The Dowry Blade

by Cherry Potts

  The building smelt strange, of food and bodies. The warriors were ready to leave, their cloaks dry, their swords belted about them. Brede ducked back out of the doorway to look for Faine, and nearly fell over her. Faine cursed good-naturedly.

  ‘What are you doing here? I’ve been looking for you. Go and get the horses, and take them to the gate.’

  Brede loped back to the ox stall, calling softly to the horses as she approached, telling them in Plains language that she was the one who had fed and groomed them, that they would not shy from her and that they would follow her where she led. She tightened their girths, loosened their tethers, and led out the flashy black gelding. Brede glanced back at the string of horses following her lead, and breathed in the morning air as though the world had been made over during the night. She tucked the gelding’s lead rein into the saddle and talked companionably to the horse as he willingly followed her to the gate.

  Change, she sang to herself in her throat, happy with weak morning sun, and the sound of hooves, a sound she had missed for so long she had forgotten she missed it.

  The warriors came to the gate, keeping close together, their intimacy with change making them careful. Brede glanced about trying to see her familiar surroundings as the mercenaries must see them. The village appeared deserted. Brede knew this was Marsh dwellers at their most stubborn, ignoring anything that displeased them; but to the warriors it meant danger.

  Maeve took the gelding’s reins, tugging slightly harder than she needed to, discomfited by the silent village, disconcerted by Brede’s talent for horses, out of place in this Marsh village. She frowned her uncertainty, and Brede knew again that she could neither ask, nor be asked, to join the group of warriors.

  The mercenaries claimed their horses and waited for Maeve to give them the order to mount, still watching each other’s backs, waiting for the gate to be opened. Adair was up on the wall, staring out at the mist-smeared landscape. He glanced down and raised his chin in a nod. Brede did not wait for him to climb down, but went to lift the great bars herself, wanting them gone swiftly. Adair would have something to say later, but for now she didn’t care. She liked to see the tension leave the warriors’ shoulders, and know that she was responsible; knowing that she shared their relief.

  Maeve was refreshed by her warm, dry, night, but she did not want to leave Tegan. She gave a curt nod to her band of fighters, and they settled into saddles that someone had dried and cleaned and waxed – Brede perhaps. Maeve regretted her earlier sourness and smiled at the apprentice. Not her problem, praise the Goddess. She saluted the smith, and led the warriors out of the village.

  The river had risen, sweeping through their abandoned camp site, tearing away the few bushes growing at the foot of the ramparts. Maeve reviewed her last words from Tegan. If I do not come to you within three weeks of the spring thaw, come and find my body.

  She had felt a cold hand of fear at her heart, but she had promised, casually, as though there was no doubt. Balin turned in his saddle to look at Maeve, then nodded silently at the raging river. Maeve returned his look, inclining her head slightly. She did not think Tegan would die.

  Brede climbed up to stand beside Adair, watching the mercenaries head swiftly north along the river which was too swollen to cross safely now. Adair caught the trembling in her limbs, which had nothing to do with cold, and grimaced to himself.

  Faine called up, forcing Brede from her reverie with sharp words.

  ‘There’s work to do. Finley’s still waiting for a mattock that should have been finished yesterday and I’m sure our guest’s horse could do with a new set of shoes; why don’t you ask her?’

  Brede shook herself, and walked back to the forge, knowing perfectly well that the horse needed to be shod.

  The forge seemed unusually bare and spacious after the crowding of the night before. Brede glanced around uncertainly, trying to remember where she had put everything. She reached down the baskets from the rafters, and came across her embryonic sword. She squinted at it angrily, what was the point of a sword she would never use?

  ‘Can I see?’

  Brede looked down at Tegan in surprise. She had been lying so still and quiet that Brede had assumed she was asleep. Brede handed the sword to her, and made her first intent inspection of her charge. Tegan was a small woman, not as short as Faine, but not so broad either. She propped herself awkwardly on one elbow, and ran a careful hand over the weapon, finding its point of balance. Her concentration was all for the knife. In the ruddy glow of the forge, Brede couldn’t decide the colour of the thick springy hair, nor of the eyes that suddenly flickered back to her face.

