“The sell-swords are in the forest, they have apparently established themselves upon the main road and some parts off of it,” Reported Freygil’s eldest son Solamh. The only one of the survivors of Glasvhail still free courageous enough to brave the road south, to espy the encampment part of the way through the forest.

  “Why have they done this? Why not advance?” Doada asked frightened.

  “Likely,” Kenna said careful to mask her thoughts, for she had no desire to have either of the lasses who had agreed to accompany her, or Solamh guess at what she truly felt in the face of their mission. “They are nervous about advancing upon the north, for fear of sparking conflict betwixt Mael Bethad and Angus MacDuibh. We should treat carefully, and with full knowledge that this could be the end of us, keep those daggers near lasses.”

  To either side of her, the lasses nodded their heads with Solamh swallowing audibly and Helga’s breath, hitching with what could have been tears. The latter asked of her, “To defend ourselves?”

  “Amongst other things,” Kenna stated without any further elaboration, though she was not armed herself.

  It had not been her desire to bring either of the lasses with her and yet, they had insisted upon accompanying her. While it was they who had volunteered her for such a duty, they had not hesitated to throw themselves upon the sword, in spite of their very visible terror of the warriors to the south. For this, Kenna promised herself that she would succeed no matter the cost, if not for her own sake, then for theirs and their faith in her.

  As to Solamh it was he who had volunteered for the duty of acting as a scout and reporting back, and accompanying the women. Demonstrating the same courage and fidelity in his actions, as his two youngest brothers had when they had followed Cormac south, mused the widow.

  She wondered as she marched south whether it was too late or not to rescue those that had been captured those such as Bhàtair, or Ainsley, along with many other friends she had won over the course of her life in Glasvhail. Doubt came into her spirit and infested it as a parasite might an innocent, and a part of Kenna, a very selfish part at that, one that feared more for herself than any other person wished to turn back then.

  Doada was young, she was pretty, she might yet find herself a new husband, mayhap Solamh himself could fill out such a role for he was good-looking, brave and good. Bhàtair would not have begrudged his wife for moving on in life, nor might Ainsley begrudge Kenna for preferring not to risk either of Conn’s daughters.

  Freygil and Ida had resisted their eldest going south, with the youth leaving regardless of their arguments, therefore they would be relieved by her return.

  But then Kenna thought of how Elspet and Ealar would leverage her cowardice against her. They would likely use it to further diminish the village, to damage the people and lead them in the future into further follies that might well be the end of them all.

  She thought of how her father had once spoken of how war-prisoners were treated in both Norwend and Caledonia, from her time with him when she was a child, Kenna felt repulsed by her own cowardice.

  Murchadh would never have thought of turning back, he would have plunged on into this brigand-mercenary camp, and would have preferred to die than desert a single soul. Kenna remembered, her husband had been brave to a fault and loyal beyond compare.

  He would have been disappointed had she chosen to abandon those children that were captured or the lasses to their fates or those men whom he had considered in all ways but blood his nephews or brothers, or uncles. This decided things for her; she would do this not because she wished to, but because she had to. It was at this time a new prayer entered her spirit, I repudiated him in spirit for years, Ziu, Scota, Murchadh if you can hear this prayer; grant me a tenth of my father’s courage. For he was the bravest man I ever knew, after you my beloved.

  Her prayer was uttered in the secrecy of her own heart with all her heart and soul, as she held tightly to the satchel of coins she was prepared to use to buy her people’s freedom with. She had hoped to save what coinage she had for buying access to the King’s court, but she suspected these sell-swords were liable to insist upon a ransom.

  It was as she pondered what she might say, how she might argue the innocence of the village and of how they had done nothing wrong to Badrách and his hired-swords that she was pulled by Solamh from her thoughts. Lost in them, she had not hitherto noticed the passage of the trees all around her, the slight descent of the still-bright suns and of the cooling of the wind upon her face. The wind had been warmer some time ago, the suns brighter and the trees less grey when last she had glanced up at them, she thought.

  “Lady Kenna the camp lies over yonder,” Solamh called out, pointing with his right-hand towards the encampment that lay ahead.

  The encampment was unlike anything that the youths had seen in all their lives. None of them had ever seen an army march through the barony of Badrách, or his father. Not even in the reign of Donnchad had such a sight graced the horizons of the sea-side village for he had favoured a more westerly route for fear of the Dyrkwoods.

