The current plan of the city of Dytikástro was to entrench themselves behind the walls, drawing what food they could into the city. The transportation of food into the city was made all the easier thanks in large part to some of the fishermen moving some of the carpenters and woodcutters out of the city and back into it.

  So that production of new fishing vessels was facilitated with many of these logs were shipped back into the city, with the enemy army hardly able to stop them as they were occupied with throwing the greater wealth of their wroth upon the city walls.

  Such was the fury of their attacks that though they were repelled by the force of arms and valorous efforts of the bronze-gleaming and silver-glimmering hauberk adorned warriors, it was at terrible cost.

  The ladders, the siege craft such as ballista, catapults and rams such as that surnamed Morthraur by the forces faithful to the Dark Laird were to pound into the walls and gates of the city with al their might.

  There were heroics performed by a great many of those upon the walls and in the towers. One such example was that of Gavriil. It was he who was to being mortally wounded to his side pour oil unto the enemy and in a final fit of nobility fling himself upon the large siege-tower that menaced the north-walls after setting himself ablaze. There was also the warrior-woman Alcmene who was to by herself throw herself upon the enemy with such madness, as to topple a ladder near the opposite part of the wall.

  These were but two examples of the heroism of the Amazons in the face of evil, with the farmers that had been brought into the city put to work to boiling wax, aiding with the making of boats and cooking. It was thanks to their efforts and many of their numbers joining in the defence, of the walls that were all that shielded them from harm.

  Prithia during this time almost appeared to be everywhere, dashing here and there, to and fro, hither and thither. Her cries and bellowed commands heard by all the citizens, and people, her battle-fury when she climbed up onto the walls sword in hand, and defiance graven into her face inspired her people.

  She it was who rallied the forces of the city, wherever she went. She it was who was the first to stab and hew at the evil wretches who attempted to climb the walls.

  Prithia it was who kicked down the first Goblin, and who fought off the Boa-men known as the Boairn. Vicious boa-like folk who were distant cousins of the Colubar, save they were without intellect and far more poisonous. They were also capable of twisting themselves around and grinding bones to dust.

  This latter talent was one that frightened a great many, and proved to be a highly torturous act that might well have driven away a Freygils but not an Amazon.

  Their men-folk simply charged all the more, with many of the women hardly any less courageous as they hewed and parried and fought as devils.

  They first discovered this ability on the part of the Boarin, when one of Prithia’s personal guards attempting to shield her mistress from harm, was to overextend her sword-thrust at one of the Boa. She it was who was squeezed until her bones shattered as two of the Boairns’ crushed all that she was into naught. When they moved to unwrap themselves though, it was to have their heads hewed from their necks by Prithia herself. The Warlady avenged her guard with a fury, and a vengeance that moved and awed her people.

  She was not alone in throwing herself into the middle of the combat. To the amazement of a great many of the Amazons, both civilian and warrior, Andvari proved himself a formidable fighter. Grabbing a large war-axe, he threw himself into the thickest of the combat with a formidable war-cry that resonated for leagues.

  The gleaming light of his blade, the might of his every swing and the sheer confidence and bravery he exuded that day as he cut apart Goblin and Boairn apart inspired all near him. With each of them that he fought against, with his axe and that he parried the blow of with his large shield, he let loose the great bellow. “íln nifnal Vulcan!” or “In the name of Vulcan!”

  He slew in total thirty-six foes, the most of any warriors that day. Many of those who fled or fell in battle that day were to later utter terrified tales of this maddened Dwarf-warrior. Claiming that he was none other than the war-god Ziu descended down from the heavens, in vengeance for all their many crimes and evils.

  Elsewhere Fergus fought with equal heroism, the vigour of his spirit and ferocity of his sword-arm was no less remarkable. He it was who cut apart the great Boairn captain Boalidius that most wicked of villains who had in ages past, crushed the Warlady Prithia’s good-sister Agapi more than a full score years ago.

  Recognised by all, from the moment he climbed upon the walls many had quaked at the sight of him. Most fought on with incredible bravery, despite how little faith there was in their victory. Only Fergus charged the boa-man willingly and without fear. He parried the many whip and sword blows of his foe with his great buckler, wherefore he drew near enough to exchange proper blows with him.

