The raider swallowed hard, before speaking. The Aedring had not voiced a second option, and he did not want to discover what it was. His words came out as barely a whisper. "We are mercenaries, hired to the employ of the Sheik Mashraf of Abar Sul."
Hraega nodded gravely and stood back up. "Laefa, fetch some cord to bind this man with until we verify his words. Aodan, we will march out to meet these raiders and then we shall send out word to the clans. It is time this Mashraf of Abar Sul learned that the Aedring are not to be prodded at like an angry bear, least they provoke it."
"What of me, grandfather?" Fianna asked. She appeared calm, without concern, ready for whatever fate befell her. If she felt more than that she would not show it.
"All will be dealt with in time, but for the moment we have these raiders to deal with. You will accompany us for that."
"As you say, grandfather."
* * * * *
3 – I Will Be Waiting
The band of Aedring made their way down towards the pasture with the quick, stealthy grace of a pack of wolves on the hunt. Thirty five men were part of it, and eight women, Fianna among them, all kitted out for battle. Most were jerkins made of hides, some reinforced with plates of iron, while a few wore iron rimmed hide helmets, or shields constructed in the same manner. They carried a fell array of weapons; spears and axes, heavy swords and hefty maces. Out at the head of the band, Hraega, Fianna's grandfather, wore an old shirt of bronze scales, an heirloom of the clan, one passed down from generation to generation, repaired and refitted so often that little of the original remained, as well as a dark, fur lined cloak that hung from his shoulders. He had swapped his blacksmith's hammer for a formidable two handed hammer, one that could strike fear as easily as it crushed skulls.
"In what numbers are we dealing with?" Hraega inquired of Fianna as they walked along the path towards the pasture.
"I saw around sixty, grandfather," Fianna responded, "Yet there may have been more that I could not see."
"Let us hope the youth tending to the goats have a mind to get us a full headcount," Hraega said, striding off ahead.
A young man caught up with Fianna, standing half a head taller than any other of the Aedring. He had a raw boned, rangy feel to him, as if he could, if the circumstances provided, bulk out substantially. He had piercing pale eyes, more grey than blue and, rare among the Aedring, dark blond hair. A shield was slung across his back, set with an iron boss in the centre, and he carried a hand axe.
Neither spoke for some time as they followed after Hraega, yet some form of tension became apparent in Fianna's frame at the arrival of the young man.
It was Fianna who broke the uneasy silence finally, unable to bear it any more.
"Aifgar, in light of the developments which have taken place, and the outcomes which will almost certainly result, it would seem that the most prudent course of action would be for me to release you from your promise of betrothal to me."
"It will not happen, Fianna," Aifgar responded stalwartly. "I pledged on my honour to be true to you, and I will not break that pledge."
"You know the fate of those that fail to complete the rites of initiation. I shall be sent into exile for five years. That is a long time to ask anyone to wait."
"I would wait for five times as long as that for you," Aifgar stated loyally.
Fianna fell silent again for a while, struggling to find the words that she needed. "And I for you," she said finally. "It does not change my fate though."
"No, it does not, but I did not expect any less of you. I am proud of you, of what you did for the clan. I will be waiting for you when you return."
* * * * *
4 – We Shall See To These Lowlanders
In the rugged wilds of the hill country the Aedring called home, the lot of the goat herders was no easy one. Assigned to the care of the young, both boys and girls, there were many threats that could strike at any moment. Wild beasts roamed the hills, always on the look out for an easy meal. During times of blood feuds, there were raids from other clans to be worried about. Fierce storms could sweep down at any moment, or recalcitrant animals could wander off. Else times, the boredom was the greatest threat.
Seldom did the thought of raiders from the lowlands concern the goat herders, for the occurrence of such was one that barely occurred, not for many years.
Thus it was that those tending to the goats that day were not on the sharpest lookout for those approaching from the lowlands, and when at last they did spot them, it came almost too late to do much about it had not Fianna already raised the alarm.
