Warrior Daughter

by Paisley, Janet

  ‘Get off.’ She pushed him over. ‘You're heavy.’

  ‘Sorry.’ He lay beside her on the bed, limp, damp. The smell of sex rose between them. ‘I missed seeing you at Lunasa,’ he said. It sounded rehearsed, unconvincing, like everything else he said, like his reason for arriving for the morning session instead of with the new moon last night.

  ‘We were out on patrol, down at Ardvasar.’ She got up, drank some ale, began to dress. She'd taken him into her chamber half-way through the midday meal. Fucking Donal didn't take long. There would be time for afternoon training before dark. ‘Tell me about Eefay,’ she said. ‘Her training must be complete. You've had her with you long enough.’

  ‘She's good – very,’ he agreed. ‘Wants to start training boys soon.’

  ‘I bet she does,’ Mara said. Over recent suns, fewer boys came to train with her at Doon Beck. Yet they had flocked to Kerrigen.

  ‘We'll house them in Doon Trodden, bring the girls into Doon Telve.’

  ‘Then she had better do her maturation first.’ Mara strapped on her sword. He made it easy, setting it up. ‘Send her to me, when you go back.’

  ‘What?’ Donal sat up. ‘You'll apprentice Eefay to Bracadale?’ For once, his pleasure seemed genuine.

  ‘That's what I said.’ She slapped his shoulder. ‘Did you come to train warriors or lie in bed?’

  ‘She's advanced enough.’ Donal grabbed his leggings, pulling them on hurriedly. ‘And the honour is great. But she's not come of age yet.’

  ‘With you as her father?’ Mara hooted with derision. ‘I expect she's had every farmer's son in Glenelg, after she tired of girls and charioteers.’ The insult to the men of Alba, that they fucked with children, stopped Donal, swaying, in mid-dress. Mara swept aside the curtain, crossing to the stairs.

  ‘She wants to do it properly.’ He caught up with her halfway down the stone steps. ‘At Beltane, in the ring of fire.’ They crossed the stockroom, heading for the doorway. ‘She wants to be the goddess.’

  ‘Of course she does.’ Outside, the women were assembled, waiting. ‘She can do that from here.’ There would be no discussion. Eefay would come under her command, where any ambition the girl might harbour could be controlled, or ended. ‘My numbers are still short from losing those two in the spring.’

  ‘Then you might have Skaaha too, given another sun.’ Donal clapped his hands to bring the women to attention. ‘Sword work, dressed,’ he shouted, ‘with shields.’ On the field, the ten warriors paired off. ‘Let me see what you can do then we'll pick up the slack.’

  Ice flooded Mara's veins. Her hand, resting on the hilt of her sheathed sword, tightened round it. Cold metal dug into her fingers. ‘Skaaha?’ Bartok was sent to prevent this. Swords and shields clashed, clattering. The air rung, iron on steel.

  Donal glanced at her, nodded. ‘She came to us before High Sun. Works like one demented, learns fast, the best novice I ever had. Might even outstrip Eefay, given time.’ He turned back to the field, raising his voice. ‘You're playing,’ he yelled. ‘Take more space. Show me some blood lust!’

  Behind him, Mara drew her sword.

  Swords rung on the field at Glenelg. Skaaha's spun out of her hand.

  ‘Shield,’ Eefay shouted, chopping towards her neck. The shield came up, just, the blow on it dropping Skaaha to one knee. Eefay stopped. ‘Now you're dead, because I won't let you up again.’

  ‘So what do I do?’

  ‘Stay down.’ Eefay stopped her rising. ‘You tell me – what can you do?’

  ‘Keep the shield covering my neck and torso. Stay close so you can't get a good swing.’

  ‘Good, because instinct will try to make you move away. What else?’

  ‘Draw my dagger, stab your leg.’

  ‘If you're fast. I won't be standing still.’

  ‘Yank your ankle first?’

  ‘Only if my weight's not balanced on it, and if you stretch any distance your hand's off.’

  Skaaha straightened up. ‘I don't like those choices.’ She walked to pick up her sword. ‘What would you do?’

  ‘Maybe this.’ Eefay sheathed her sword, raised her shield, copying Skaaha's movement, but as she dropped to one knee she brought her shield arm down on to the ground, tumbling over it and leaping to her feet again. ‘Then you're out of range before your opponent can swing again. You can run away or get your sword.’