  Blows that in some cases cut through the ring-mail and the bronze-coloured steel hauberk that he wore, borrowed from the Amazons. His enemy’s dark armour warded off some of his armour. The chief difference in the armour that they both wore was that the dark-armour proved as flexible as the boa’s scaly hide, whereas that of the Tigrun was firm as steel.

  It was atop the great walls of the city that the twin brother of Ronald, the great Pardiff who had sung so many songs of a great many more heroes of days past than any other, made his own legend. It was upon this day that though heavily wounded himself, from the great many blows of his foe that he hewed down.

  Maddened with the fury of battle, and with the blood of heroes of which only a few could proudly proclaim ancestry from, Fergus fought as only a wild-cat and Caled could.

  “By the blood of Adeaza and Khalai my ancestors, they who banished shadows,” He bellowed to all as he seized victory, and repulsed the enemy from the north-eastern part of the parapets of the city.

  A great clamour arose, as the people of the city celebrated his triumph. In response they elevated their voices not only in song but in prayers, celebrating this great Tigrun’s courage. It was after these acts of valour that for the first time, in their history these women-dominated people celebrated the manly virtues of the Dwarves and Tigruns.

  Daegan might well have liked to have participated in the defence of the walls, she swiftly found herself as in the case of Otrera excluded from these duties. She fought for many hours until she was called away after matching several sword blows with a Boairn that she slew with considerable difficulty. Called to Prithia’s side she was soon reprimanded for her impulsiveness, and reminded of her ‘duties’.

  Duties she might have otherwise enjoyed were it not for the fact that she was not permitted arms outside of the courtyards. As to Otrera, the heiress of Dytikástro never as keen a warrior as her aunt, was to assist in the brewing of wax, the carving of boats and the sewing of the wounds of the wounded and comforting the dying.

  She it was who was as a ray of sunshine and hope to her people, as much if not more than her beloved aunt. She who was as the goddess Venus or Scota to those who were injured or dying, all of them filled with love for the heiress of their city.

  She was not alone in going amongst the wounded, with Prithia wandering after the battle in spite of her exhaustion from the conflict past those injured in battle. As she walked, she whispered to them, murmured to her warriors with all the tenderness that a mother might have.

  “How are you?” She said to some, and still others, “Keep up the fight!” or there was, “Know that you go to the halls of Mars, our holy warrior for he loves you, as do all of us. Your sacrifices shall not be in vain.”

  The only ones she had few kindly words or moments to spare, with were Otrera and Stamatios. Prithia did this for hours ere she was encouraged to go rest.

  This she did half-heartedly, being more concerned for her people, for her warriors whom she would have preferred not to have lost in the case of the dead, or seen wounded. Moved by the devotion that Prithia showed towards the warriors of Dytikástro, Daegan was among those who encouraged her to rest.

  The lack of attention towards Otrera, she noticed as she spoke to the old woman, had a visible effect upon the heiress. Disappointed, the niece of the Warlady was to return her attention to caring for the wounded.

  “You must rest also,” Daegan urged her, feeling dirty and exhausted after hours of combat herself, she added, “We need you well-rested for the morrow should the attack continue.”

  Prithia smiled back at her, the warmth in her eyes reminded the lass of Kenna’s own fond gaze, from back when she lived in Glasvhail.

  Once the other woman was gone, after she had squeezed Daegan’s shoulder, the red-haired lass scratching at the back of her neck, said uncomfortably to Otrera. “I am sorry, I am certain that she meant to-”

  “Do not make excuses for her, Daegan,” Otrera interrupted wearily, “Do see to the sewing of Serafeim’s left ankle’s wound.”

  Though she still had little love for the other woman, Daegan did not argue out of respect and pity for her and those around them. It was some time, before Otrera would have the lass sent away to get some rest, ignoring as she did so the urgings of the guards and servants herself. After her bath in her room, the blacksmith’s daughter was to succumb to sleep with some difficulty.

  The memory of all the injuries, of all the death and the ugly Goblin faces that glared or smirked up at her, just as the Boairns’ had, haunted her through the whole of that night. Having participated on the front lines with Cosantóir, Daegan had fought well, proving her sword of worth in the battle upon the walls.

