered.
A small family Vyder didn't recognise stood outside another home. The walls and roof were partially blackened where flames had once long ago attempted to consume the building. The man held a musket in his hands, and the woman clutched a spear. Behind her skirts peeked a little girl, her eyes wide.
“We are friends,” Vyder said.
The man took a step forward, his index finger touching the weapon's trigger. “I won't take your word for it. Ride on through, stranger.”
Vyder reined in. “I am Ironstone, although I have been away a long time. What has happened here?”
“Clan Firestorm swept south across the Highlands year before last. They hit us, Windeagle, Waterborne, Earthforge, Coppersmith, Wintercreek and,” he paused and searched the ground, “Forestlake,” he said, tapping the Forestlake tartan slung diagonally across his chest. He gestured at his wife. “We were the only survivors of our clan.”
“Gods.” Vyder's heart quickened.
“How did the rest of Ironstone fair?”
The man shrugged. “Ironstone is a powerful clan, but Firestorm
is bigger. Ironstone lost a quarter of its number I guess.”
“A quarter?” whispered Vyder. He scowled, clenched his jaw and nodded at the family. “My thanks.”
He nudged Storm into a canter. They passed crops, the smell of freshly tilled earth drifting to his nostrils. The trio swept past a cluster of homes, some people glancing out of doorways at the small group. Vyder thought he recognised some faces, but with the advance of age that touched their skin, he couldn't be sure. One thing remained in common. All of the homes were either destroyed by fire, or at least bore the scar of flame.
Vyder guided Storm down a side road, galloped between buildings, ignored curses or shouts of people stepping aside, turned down another road, dread and fear swilling in his gut. The further they travelled, the greater the damage to each dwelling. Like the first house he saw at the southern edge, each house was a blackened ruin. He skidded to a halt outside one particular home. Like the others, it was a sight of destruction. Fire had consumed the wood, leaving nothing standing.
A few clicks resounded from behind, and Ahitika reined in beside him. “This mean something to you?” she gestured towards what remained of the wooden structure.
He nodded, jaw bulging. “My parent's home,” he managed. “They died before I travelled south, but my brother and his wife moved in.”
Vyder swung a leg over Storm and stepped out of the saddle, his booted feet hitting the ground with a thud. He offered the reins to the Kalote woman. “Can you hold Storm?”
She smiled and took the lengths of leather from him.
He walked through the opening that had once been the front door. The destroyed structure came up to his chest at its highest point. The roof, which once towered high above him, was long burned away. It was difficult to make out the layout. He'd been away so long it was hard to remember where his childhood room would have been. Brushing a hand against what was once a wall, chunks of charred timber came away in his fingers.
Moving to the rear of the dwelling, he noticed the tops of what looked to be two headstones planted in the overgrown back garden. Lips curled down, he sniffed and wiped his eyes. Stooping, he tore out clumps of weeds and grass, casting them away until the first headstone came into view fully.
Magdolin Ironstone
Aged 32 years
Killed during Clan Firestorm raid
IV
Is it who you expected, little brother?
“My sister-in-law.”
What does the four mean?
“The number of raiders she killed before succumbing to her wounds.”
Tough woman.
Vyder moved on, more clumps of grass sent skyward, roots and all, to land nearby.
Raif Ironstone
Aged 39 years
Killed during Clan Firestorm raid
IX
He didn't die very easily.
“No,” Vyder chuckled, although tears slid down his cheeks. “We're Ironstone.”
He knelt before his brother's grave and lifted the Ironstone tartan from the headstone. Passing the narrow, long band of material over his head, he tightened it diagonally across his chest. He stood, turned away, and almost tripped over on a large stone. Reaching down, he touched a third headstone, much smaller than the others. He closed his eyes. Clearing the long grass away, he passed a hand over the letters etched into the stone.
Abigail Ironstone
Aged 6 years
Killed during Clan Firestorm raid
I
“A niece I didn't know existed.” He wiped his nose with the back of a hand. Gorgoroth was silent, but Vyder was aware of the sadness pervading the nature spirit.
He sniffed, stood, and walked back through the house. Nodding his thanks to Ahitika, he took back the reins, stepped into the saddle, and led the trio towards the centre of Yorv and the town's long-hall. In less than five minutes, they stood before the beautifully constructed long-hall.
“Who lives here?” asked Henry, admiring the structure.
The building was at least twenty-five metres long and six metres high. It was built in such a way so as to resemble an upturned longship.
“The Ironstone chieftain, Olsen.” He pointed at a tie up rail near the closed, mighty doors of the entrance.
Henry shrugged. “I can stay out here and watch the horses if you want?”
Vyder dismounted. “Not by yourself, you won't, Henry. Plus, I may need your aid inside.” He tapped the knife at his belt. “If you know what I mean?”
Henry's eyebrows disappeared beneath his fringe. “Ah, I see. Not a friendly visit then.” The Wendurlund prince groaned as he swung out of the saddle.