  Kenna though for her own part, had spent her childhood in such places though she had almost forgotten how terrible they could be, to see. Much of the trees had been cut down where the mercenaries found themselves, there was a slight ravine-drop of two meters from the road though it had hardly discouraged these hardened men.

  Many were castaways from society, from various localities, villages and possibly even cities or temples, or even in some cases from monasteries. Incapable of making a living any other way, they had became little better than brigands in the eyes of Kenna, who had once idealised their way of life only to come to despise it. These men had cut down a great many beautiful alder, cedar, pine and birch trees along with oaks and ash-trees to fuel their fires, shipped them south for spare coin.

  The tents they built were all of the same kind; they were plain grey things with standards planted and waving near the opening of each of them, blood-red banners that were set upon wooden poles and which depicted blue-swords at the center of the banners.

  As to the encampment, they had patrols or what appeared to be patrols and guards near set at every one of the four directions of the camp. Some were out in the woods they were later to learn, keeping an eye upon Tormod’s hunting party. What was more was that the encampment had been arranged into a circle, with small wooden-spike fences arranged near the four directions and a little between them, curving only slightly towards one another.

  These watches were composed of three men each, and there were warriors kept at the ready near the outer fringes of the camp. Those not on, duty rested, gambled in games of dice while eating hunks of dear or boar-meat.

  There was a group of mercenaries who also stood guard near to the southern corner of the camp, where the prisoners seized the previous night had been placed. Tied to ash trees that they had left alone for just such a purpose; these prisoners tied with thick ropes with only the children spared from this fate, though they were made to sit by their parents’ sides.

  A small group of the children who had lost their parents and had no relation could be counted upon one hand, with two fingers still left standing as Kenna was later to learn. These children, were left to frolic through the encampment and generally treated almost as though they were the sell-swords own children. This treatment might well surprise you; however the men were bemused and filled with pity for them in spite of their own cruel profession.

  In all, the professionalism, the grizzled nature of the camp and her occupants frightened Kenna. She had never seen such discipline amongst sell-swords, only trained house-hold warriors (huscarls) and knights had such discipline. Though the latter were rarely seen in the lands of the Caleds, with her only sight of them being from when she had first met Corin, as there were half a dozen knights from Gallia who had visited the village at the time.

  These men though were all done up in their hauberks, chainmail and greaves, with their spears held firmly in their gauntleted hands. Their helms were as the rest of their armour made of iron and curved with a nose-guard extending down from the front to cover their noses. They wore over their chainmail down to their knees, and that covered their arms red and woollen cloth.

  Not every man was human though, with Kenna astounded to find once they dear near enough to the guards to properly study them that, of the three guards’ only one was human. One was Tigrun with a feline appearance; another was a Wolfram with the last of the trio of guards human, bearded and blonde.

  All three of them studied her with a sternness that almost made her quail and turn back. She knew without a sliver of a doubt that they were unlikely to allow for such a turn of events. They had already as it has been said, crossed the Channel.

  “They look fearsome,” Helga bemoaned miserably, “If only pa’ were still alive!”

  Her desire for her father was childish, though Kenna was not unsympathetic to her plight. Scratching at her left arm, the seamstress glanced over at her companions. “There is no need for any of you to continue onwards.”

  “I am not leaving without Eillidh, or ma,” Doada replied with far more resoluteness than the older woman had expected from her in spite of how her lower lip quivered.

  “Agreed,” Added Helga at once.

  “I shan’t leave, less I would be made to appear cowardly and knavish in comparison to my baby brothers,” Said Solamh with a great deal of false affability in his voice, his eyes almost shiny so nervous was he.

  With a sigh, Kenna nodded her head ere she reluctantly stepped forth to stand before the guards who gave her a suspicious once-over. Their eyes penetrated each of her companions also, with the Tigrun and man’s eyes resting for a moment upon the lasses behind her before they met Kenna’s gaze and the defiant one of the guard.

  Curiosity in his eyes, the Wolfram who stood between the human (to the left) and the Tigrun, spoke up in a voice that was every bit as hostile as it was cautious. “Who are you? Why stand you here?”

  Clearing her throat, Kenna searched the man’s dark gaze straightening her shoulders and raising her chin in defiance, determined to project as much dignity and sternness herself at that moment. If she was to perish, she would do so proudly and on her feet. “I am here, to negotiate the release of those of my village, you have imprisoned and the right to cremate and bury our dead.”