  Proud of herself, for having proven her mettle as well as her worth, by helping the injured Daegan fell asleep with a sense of satisfaction. She knew there would be no songs sung of her, for she had not accomplished any great feats of glory, but she could take pride in the little she had accomplished, as others had.

  *****

  The following day was one filled with misery, as it was a drenched day which saw untold amounts of rain pour down upon them.

  This delayed the combat that had waged with such heat betwixt the forces of the north and the south. Neither of the two sides was keen upon waging meaningless violence, in the rain for it could only lead to the both of them slipping and falling from the walls or being caught up in the mud. Some such as Stamatios felt that now was the finest chance to mount a great repulsing strike, against the tents of the enemy.

  Prithia would not heed his words, saying to him, “Nay we shall not undertake any such folly for it can end only in greater sorrow for our side.”

  This news did not sit well with her brother, who scowled to himself. Never a man, to take aught well in recent days that was not of his own counsel, or so it appeared to Daegan. It was Otrera who advised that they take the time to build more boats.

  Wise beyond her years, the nice of the Warlady said to her aunt, as they all stood in the map room where there was a great map of the city and the immediate area laid out along a large square table. “I say we ought to spend the night building what boats and fishing rods we can, while we may. It is through these boats and solely through them that we shall feed our people should this siege, prove an extended one.”

  This advice pleased some such as Gavriil, who nodded his head continuously at the lady’s words whereupon he said to her aunt. “I would suggest we also use this opportunity to send away a messenger, to our old allies the Centaurs, under the command of Chiras. We can have our messenger transported along with a horse, over to the farm-fields. Wherefore, the messenger will be able to flee north-west under the cover of the storm that currently besets our fair isle.”

  This counsel was in line with Prithia’s own views, as she pondered it at some length. When she did she said to those around her, “I shall send a messenger as you advise, Gavriil but shall need time to decide upon, who I wish to send.”

  *****

  It was the day after this meeting that they were to retire to their own chambers. Taking up the task of aiding those who were wounded who had been moved into the mead-hall of the castle, Daegan assisted Otrera once again. It was as she did so that she noticed, after several hours of sewing injuries that made her wish to both vomit and weep for the sorrow and pain of those under her care.

  It was as they worked that Otrera addressed her shortly after a swift lunch of salmon and onions, “You are quite skilled Daegan, with a needle.”

  “I studied under Cormac’s mother Kenna,” Daegan explained as the other woman along with two others pressed the writhing crying wounded warrior, under their care. “She is the finest seamstress, in the whole of the world.”

  Her pride was doubled when the man ceased his writhing over his hip. Given some wine, so as to render him insensible to the immense pain he had suffered in battle. There were others they were to assist, who had lost limbs, and were in even greater suffering with the mead-hall one of healing.

  The wounded and their loved ones, to enjoy the food ordinarily reserved for the Prithia’s own table. The Warlady insisted that she would eat only after she had ensured the wounded had eaten before her.

  Amongst those that Daegan was to assist, included Fergus who had a dozen injuries that needed stitched. The Tigrun received her ministrations. The Tigrun Pardiff who had proven himself, one of the finest warriors in all the land that day, was to smile past the pain of the needles cutting into his flesh to stitch it back together.

  “Glorious, simply glorious! We pushed back those filthy Goblins and their snake-masters, as easily as Bradán mastered the whole of ériu to the end of the Amadan wars.” He boasted cheerily, pleased with himself and his actions.

  “Why do you speak so? Do you not care for the suffering of our wounded?” Asked one servant-woman, dabbing at her eyes with a tissue for the fallen, and the wounded.

  “Aye that is indeed tragic, but we must take heart in what we have done,” Fergus said with a toothy smile that drew a small one from Daegan.

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Unable to resist sharing in some of the joy that he was determined to revel in. Glory was what she had always sought, both for herself and for Cormac. So that it was not hard for her, to revel in the glory of another of her friends, especially that of Fergus, who had shown himself to be one of the truest of friends to her.