Vyder finished tying Storm's reins to the rail and strode to the doors. He pushed them open, the heavy wood groaning upon the powerful hinges. The longhouse languished in gloom, aside from a heap of glowing coals in the centre of the building, a hint of smoke drifting up and disappearing through the circle cut out of the roof above the fire pit. On the far side of the coals, his face illuminated a dull orange, sat the chieftain. But it wasn't Olsen. The young, overweight man glanced up at the newcomers, a flicker of annoyance passing across his face.
“Who are you?” he snapped, his double chin wobbling.
“I might ask you the same thing, laddie,” Vyder spoke through clenched teeth. “Where is Olsen?”
“Uncle?” the young man flicked his hand at the fire in a dismissive gesture. “He's dead. He died in the raid, as did his son and wife.” The fat man sat straighter. “I am the only one of the blood line to survive, so the role of chieftain fell to me.”
Vyder stopped in front of the seated man. “Did it?”
He's a rather rotund little monkey, isn't he, brother?
Vyder grunted in response to Gorgoroth.
“And what was your course of action after Clan Firestorm finished murdering half of our people?” Vyder sat in front of the chieftain, glaring into his soft eyes. “Including my own brother and his family, I might add.”
“I struck a deal with them, of course. We give them a portion of our harvest each year, and they refrain from striking us again.”
“I'm not sure you're aware of the clansmen and women out there,” Vyder jerked a thumb over his shoulder at the open door through, which he'd recently walked, “Chieftain,” he added, looking the young man up and down. “But they're half-starved.”
The young chieftain spread his hands. “Needs must, I'm afraid. Clan Ironstone must survive, and in order for that to happen, we must pay tithe. Times are tough.”
Vyder's jaws bulged, and he pointed at the chieftain's midriff. “Not that hard for you though…Chieftain. You seem to be doing well for yourself.”
Ahitika chortled behind him.
“How dare you?” the man lurched to his feet with an effort, lost his balance, and almost fell to the ground. Eventually, he stood looking down his nose at Vyder. “Get out of my longhouse!”
Vyder pushed himself to his feet, towering over the flabby chieftain. “I'm a highlander of Clan Ironstone,” he tapped the tartan cloth stretched diagonally across his chest. “And we bow to no man and no clan. Or did you forget?”
“Of course not!”
Vyder took a pace forward. “And what is your name, Chieftain?”
The overweight young man thrust back his shoulders. “I am Neyarl.”
“Well, Neyarl, my name is Vyder of the clan Ironstone, and I challenge you to combat for the role of chieftain.”
Neyarl shrugged and nodded. “Fine.” He withdrew a long skinning knife sheathed at his hip and lunged with lightning speed.
Vyder felt numb as Gorgoroth took control, sending him tumbling away from the razor-sharp blade. He somersaulted backwards, came to his feet, and leapt over the fire, his knife appearing in his hand.
I fear we may have misjudged this fat monkey, brother.
Vyder grunted again.
“I've been challenged seven times for the role of chieftain following the raid.” Neyarl's mouth widened in a de
ath's head grin. “I killed them all.” He patted his substantial gut. “I wasn't always this shape. Do you remember the orphan boy adopted by Chieftain Olsen's brother?”
“I remember. A violent little boy prone to anger. Pretty handy with a weapon, though, as I recall. Why?”
Neyarl stood rooted to the spot, held his hands out either side of him, his eyebrows arching.
“I don't recall you ever being called Neyarl, though.”
The chubby highlander shrugged. “It's just a name. Easy enough to change.”
“You want me to kill him?” Ahitika strode toward the chieftain, smiling.
“No. This is between us, to the death. If he kills me, scalp him for me.”
The Kalote woman grinned. “Pleasure.”
Neyarl paused, his eyes widening. “I don't understand what you two are saying, but I know it is the language of Wendurlund you speak.” He pointed his knife in Vyder's direction. “It seems you are a traitor.”
“Amusing coming from you.”
Vyder continued taking paces to his rear, he shot a glance over his shoulder to ensure he was aiming for the mighty doors through which they'd walked.
“Scared are you, Vyder?”
The highland assassin ignored the well-fed chieftain. His intention was to bring the fight outside the longhouse and into public view of the villagers. They'd then see with their own eyes it'd been a fair fight and Vyder hadn't murdered Neyarl in cold blood. If they suspected the latter, they'd never follow him as chieftain. Much as the rotund man may be disliked, if the challenge hadn't been carried out according to Highland Law, Vyder's claim to the leadership would be forfeit.
He glanced over his shoulder again, and Neyarl took the opportunity to run at Vyder. The assassin sidestepped the charge, blocked a knife thrust with his forearm, and hissed as the blade cut his skin, blood dribbling down his arm and dripping from his fingertips. He held firm pressure upon the wound.
“Lucky block. That was intended for your guts. You ever seen a man die from a gut wound?”
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