The sky darkened toward dusk as all was readied. Jontar’s lad came riding at a slow canter. Far up the trail he had seen the group of riders moving downslope.
“Lord Trovagh, they come.”
“Good, join your family within.” He scanned the area. He could see no one, to all appearances he was alone. He stepped up onto the water-butt beside the house corner, from there onto the roof where he lay flat. Like many of the garth roofs it was covered in a layer of thick turf. Quite cozy, Trovagh thought, as he made himself comfortable. Then he waited.
The bandits came riding carelessly. They made no great noise but expecting nothing they made no real attempt to be unseen. At this hour all beasts were stabled or penned, the garth owners would be at their food. They dismounted, leaving their horses tied to a fence. Above them in the darkness Trovagh smiled. He saw nothing but he knew what would be happening at the fence very shortly. The intruders padded over to the house. One pressed his face to the logs. Through a crack—carefully provided though he did not know it—he could see the family in the light of a lamp within. They ate hungrily, talking of garth work as they shoveled in the good food.
The bandit drooled. Two of the women were wearing cheap jewelry that glittered in the light. They were young and pretty. What with the smell of the well-cooked food, the glitter of gold, and the women, he was entranced. He finally forced himself away. A series of hoarse whispers apprised his fellows of the plunder. They could see only three men. Taking this family would be like robbing baby birds in a low nest. They failed to see that the family all ate along the far side of their table. Or that behind them a door stood open.
Nor did they know that with ample start, Jontar’s daughter was even now pulling up at the Keep. She screamed an alarm as she hauled the horse to a plunging halt.
Hanion came running anxiously. “What is it, are the children hurt?”
“Bandits in the upper valley. Lord Trovagh and his lady brought the alarm. I’ve a message for Lord Tarnoor.”
His master arrived before Hanion could send for him.
“Trovagh? Ciara?”
“Safe, Lord. Your son said I was to tell you that bandits have invaded from the mountains. There appear to be around twelve of them. They plan to attack our garth, butcher my family.” She had no need to explain why. Tarnoor knew bandits. “Your son plans an ambush using the people. He asks that you send reinforcements as soon as they can be got to him.”
“Is that all, lass?”
She came close so those arriving could not hear. “He and the lady said this, too, my lord. It’s their job to help us, you taught them that. And—they both love you.”
Tarnoor went white. He spun grabbing Hanion by the shoulder. “Call out the guard. I want half of them to ride, just in case this is some trick to lure us away from the gates. Pick the men who can best manage hard riding in moonlight. I want them ready to ride in ten minutes.” He left an orderly confusion to race for the stairs. Back in his room he shuffled into chain mail, sheathed his sword, and dived for the stairs once more. A just-woken Elanor pattered behind wailing loudly for an explanation. He commended her to Jontar’s daughter, vaunted to his saddle, and while Elanor still wailed, he was gone, his men trailing him.
Elanor stood glaring after him. He wouldn’t be taking half the guard if one of the children had merely fallen. She turned to the girl drooping near her.
“You’re Ami, aren’t you?”
“Yes, my lady.”
Elanor gathered her dignity, a touch difficult when one wore only a long ruffled nightgown with feet bare beneath. “Come with me, girl. I want to hear all about this.”
After she had heard she dispatched the girl to a meal and a bed. Then she sat for a long time in her chair. She prayed for a girl and boy out there in the dark. Doing what they did for love of their people. Then she prayed for Tarnoor, that he wouldn’t break his neck on this wild night gallop—and that he wouldn’t have apoplexy thinking about what was happening before he could arrive. Lastly she prayed for the people themselves. Then she sat silent, waiting for day to come.