  This admission caused each of the trio of sell-swords before her, to gape. None of the three could grasp why one of the villagers they had been tasked with hunting, had now come south to place herself within their grasp, to negotiate with them.

  Blinking stupidly at her, each one of them exchanged ever so slowly a stunned glance, this being her only moment of satisfaction ere the human turned to his superior. “What do we do, Cailean? Do we report to Arran?”

  The Wolfram seemed none to certain himself, hesitant and anxious took a moment to think, only to growl to the Tigrun, “Go ask Arran what he thinks we ought to do.”

  “Why not hew them down?” This question was dropped casually by the human, with Cailean growling back at him, and even snapping his teeth in the manner a wolf might have.

  This exchange frightened the lasses and even Solamh who retreated back a step, while the daughters of Conn quailed back behind Kenna who alone did not step back or burst into tears. Made of sterner stuff than most men or women, she only stared on ahead.

  Now that she stood before them, defenceless and incapable of turning back, Kenna felt barren of fear. Only resignation and steely resolve existed within her, as she met the gazes of the warriors with a cool-iciness that impressed the hardened men before her.

  They had never seen a peasant meet their gazes in the manner of a warrior, though she stood in a manner that made it evident that she was by no means battle-hardened.

  The courage of such a woman, won her Cailean’s admiration though he spoke not of it, preferring to simply silently watch her. They could have both been cut from marble or the very rocks that the lands of the Caleds were once said to have been cut or crafted from. Ziu the war-god himself could have ridden past, sword aflame and upon his mighty steed of Vārlogo which translates to ‘Truce-Breaker’ in the ancient tongue of the Volkholantians.

  The notion of a truce-breaking was not far from Kenna’s spirit, for she did not trust these men, did not trust a single movement of their hands or tilt of their hands. A handful of them gathered just behind the two guards who continued to stand in front of her. But they may as well have not existed for all that she was concerned, for all that stood before her was the gaze of Cailean.

  He dared her. She dared him to move first. To strike at her, to put an end to her life.

  The air sizzled, the breeze struck his back and her face yet still they would not lower or tear their gazes from one another. The challenge that passed between them was one the seamstress was determined not to lose. She could not afford to. To lose at this moment, was to surrender her and those who relied upon her, to death and capture by the mercenaries.

  This she could not allow out of obligation to them, just as he could not tear his gaze away for the reason that to lower his eyes, to his mind was to falter and fail the chieftain of the troupe he loved ever so much. For he loved him in the same manner that canines love their pack-mates and those they perceive as being their human kinsmen or kinswomen.

  At the return of the Tigrun from earlier, Cailean at last lowered his gaze if reluctantly in a gesture of defeat. A gesture that did not come easily to the Wolfram, it was as good a sign of victory, the first of the day for Kenna. She almost breathed a sigh of relief.

  Such an act was likely to have been, a premature sign of over-confidence on her part. One that could have yielded to the sell-sword back the tiny victory, which was but a minor battle in what could only be termed a war against the Gormcruach as a whole.

  The Tigrun for his part, arrived at a rapid pace one that was not however a full-charge though, his expression one of amusement as he chortled. “Arran shall see the lot of you.”

  Cailean gripped Kenna by the arm then, wherefore she gasped eagerly, “You have done it, lady Kenna!”

  “I have done little to naught, save win us an audience,” Kenna demurred grimly, adding hastily, “I may have simply delivered us to our deaths.”

  “I have faith in you, lady Kenna,” Helga replied stoutly, her sister and Solamh both quick to add their own chorused support for her.

  Kenna could well have grimaced, at this show of blind-faith. It was not support from them that she wished for. What it was that she wished for then, was a mystery even to her; mayhap all she truly wanted was for everyone to be safe.

  Sliding her gaze imperiously from the Wolfram to the Tigrun, then back to the former, hiding as she did so what doubts she had within her saying as she did so. “Very well, please do escort us to this chief of yours.”

  Cailean might well have been expected to have reacted impatiently or furiously in response, to her dismissive manner towards him and his colleague. The human and Tigrun exchanged an irritated glance, displeased by her comportment.

  The Wolfram mercenary raised a brow with a small smirk, one that could have belonged upon the lips of a serpent. His eyes gleaming with bemusement, he signalled for her four of them to follow him informing the cat-man that he would see to escorting them, himself.

