Vyder burst out laughing. “I have indeed, laddie.”
“Then you'll know it's no laughing matter.” Neyarl attempted to flank the assassin, to cut off his exit.
The chieftain wasn't fast enough, and Vyder stepped outside, walking backwards past the tethered horses, keeping his eyes fixed upon his adversary. Neyarl followed at a sedate pace, relaxed. The chieftain held his knife upright and always seemed to squeeze shut his eyes for a brief moment before he attacked.
Vyder switched to the Wendurlund language. “Henry, Ahitika,” Vyder called to the pair following behind Neyarl. “There is a highland word, it is pronounced aforthafik, it means someone has challenged the chieftainship. Aforthafik. Can you remember that word?”
Both said the word, stumbling over it several times before it started coming easier to their tongues.
“Good. Start shouting that word. Loud as you can!”
Ahitika brushed past Neyarl, offering him a look of hatred, striding towards the homes in the near distance. “Aforthafik!” she yelled, veins bulging at her throat. She roared the word again. Henry bellowed the word, adding to the chorus.
One corner of Vyder's mouthed tugged upward. “We have to follow traditions, don't we, Chieftain?”
“This constant walking is boring me. Let us get this over and done with.”
Vyder glanced down at the belt stretched taught across Neyarl's belly. “Need a break, do you? This is probably the furthest you've walked this month.”
Neyarl's eyes snapped shut, and Vyder darted to one side, avoiding the knife thrust. Carrying his blade with a reverse grip, he held his other hand out before him, open palm facing the chieftain. Vyder slowed his rearward progress, the hoarse voices of Henry and Ahitika fading into background noise.
The plump man stepped backward, but Vyder remained in place. He'd fight the chieftain on his own terms. Following his adversary would take the initiative from Vyder. The assassin began retreating again, aware that the calling of Henry and Ahitika were being taken up from all around the village. In his peripheral vision, he saw movement. People came out of their homes and walked towards the fight in small groups.
Neyarl tutted and walked after Vyder again. “You're a damn coward, aren't you?”
“Aye, whatever you say, laddie.”
Vyder halted, bunched his legs beneath him and sprinted straight at Neyarl. He jumped and kicked out with both legs. His boots slammed into the chieftain's chest, sending the fat man to the ground, his breath exploding from his mouth. The assassin landed in a crouch and slashed down at his opponent, the blade opening a cut on Neyarl's arm. He'd intended for the wound to be fatal, but the chieftain, flabby as he was, moved fast. He'd rolled away from Vyder and already regained his feet, albeit with a groan.
Red-faced, jaws clenched and eyes narrowed, Neyarl came for him at a head long charge. At the last moment, he twisted away, side-stepped and then lunged at Vyder's flank. The assassin leapt back, the razor-sharp metal barely missing the skin of his throat.
“Only a matter of time, Vyder.”
“Bit short of breath there, Chieftain? Need a rest?”
Neyarl's eyes snapped shut, but this time Vyder stepped in, grabbed his opponent's wrist, twisted it away, and slammed his knife into the chieftain's chest. The blade ground against a rib, and Neyarl's shirt around the embedded knife turned claret. He kept a tight grip of Neyarl's wrist, acutely aware that even a dying man could still strike a fatal blow. The chieftain dropped to his knees, then collapsed onto his side, Vyder released his wrist, the arm flopping to the ground. Neyarl's last breath passed his lips with a soft whisper.
Cheering exploded around Vyder, and the assassin jumped. He'd not been aware of the circle the clansmen and women had formed around the pair, so focused had he been on the fight.
“A new chieftain!” roared an older highlander, stepping into the circle, and stopped beside Vyder. The older man turned to Vyder, and his face softened, eyes widening. “I know you! You're Ulf and Frayona's lad, the boy went south in search of riches. Is it Vyder?”
The assassin smiled and nodded. “Thrane? You were a fine friend to my parents.”
Thrane grinned. “The very same!” He slapped Vyder on the back, took a deep breath, and yelled, “Vyder, chieftain of Clan Ironstone!”