Down the long straight road Tarnoor pounded. He kept the beast to a steady canter, though it went much against the grain. Still, it would do no good to push on so fast he left half his men injured from falls behind him. The moonlight lit the road to some extent. The horses knew the trail well, but potholes lurked in shadows, ruts in light and shade. If Trovagh had any sense he’d have sent someone down the road to wait for them, someone else to stand back and watch. That way if the plans went awry there’d be one waiting to say how and what. A chance for Tarnoor to act as rescuer. He only hoped the boy had been able to keep Ciara out of it. He doubted that, he thought with grim humor. But the girl had sense. If fortune favored Aiskeep, it would be the bandits only who suffered.
Behind him in the dark there was a sudden cry and a thrashing. Someone down. He ignored the sounds. If the man was dead there was nothing he could do. If he lived they’d see to him on their return. If he was so badly hurt as to require immediate aid, he’d die anyhow. He hated having to think that way but he’d been a soldier. If he must, he was capable of putting emotions aside. He snarled to himself. He’d give that pair emotion when he arrived. If they got themselves killed, he’d murder both of them. He found he was grinning savagely at the paradox. He glanced up at the sky.
Ami had said the outlaws planned to attack at dusk. It had been just after that when she arrived. With this cursed dark it would take longer to return, maybe twice as long. Three hours? He winced as he thought what could be happening to the upper valley in that time. This might even be an advance thrust against his defenses. All had been quiet recently. He’d expected that to change after winter. Had some cunning enemy decided to damage Aiskeep and allow winter to make that worse? He shivered. The Gods damn that fool Yvian and thrice-cursed Estcarp. All he’d ever wanted to do was care for his people and his Keep as his father had before him. Raise a son, see grandchildren, and be laid in the end in an honored grave.
None of which was looking all that likely right now. When he caught up with that pair, he wouldn’t know whether to kiss them or murder them. “Their job is to help their people. I taught them that indeed,” Tarnoor muttered ferociously to himself. By Cup and Flame but he’d teach them something else once he had them safe. Underneath he was conscious of a glow of pride. The blood of Aiskeep wasn’t thinning into weakling cowards at least. But if those bandits laid a finger, just one finger on either child . . .
He glanced up again at the sky. Halfway. Gods, keep them safe, he prayed. Just keep them safe.
6
T rovagh craned carefully over the roof edge. He could hear the hoarse whispers quite easily, as below the bandits readied for their attack. The boy smiled as he slipped backward to where the mortared stone chimney lifted above him. He dropped the waiting piece of stone into the opening, hearing it rattle downward. There, that was the warning to Jontar that the bandits were about to attack.
He could only hope that his plans could work. He and Cee had done their best, drawing on everything they’d ever heard or learned. But Trovagh could remember Hanion telling him that plans never did work out the way they were supposed to. Something always went wrong. You just had to pray it was nothing serious.
Outside, the outlaw leader had tried the door. Nothing held it against them. He turned to smirk with a gap-toothed leer to his followers. Then he thrust his weight against the wooden planking.
With a crash the door slammed open and the bandits poured in. The leader was amused to see the women rise screaming, fleeing through the door behind them. Women always did that. He’d sent a couple of his men around to the back of the building. They would take any women attempting to leave through rear exits of any kind.
He had no way of knowing that his men now reposed in peaceful unconsciousness where they had first stood in expectation. Trovagh had thought of that. Ciara led those who waited for them. Both men had been taken in silence by women who knew e
very inch of their ground—and wielded massive iron skillets. Ciara had seen to the binding and gagging herself. She leaned against the wall, a wide grin hidden by the darkness. If this was war it didn’t seem to be anything she couldn’t handle. She just hoped Tro would be careful. Uncle Nethyn would skin both of them if either came to harm.
Inside the house all of the garthspeople had been ready. The sound of the stone rattling down the chimney had warned them. Even as the door crashed open, the women had jumped for the entrance behind them. There they had slid through the opened window. The men—Jontar, one of his sons, and a son-in-law—had also jumped for the rear door. The table had been overturned with a quick heave before them as they spun to face the intruders. To reach them or the women they believed within their grasp, the bandits had to attack.