  ‘You make many swords?’

  Brede laughed.

  ‘No one in this village is prepared to choose sides outside the gate. Why would I need to make swords?’ She expected that to be an end to the conversation, but Tegan had other ideas.

  ‘That would explain the length. How do you plan to use it? It’s a bit like the double daggers assassins use.’

  Tegan was breathless. It hurt to prop herself up, but now that she had done so, she didn’t know how to lie back down with any dignity. Brede sat beside the wounded mercenary.

  ‘I wasn’t planning to use it. It was a mistake that I was making the best of. Do you think it worth persisting?’

  ‘Yes. But you need two, a matching pair. Can you fight two-handed?’ Brede shook her head impatiently.

  ‘I can’t fight at all; well, don’t fight, rather.’

  Tegan looked up from the sword, gazing levelly into Brede’s eyes.

  ‘Time to start.’ She said, half in earnest, loose-tongued with pain.

  Brede moved to protest, but her ears picked up the sound of Faine’s return and she quickly changed the subject.

  ‘Smith Faine asks if you wish your horse to be re-shod,’ she said formally.

  Tegan replied with equal formality,

  ‘I do wish Smith Faine to shoe my horse. I also ask Smith Faine’s apprentice to keep my horse exercised. You can ride can’t you?’

  Brede heard Faine at her back, and bit her tongue on fierce agreement, merely nodding. She rose to her feet and went to find some metal to make into the mattock that Finley had wanted.

  The smith stood over her guest, who was trying to hide the sword from her. Faine put her foot on it.

  ‘I am not trying to tempt your apprentice away,’ Tegan said, swiftly.

  ‘Yes you are,’ Faine said quietly, ‘and if you succeed, I will be glad for her.’

  It took Brede most of the day to finish her work. It was strange to have Tegan constantly in the forge, a silent observer. Mostly Tegan slept, but Brede was aware of her, moving restlessly in her dreams. Faine came and went, fidgeting in a most un-Faine-like manner. She stood over Tegan, watching that painful sleep then turned abruptly to Brede.

  ‘Do you think she’s feverish?’ she asked.

  Brede shrugged. ‘I’m not a healer.’

  Faine sucked air through her teeth and frowned at Brede.

  ‘Not a healer, no, but you’ve had to heal from an infected wound, you remember what that was like, I suppose?’

  Brede put her tools to one side, pulling her hair into a tighter braid, thinking.

  ‘Actually, no. I remember almost nothing.’

  She moved closer to Faine, standing at her shoulder, considering Tegan.

  ‘She makes reasonable sense when she’s awake. I don’t think her fever’s strong.’ Brede glanced at Faine, then back to Tegan. ‘On the other hand, she does look flushed, and she doesn’t rest easy.’

  ‘Do you think you can keep her alive?’ Faine asked.

  Brede shrugged again, turning back to the anvil. Faine sighed and went to ask Edra’s advice.

  When she found Tegan awake on her fourth visit, the smith settled beside her to talk. Brede glanced at the two of them; heads close, an intimate murmur of conversation already in steady flow, and took herself off to fetch the horse.

  As soon as Brede was
out of earshot, Tegan asked, ‘Where did you find her? She’s not Marsh bred.’

  ‘Marsh bred, yes. Marsh reared, no. She is my sister’s daughter, but her father was of the Horse Clans.’

  ‘And she is here because...?’

  ‘Her father was killed, ambushed by some mercenaries.’ Faine considered Tegan. ‘She was at the Gather, she got home to find her father dead, her mother nearly so, and Brede wasn’t in much better state herself. They had nowhere else to go.’

  Brede returned with Tegan’s horse, and Faine turned to a different subject.

  Tegan kept the smith talking, gleaning anything that might keep her alive in this uncertain safety, saying anything she could think of to bolster Faine’s liking and confidence in her guest. She set about fascinating Faine, drawing her in with confidences and subtle, clever, questions. Even the loud hammering of the horseshoes and the irritable stamping of the horse did nothing to break the contact between the smith and her guest.

