When the assassin finished talking, Bulvye remained silent, his hands splayed upon the table. The chieftain was balding, but his dark green eyes were piercing, missing nothing. Tiny scars littering the skin of his forearms belied the rumour Vyder had heard that Bulvye was no warrior. Rumours were mostly always false he'd found from experience.
The balding, heavily bearded-man sat forward and held Vyder's eyes. “You wish to destroy Firestorm?”
“That's probably a little harsh.” Vyder paused, gathering his thoughts. “What we wish,” he gestured at the chieftains either side of him, “is a chance for retribution and to place Clan Firestorm in such a position that they can never again sweep the highlands as they have done in the recent past.”
Bulvye's eyes twinkled with humour. “And how is that different to destroying them?”
“I mean to spare the life of any innocent person and all children. I don't know about Clan Earthforge, but that was something that was never afforded to our clans when we were attacked.” He indicated the chieftains seated either side of him.
“I shall bring two hundred and fifty swords to the fight. We shall join you come dawn.”
* * *
Sundown on the fourth day saw Vyder and the three chieftains who'd agreed to join him sitting beside one another opposite Holrik, chieftain of Clan Coppersmith. Vyder was still part way through the explanation when the short, stocky Holrik held up a hand. “I've heard enough. We'll join you. We can add two hundred and fifty highlanders to your number.”
By mid-afternoon the following day the column of one thousand highlanders, snaking its way along the northern road, reached the village of Clan Wintercreek. While the five chieftains rode into the village, the highlanders made an encampment on the outskirts and prepared for the evening. Horses were taken in groups down to a nearby river to drink their fill. People washed themselves, clothes and refilled water bladders.
Vyder led the way, walking Storm along the main street, which was nothing more than a wide dirt road. Worried eyes peered at them from doorways. One man clutching a musket stood out the front of his house, his wife beside him, a sword gripped in her hand, the blade resting on her shoulder. They glared at the newcomers.
“They're still ready to fight,” Rafe's booming voice echoed from the nearby buildings.
“Aye, a good sign,” said Bulvye.
Within the hour, unarmed as always, the men sat before Hyglak, a tall rake thin man and chieftain of Clan Wintercreek.
After Vyder finished speaking, Hyglak frowned. “And if you lose? What then?”
“I hadn't entertained the thought, if I'm being honest.”
Hyglak pointed at the assassin. “I'll tell you what happens. Firestorm will launch a counter offensive except, this time, they'll leave no one alive. They won't just want a small tithe and portion of our food, they'll take it all.” He swept his arms around at the room surrounding him. “Everything. And they'll burn us to the ground.”
“And do you think if we fail and Firestorm sweep the highlands once more, that your clan will simply be left untouched because you didn't take part?”
Hyglak leaned back in his chair, his heavily bearded jaw bulging.
“Because from what I saw on the ride in, you were hit pretty hard by those bastards.”
“Aye, we were. Probably lost half of our clan. We weren't strong enough to fight them then and we're certainly not powerful enough to resist them again if they attack a second time.”
Vyder gestured at the chieftains seated either side of him. “Neither are our individual clans. But together? We can make a mighty force to ensure Firestorm's actions can never be repeated.”
Hyglak nodded. “I understand what you say. You have convinced me, but I can only offer one hundred highlanders to your cause.”
Vyder spread his hands. “It is a hundred more than we had a few moments ago. You have my thanks. And Hyglak? It is not my cause, it is the cause of all of us seated here at this table, not to mention the people of our respective clans.”
Hyglak offered a tight smile. “We do not have enough food or supplies to cater for all the clansfolk encamped outside our village, but you chieftains are welcome to join us this evening for a small feast.”
Vyder's stomach grumbled. “Aye, it'd be our pleasure.”
* * *
What is this drink, brother? It makes my head spin like that honey drink you highlanders like so much.
“This wine is good!” Vyder slurred, placing the wooden cup upon the table top.