From the pastures, a young boy with dark, sweat matted hair ran up the trail towards the village, a stabbing pain in his side from the effort, yet he could not allow himself to stop. The appearance of Hraega in his armour of bronze and the other warriors came to him as something of a surprise, not expecting to see them until he reached the village.
The boy came to a panting halt as he reached Hraega. "Grandfather Hraega," he reported in between deep breaths, "Lowlanders, coming up the valley."
"We are aware of that, son," Hraega told him. "Where is Maeti?"
"She is still at the pastures," the boy replied, "Getting the goats into the enclosures."
"We had best hurry then," Hraega said sternly. "There is not telling what these lowlanders are capable of. Did you get a good look at them?" he added, setting off once more.
The boy had to scurry to keep up with Hraega's stride. "As best we could."
"Tell me of them."
"There are around sixty of them, from what we could see," the boy told Hraega. "One there is that rides a fine mount, but the rest come on foot, with no semblance of order. They had two scouts who came out ahead to survey the pasture, but Maeti saw to them."
"Where did you last see them?"
"They were just crossing the ford over the Old Meander."
"That does not give us much time," Hraega mused. "We must push on,” he called out, starting to jog forward. Behind him, the other warriors loped on, following at a deceptively fast pace for the effort they appeared to be putting in.
“They can not hope to achieve much with a mere sixty men,” Fianna stated boldly. “They should have brought three times that many. The goats alone are not worth the effort.”
“It would seem that way,” Hraega responded even as he continued on, “Yet you take our goats and our village would not survive. And if they had come upon the village unaware, even those sixty would have sufficed. Outnumbered, surprised, ill equipped and in small groups, we would have been cut down, our village destroyed and looted. No doubt we would kill many, but not enough.”
“That would bring down the retribution of the other clans though.”
“Aye, it would, yet it would not change what had happened to us.”
“The loot taken would hardly be worth it.”
“The loot itself would be incidental. What they would be after, and of most value, would be slaves.”
“You can not enslave an Aedring,” Fianna retorted. “We would die first.”
“An adult, yes, but a child? Take them when they are young and you can break them yet still claim they are Aedring. They are most valuable I hear.”
Fianna fell silent as she jogged, given much to ponder.
The trail carried them down from the higher hills, alongside a swift flowing stream, one that bounced and crashed down slopes, swirling through pools and craggy rocks, out into a valley that cut into the hills, one much richer in grass than any of the lands higher up. From their vantage point looking down over the valley, they could see a series of pens made of stone walls into which were being driven the goats of the clan by an older girl, a quiver of arrows at her side and a strung bow in hand. At the far end of the valley, where it dropped away again, lay two bodies where they had been struck down by the girl, feathered shafts lodged in them.
The Aedring swarmed down the trail with the dexterity of mountain
goats, sure footed and swift, reaching the valley floor before the raiders had arrived. Maeti waited for them near the pens, a lanky, raw boned girl losing the flesh of childhood but yet to acquire her adult shape.
"You have all the goats safe?" Hraega asked of her.
"Yes, grandfather."
Hragea gave her a brief nod. Praise did not come easy for the Aedring, not for a task done as was expected. Only if a goat had been lost, even despite the trying circumstances, would he have made mention of it.
"Stay with the goats and guard them," Hraega ordered Maeti. "We shall see to these lowlanders."
* * * * *
5 – Aedring, Arise
The Aedring warriors took up positions near the entrance to the valley to the west, from whence the raiders would come. The stream crashed its way down through the gap, towards the lowlands, and there an old trail made its way alongside it. The valley narrowed there, and the hills grew steeper still, almost to vertical in parts, enclosing the valley. The Aedring faded away into the landscape, using the terrain as only a native could, as sly as a hunting fox, hidden from sight so as to make the valley appear open and inviting to any that entered it. Even the sharpest eyed hawk would have been troubled to spot them. In the hill country, surviving required great skill in the arts of stealth and camouflage.