  “Do you fancy yourself, a new Herakles?” Daegan inquired of her friend who chuckled a little ere he winced in pain. This was the first demonstration of the pain that truly, lay beneath the surface of bravado he was attempting to put up.

  “How is it that you are so courageous Fergus? Do you feel no fear?” Otrera asked of the Tigrun, who blinked at her. “When I think of the battle, of the suffering of my people, I-I feel a terrible fright come over me.”

  Daegan almost scowled at the other woman. She might once have done so, had she not remembered how she herself had in recent days, ere the battle atop the walls cowered in the face of the likes of the Knightwraiths.

  Otrera revealed at that moment, far more of herself than the blacksmith’s daughter had ever expected to see. It was with a shock that she now guessed, what had happened when her father had unhorsed and disarmed the heiress of Dytikástro.

  The realization of what had taken place, and the chivalry Corin had shown and courage he had demonstrated towards Otrera, made Daegan halt mid-sew. She was urged to continue by one of the servants who squawked at her for halting, in her actions.

  Finishing with the closing of the Tigrun’s wounds, Daegan turned her mind towards pondering the nature of the beautiful young woman who stood by Fergus’ side. The Tigrun for his part, resting upon one of the banquet tables they had eaten, upon but a short time before.

  He studied the Amazon with visible bemusement, ere long he remarked with a snort. “What strange talk on your part Otrera, I have never heard one of such as yourself speak so, especially given your blood, birth and culture! Given half the chance, I suspect we shall see that you are made of the same sort of mettle, as your formidable sister.”

  This praise on his part made the heiress of Dytikástro flush as scarlet as the other lass’ tresses. In turn, Daegan looked to her with a contemplative expression upon her face, still pondering the nature of the older woman.

  Otrera for her part lowered her gaze, her long lashes hiding unshed tears, “I am not so certain as you are valorous Fergus. I-I tremble so at the sight of the wounded, and have never been properly blooded. This in spite of how my sister was blooded by the time she was half my current age.”

  Fergus considered this admission, and where Daegan shared in this sense of shame, feeling a growing sense of pity for the woman.

  It was at that moment that the Tigrun was, to reveal a piece of knowledge she could not have foreseen. “Oh do not be so spineless now, Otrera for you have some of Andromache’s vigour. Why else would she have abandoned and shunned her prior status as heiress of Dytikástro? How else could one describe, your bucking of Prithia’s orders to let Corin starve to death by slipping him food past the guards? If that is not courage, I do not know what is.”

  “You exaggerate,” Otrera demurred with a shaky giggle, one that was mirthless.

  “You fed my papa?” Daegan squeaked shocked by this revelation, drawing the amused stare of several servants and the Tigrun. “I had no knowledge any such act, on your part. Why did you not make mention, of it when last we spoke/”

  Otrera flushed all the redder, embarrassed and unsure of how to respond. When she at last found her voice, it was to admit, “I had hoped that you might come to consider me a friend, on my own merit.”

  Daegan did not know how to respond. Nor did she know how to feel, about this confession. She despised being lied to. All the same she felt still a feeling of resentment at the thought of this woman’s fondness for Corin. A part of her felt that her mother was being disrespected in some small way by those sentiments. But the act of feeding and protecting Corin, filled her with a great deal of warmth for the other woman.

  This was not the only thing that was said between the two, with the niece of Prithia saying after some time, when she had regained her composure. “I also wished to thank you, sir Fergus.”

  “Whatever for?”

  “For avenging my father, for it was Boalidius who slew him two decades prior,” Otrera confessed tenderly, “My sister always longed to do so, as did I. But we never succeeded in the avenging of our much beloved father, treacherously slain when he sought a peace-pact with the Dark Laird. For that I owe you a debt I could never hope to repay.”

  Fergus was quiet for some time. As uncertain how to answer as Daegan was. If it was her, she would resent Fergus taking away her chance to achieve vengeance. Such was the Caled way; blood feuds as in the case of Northmen were to be resolved by the victim’s kith and kin, not by some stranger.

  So that she would have felt enraged, and might have considered Fergus if not an enemy, he would forever be marked as no longer a friend. As she was later to learn, the same could be said about the tempestuous Amazons; it was just that Otrera herself was a woman, of strong principles. She was someone who clung to her femininity far more strongly, than she did any feats of arms.