Shouting, cheering, and clapping pervaded the area. Thrane grasped Vyder by the arm with a firm grip. He leaned towards the assassin to be heard over the noise. “Tell me, lad, did you find riches?”
He thought of the mansion he owned, the bags of gold stored in the bank, and the coins he carried in the small purse attached to a string around his neck. But then Verone's face drifted to him and the city he now called home under siege by an enemy determined to eradicate the kingdom of Wendurlund forever.
“In a manner of speaking, yes…but also no.”
Thrane released his grip and nodded. “It sounds to have made you wiser. Although I'm sorry to see infection has ailed your eye.” He pointed at the stark, blue eye.
“Aye.”
That's a little harsh to call me an infection, little brother.
Vyder held up his hands for silence. “When was the last time there was a feast held in the longhouse?” He gestured behind him at the building behind him, once inhabited by Neyarl.
“Before the raid,” a highlander said.
“And do we have the food to provide a feast?”
“Aye, chieftain,” another called.
“Then tonight, we drink and we feast!”
Cheering, laughter, and clapping boomed around the clearing. Clan Ironstone had a new chieftain. It was time to be strong again. It was time to stand back up.
VII
Flames licked at thick pieces of wood sitting upon the fire pit in a pile tall as a man. The flickering, bright orange glow lit the longhouse in a way the people of Clan Ironstone hadn't seen in years. Vyder stood in one dark corner, nursing his deer horn cup of mead. He'd positioned himself in such a way so as to watch the clan mingling with one another. No one had yet spotted him, aside from Ahitika, her eyes keen as a hawk. She sat upon the floor beside him, back leaned against the wall, sipping her mead, Henry alongside her. The couple spoke together in hushed whispers, their words lost amongst the laughter and merriment.
On several occasions highlanders walked past Henry, barging into him and offering a string of curses at him. One man, a black-haired rogue with scars adorning his face, leaned over Henry and knocked his cup over. Ahitika stood and muttered something to the man, her eyes murderous. Henry caught her hand and pulled her back to her seat. The highlander laughed and strode away.
That will only get worse, will it not, Vyder?
“Aye,” he said. “Eventually Henry will probably have to fight one of them if he is to get any respect. Especially as he is allegedly a prince of Wendurlund.
Allegedly? But he is a prince is he not?
“We're in the highlands now, Gorgoroth. Prince is just a word, it means nothing to these men and women. A title is earned here, not simply inherited.”
Some people brought in step ladders, placing them beneath shields, blunderbusses and, of course, the clan colours, which was attached neatly beneath a set of crossed swords. The items adorned the wall high above the head of the long table. The decorations were dull, their sharp glint long faded to the persistence of dust and cobwebs. One man placed his foot on the bottom rung of the stepladder.
“Ho, Olaf!” he shouted at another standing nearby, thrusting his deer horn cup at him. “Hold my drink.” He turned to a clanswoman nearby. “Wish me luck, dearest!”
She shrugged. “We all must die someday husband. Today is as good as any.”
“Wisht, Helga!” He bellowed through a chuckle, ascending the stepladder and almost losing his balance. “Today isn't my skane, lass.”
The weapons were lifted down with care and passed to various members of the clan standing in a group at the base of the ladder. Each adornment was carried to the long table where clust
ers of clansfolk sat together talking, laughing and cleaning away the dust, cobwebs and restoring the sharp sheen the weapons had once enjoyed.
Vyder pushed himself away from the corner, stepped into the light and finished his mead with several swallows. He strode to the long table, stepped over the bench and lowered himself amongst a group of clansfolk.
An older woman smiled at him. “Chieftain! Wondered where you'd got to.”
Her face was familiar, but he couldn't place her name.
“It is Gwinifred,” she said. “I remember when you were just a wee lad, Vyder.”
“Of course! Now I remember.”
His empty deer horn cup was whisked away and a full one placed in front of him accompanied by a slap on the back. “Good to see you chieftain,” the clansman said, striding away to help another group cooking the food.