Fianna waited not far away from Hraega, her sword in hand and at the ready. She crouched low behind a boulder and a patch of hardy shrubs. Her back up against the boulder, she peered around the edge, through the branches of the shrubs with exceeding care, watching towards the valley entrance. Her sharp ears strained for the sounds of the raiders approaching. The wind that swirled about in the valley caught up noises and tossed them around, making the exact location and distance of the raiders hard to ascertain, but they were coming. The sound of boots, the jangle of harness and weapons, the report of voices, they all came to the valley, growing steadily stronger.
The thought of exile, while troubling, she had set aside. She could not change the past, and to let it trouble her would distract her during the coming fight. With the fatalism that was part of the character of the hillsmen of the Aedring, she would let it play out and accept it when the time for it came about.
Patience played its role, and with it the enemy raiders appeared at last, a motley band of mercenaries drawn from all parts, sixty two in number by Fianna's account. They were led by a man on horse, and were equipped much as any mercenaries, with shirts of iron and leather and weapons of their choice. Long haired, unshaven, dirt smudged, yet their weapons were well kept and tended to, for by them they earned their living. The rider appeared much as any other city-dwelling Ishmarite, with dusky skin and a pointed beard so black it was almost blue. He wore a long robe, split at the sides, of pale greens and whites, over a light shirt of mail. A curved scimitar hung at his side, and a spiked helm rested on his head, from which flowed a mail guard down across his shoulders.
The mercenaries stopped at the entrance to the valley, and though alert and gazing up the valley with intent, they did not spot the hidden Aedring, for few could. Ahead they could see the goat pens, and the young Maeti.
Their leader, Sheik Mashraf, or so that was who Fianna suspected that the rider was, spoke a few words to the mercenaries, ordering them onwards. He remained behind, with a half dozen of the mercenaries, while the rest unlimbered shields and weapons and began a march, soon passing the fallen bodies of those shot down by Maeti.
The bow sung in Maeti's hands as she sent a shaft flowing through the air towards them, a sure shot aimed for a big man who stood at the heart of the band, one with a dark, braided beard and shaven head, a broad axe in one hand and iron rimmed wooden shield in the other. Quick as a striking snake he brought his shield up and the arrow slammed home into it.
The mercenaries had reached halfway up the valley when Hraega unveiled the ambush, emerging from where he had hidden. His bronze armour glittered in the pale sunlight, his cloak rippling behind him. He raised his hammer on high and bellowed out a challenge.
"Who dares come to the lands of the Aedring?"
The advance of the mercenaries halted as suddenly as it had begun, their heads turning to look upon the grey-haired Aedring man. Mashraf wheeled his horse about, seeking cover behind the members of his band that remained with him near the gap at the entrance to the valley.
Seeing only the one man standing there before him, Mashraf snatched up a javelin that hung in a quiver beside his saddle. He hefted it and cast it towards Hraega. The shaft flew straight, yet Hraega, despite his age, stepped aside and it flew by him to strike the ground behind him.
"The answer has been given," Hraega called out. "Aedring, arise!"
All around the valley, the hidden Aedring stood up from where they had been secreted, bellowing war cries as they did. The raiders turned this way and that, surprised by the sudden appearance, trying to assess their current situation.
"Let none leave this place," Hraega bellowed, charging down from his vantage point towards the enemy. From all parts the Aedring, wild and reckless, followed in his stead, their cries ringing through the hills. A hail of darts and arrows preceded the charge, falling among the mercenaries. They pierced gaps in shields and armour, bringing a number of men down.
The leader of the mercenaries who were advancing reacted with calm precision, reordering his lines to meet the changes. Mashraf, though, turned his horse about and took flight even before the Aedring had reached them, his horse pounding off back down the valley the way he had come. One of the men who had been with him started to take flight as well. Before he could take more than a few steps, Hraega was upon him, his hammer crashing down with brutal force, crushing the life from the man.