They had to do this across a high, thick-planked table and through an entrance wide enough for no more than two men at most. Up until now the bandits’ attacks had been made against isolated garths, or those garths where the Keep Lord did not care for his people. The garths had been easily taken, the people weaponless and already cowed. Aiskeep was not like that. Its buildings were built solidly; its people loved and trusted their lord, who also encouraged them to be proficient with arms.
Ciara led her women around the building. They fanned out in groups of three into the dark. Ciara reached for her striker. The woodpile should be just here somewhere, she thought. She found it by barking her shins. She hopped a moment muttering, then ran light fingers over the wood. There! Under her hand was a feel of kindling. She moved to stand before it, shielding the striker’s spark. Dry grass had been wrapped around thin, dry sticks. The striker snapped a fat spark into the center of the kindling. In seconds there was a growing flame taking an eager hold.
With the stack of wood beginning to flame, the outside of the building came into dimly lit focus for those in the dark. Inside the bandits still attempted to get across the table. One had fallen already. Part three of the plan moved smoothly into action. Behind them the door still stood open. Trovagh dropped lightly from the roof and whistled, the call of a familiar bird, albeit one unlikely to be about here and now—although bandits from the coast would be unlikely to know that, he hoped. He edged toward the entrance to be joined by three boys with slings.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Lord.” There was both excitement and savage anticipation in the answering hisses.
“Go!”
Slings whirled in unison as the lads stepped up to the door. The slings flicked forward. Inside the room three of the rearmost men in the outlaw group crashed to the floor. The boys stepped aside. Stones dropped into good leather again. Another volley. Two men fell, the third screamed as the pebble smashed into his ear.
“Back!” Trovagh snapped, grabbing the nearest lad by a shoulder. Within the house the bandit leader spun to gape behind him. No sign of the two he’d sent around the building. One man dead, five down behind his back. He was horror-stricken. This was no soft group of garthsmen. He must have surprised the soldiers.
True to the bandit code he promptly abandoned his men, diving for the outer door. The three remaining saw this and as promptly joined him in flight, trampling their unconscious fellows in an effort to reach the door first. Outside, two of the farmers pulled tight a thin cord across the doorway. It took the fleeing leader around knee level, pitching him to the ground. His followers trampled him with vigor in turn. Trovagh slid toward them from the side, sword flickering in the light. From the other side came grim-faced garthsmen bearing weapons of various types. They had the look of those who not only knew how to use them, but were very desirous of doing so.
The remaining bandits paused for a few seconds, but for outlaws there is no mercy if taken. They attacked desperately, seeking to break away in the dark. One did. He reached the horses, leaping into the saddle only to find as his weight hit it that both he and the saddle revolved rapidly. He landed on his face with a muffled howl. Ciara’s women wielded skillets with enthusiasm. The bandit stretched out to sleep with a weary sigh. At the house the two remaining outlaws fought back to back. Both had swords, but the garthsmen ignored the danger, closing in hungrily.
But thus far only the outlaws had been hurt. Trovagh preferred to keep it that way. His father would be more ready to forgive everyone. He whistled the slingers in again. They whirled their weapons and the last two outlaws folded to the ground. The boy beamed. Praise be to Cup and Flame. It seemed there were times when all plans worked out. He jumped violently as a slender figure slid out of the dark to take him by the arm.
“Gods, Cee. Don’t do that!”
She grinned happily up at him. “We’ve got three. They’re all alive too. The women trussed them like chickens for the pot. Hadn’t you better look at yours?”
Trovagh smiled back, hugging her. “One of ours is dead, I know. But you’re right. We’ll check the others and tie those alive.” He rallied Jontar’s family who swiftly brought out the bandits from where they had fallen.
“This one’s dead, my lord.”
“ ’N this one here, Lord Trovagh.” Ciara dropped to her knees checking carefully.
“Two here alive, Tro. This one is, but his skull is cracked. He’ll probably die. This one’s dead as well.”