A young man sitting opposite, polishing a blunderbuss glanced over the butt stock at him. “So, Vyder, our tithe to Clan Firestorm is due in a few months.”
Vyder gritted his teeth. “Is it?”
“Aye, I think we have just enough grain to meet their requirement for the year.”
“We have enough grain to feed our clan, lad.” Vyder took a gulp of his mead and placed the cup upon the table, holding the young man's stare. “No more and no less.”
“But what about the tithe?”
Anger warmed him. He shrugged. “What of it?”
“If we don't pay our tithe, they will crush us. They've threatened as much!”
“I care nothing for their threats.” Vyder rose to his feet. “Ho!” he roared. The chatter died to silence and the eyes of those in the longhouse rested upon their chieftain.
Vyder drew a breath. “It has come to my attention that our tithe to Clan Firestorm is due in the near future.”
A couple of mutters met his statement.
The assassin placed his hands upon the table. “That grain is for our clan and our clan alone. The tithe is at an end.” Vyder snarled. Heat touched the skin of his face, anger all but consuming him. “We are Clan Ironstone!” he shouted. “Always!” He looked from face to face. Fear touched the eyes of some, anger shone from others and pride from the rest. “It's about time we remember who we are and for that which we stand. We are highlanders! We are Ironstone!” He slammed a fist upon the table. “We are warriors!”
“And if Firestorm attack us? What then chieftain?”
“Then we fight them.”
The clansman shrugged, his eyes shone with fear. “And if we lose?”
“Then we die. But at least we'll have met our skane upon our feet, instead of existing on our knees.”
A group at the rear cheered. Others shouted, “Ironstone!”
“Tomorrow,” Vyder shouted over the noise. “I'll ride for Clan Windeagle. The day after for Clan Waterborne.” He leaned forward. “Then I'll head for Clan Earthforge, and the next day? Clan Coppersmith will welcome me to their hearth. Clan Wintercreek will be my final stop. And when I can convince enough warriors to ride with me, there will be one last clan I will visit. Firestorm!”
Shouting, cheering and arguing erupted around the longhouse.
Vyder's chest expanded as a large breath filled his lungs. “Who will ride with me?” His voice rose above the crescendo.
Men and women stepped forward, some adding their voices to the noise, veins pushing against the skin of their throats, their eyes bright with fervour. A few remained at the back or stepped away, fear evident in their demeanour.
He appraised the large group who surrounded him still adding their voices to the boom of dissonance bouncing around the longhouse.
“Good!” he roared. “Then let us eat!”
* * *
Storm nuzzled his chest. He stroked her nose and ran his hand along the sleek, powerful neck. The rising sun painted the horse's flank in hues of soft orange and pink. Vyder stepped into the saddle.
“Back on the road again, lassie,” he whispered to the horse. Storm's ears flicked back at the sound of his voice.
Behind him a long column of Ironstone warriors mounted in a similar fashion. If he was forced to guess, Vyder estimated four hundred clansmen and women would ride with him. Another three hundred of fighting age remained at home, although if Vyder was successful in his bid, he hoped they would decide to join him.
Ahitika reined in beside him. “How far to next village?”
He patted Storm. “We'll be there by nightfall.”
She nodded. “Highlands much smaller than Wendurlund.”
Henry brought his horse to a halt near Ahitika.
“And how do you fair, young prince? At least you look healthier now.”
There was flesh upon his bones, the muscles of his arms becoming more defined, thanks to the daily exercises Vyder had given him. His appetite had returned, Vyder noticed.
The young man shrugged and smiled. “I feel good, better than I did a month ago.” He shifted in his saddle. “Although I seem to have made an enemy. An ugly man with hair the colour of a raven's feathers.”
“Aye, I noticed that.”
“I've tried ignoring him, but it does nothing. I intend to gain his trust eventually,” Henry said.
Vyder sighed. “You won't ever gain his trust, Henry. And as long as he taunts you, your image as a warrior prince amongst the highlanders will diminish, until they too begin to hate you.”
“What then is the answer?”
“You will have to face him sooner or later. At best a fist fight, at worst a fight to the death.”