  The journey from entrance of the camp, to its beating heart was not at all very far, with the four of them stepping past several dozen guards who murmured amongst themselves. Many of them having gathered to stare at the embassy from Glasvhail’s survivors genuinely confused by their presence therein their encampment.

  Some pointed out the prettiness of Conn’s daughters, or mocked Solamh thinking him somehow one of the lasses’ husband with the youth holding up high his head in defiance of these warriors as he followed Kenna faithfully. The seamstress herself though she did not at once realize it, drew several admiring glances as many of the sell-swords, admired her dignified, proud manner with her upturned nose also drew her quite a bit of disdain.

  Crossing past several tents in the tightly wrought camp, to a central one no bigger than the rest of those tents that surrounded it. As they cut through the encampment, the wind in their hair and the suns beating down upon them, many of those that moved about the camp stopped to stare upon their guests.

  Doubtlessly they had not expected when they had awoken that morn’, or when they had erected their camp the night prior, to see three frazzled, apprehensive villagers walk into their midst with a muddied, dirty woman who wore in her blood-matted hair a number of brambles and branches.

  She knew she cut such a strange figure as to appear a witch to others, and though Kenna hated to appear so filthy she had had to forego female vanity due to the pressing nature of her mission. She had to forcibly remind herself, of how Murchadh would not have worried over such a thing, and of the suffering of those within the sell-swords’ grasp.

  From all around the encampment, ere their arrival the song sung by the Gormcruach was interrupted by the arrival of those from Glasvhail. The song was one that struck Kenna, for the trio of guards had spoken with Lowlander accents and in the souhtron dialect, yet this chorus was of the north. It was one that she could have sworn was sung near to the lands just south of the Wend river, where she had been born.

  Stolen novel; please report.

  “Beyond yon Lowlands

  Past misty-Highlands,

  Lies the river-glimmering,

  Wed to Thistle-lands,

  Unscathed by fire,

  Untouched by steel most dire,

  Undaunted by the tyre,

  Unsung as a friar,

  Thereby the Wend,

  Nearest the bend,

  Blue-steel glints to help fend,

  Against those of Norwend,

  Blue-steel glinting the clans of auld,

  Do live on in warmth and cold,

  Fighting the feuds of auld,

  Where none do as told,

  As free as in the days of auld.”

  The song as said was interrupted part of the way through, though Kenna knew the full song from her childhood. She knew it more due to some of her father’s companions from her childhood, than from his own lips for he had never joined in any songs save that of her mother. Setting aside the song which had nettled her, Kenna concentrated her attention upon every forward step. Not wishing to allow herself to become too distracted from her all-consuming mission, to rescue her neighbours and friends.

  As to the mercenaries, as said they began to drift away from their lonely song and to focus their attention wholly and completely upon the new arrivals, assembling not to one side of the camp but rather around them. Cailean would not be dismissed upon arrival to her surprise, with the seamstress feeling nervous about the encircling crowd of men all around her.

  If Kenna felt anxious, her companions were utterly terrified, with Solamh taking one step closer to her. Helga and Doada clung closely to her as best they could without grabbing a-hold of her arms or sleeves. Kenna for her own part did her best not to deviate her gaze from the men who sat before her, to the center of the encampment, not that this was a particularly difficult task given how rigid and uncanny they were, and held themselves.

  Seated in front of his tent on a tree stump at the bottom of the small forested foothill where they found themselves, was to the astonishment of the embassy an old man. Head bowed in concentration, he had a small dagger in hand with which he cut at a small piece of oak-wood, carving it into shape with a carefulness that might well have earned him the praise of Graeme the woodcutter from Glasvhail.

  In spite of his age he had a muscular figure, and was seated straighter than Solamh himself stood, with thick white hair which had only a few greying-brown strands in it, with a thick if short beard the same shade of snow-white. His skin was tanned and wrinkled on his face and his eyes were a dark-shade of blue, with his thin lips pursed and he was tall, taller than any of the men in Glasvhail.

  His was an almost regal figure, one that loomed over all even the laird’s son Tormod, and he was dressed in a simple linen tunic and trousers that were darkly coloured. He wore neither hauberk nor cloak (both were to be found within his tent), nor did he wear any jewellery save for a single pendant in the shape of a sword, the holy symbol of Ziu.