With screams and shouts, the other Aedring reached the enemy, flinging themselves into the fray, fighting with the cunning and wild nature bred into their bones by a thousand generations of life in the harsh hills. The mercenaries may have been skilled, but in comparison to the Aedring, they were but untrained striplings, made soft by life in the lowlands.
Fianna came scything in behind Hraega, her sword describing a tearing arc as she threw herself at a dark haired mercenary, his face marked by a dangerous scar slashing across it. Swords crashed together and sparks flew. She whirled about, a tempest given form, sword sizzling again. The mercenary stepped backwards, barely blocking the impassioned blows that sought to carve him apart. All around them rang screams and shouts, the clash of blades and whirling weapons.
Fianna fought with the impetuousness of youth, with no thought to risk or danger, throwing her body, honed by the wild, into the battle. Her foe may not have had her barbaric nature or resolve, but he had the cunning and guile earned from a hundred such clashes as a mercenary over the years. Each time she attacked, he backed off further, drawing her deeper into the swirling melee, and each blow that came close he parried aside, letting her expend her rage and energy against his defence, wearing her down. In her youth and focus, she did not see what he did, or if she did, then she did not let it stop her, for her blood was up. Exiled though she would become, she was Aedring still, and these were her lands, the lands of her clan, unconquered though all the world raged against, and while she remained alive she vowed to keep it so.
"I was born upon the windswept hills, beneath the open sky," she snarled, unleashing another blow that was driven by iron strength, the blade slamming into her opponent's sword with a crashing ring.
The mercenary spoke no words, instead fixing on her with a contemptuous grin, one twisted by the scar across his face to give it a dark aspect. Fianna's blood boiled at it, and she screamed as she doubled her wild efforts, her sword slashing and slamming with relentless speed and aggression, one her opponent almost failed to account for. Close it came to slipping by his defences, each time only narrowly being parried aside.
Yet Fianna's energy was not endless, and her efforts began to tire her, the blows slowing and coming with less migh
t behind them. Her mouth hung open, sucking in deep breaths of air.
The battle around them was coming to its climax, for most of the mercenaries were already down, having been surprised, surrounded, unready for the nature of those they faced and swarmed over by the tribesmen, hard men and women. The mercenary captain still stood, and with him a handful of his men, but the Aedring closed in on them, Hraega at their fore.
Then Aifgar was there, bleeding from a cut across his arm, his sword running crimson. He charged past the tiring Fianna and fell upon her foe, the passion of his heart driving him on. The mercenary, unsettled by the suddenness and fervour of his attack, turned first one way then another. Their swords crashed together, and then Aifgar's slid by the mercenary's defence, taking him in the side. Blood pouring from his wound, the mercenary stumbled, unable to bring his sword up in time again as another blow descended, dropping him to the ground, slain.
"What are you doing?" Fianna scowled at Aifgar, a hard glare arrowing his way.
Aigfar showed no signs of worry, simply wiping his blade clean. "He had your measure," he told Fianna, "Whether you could see it or not. You may be going into exile, but I can not loose you, my Peregrine. You have to but ask and I will come with you."
"I can not ask that of you," Fianna told him, her glare softening to some extent. "This burden is mine alone to bear."
"You do not have to do it alone."
"Yes I do," she said softly. "Your place is here, for when I return." She turned from him, towards were the rest of the clan gathered. The last of the mercenaries had gone done, Hraega and the mercenary captain meeting in a final, furious contest. Hraega had emerged triumphant, though he had taken wounds. Many others had likewise done so, and ten of the Aedring had been slain during the clash, a hard loss for a small village.
Hraega came hobbling over towards Fianna and Aifgar, his face set in grim lines. He bled from a cut to the leg and another across his cheek.
"Their leader fled like a worthless cur," he said, "Not that I expected much more from a lowlander who gets others to do his work for him. The captain of the mercenaries, he was a man though. Fought to the last, without a hint of surrender. He we will bury with respect. There were a handful of others of a like to him. The rest, they were merely in it for the loot and fought as such."