Katharine Kerr - Darkspell

“I’m not. We’re packing up and riding for Cerrmor today. Load up as many provisions as the captured horses can carry.”

All three nodded in unquestioning obedience. Ricyn couldn’t look away from her face. Although no one would ever have called Gweniver beautiful (her face was too broad and her jaw too strong for that), she was attractive, tall and slim, with the grace of a wild animal when she moved. For years he had loved her hopelessly, when every winter he would sit on one side of her brother’s hall and watch her, unobtainable, on the other. Seeing that she’d sworn the vow was grimly satisfying. Now no other man would ever have her.

“Is something wrong?” she said to him.

“Naught, my lady. If it’s my place to ask, I was only wondering about the tattoo. Why is it on the left side of your face?”

“You’ve got every right to know. It marks me as a Moon-sworn warrior.” When she smiled, she seemed to change into a different woman, cold, hard-eyed, and fierce. “And here you all thought that such existed only in bard songs, didn’t you?”

Ricyn gulped, as startled as if she’d slapped him. Dagwyn caught his breath in a gasp of surprise.

“Lady Macla’s the head of the Wolf clan now,” she went on. “She’s made me captain of her warband until such time as she marries and her husband brings her riders of his own. If we’re still alive by then, you’ll all have a choice: to pledge to her new man, or to follow me. But for now we’re going to Cerrmor for the summer’s fighting. The Wolf swore to bring men, and the Wolf never breaks its word.”

“Well and good, then, my lady,” Ricyn said. “We may not be much of a warband, but if anyone says one wrong word about our captain, I’ll slit the bastard’s throat.”

When they rode out, they went cautiously, in case some of the Boarsmen were lurking on the roads. Dagwyn and Camlwn took turns riding point as they made their way along the bypaths through the hills. Although Cerrmor was a good ten days’ ride away, safety lay much closer in the duns of the Wolf’s old allies to the south and east. For two days they skirted the Wolf demesne, not daring to ride on their own lands in case the Boars were patrolling them. On the morning of the third, they crossed the River Nerr at a little-used ford and headed more east than south, aiming for the lands of the Stag clan. That night they camped on the edge of a stretch of forest that the Stags and the Wolves used jointly as a hunting preserve. Seeing the familiar trees brought tears to Gweniver’s eyes as she remembered how her brothers had loved to hunt among them.

While the men tethered the horses and set up camp, Gweniver paced restlessly around. She was beginning to feel grave doubts. It was one thing to talk of riding to war herself, another to look at her tiny warband and realize that their lives depended on how well she led them. On the excuse of looking for deadwood for a fire, she went into the forest and wandered through the trees until she found a small stream, running silently over rock and between fern-lined banks. Around her the old oaks cast shadows that seemed to have lain there since the beginning of time.

“Goddess,” she whispered, “have I chosen the right path?”

In the flickering surface of the stream, she saw no vision. When she drew her sword and looked at the blade, remembered how it had run with fire on the Goddess’s altar, it seemed she felt the ghosts of the dead gather around her, Avoic, Maroic, Benoic, and last of all, her father, Caddryc—those tall grim men whose lives had dominated hers, whose pride had summed up her own.

“I’ll never let you lie unavenged.”

She heard them sigh at the bitterness of their Wyrd, or maybe it was just the wind in the trees, because they left as silently and quickly as they’d gathered. Yet she knew that the Goddess had given her an omen, just as She had when She blessed the sword.

“Vengeance! We’ll deal it for the Goddess’s sake, but vengeance we’ll all have.”

Sword still in hand, Gweniver started back to her men, but she heard a twig snap and a footfall behind her. She spun round and raised the sword.

“Come out!” she snapped. “Who disturbs a sworn priestess of the Darktime?”

Dressed in torn, filthy clothes, their faces stubbled, their hair matted, two men with swords at the ready stepped out of the underbrush. When they looked her over with narrowed eyes, Gweniver felt the Goddess gathering behind her, a tangible presence that raised the hair on the nape of her neck. She stared back with a cold smile that seemed to appear on her face of its own will.

“You never answered me,” Gweniver said. “Who are you, and what are you doing here?”

The dark-haired, slender fellow glanced at the other with a trace of a smile; the redhead, however, shook his head no and stepped forward.

“And is there a temple near here, my lady?” he said. “Or are you a hermit in this forest?”

“I carry my temple in my saddlebags. You’ve never met a priestess of my rite before, and doubtless you won’t again.”

“She’s got the mark on her face, sure enough,” the dark-haired man broke in. “But I’ll wager she—”

“Hold your tongue, Draudd,” the redhead snarled. “There’s somewhat cursed strange about all this. Now, here, my lady, are you truly out in this blasted forest all alone?”

“What’s it to you if I am? The Goddess sees sacrilege no matter how far from the eyes of men it happens.”

When Draudd started to speak, Gweniver stepped forward, swinging the sword point up, as in challenge to a duel. She caught his glance and held it, staring him down while she felt the Goddess as a dark shadow behind her and the smile locked on her mouth. Draudd stepped back fast, and his eyes went wide with fear.

“She’s daft,” he whispered.

“I said: hold your tongue!” the redhead snapped. “There’s daft, and then there’s god-touched, you ugly bastard! My lady, my apologies for disturbing you. Will you give us your Goddess’s blessing?”

“Oh, gladly, but you don’t know what you’re asking for.” All at once she laughed, a cold upwelling of mirth that she couldn’t suppress. “Come with me.”

Gweniver turned on her heel and strode through the trees. Although she heard them following, Draudd protesting in whispers, she never looked back until she reached the camp. When Ricyn saw the men following her, he called out and ran forward, his sword in hand.

“There’s naught amiss,” Gweniver said. “I may have found us a pair of recruits.”

The men all looked at each other for a stunned moment.

“Draudd! Abryn!” Ricyn burst out. “What by the name of all the gods has happened to you? Where’s the rest of the warband?”

Only then did Gweniver notice the barely visible blazons on their muddy shirts: stags.

“Dead,” Abryn said, his voice cold and flat. “And Lord Maer with them. A cursed big band of Cantrae riders struck us hard some five days ago. The dun’s razed, and may the gods blast me if I know what’s happened to our lord’s lady, and the children, too.”

“We were trying to get to the Wolf, you see,” Draudd broke in. He paused for a bitter, twisted smile. “I take it that it wouldn’t have done us one cursed jot of good.”

“None,” Gweniver said. “Our dun’s razed, too. Here, are you hungry? We’ve got food.”

While Abryn and Draudd wolfed down hardtack and cheese as if they were a feast, they told their story. Some hundred fifty of the false king’s own men fell upon the Stag just as they were leaving their dun to start for Cerrmor. Just as Avoic had done, Lord Maer ordered his men to scatter, but Abryn and Draudd had both had their horses killed as they tried to fight free. The Cantrae men hadn’t pursued them; they’d headed straight for the dun and swept in without warning before the gates could be shut.