  His men milled all about him though he paid them nary any attention, with only a stout if almost equally muscular Dwarf seated a short distance from him. Long-bearded, this dark-haired figure had deep blue sunken eyes and equally tanned skin with a slightly less stern face and was dressed in red rather than black, with his tunic bearing the blue-sword of the Gormcruachs in the middle of it. Carving away at a small statuette, he did so with considerably more skill and appeared to be teaching the head of the sell-swords how to carve.

  “There you are, keep cutting- no not like that, you may well cut off her head long before it takes shape, you bungler,” He was saying in a raspy if average voice for someone of such a mighty build as his own. He raised his eyes to meet the gaze of Cailean and those he brought with him, “Daggers if you will Cailean.”

  The order given was followed at once, with those just behind Kenna hesitating, looking to her for direction as the Wolfram nodded turned and moved to seize the dagger girded to her own belt. Anxious not to be deprived of her only means of protection, a wild side of her wished suddenly to seize it, to defend herself and to attack the leaders of the Gormcruachs. This side of her was repressed with impunity, for she knew how futile the gesture would be. Reluctantly, she ungirded it and handed the still sheathed weapon over to the Wolfram who proceeded to deprive the next three folks from Glasvhail of their arms.

  Arran hardly raised his eyes from the carving he knifed at with broad, steady knife-strokes, saying as he did so once informed that they were suitably disarmed. “Well? I hear tell that you wish to speak with me. As you can see I am otherwise engaged therefore speak swiftly, for I do not wish to remain here over-long.”

  His voice was a deep one, yes she had known many deep-voiced men in her time but this one was the most masculine sounding. His voice though had a drawn quality to it, as butter stretched out over too much bread, and where the Dwarf had put down his statue and sheathed his dagger to pay them the proper amount of attention, Arran appeared utterly distracted and disinterested. Then there was his accent, it was one of the most northerly ones she had ever heard in all her life. Other men might have striven to mitigate such a thick accent, so as to be better understood by those in the south, but not him.

  And why should he? Kenna thought if distantly, the north had its own charm its own lilting gait to its mannerisms and dialects that the south did not have. In a rare moment of vanity, at her birth-place she thought of how the current King and Queen were of the north, said to speak with a thick set of accents, of how there was a time when the High-Kings and Mormaers competed to thicken their accents not to thin them out to sound as southern as possible. Her pride at her northern ancestry was set aside, and she could tell from the corner of her eyes that her companions were slightly confused. Such was the thickness of his Caled accent, and so unaccustomed were they at the sound of this dialect that they struggled to decipher it.

  She did not though. This she proved when she answered evenly, “I have come to negotiate the release of my people, the villagers of Glasvhail.”

  “You have come to beg then,” Said Arran dismissively.

  Kenna bristled for she did not much like his tone. Swallowing her antipathy to him and his snickering men, who adored seeing him humiliate the lady who had turned up her nose at them, she rebutted. “Mayhap, though I prefer to term it negotiate.”

  “What makes you so proud?” This time the Dwarf spoke, and he did so with considerably more amusement as his own chortles drew to an end.

  The seamstress chose not to answer his mocking question, preferring to address herself to Arran, “For generations chieftain, we of Glasvhail have throve under the wise rule of the forefathers of Badrách, have striven to be dutiful tenants and have sweated for the greater good of the lairds in question. We have done all that we could to achieve a measure of success and pride under them, have never questioned and never contradicted one of our lairds. Not when they chose to support the madness of Duibh, the High-King, not when the Elves slew him, not when Mael-Martin II took the throne and purged the land of his cousins, and not when Donnchad launched his hundred futile campaigns south.”

  She might well have gone on with her prepared speech, had Arran not reacted with exasperation, snarling at her. “Get to the point lass; I have neither the years left nor the desire to wait for you to meander about in the reaching of it.”

  Slightly wrong-footed, Kenna bit her lip a stab of annoyance towards her companions who all sucked in a breath loudly, near her. Forcing herself to breath evenly, she snapped back at him, as a sudden moment of defiance wormed its way through her spirit. Yes, she had to negotiate for the release of her people; yes it was a futile gesture. And yes he was determined to ignore her, but if she was to fail and die to-day she would do it at her leisure and as she pleased, and proudly so she decided. “I will reach it at my pleasure, not yours butcher.”

  Some of her childhood accent must have leaked into her petulant voice, for Arran bit back a laugh at last, one that was sharper than his dagger and less kindly in nature. He shot her a rapid glance from beneath his thick grey brows, with his untamed tresses surrounding his face his eyes cut through what appeared to be a jungle of hair. “Northron are you?”