Ah, wine. Yes, I've heard of it. Made from crushed berries.
“It's made by fermenting crushed grapes,” Vyder blurted by way of explanation to Gorgoroth, forgetting no one else around him was able to hear the nature spirit.
Rafe paused, a chicken leg half way to his mouth. “Gods, I had no idea!” he roared with laughter. “Thank you.” He giggled and almost dropped the food onto the floor.
“So, Vyder, tell us of that blue eye,” Bordrog spoke. The red head leaned forward so as better to see down the long table.
“It belongs to Gorgoroth.” The assassin upended the goblet, and as soon as he put it down, it was refilled by a clansman standing behind him.
“And pray tell, who in the fuck is Gorgoroth?” Rafe asked, swaying in his seat.
Numbness swept Vyder's body. His throat felt as if it was constricting, and his limbs became heavy. “Well,” Gorgoroth's voice erupted from his lips, “that would be me, little human!”
Rafe's eyes narrowed, anger glinting there. His mouth retracted into a tight line, a hue of red tinging the skin of his face, veins in his neck bulging. The black-haired chieftain paused, leaned back in his chair and burst out laughing. “So, you, too, are a berserker?”
“I don't know what a berserker is, human.”
The other chieftains were frozen in place, watching Vyder with wide eyes.
“Er, it is one who is not of…” Holrik shifted in his seat, “sound mind. Good to have on the field of battle, though.”
“Well then, yes, Black Hair, in that case, I am a berserker.”
Rafe raised his cup at Gorgoroth. “To the berserker chieftains,” he roared, downed the drink, and slammed the wooden goblet upon the table.
Vyder leaned forward, coughing. Feeling returned to his arms and legs. He cleared his throat. “Sorry about that,” he muttered. “At least you know now who Gorgoroth is.”
The chieftains seated at the long table seemed more relaxed, having come to terms with Vyder's affliction, or that would be how they viewed it. One thing he'd missed about the Shadolian Highlands and its people, was that they were so accepting of what other cultures would deem inappropriate or worthy of banishment.
Hyglak pushed his empty plate away. “One thing you are not…is a chieftain.”
“Am I not?” Vyder was unarmed and knew if a fight broke out, he and the others would be surrounded and killed within moments. He touched the blackened piece of round charcoal resting against the skin of his chest. He could take one man out of the fight immediately, but if he could bring the hidden token to a source of flame, he'd be able to summon Agoth within moments.
“No.”
“Are we to fight an aforthafik over this feast?”
Hyglak chuckled. “No, you mistake my meaning. Clan Ironstone is without a chieftain. They will need to decide on a new leader. Because you are no longer a chieftain, certainly not of a single clan. You are now a highland warlord, Vyder.”
“He's right,” Bulvye spoke through a mouthful of food. “You have united some of the most powerful clans of Shadolia.”
“There hasn't been a highland warlord in more than a thousand years,” muttered Holrik.
Gorgoroth's laughter boomed in his mind. You're welcome, little brother.
VIII
The highland army was camped in the forests to the east of the large Firestorm village.
“So, what thoughts on bringing Clan Firestorm to heel?” Vyder sat cross-legged upon the ground.
He spoke in the tongue of Wendurlund so that Ahitika and Henry could also understand what was being said.
The other chieftains along with trusted warriors and advisers sat with him in a tight circle, away from the army, where they could plan and discuss in peace.
Rafe cleared his throat. “I say we surround the village and kill them all!”
Vyder picked up a twig and broke it in half. “We need our force together in one place, not stretched thin encircling the village of Firestorm.”
“So, we need to draw them out of their village,” Bulvye said.
“Aye, and then smash them in an area of our choosing,” added Holrik.
Vyder dropped the broken twig upon the ground. “I agree. But how?”
It is quite simple, little brother.
He ignored the nature spirit.
Hyglak shrugged “Send in a messenger and invite them to battle. Perhaps appeal to their sense of highland honour?”
