“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.
“Or so they must have,” Abryn finished up. “It was taken, anyway, when we made our way back there.”
Gweniver nodded, considering.
“Well,” she said at last. “It sounds to me like they’d planned this raid in conjunction with the one on us. I can see what the piss-proud little weasels have in mind: isolating the Wolf lands so it’ll be easier for the wretched Boars to keep them.”
“It’s going to be hard for the swine to take the Stag lands,” Abryn said. “Lord Maer’s got two brothers in the true king’s service.”
“No doubt they won’t risk trying to hold your clan’s lands,” Gweniver said. “They’re too far south. But by razing the dun and killing your lord, they’ve taken our closest ally away. Now they’ll try to establish a strong point on the Wolf demesne and nibble at the Stag later.”
“True spoken.” Abryn looked at her in sincere admiration. “My lady understands matters of war, sure enough.”
“And when have I ever known anything else but this war? Now, here, we’ve got extra horses. Join up with us if you like, but I warn you, the Goddess I serve is a goddess of darkness and blood. That’s what I meant about Her blessing. Think well before you take it.”
They did think on the matter, staring at her all the while until at last Abryn spoke for them both.
“What else have we got, my lady? We’re naught but a pair of dishonored men without a lord to ride for or a clan to take us in.”
“Done, then. You ride at my orders, and I promise you, you’ll have your chance for vengeance.”
In sincere gratitude they grinned. In those days a warrior who lived through a battle in which his lord died was a shamed man, turned away from everyone’s shelter and mocked wherever he went.
As the warband made its way south to Cerrmor, they picked up other men like Abryn and Draudd—some, other survivors from the Stag’s warband; some, stubbornly close-mouthed about their past, but all of them desperate enough to lay aside their amazement at finding a priestess at the head of a warband. Eventually Gweniver had thirty-seven men, just three short of the number that Avoic had pledged to bring. In fact, they pledged to her so gladly and accepted her so easily that she was surprised. Their last night on the road, she shared a campfire with Ricyn, who waited upon her like an orderly.
‘Tell me somewhat,” she said to him. “Do you think these lads will still follow my orders once we’re down in Cerrmor?”
“Of course, my lady.” He seemed surprised that she would ask. “You’re the one who took them off the roads and gave them the right to feel like men again. Besides, you’re a priestess.”
“Does that matter to them?”
“Oh, twice over. Come, now, we’ve all heard those tales about Moon-sworn warriors, haven’t we? But it’s twice a marvel to actually see one. Most of the lads think it’s an omen, you see. It’s like dweomer, and you’re dweomer-touched. We all know it’s bound to bring us good luck.”
“Luck? Oh, it won’t bring that, but only the favor of the Moon in Her Darktime. Do you truly want that kind of favor, Ricyn? It’s a harsh thing, a cold wind from the Otherlands.”
Ricyn shuddered as if he felt that wind blowing. For a long time he stared into the campfire.
“Harsh or not, it’s all I have left to me,” he said at last. “I’ll follow you, and you follow the Goddess, and we’ll see what she brings us both.”
Cerrmor lay at the mouth of the Belaver, the watercourse that formed the natural spine of the kingdom, where the estuary had cut a broad harbor out of the chalky cliff. With over sixty thousand people sheltering behind its high stone walls, it was the biggest city in the kingdom now that Dun Deverry had been laid waste. From a long line of piers and jetties, the city spread out upriver in a sprawl of curved streets like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. As long as its gwerbrets kept it safe, its trade with Bardek kept it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low, artificial hill in the middle of town not far from the river. Inside a double ring of walls were the stone broch complex, stone outbuildings, and stone barracks, all with slate roofs; nowhere was there a scrap of wood that might be fired with a flaming arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened and shut with a winch.
When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the king’s colors of red and silver ran to greet them.
“My lord,” a lad burst out. “We heard you were slain!”
“My brother was,” Gweniver said. “Go tell the king that the Lady Gweniver is here to honor Lord Avoic’s vow.”
The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back into the broch. Ricyn rode up beside her and gave her a grin.
“They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?”
“Just that. Here, you’ve been acting like the captain for days. It’s about time I told you that you officially are.”
“My lady honors me too highly.”
“She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be so now.”
With a laugh he made her a half bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.
While she waited for the page to return, Gweniver stood beside her horse and looked over the broch complex.