  The question drew murmurings of curiosity from the mercenaries, who appeared to only now notice the thin trail of Kenna’s birth hidden in her voice. Those who had accompanied her glanced over at her nervously, too apprehensive to speak or to correct the old man.

  Kenna nodded ever so slightly, ere she went on with her prepared speech. “Just as the mountains in the north have always stood, and the lowlands of the south have, so we have toiled for the betterment of our chiefs-”

  “And yourselves,” Supplied the Dwarf with more mockery, which drew a hiss of irritation from her and such a savage glower that he blinked in bewilderment at her. “Do go on,” He encouraged with a wave of his hand.

  “Thank you,” She said thinly as though he were Cormac, “Where was I? Oh yes, for the betterment of our chiefs-”

  “Never mind your chiefs lass, who in the name of the Queen of Evil are you?” Arran queried curiously.

  Kenna frowned at him, she was tempted to treat him in the same manner she had so many others, and to ignore the question. If she did he might take it poorly, and she had already she decided pushed things too far by playing at the queen or lady. She knew how delicate her situation and could feel that there was a test or fragility in the air.

  Apprehensive, the seamstress reached up to her pendant of the god Khnum, which she had removed from her pack earlier, to don it for her protection. It was the only pendant she had, for she had never thought to find herself one of Scota. She knew that her appearance and manner had made her appear almost akin to a witch-woman of the woods.

  This man though was different; he was by no means as superstitious as his ilk. His only reverence was for his war-god, for what his own steel sword and companions could win him.

  Biting her lip, Kenna took the decision to throw away her prepared speech. It may have been unwise, she would have to improvise moving forward she knew, but there was little other choice. Not with how Arran when he at last set eyes upon her, failed to jerk back or to take up the slightest air of unease at her wound, at the mud and the dirtiness of her appearance. “I am Kenna, seamstress of Glasvhail, now headwoman of the village, by popular election of my people.”

  The murmurs that followed her statement and slight concession emboldened the mercenaries who openly mocked her now and waited with bated breath for their chieftain to have her tossed among the other prisoners.

  He did no such thing. Rather, he became all the more contemplative. In place of any rash action, he sunk for a long time into his own thoughts, as he studied her face intently doing so with such interest that Kenna began to feel self-conscious and annoyed. His gaze was a steady one that held hers, tested it and appeared to continue staring as though he sought to look into her mind, her soul and into her secret-most thoughts.

  She bit her lower-lip and shifted from foot to foot, without thinking. Kenna could have struck herself over the head, for this stupid gesture. She had just conceded more than a little victory there by acting no differently from a frightened deer that just realized that what stood before her, was not a fellow deer or hare but a ravenous coyote or lynx.

  Panicked, the seamstress blinked first uttering quietly, “May I continue?” A silent nod from him signalled for her to continue, what was more was that he at last set aside his carving knife and half-made statuette. “Very well, I had hoped that you might feel some pity for those of us who have lost our homes, our means to survive and our family. Let us have our dead to properly care for them, and our kinsmen and kinswomen and tend to them, and take them away from Thernkirk.”

  The change in the old man won him a swift consternated and confused glance from the non-human who sat near to the chieftain of the sell-swords, along with curious ones from the Gormcruach.

  “And what will ye give us, for this great show of pity?” The Dwarf demanded when Arran failed to answer, continuing to stare her in the eye with his unreadable gaze.

  Kenna did not need a great deal of time to ponder how best to answer this query, nor was she at all annoyed now by his interjection. To the contrary she was filled with relief, to be given an excuse to tear her gaze from that of the sell-sword chief with the perceptive gaze.

  Feeling small still, she answered quietly some of her discomfort in her voice, “We would be prepared to pay for them, if you would be willing to accept our coin.”

  This offer drew many jeers and sneering, scornful retorts from those all around the embassy. It startled her to hear some of their words, as some of them spoke of something she had never dreamt those who hired out their sword-arms could feel; honour.

  Her misunderstanding had its roots in how her father had been something of a rogue, who had turned upon those who employed him, as easily as he swigged down wine or consumed meat. He had told her once that honour existed only amongst those who lived in songs or too high up in society, for the drudgery of common labour and the mud in the fields to touch them.