  ‘I like that better,’ Skaaha said, trying the move. It was awkward with the shield, like tumbling with a server plate, easy to break that arm for want of practice.

  ‘Speed,’ Eefay encouraged. ‘Be faster than your opponent or be dead. Or’ – she wasn't finished – ‘if it's close fighting, too many others around, don't go down in the first place. I'll show you.’ She drew her sword, threw it down. ‘Swing at me.’

  Skaaha swung her sword, aiming for Eefay's throat. Her sister's shield came up, swept the blow aside. An arm grabbed round her neck. A knee thumped her groin.

  ‘A man drops,’ Eefay said as Skaaha grunted. ‘I'd have my sword back and his head off before he stopped squealing. Get right in close where their sword is useless. Rip their nose off with your teeth. Poke their eyes out. Use your knees, teeth, hands and dagger. Don't linger, they might be stronger than you. Go in fast, do what damage you can, throw them if possible, then go for your sword.’

  They tried again. This time, as Eefay's shield swept the swordstroke aside, her fist crashed into Skaaha's jaw. Before she'd time to collect her wits, Eefay's sword was recovered and at her throat.

  Eefay threw it down again. ‘Now swing again.’

  Skaaha swung, this time slicing downwards. Her sister stopped the blow, but the force made her duck. The ball of her foot thumped into Skaaha's gut, then she was gone. Skaaha straightened up, breathless. Solid metal clattered off the back of her skull. Ears ringing, Skaaha staggered. Eefay had spun round behind to whack her with the shield.

  ‘All right already,’ she groaned when Eefay reappeared in front of her, sword poised. ‘I get the point.’

  ‘So next time, do something and do it fast. Attack, don't expect mercy. You won't get any from Mara.’

  Donal turned from watching the warriors as he heard the swish of Mara's sword leaving its sheath. He saw his death in her eyes before she swung the blade, heard the air whoop as it slashed.

  ‘What are you doing?’ he gasped, the words chopped off as the weapon sliced into his neck, severing windpipe through to the spine.

  ‘Closing your school,’ Mara snarled, yanking the sword back. Blood spurted, pumping from the gash.

  Donal's body dropped, head tilted, dangling from white tendons and pink flesh, to the grass. His dead limbs writhed, twitching. The clash of swords on shields rippled to silence like a pot breaking into scattered shards over cobbled stones. Ten women stared as their queen thrust her sword into the earth before returning it, clean, to the scabbard.

  ‘War council, now!’ Mara ordered. Marching down the slope to Doon Beck, she pushed past beasts and herders returning for the night. ‘We've had a death,’ she snapped at the door-keeper. ‘Send someone to deal with it.’

  ‘Weapons,’ the man reminded her, holding out his hand to take hers.

  ‘Don't annoy me,’ she warned. ‘But see the others leave theirs.’

  Upstairs, she snapped her fingers at the pot-boy for ale and tossed back a full horn before the first of her warriors arrived. It was Corchen, second-in-command, older and slower than the others.

  ‘What happened?’ she asked as soon as she came in.

  Turning her back, Mara walked to the opposite doorway, the steps leading to the roof. Corchen's presence meant some discussion kept the others on the field. Donal had trained them since Kerrigen had been queen. He was liked and would be missed.

  ‘Mara?’ Corchen prompted. ‘The druids will be here soon.’

  ‘Only Kirt is to come up,’ Mara muttered. Her mind raced. ‘The others can see to the pyre.’ How could Donal do this to her? Training S
kaaha wasn't just stupidity. Did he understand nothing of his queen? Even without express orders to the contrary, it was disobedience. More, it was open rebellion. Feet clattered into the room behind her.

  ‘They'll want an explanation,’ Corchen urged.

  Mara banged both her fists into the lintel above her head. ‘He conspired against me!’ she howled.

  ‘No.’ It was said softly, sadly. Corchen's hand touched her shoulder. Was it sympathy or denial?

  ‘Yes, yes, yes!’ Mara thumped the stone with each word.

  ‘Hey.’ Arms came round her, Gila's arms. The younger warrior was their best archer, an aspirant to promotion, and Mara's sometime lover. She'd never known Kerrigen. ‘Nobody doubts you.’