  “You owe me nothing,” Fergus replied to her quietly, touching her hand with his own, warmth in his eyes. A gruff man by nature, the Tigrun’s display of affection was one that warmed the heart of not only Otrera, but that of Daegan.

  They were interrupted by one of the servant-lasses calling shrilly for assistance with a wounded Amazon warrior-woman who had fought as valiantly, as Fergus and Andvari. One of the chief guards of Prithia, she had lost one of her arms just below the elbow, with her wound having previously been closed only for it to now have reopened.

  Hurrying thither to the aid of the poor wretched woman Daegan it was, who was to re-close the wound in question.

  *****

  Later, after most of the wounded had been seen to, and that Daegan had fallen asleep in her chambers, at the insistence of several of the servants and chambermaids of the castle. Most of who had observed her work herself to the point of exhaustion, so that she was almost asleep upon her feet. Between their insistence and her own fatigue she had fallen into a deep sleep.

  “What?” Daegan wondered, dressed still in her green Romalian dress that had become smeared with blood and dirt from her time nurturing and caring for those wounded in the prior battle.

  Drowsy, she stumbled to the door to find the hallway drowning with people hurrying hither and thither, in a panic. Confused she halted one chambermaid, rushing past her with an empty cauldron, to ask of her what had happened.

  “It is the enemy they have begun a night-raid!” The chambermaid shrieked in a panic, frightened in that manner which only the most helpless of folks tended to become during such trying times.

  Baffled by this turn of events, Daegan gaped at her for some time. The maid did not stay long as she had duties elsewhere, so that Daegan had to go out in search of Prithia or Otrera. The latter she was unable to find which surprised her, for Otrera had hitherto always proven easy to track.

  She had made it a point to always be amongst the wounded, or the sick or with the children, caring for each and every soul she came across. Thankfully, she was able to easily locate the former, whom she discovered halfway down the stairs just as she herself arrived there.

  Daegan called out to her, wherefore she was informed by the old woman, “They have launched a night-assault thankfully they are attacking in the same manner as before.”

  Though she said it as lightly, there was a certain pinched worry to the furrow of the old woman’s brow and a concerned frown upon her thin lips. It was evident that Prithia suspected this was a trick of some sort.

  It was a suspicion that Daegan at once leapt to herself, “Why would they attack the exact same place as before? Do they seek to distract us?”

  “That I know not, I suspect only that they wish to weaken our defences or lull us into a false-sense of security ere they attempt some sort of trick.” Prithia confessed turning away as she spoke, with Daegan racing after her.

  “Has Otrera gone on ahead?” Daegan asked surprised that she had yet to see the woman in question.

  “Nay, she has other duties,” Prithia retorted, coming to a stop she studied the daughter of Corin for a few minutes, this served to unnerve the younger woman who tore her own gaze away. She did this under the pretext, to better study those milling about and racing to and fro all about them, until at last the Warlady addressed her once more. “Daegan go back to sleep.”

  “What? But why would I do that?” Daegan wondered confused, feeling as though her honour were being impugned in some way she drew herself up, to defend it. “If you mean to imply that I am unneeded, I should think-”

  “Nay it is hardly that,” Prithia snapped irritably, as though she had already had this conversation which drew a startled look from her hostage. “I would have you well-rested. This battle I suspect will be a short one, and we have no need to have you wearied so.” Before Daegan could try once more to insist to join in the battle on the walls, Prithia stated firmly. “And I will not negotiate this point with you. These are my orders, rather than my wishes, should I see you on the walls I shall have you locked in your chambers, as I would my nieces when they were disobedient.”

  What she did not say, was that Andromache in her youth would always climb down from her window when imprisoned in her chambers. Defiant by nature, the original heiress of Dytikástro had never accepted meekly the decrees of her aunt as Daegan later learnt.

  Much as she might have liked to make a statement in the name of her own grandeur or of defiance as Andromache might well have done. Daegan was to neither defy nor scream after the old woman.