  Therefore, to hear some say, “Nay, not for all the gold in the world. For we are the Gormcruach who have never turned back upon any oath we have sworn!”

  “We shan’t break a contract! T’would be a stain on our name.”

  “Filthy mud-woman.”

  This last insult was tossed out along with some spit in her direction by some who took her offer but poorly, harkening to her muddied appearance.

  Not at all self-conscious on the matter of her appearance, Kenna sought to speak but was interrupted by the increasing volume in their shouting. Such was the loudness of their fury and distaste for her that she could not make herself heard. Riled up as they were, they might well have fallen upon her with their daggers, and taken the silver she had girded to her belt. Or so she imagined, had Arran not intervened in her favour.

  “Silence the lot of you!” Arran snapped at his men, fire and lightning brimming from his darkened gaze his fury all that was necessary to make them all quail.

  Helga frightened tugged on Kenna’s sleeve, backing behind her as though in fear that the chief of the Gormcruach might leap hither to smite her down. Solamh appeared frozen whilst Doada Helga’s elder sister, backed away a few steps in the same round-eyed manner that those about them did. The Dwarf gazed at his chieftain with an open-mouthed stupefied gaze, with Cailean and his fellows gaped at their leader who though he did not move appeared to have tripled in size. Already a large man, he had grown it appeared to the eyes of all who surrounded him. Loved by his men, they also feared the oldest of all men in their ranks, for he was the mightiest of them all, the noblest in arms and the most seasoned of all warriors present therewith them.

  The Gormcruach might well have resented this particular comparison, regardless it came into the spirit of Kenna and the rest of her companions that they appeared no different from chastened children. The only difference was that infants could be petulant, disobedient to parents who might scold them, whereas these men had no such thoughts.

  Silenced, the warriors stared at their chief, waiting for him to proceed with the eldest of all the warriors returning his angry gaze to that of Kenna. Almost politely, he encouraged her to carry on as though she had never stopped speaking and sought to do him a grand favour rather than offering to bribe him. “Do go on, lady Kenna of Glasvhail.”

  “I er, um-” She stuttered ere she reclaimed the calm and dignity or some slight modicum of them enough to offer up all that she had to offer. “I have some hundred silver Thistles, and near to a hundred bronze Lions.”

  The latter amount had been scrounged from every one of the houses of Glasvhail; it was all that they had succeeded in gathering together, with even Ealar and Elspet contributing.

  Expectant of another wave of anger from the midst of the Gormcruach she waited with bated breath. Her companions were even more apprehensive and trembled, with the lasses gripping by this time each of her arms.

  The Dwarf continued to study his leader, just as the rest of the sell-swords did. The founder of the Gormcruach reflected, upon her offer visibly, his expression once more contemplative. This time none interrupted his thoughts or pressed him to come to a decision.

  When next he spoke, he did so by rising to his feet for the first time with Kenna struck by how tall he was all of a sudden. Seated he was, she had noticed almost her own height yet when he stood he was nearer to six and a half feet tall. He loomed over all around him; rather like one of the Ogres that filled up parts of his camp (quite how Ogres had come into the lands of the Caleds away from the far southern South-Agenor kingdom of Korax was a mystery).

  To his ‘people’ he spoke in brusque if eloquent tones, “My brothers in the bluest steel ever beheld in this realm, how much did Badrách the coward offer us?”

  This simple question confused all, with the Dwarf the one who supplied the answer, “Fifty gold Thistles, Arran.”

  “Very good, thank you Thormvrain,” Said Arran with an approving nod to the swarthy Dwarf, the admission of the price paid by Badrách made his visitors’ stomachs’ sink. “My brothers and sons in arms, we have journeyed from the southern tip of Brittia to the northern edges and promontories of Norwend. Have ventured even through the eastern lands of Vaugrimmé,” This last land he pronounced with a thick accent, butchering half the word as Kenna might have done. It was a mixed Ogrish-Gallian term for the North-Agenorian kingdom established decades ago by the formidable Ogre King Ferdan Blackhammer. “We have seen much and earned much coin, in the service of men such as Badrách all without ever breaking our word.”

  This earned him many cheers. The pride of the Gormcruach was tangible in every face, in every cheer. For a moment it appeared as though the wind and the suns themselves, even the earth grew warmer and browner, and reflected the light of the suns with that same enthusiasm and pride. All were united by the brotherhood founded by Arran. The last phrase had been uttered with such pride, such vigour that there was not a man alive who belonged amidst those ranks that could not have joined in the cheer.