Rafe spat and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Those bastards don't have any bloody honour!”
Vyder felt his throat constrict, and his limbs become heavy and numb. He attempted to resist Gorgoroth, but the nature spirit had other ideas.
“Forgive me,” Gorgoroth's voice boomed from his lips. “I have been trying to explain how to do this, but Vyder keeps ignoring me.”
Rafe chuckled. “Bastard's gone berserk again. I like it. What's your plan?”
“A group of us steal Firestorm's version of this,” he pulled at the tartan cloth depicting Clan Ironstone's colours adorned diagonally across Vyder's chest, “and then walk into their longhouse.”
“Just stroll on in?” asked Holrik.
Gorgoroth leaned forward, glaring at the chieftain. “It's easier than you think, little human.”
“It may well work,” said Bordrog. “It's certainly worth a try.”
“And if we die?” Hyglak asked.
Rafe shrugged and grinned like a death's head. “Then we die. If today is to be my skane, then I am ready.”
“There will be dying to be done, of that there is little doubt,” Gorgoroth's voice boomed. “But it won't be any of us.”
Vyder's arms and legs became less heavy and his throat tingled. He coughed. Clenching and unclenching his hands, he waited for the pins and needles to subside.
“Now we just have to work out how to engage them once we've drawn them out of their village,” Vyder muttered. He coughed again and cleared his throat. He looked around at the circle of highlanders. “The King's Own, or the Horse Lords as you know them, use an instrument to control their formations during the noise of battle. It's called a bugle. Highlanders don't use bugles, but we have from time to time been known to use war horns.”
“Aye, you mean like this?” Hyglak unclipped a war horn carved from deer antler from his belt and held it up.
“Exactly like that. I have an idea.”
* * *
Henry finished his exercises and stretched out the muscles of his arms and shoulders. Although he was still slight, he'd put on weight. Under the skin of his upper body was a layer of thin muscle, which seemed to be more defined with each passing week. His strength increased with each day.
Regaining his breath, he rolled his shoulders to help relax the tight muscles. A highlander, the raven-haired ugly one, spoke a long sentence in his native tongue and barged past Henry. He'd been subject to verbal aggression. He'd been unable to understand the words, but the body language had been enough to explain the intended message. He'd walk past groups of highlanders and hear a shouted sentence followed by laughter. The first few times, he'd cast a glance over his shoulder. The highlanders would be chuckling, watching him with hatred in their eyes.
But this had been the first time he'd faced physical aggression from the highlanders. Probably because Vyder and Ahitika were no longer present. He clenched his teeth together, his jaw bulging.
It was only a matter of time.
If he'd learned anything from his short time with the King's Own, not to mention the hell of the Huronian dungeon, it was to stand up and account for yourself. To submit was to lose. Vyder himself had said as much. Even if defeated, it was better than submission. A rustling from nearby drew his attention. Raven Hair was knelt by his saddle, rummaging through his saddlebags.
He allowed the anger to flow through him, although stopped it from overwhelming him. Anger was important, but dangerous. It could motivate action or be as oppressive and ensnaring as fear itself. Another lesson he'd been forced to learn whilst riding with the Unit. Harnessing both anger and fear were techniques parallel with one another.
He turned towards the highlander and walked towards him. “Stop!” he shouted, the skin above his nose creasing, drawing his eyebrows together. His mouth widened and lips peeled apart to reveal clenched teeth. The highlander paused, looked up at him and laughed before dragging free a bladder of water. He pulled free the stopper and took a long swig, then threw the bladder to one side, where precious, fresh water flowed out of the container. He delved a hand back into the saddlebag.
The benefits of diplomacy is sometimes exhausted. Ironically, then, for peace to reign, only the fight remains. He recalled the words in silence, although he'd forgotten where he'd heard them.
* * *
Vyder strode through the forest, the dry leaves crunching beneath his boots. Ahitika walked on one side of him and Torgun on the other. Henry had been intent on joining them. He'd argued, but eventually rescinded his eagerness when Vyder continued to refuse.