  When she had finished fitting new shoes to Tegan’s horse, Brede took her back to the ox stall, saddled her with slow pleasure, and led her to the gate, trying to keep the tremor of anticipation from her knees.

  Adair barely glanced at Brede as he opened the gate for her, but he was uneasy at the sight of her with a horse once more.

  Once Brede was through the gate she mounted, gathered up the reins and urged the beast forward, along the bank of the river. The mare was no longer in the prime of youth, and had been ridden hard and poorly cared for recently. Brede did not want to push her too far too soon, but it felt so good to be astride a horse again. Her muscles settled into old patterns, and she felt the pulling that spoke of years without riding. All the more reason to go only a short distance, she told herself; but in her mind, she saw this horse in peak condition, bearing her across the vast expanse of the plains.

  Adair watched her go, and his disquiet settled into an unhappy conviction of trouble to come.

  Brede went upstream, following the slight rise of the land, seeing familiar landscapes from a different angle, appreciating them anew, hungering for yet more difference, more change. A roar of thunder muttered across the hills. Brede glanced anxiously upward, but the rain clouds were still miles away. She gauged the height of the sun and how long she had until dark. She let the horse choose the pace and headed for the woodland on the upper slopes of the hill, hoping to find some late berries for her mother.

  As she passed around the shoulder of the hill into the next valley, Brede caught a flash of light on the opposite ridge. She reined the horse in to watch. Again – the flash of brightness.

  The fading autumn sun was reflecting off metal. There was someone wearing armour on the far ridge; perhaps many warriors were there.

  Slowly, Brede eased herself out of the saddle and to the ground, and pulled the horse into a cautious walk, taking the most direct route into the cover of the trees. At least she had no bright bridle irons to catch the light. A horse in this country meant only one thing, a warrior, and she did not want attention drawn to the village. Brede snorted to herself; it wasn’t the village she was protecting, but Tegan.

  Brede crept back toward the trees, drawing the horse after her, eyes on the opposite ridge and that continued flashing of metal, ears straining to hear anything above the cacophonous arguments of the birds in the trees. She wondered, briefly, whether the birds on the farther ridge were complaining, or had fled from the disturbance. Under cover of the trees she moved more quickly, pulling the horse into the undergrowth, to hide the tell-tale white rump. She tied the beast securely, and slunk back to the edge of the woodland.

  A small group of horses wound slowly down the slope heading roughly in her direction. Five of them, in full armour, with banners unfurled. The rashness of showing their colours when they were such a small band staggered her. Then Brede saw the rest of them.

  Massing on the ridge above, there was an army. Even though they couldn’t possibly see her, Brede crouched lower, scratching her face in the brambles. She had never seen so many riders even at horse fairs. Now that she could see them, Brede registered the ominous clattering rumble that the movement of that army made. Her mind told her that she had been hearing that noise since entering the valley, and that there had been a strange, many-throated roar that had reached her ears even before that.

  Thunder. Brede cursed her lack of caution. She ought to have known better, even if the ways of rain were no more than a muddled childhood memory. And what could have caused that anguished, thunderous cry? It was like an animal in pain – or enraged triumph.

  With a stab of anxiety Brede wondered whether she had been seen before she recognised that flash of sun on armour, whether the five riders moving ahead of the main body of the army were coming for her. She couldn’t risk returning to the village now.

  Brede searched the valley before her, trying to see what might have sent this group down from the ridge. They might be following some trail, looking for someone else, or merely seeking out a good camping ground. She glanced back at the main army. They weren’t waiting for their scouts, moving slowly, along the ridge. Not camping then. The scouts weren’t moving fast enough to be chasing her, so what were they doing?

  The sun was nearly down. The valley curved away to run west, and at this time of year the sun seemed to set just where valley closed back into hill. The army travelled towards the sun; the scouts reached the bottom of the valley. Brede could no longer see them. There were still warriors directly opposite her, still the dragon’s tail trailed along the ridge. Brede backed carefully into the wood, untied the horse, and led her cautiously through the trees, in the same direction as the army travelled.