The two taken last were both dead. The slingers had struck with all the power they had. The leader, however, was alive, muttering his way back to consciousness as he was swiftly and skillfully bound by hard-eyed farmers. Ciara had vanished again. Now she came trotting back to where Trovagh directed the clearing up inside the house.
“Five dead, one who’ll probably die shortly, and six alive. The live ones are all tied. One of them said something awful to Jontar’s wife. She hit him with her skillet again so I had them all gagged as well.” Trovagh looked at her proudly. She was a grubby, untidy girl, panting with exertion and excitement—and the best lieutenant a leader could have had.
“Let’s get them into a barn with guards. Then we need to bring the horses in.”
“Already done. The horses are over at Marin’s being rubbed down. I told everyone that we were awarding a horse and its gear to each garth that had fought. Was that right?”
“Yes.” He made a mental count. “Yes. Sure. That’s five horses to them, seven to the Keep. What are they like?”
Ciara looked thoughtful. “Most of them are ordinary farm horses, but there’s a couple there that aren’t. They’re a sort of yellow, with black manes and tails. They’ve been well-treated, too. Whoever amongst that lot were riding them has looked after both very well. They aren’t young, but they’d be worth keeping. The garths won’t want them. They wouldn’t be right for working land.” She shivered suddenly. “Isn’t it awfully cold now?”
Trovagh shivered, too. It did seem to have gone really chilly in the last few minutes. Maybe snow was on its way. He shuddered again before realizing.
“No, it isn’t the cold, it’s the letdown after a battle. Hanion told me about it. Get into the house and start the women making soup for everyone.” He studied the moon briefly. “Father will be here soon with the guards. If we can give them all something hot to drink while we show him our bandits, he may be a bit less furious.”
That, Ciara thought, scuttling hastily inside to start soup pots simmering, is something to hope for. She felt fey and oddly light as she moved. Under her bodice her pendant seemed to have warmed. Her hand stole up to curve about it. She still visited the silver mist most nights before she slept. But obedient to the dangers of being known, she had not used it to heal again. Was there something she should do now?
She was distracted from that by other demands. On the fire hob two large pots of soup steamed. Ciara rounded up as many mugs and bowls as the women could find her. To that she added all the moderately fresh bread that could be found at short notice.
A third pot of soup was placed at the ready then a fourth. Tonight was a night to forget care, to share in the celebrations. It wasn’t every day that a
garth earned a new horse at no cost. They had paid no coin, and shed no blood. The young lord and his lady had fought beside them. Someone produced a flute, playing an old dance tune. Another man ran for a small hand drum. The wood stack was burning merrily, not that Jontar worried. He knew his lord. Tarnoor would replace the fuel since it had burned in his service. Jontar smiled at his wife, leading her into the dance. It could have been very different.
Ciara saw to it that the bubbling soup pots were shifted to one side to allow those still cold to warm. She also had a few words with several of the women.
Under a moonlit sky Tarnoor pressed on. Amongst the on-coming guard Hanion suddenly saw something. He reined up alongside his master.
“My lord, look!”
Tarnoor stared. “Dear Gods, the bandits must have fired a garth house.”
He drew rein. “We must not rush in . . .”
Hanion cut across his words. “No, Lord, I can hear Marin’s flute. He would not play that for any bandits. I think it’s a celebration. Nor would he celebrate if the young lord or lady were hurt.”
Tarnoor kicked his horse into a canter again. He strained his eyes for a sight of the boy and girl as he came into the fire-light. His eyes fell first onto the bandits, twelve of them lying in a neat row propped against the house wall. By the other wall the children sat on a long settle brought out for the purpose.
Ciara had been listening; she heard the hoofbeats and signaled. Tarnoor loomed out of the night, the expression on his face grim. Before he could speak she ran forward to take his hand as he dismounted. Tarnoor found himself sitting on the low seat, a large steaming bowl of savory-smelling soup in his hands. The girl knelt at his feet.