  Arran carried on, caught up it seemed by his own words though they now took up an almost sorrowful, grieving tone. “We have also done much. We have carried out many horrendous misdeeds that have made us reviled in the lands of Mabillon, in Folkardlian and even in ériu’s southern lands of Mhumhain.

  We have all paid for indulgences, we have all offered up countless prayers for forgiveness, but can there be for some of what we have wrought in those lands and others we have trodden through? We entered those lands as brothers, keen to become sword-hands, liberators and victors. Some have spoken of how we did not become those things, but thugs, knaves and the blade of tyrants and monsters.”

  At these words many appeared to lose some of their pride, some appeared confused. Others still, adopted mournful miens that bespoke of regret and uncertainty for their past actions. Silence followed.

  From the rear of the crowd to the left of Arran just past the still seated Thormvrain one of the Ogres of the sell-sword company spoke out against these last words. “But we did what we had to, what we were contracted to do. There is honour in that.”

  “I will not question that, Varklun but tell me; remember when you were abandoned in the lands of Folkmaringia, your father’s newly founded village sacked and you fled to where we found you in the Gallébois; had it been the Gormcruach hired to sack the village would you have wished for that honour, or honour of a different kind?”

  At these words the Ogre became contemplative now himself, his brutish face with its frown which had two tusks protruding from behind his lower lip troubled.

  It was Thormvrain with his calm demeanour, and always keen to cut past all mockery and pleasantries who prompted him. “What do you propose we do, if such is how you feel Arran? It is not as though we can turn back time. To pull back from every atrocity or sin we have committed. Would you have us give away what we own, to become druids and monks?”

  These words prompted not scorn or anger but a laugh from the impassioned Arran, who replied to him with hearty warmth. “Nay, never that Thormvrain for I cannot name a man here who might thrive as a monk. What I ask of you is this; we have been paid first to chase away those Ratvians from the west of Badrách’s lands, then to deal with these fugitives. And then what? We are positioned so that if war should happen between MacDuibh and Mael Bethad, it shall be us on the front-lines. Even if it only goes as far as war between the Hatchet and the Coward we shall suffer the former’s fury and he is an almost incomparable warrior in all of Caledonia. Are we to sacrifice ourselves for the machinations, of these wicked lairds and their ravenous appetites? To what end? We will have sacrificed our honour, our place in Ziu’s halls after we die, all for naught.”

  More silence followed his words. Most of the sell-swords though now grumbled about Badrách, with only Thormvrain speaking up, though Kenna was of a mind that he did so only to put up the image of disagreement. So that Arran might appear all the more persuasive.

  “What would you have us do? Trade over gold for silver?”

  “Never,” The first Gormcruach said with a wicked smirk that was as a white-toothed jagged blade across his white-bearded face, his eyes gleaming as the stars did in the night. “We have been paid; I see no reason to return payment for chasing those rats from Thernkirk.”

  The manner in which he phrased it, brought at first astonished stares then some laughs, with others becoming angry in time when they thought back to the past weeks. They had galloped and trod from one end of the barony to the other, as swiftly as their feet and hooves might carry them.

  All to be paid yes, but their chiefs had insisted to Badrách that they be paid for both the chasing out of the Ratvian tribe and the capture of the people of Glasvhail respectively. They were separate mercenary-jobs they had claimed; with Badrách having though the lower ranks had forgotten it in the heat of the moment, paid them far beyond what was originally promised. He had already paid them for both operations, and had compensated them for their troubles.

  Therefore Arran told them a falsehood. He had twisted the situation, to lay claim to the payment for both tasks without fulfilling the latter. The reason for why, was made evident to her when he rounded upon her.

  “This in mind, it would not be a breach of any oath, if we were to let us say lay claim to a small fortune of a hundred silver-Thistles, now would it?” This he addressed to his men, though his gaze had settled upon Kenna with an unspoken message thrown in her direction.

  Kenna did as subtly bidden, untying her satchel, which she held up so all could see, opened it up and poured the contents into Thormvrain’s waiting, eager hands. The Dwarf stepped forward to receive the coins, counted them down to the last Thistle ere he poured them back into the satchel.

  “She has paid us in full, with added compensation in the form of the bronze Lions.” He declared with nary a trace of any emotion on his face, as he girt the satchel to his own waist at the cheers of those around him.