  When darkness closed, and there was still no sign of her daughter, Leal went looking for her. She found Faine in the forge, deep in conversation with the mercenary. Leal sneered at the stranger. This might be one of the very band of murderers who had killed her hand-mate, or one of the vast raiding party that had slaughtered Cloud Clan and scattered Wing Clan, losing her elder daughter for her. She did not, would not, trust Tegan.

  ‘Where is Brede?’ Leal asked, without preamble.

  Faine started at the unexpected sound of her voice. She glanced about her.

  ‘Did she not take the horse to exercise it?’ she asked.

  Tegan nodded agreement.

  ‘Wherever the horse is, there Brede will be.’

  Leal shrugged impatiently.

  ‘And where is your horse?’ she asked, angry at their complacency, suddenly sure that Brede had stolen the horse and gone. Faine sucked at her teeth thoughtfully.

  ‘She has been gone a long time, but there’s no telling where.’

  ‘I can tell you,’ Leal said, ‘she’s gone after the mercenaries.’

  ‘If she has, you’ll not see her again,’ Tegan said.

  It wasn’t until it was full dark that Brede saw the scouts returning to the main army. She saw because they carried torches. They must consider this home territory. Until now, Brede had no idea which side currently claimed the Marsh as theirs, leave alone the westerly valleys and hills, but those banners were red. They were heading west, which suggested that they weren’t the same side as Tegan’s mercenaries, but Brede did not know what colour Maeve’s carefully hidden banners bore.

  Brede waited for the last of the soldiers to disappear from sight, for the faint clamour of armour to die. At last she led the horse out into the open and rode down into the westerly valley.

  The floor of the valley was completely dark, the moon obscured by the rain clouds that had rolled resolutely back across the shoulder of the western ridge. Brede had not been into this place before; it was too far on foot. The horse placed her feet hesitantly, uncertain of the footing.

  Brede listened anxiously, but there was only the rush of the river, and the harsh cries of night birds, too familiar to be threatening. There was a more solid darkness that must be a building. Low, hunched against the shoulder of the river. An offering place. Brede wasn’
t convinced that an army would send five warriors down the side of the valley to leave an offering at a perfectly ordinary shrine. She slid from the horse’s back, feeling for the even darker darkness that was the entrance, wishing for the moon to strike through the low clouds, and light her way. She had never been one for these lowland shrines. She did not talk much to the Goddess and rarely made offerings. When Brede spoke to that one, it was with wind in her hair and change stirring her blood; there had been little conversation between them since she left the plains. So she hesitated at the darkness of the shrine, listening. Nothing stirred within the building. She feared enclosed spaces; she imagined how ordinary the mud hut would appear in daylight – she should come back at dawn – but she knew that she would not. If she was to enter this place of airless dark, it must be at once.

  Brede took in her breath and stepped into the close darkness of the shrine, bowing her head under the low lintel. She did not like the grave-smell of the place. She felt for the flint and taper that should be on the shelf to the left of the door. Brede struck and raised the meagre light.

  There was the usual bowl shaped depression in the earth, as wide as the average person might spread their arms, scattered with desiccated offerings of fruit, flowers, and locks of hair; but across the bowl of earth lay a length of metal, darkly gleaming. A sword.

  Brede let out her breath sharply. Had some great warrior died, that this sword should be left here? Or was this deliberate sacrilege? Her skin crawled.

  Brede crouched to place a cautious finger to the blade, wanting to remove the sword. There was a slight groove in the centre of the blade, and one finger came away sticky. The sword was still covered in drying blood. She wiped her hand quickly on her trouser leg. She wedged the taper into a crack in the wall, and skirted the offering bowl, until she knelt where she could take the hilt in her two hands, and lift it from the earth. The balance was wrong for her, too heavy. She lifted it with difficulty, trying not to disturb the offerings already laid on the earth. She circled back to the entrance, and backed out into the air, grateful for the moon that had at last cleared the cloud bank. She headed straight to the river, and all but dropped the blade in her haste to get it into the water. Brede left the sword where it lay, and went upstream to cup clear water from the river to carry back to the shrine as an offering of her own, a cleansing.