  Far too wearied, for any infantile acts, she returned to her chambers and though she later felt some measure of shame for it, she fell asleep shortly thereafter. Her sleep was not entirely untroubled, for she was to have horrible dreams of blood and of the sorrows that currently haunted Dytikástro.

  *****

  When next she roused, the battle was already ended. Since Fergus had not participated in this battle, it was left to Andvari who had participated in it, to explain what had happened.

  “There were even more of them than during the day, with the majority of the nocturnal forces involving Colubar, which appears to be the bulk of their forces. It was Stylianos a farmer’s son, who volunteered days ago to serve upon the walls. He did not participate in the previous battle and thus felt as though, he had failed the city. For this reason, he had determined to help as a night-watch on the north-walls of the city. It was as his partner in this endeavour dozed that he heard the sound of the Colubar mounting siege-walls and ladders upon that wall.

  Though he did not survive the first wave of the enemy, he nonetheless blew his horn with all the vigour of a Roland, and was to rouse us to the danger that lay to the north.

  In the hours that followed we fought them off upon our walls, for they gained a firm-foothold so that we feared the city may in fact be overrun. At the same time that we were struck to the north, they sought to strike to the other walls they had attacked two days ago. It happened that Prithia was to throw herself into the midst of the enemy, her guards joining her. It was she once again, who was to save the lot of us, from the enemy’s mass of troops. As to the other wall, Stamatios appeared from nowhere to smite the enemy from the walls and while he sustained some injuries, he was to prove his valour.”

  “I see,” Daegan whispered not at all enthusiastic in regards to the accomplishments of the younger brother of the Warlady.

  The three of them, sat together over a bowl of apples and goat-milk after the attacks against the walls of Dytikástro had come to an end. It was noon, and the three of them were all wearied after the previous night.

  Fergus had been the one to invite Andvari, with the anger Daegan had felt in previous days entirely forgotten. Much to the Dwarf’s relief, though she failed to notice this distracted as she was by her own sense of fatigue.

  “It also came about that the moment, we pushed back the enemy and they were made to flee.” Andvari went on eagerly, “I must confess that though I still have doubts in regards to the Warlady, I was pleased to see her so very keen to see the enemy pushed back.”

  “What still annoys me, is how she has refused me permission to care for the ill and dying,” Daegan grumbled pouting, feeling in some capacity snubbed. All that she wished to do was aid the people of Dytikástro so that she could not grasp why she had been refused by Prithia.

  “I would not worry all that much over that,” Fergus stated indifferently.

  “Aye, Prithia knows you need rest,” Andvari agreed at once.

  Daegan sighed. She still desired to achieve some great deed as she imagined Cormac and Corin to be in the midst of performing. She envied them, for being out in the fields near Iaranntùr pushing back the tide of evil. Or so she thought at that moment, her previous moments of cowardice momentarily forgotten as her sense of indignation arose from the ether.

  “But I have rested,” Daegan complained childishly.

  At the sound of her whining, her two friends exchanged an exasperated look.

  Andvari demonstrated for the first time some measure of tact, when he said. “I have also spoken with the likes of a few farmers, notably Minotaur ones and think we should consider sending you out of the city, Daegan.”

  “What? Why?” Daegan snapped at once, “I am no coward, I will not flee!”

  “It is not cowardice to flee in this situation,” Fergus replied sharply, “We would simply be fleeing to rejoin our companions in the west.”

  “But what of the people of Dytikástro?” Daegan asked not quite grasping what it was that they were seeking to tell her. There was another exchanged glance between the two of them, so that she grew even more agitated, “What? Why are you two continuously exchanging glances?”

  “Because you are being foolish,” Andvari informed her bluntly after some encouragement from his friend. “Otrera has been sent away, to act as messenger to the tribes of Vyrsaar.”

  This was unexpected news. Maybe not for a Fergus or even an Indulf had he been present at hand, even Trygve could have foreseen this possibility. But Daegan was of a more prideful and wilful nature.

  Thus, it was that she leapt up to her feet a bit of fury on her freckled brow, “What? When was this? Why was I not told of this?”

  “You are being told at this very moment,” Fergus replied slyly, for which she glowered at him. He sighed at this response on her part, “Otrera did not think you would have any positive words to say to her, given how you comported yourself throughout your stay here.”