  The queen spun round, buried her face in the younger woman's neck. ‘But I'll miss him, from the field and from my bed. How could he do this to me, Gila, how could he?’ Now the sting of tears came. She raised her head, eyes glittering, wiped the back of her hand across her nose and turned to the crowding warriors. ‘I, too, feel disbelief.’ She excused the display of emotion. ‘Sit, sit.’

  As they settled round the hearth, Mara assessed them. Despite Gila's assertion, there were some doubters. None was strong enough to challenge her. Corchen was slippery, Gila easily led. Both would side with her. The others withheld judgement till the facts were known. Kirt, the druid, inscrutable as all druids, had a soft heart which made him pliable. She sat between them, squeezing the older man's arm for support as she did. The pot-boy filled the last horn with ale.

  ‘We have trouble at Glenelg,’ she said, pausing to let the ripple of shock run around the circle and fade. ‘Donal has fomented rebellion against us.’

  ‘In what way?’ Kirt asked, puzzled.

  ‘He was training Kerrigen's daughter, Skaaha, in the art of war.’ The peat flickered in a draught from the open skylight. ‘She and her sister plot to usurp me.’

  ‘That won't happen,’ Gila burst out, stoutly. ‘Let them come.’

  Jolted, the others would take more persuasion. The dead queen lived in their hearts. They held fond memories of two little girls who played around their feet.

  ‘Did Donal tell you this?’ Corchen asked.

  ‘The first part,’ Mara confirmed. ‘Their intention, though, is clear.’ The right lie would make it so. ‘At Beltane, I refused permission for Donal to train Skaaha.’ The obvious justification leapt to mind. ‘The island needs blacksmiths, we need blacksmiths and, by all accounts, she showed great promise.’

  This was true. They all knew of Skaaha's talents, talents that raised tribal pride in one of their own. They had also raged at the attack on her, a child of Danu. An assault on womanhood violated them all. Skaaha's execution of warrior justice on her attackers was celebrated in Doon Mor, away from Mara's ears.

  ‘Perhaps she only seeks to protect herself,’ one of the doubters suggested.

  ‘Is this not our purpose?’ Mara asked. ‘Does she doubt your ability, the ability of the Ardvasar chapter, my ability to ensure her safety?’ This was better received. Warriors were quick to rise to any potential insult. ‘Did she come to me, to seek my blessing? No, she did not.’

  ‘Didn't she send Donal to ask on her behalf?’ Kirt asked.

  ‘No,’ Mara replied. ‘Donal confided her wish out of loyalty to me, in keeping with his oath, or so I thought, and I refused. But their deception was revealed’ – she faltered, hardly able to believe her own naivety, sipped ale, cleared her throat – ‘when I offered to take his daughter, Eefay, into this chapter.’

  Now the murmur was of anger. For Mara to bend enough to offer her old rival's daughter a place was a triumph of honour over pride. It should have been met with gratitude not deception.

  ‘But she trains with Skaaha, that was his response’ – Mara stoked the flames of wrath – ‘and then, realizing he'd slipped up, fear in his eyes.’ She allowed a moment for expressions of rage. ‘They work together – those were his last words, a truth too late to be apology.’ She glanced at Kirt. He couldn't argue her authority on this. ‘I did what was necessary to maintain warrior discipline. Donal paid rightly for his disobedience with his life. Glenelg school is closed.’

  Heads nodded around the circle, the action fair. There were no dissenters.

  ‘Now I will hear your advice,’ Mara said. Across the fire, her eyes met Gila's. Was more prompting needed?

  ‘We must hunt down the plotters,’ the archer announced. ‘Skaaha and Eefay should be brought to justice.’

  Mara nodded, careful to keep her expression one of consideration rather than approval. A few voices sided with Gila, including Corchen's.

  ‘Can we do that?’ the older woman asked the druid.

  ‘If they return to the island,’ Kirt answered. ‘But since neither has taken warrior vows, they're not subject to the queen's justice and must be brought to a druid court – with the necessary proofs.’

  Mara's plans did not involve courts where truth might prevail. The sisters would die resisting capture. She would ensure it. ‘My word against theirs?’ she queried, playing along.

  ‘The Glenelg druids will know if Skaaha trains,’ he assured her.