“The Firestorm people will see you are of Wendurlund stock and distrust us on sight, or try to kill us.”
Hyglak and Rafe also accompanied them, Hyglak because he could use the war horn to signal the highland army when they were still some distance away. Rafe because the berserker would be handy to have nearby when things turned to shit.
And things will turn to dung, little brother.
“I know,” he muttered.
Rafe looked at him with a quizzical glance, then stared beyond him to catch Hyglak's eye. “I think he's going berserk again,” he whispered, grinning.
They reached the main road leading into the Firestorm village in less than half an hour. Vyder removed the tartan cloth adorning his chest and folded it away.
“Waterborne now and forever,” Rafe muttered under his breath, removing his tartan and putting it away.
Ahitika touched her chest plate, then brushed her hands across the dried scalps tied to her belt. They were left to their thoughts, but Vyder was confident each knew battle was not far away.
The village of Firestorm was huge, spanning more than two hundred acres, by Vyder's estimate. The perimeter was guarded by a ten-foot wooden wall, made from straight tree trunks, each thicker than a man's leg and the apexes carved into a sharp point. The road down which the small group strode led to an open gate.
“This is the Eastern Gate,” Hyglak offered. “The north, west, and south entrances possess such a gate as well.”
They walked through the open gate and blended amongst the villagers, few people having spotted their lack of tartans. The ones who seemed to notice weren't bothered. Vyder stepped aside to allow a merchant wagon to rumble past. A group of young, drunk Firestorm highlanders formed a circle on the far side of a merchant square yelling and cheering. Two of their number conducted a fist fight in the centre of the circle.
The group carried on down the dirt road, turning off and heading into a residential area. Homes stood huddled together, a small garden adorning the front of most. It appeared the occupants of some dwellings grew vegetables, others sported well-tended beds of flowers and several had been allowed to go to ruin. Weeds having long taken over. Vyder opened a rickety old gate, strode through the thigh high weeds and rapped his knuckles against the hardwood of the front door.
Ahitika stopped beside him. “What you doing?”
“We need Firestorm tartans. These people are going to give us theirs.”
The door opened to
reveal a poorly-dressed man who stank of stale sweat. Dried puss crusted one eye half-closed. He held a knife in one hand, although the blade appeared to be blunt and half rusted.
“What do you want?” He snarled.
Vyder appraised the man from foot to head. “Obviously, the chieftain isn't distributing the tithe very well, is he?”
“I asked—”
“Were you involved in the raids your clan was responsible for that swept Shadolia a few years ago?”
“Damn right I was! It's about time the rest of the clans learned their places.”
Vyder stepped forward and slammed an open palm into his throat, sending the highlander stumbling backwards. The assassin strode through the door and pushed the wounded man further into the house, allowing the others to enter behind him. The Firestorm highlander only stopped when he slammed against a wall and slid to the ground.
Vyder kept his eyes on the man who was on his knees, holding both hands to his throat making choking noises. “Close the door.”
“Gladly,” Rafe growled.
Straining hinges groaned under the weight, ceasing their noise only when the door closed with a loud thud.
“Capell! What is wrong with you?” shrieked a woman.
She ran into view, knelt beside the man, a hand on his shoulder. Noticing movement, she looked at the advancing group. Her eyes bulged, but Vyder was not oblivious to the fury that replaced her surprise. She fled the room.
He bent down, grabbed a fistful of the wounded man's shirt and dragged him to his feet. The choking highlander, his face turning a tinge of blue, reached down, his hand coming up with a knife. He lunged, arm reaching out with a clumsy attempt to wound him. Vyder slapped the hand away, disarmed him, and stabbed the knife into his throat. Kicking his legs out from under him, Vyder allowed the critically wounded man to gurgle and writhe at his feet. He reached down and pulled the Firestorm tartan free of the dying man, passing it over his head and one arm to settle diagonally across his chest.
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