  “Is that why she volunteered for such a task? Did she truly think me so horrible?” Daegan asked feeling horrid.

  “She did not volunteer, but was commanded against her will, by her aunt.” Andvari clarified at once, ere he admitted reluctantly, “As to your feelings of dismay in regards to Otrera’s affection for your father, it was far from unreasonable I think, it oft happens amongst us Dwarves.”

  Daegan only felt worse at being compared to a Dwarf. Especially after all, that she had observed of Sea-Dwarves, just below the surface of his criticism however, lay a gem as the Dwarves were amongst the most loyal of folks to their kith as she was later to discover.

  Fergus was also to assure her, “Otrera left with no bitter feelings against you Daegan, to the contrary she wished you the very best. That you might once again be free and that you might understand her indissoluble affection for your father.”

  Daegan did not say so, but she wished they would go away then. Leave her to ponder her feelings and her sense of failure. At that moment, she wished Cormac was present and him alone. He would have known what to say to comfort her, or would have understood why she had comported herself the way she had. He, it was who always cheered her up when she was miserable or teased at just the right moment to pull her from her melancholy.

  “I will go pray now,” She said in place of any angry retorts, feeling too tired to argue with them. “I have heard there is a chapel to Ziu here in the palace, and have yet to visit it.”

  Both men wished to join her, yet this they did not do. For this, and this courtesy alone she was grateful to them.

  *****

  It was after she withdrew from the chapel, where she had knelt before the bearded marble-statue holding up the flame-sword that Prithia called for her.

  Escorted down to the map-room where all war-councils were held, with Gavriil and Penthesileia and Prithia stood around the map waiting for her. Each of them bore a grave expression upon their faces by the time that they arrived.

  “It is time, I think that you should take flight from the city, Daegan,” Prithia stated without preamble once she was in the room with the door safely closed behind her. This abrupt statement startled Daegan who made to protest, with the Amazon pre-empting any and all arguments. “I am aware that you may think it beneath you, to fly from this place however it is my wish that you be released.”

  “But why?” Daegan asked her throat all of a sudden feeling dryer than the worse of all the harvests of Caledonia she had lived to see, seven years prior. It had been in the midst of the reign of Donnchad, and was blamed upon him for his mismanagement and the lack of approval by the gods for his reign.

  Glasvhail had survived by dint of their elders’ storing spare food and grain and fish in the temple of Fufluns. It had been a time of difficulty, with Conn having proven his loyalty and love for his people, by opening those stores upon the first day of winter as promised.

  “Because,” Prithia searched for words, wherefore she at last admitted with great sorrow, “It is time. I have long since come to hold you in high esteem; for you have reminded me with your fiery spirit and ill-temper, of my precious niece Andromache. You are not her, and therefore it is not for you to sacrifice yourself here. You belong to Gallia.”

  This statement about Gallia flew over the head of Daegan unobserved. This was perfectly reasonable given distracted as she was by the proclamation of affection by the Warlady, who was ordinarily not a woman prone to talk with such sentimentality. Brought up in such a way that she had hardly come to know, her own feminine nature Prithia had never truly become a proper woman. Rather, she was a warrior and that was all.

  It was at that moment though that she came to know the woman that lay deep within her own nature. Though she was to never again speak in so loving a manner or tone Prithia had never before that moment, looked more radiant or magnificent.

  It happened that all who observed her then felt a great rush of affection for her in turn. None moreso than Daegan herself, who stuttered, fell quiet then rediscovered her voice, only to almost at once, lose it once more.

  It was left to Prithia to speak if desperately so, “Mayhaps Daegan! Mayhaps if the gods are good and your kinsmen heed your words, they will come to the rescue of our poor miserable people. I shall hold that day in my prayers!”

  Daegan was ashamed to admit it later, but she wept then. Sobbing as a broken babe, she was ashamed of her tears. Yet, she also felt a strange pride when she felt Prithia’s arms about her. They were united then in an embrace that was in many ways, the closest she was to ever come to feeling as a granddaughter to a grandmother. The sentiment was much the same for the Warlady, who was to deny it at a later date, but she wept also.

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