  ‘And if they don't return to the island?’ Gila asked.

  ‘Self-banishment is adequate punishment,’ the druid said. ‘What you can't do is ride on Glenelg. That would cause war with the tribes of Alba whose daughters also train there.’

  ‘Not without Donal,’ Mara corrected.

  ‘No,’ he conceded. ‘Unless you replace him, they will leave. But Eefay is keeper of the school. She will stay, and might keep her sister with her.’

  Mara dropped her eyes to the hissing peat. Surely she hadn't killed Donal for nothing? He was at least under her jurisdiction. Alive, she could have sent him back under orders to cease training Skaaha and send both sisters to her. To hide her frustration, she buried her face in her hands. The gesture, interpreted as defeat, spurred the others.

  ‘We can't let them continue training to attack us,’ Gila protested.

  ‘There must be something we can do,’ Corchen added, ‘within the law.’

  Kirt nodded. ‘We can seek an order from the druid elders. If it's granted you can cross to Alba under licence, providing you harm none but the offenders.’

  Mara's head came up. ‘Then seek the order,’ she snapped. ‘Go now!’

  ‘They won't meet again till Low Sun,’ Kirt explained. ‘But I'll go early to Tokavaig and present your case.’

  Mara drew deep for control, blanking her impatience. ‘Do it well, Kirt,’ she said. ‘We depend on you.’ She glanced up at the open skylight, the patch of clouded sky. The solstice was barely two moons away. This matter could end then – two threats erased in one stroke. Killing Donal might well prove the wiser move. With the order granted, explanation of the deaths of Kerrigen's daughters would be simple.

  She studied her warriors. Those who had served under the dead queen considered themselves foster-mothers to her girls. Yet she'd won them over. There was much to celebrate. It would cost her stock – the tribe became parsimonious with provision – but a feast would confirm her munificence.

  ‘A brave warrior travels to the otherworld,’ she said. ‘Donal's crime was love for his kin, but he served us well for many suns and deserves the finest wake. It shall be done.’ She raised her drinking horn. ‘For our fellow, Donal. Death in glory!’

  Raising their horns, charged with ale and their queen's magnanimity, the warriors roared the toast. ‘Death in glory!’

  31

  On top of the broad wall that surrounded Doon Telve, Skaaha danced. Eefay was at Doon Trodden, greeting students returning after Sowen. She'd put the watch-keepers on alert. Her father would soon be home. If he told Mara, the warrior queen was unlikely to show her hand, but strangers remained suspect until Donal returned to warn, or reassure, them.

  Unwilling to waste time, Skaaha had etched the platform, spar and pole of a chariot on the flat stone with charcoal. A pile of peats
represented the charioteer. It was her footwork she concentrated on, though she held a spear. Singing mouth music, she danced in time from box to strut to pole, sometimes hopping nimbly, sometimes a leap, the spear used to propel or balance her. Throwing at imagined enemies could wait, since she hoped to stay on the wall.

  Unaware that she was being watched, she tested herself. The pile of peats irritated, often in her way. Perhaps she should dispense with a charioteer; the real test was to keep her feet inside the lines while hopping at speed from one part to the other. Her dance resembled the warriors' battle celebration, theirs over sword and scabbard crossed on the ground, fast and nimble to avoid cuts.

  ‘You're watching your feet,’ a voice called. At the far side of the broch, one of the charioteers stood watching her. They were smaller men, muscular, and the girls joked that they loved their shaggy ponies more than folk. This one was taller than the others, his normally tousled brown hair tied like a pony's tail in the nape of his neck. ‘I'll hitch up a chariot if you want to work,’ he offered.

  Skaaha somersaulted off the wall, turning in the air to land neatly on the path. ‘Great,’ she enthused, following the man to the circular field behind the broch, between it and the river. While he vanished to the stable, she stripped off to belt and scabbard. The air was chilly. Cold fingers of wind trickled over her skin. A hare scooted across the park, a good sign. Winter was slow in coming but would bite deeper here when it did. Everything that bought her time was welcomed.

  The charioteer returned, leading the ponies and undressed now for work, leather genital-pouch strapped round his waist. Leather bands belted to it sat over his shoulders, crossing chest and back. His only weapon was a dirk. Charioteers relied on warriors for protection.