The young Wendurlund man nodded, broke Vyder's stare and focused ahead of them.
“I'm sorry it has to be this way, Henry. It is the way of things here in Shadolia. Do not mistake me, this rogue is a man of little honour, and even less integrity, but his treatment of you is doing damage to what reputation you might have had.” Vyder lowered his voice. “And if we want highlanders to march south in aid of your country, you will need to be viewed as a strong leader in your own right. Not a meek man cowed by a bully.”
Henry snapped his attention back to Vyder. “I am not cowed!”
“I know you're not.” He jerked a thumb behind him. “But they don't.”
Henry fell silent.
Ahitika leaned across and slapped Henry on the leg. “You too soft,” she chuckled and gestured at herself, and then Vyder. “We make you strong.”
The woman is good for him, little brother.
Vyder nodded. He swivelled and looked down the column of mounted clansfolk behind him. Many of them were chatting amongst themselves, some groups chuckling as a man, gesturing wildly, was probably regaling some story. One man was sitting on his horse in silence, the skin of his face pale. He was staring at the ground in front of him. His name was Torgun from memory.
Vyder turned Storm around and trotted to him. “You alright, lad?”
The clansman lurched in his saddle, startled by Vyder's voice. “I'm fine, chieftain,” he smiled. “Just seven or eight too many meads last night. My gut churns and my head hammers.”
“Sip some water.”
“I fear my breakfast will be all over the horse if I drink any water.”
“Trust me, just sip some, Torgun.”
The highlander pulled free a water bladder and sipped some of the cool liquid.
Vyder grinned. “Better?”
Torgun laughed. “No, but I'll be better by noon.”
Vyder turned Storm away and cantered back to the head of the column, stood in his stirrups and signalled they were on the move. They travelled at a slow trot, fast enough to chew through the distance, but slow enough not to exhaust the horses. During the journey, Vyder rode up and down the column, often stopping to talk. Some of the people he remembered from childhood, others younger than he, he'd never seen before. Many of them introduced themselves to him and try as he may he was unable to remember all their names.
The group of Ironstone highlanders stopped at noon for a brief meal, to rest, feed and water the horse
s, and then they were underway again. Vyder slowed beside Torgun. Colour had returned to his cheeks, and he looked more comfortable.
“You look a bit better, Torgun.”
“Turns out you were right, Vyder.” Torgun patted the near empty water bladder tied to his belt. “The water works.”
“Good to hear.” He pushed Storm on and advanced along the column towards the front again. “You looking forward to a mead tonight?” he shouted over his shoulder at Torgun.
The booming laughter of the young highlander echoed out.
They entered the township of Windeagle as the sun touched the western horizon. The houses looked much the same as the village of Ironstone. Those on the outer edges were utterly destroyed or blackened by the assault of flame. Clans folk stood in doorways watching the procession ride through their village towards the centre, where lay the chieftain's longhouse. Fear filled many eyes. But glinting in those of a precious few was the power of anger, fury, and an obvious lack of fear. One Windeagle highlander with shoulder length flame red hair and beard strode out into the middle of the dirt road and held up a hand. The column stopped. The powerfully-built man held Vyder's stare, then noticed the tartan sash, although his index finger did not leave the trigger of the musket he held across his body.
“Ironstone, eh?”
Four men and two women crouched in doorways or knelt, taking cover behind a corner of a building, watching the newcomers. Each of them held muskets or blunderbusses at the ready. Although they did not point the weapons directly at Vyder, they'd be able to bring the muzzles to bear in the blink of an eye.
Vyder held up his hands, palms facing the man. “We travel in peace.” He looked over his shoulder. None of his clansfolk had drawn a weapon. They simply watched. The last thing Vyder needed was one of his clan pointing a musket at the warrior barring their way.
“Aye? And what is it you seek?”
“Retribution.”
The man's lips parted, revealing clenched teeth. “And what have we ever done to Clan Ironstone?”
“Nothing. It is not against you we seek retribution.” Vyder swung in his saddle and pointed behind him at the blackened houses. “Is that the work of Clan Firestorm?”
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