Darkspell - Katharine Kerr [23]
“What else have we got, my lady? We’re naught but a pair of dishonored men without a lord to ride for or a clan to take us in.”
“Done, then. You ride at my orders, and I promise you, you’ll have your chance for vengeance.”
In sincere gratitude they grinned. In those days a warrior who lived through a battle in which his lord died was a shamed man, turned away from everyone’s shelter and mocked wherever he went.
As the warband made its way south to Cerrmor, they picked up other men like Abryn and Draudd—some, other survivors from the Stag’s warband; some, stubbornly close-mouthed about their past, but all of them desperate enough to lay aside their amazement at finding a priestess at the head of a warband. Eventually Gweniver had thirty-seven men, just three short of the number that Avoic had pledged to bring. In fact, they pledged to her so gladly and accepted her so easily that she was surprised. Their last night on the road, she shared a campfire with Ricyn, who waited upon her like an orderly.
“Tell me somewhat,” she said to him. “Do you think these lads will still follow my orders once we’re down in Cerrmor?”
“Of course, my lady.” He seemed surprised that she would ask. “You’re the one who took them off the roads and gave them the right to feel like men again. Besides, you’re a priestess.”
“Does that matter to them?”
“Oh, twice over. Come, now, we’ve all heard those tales about Moon-sworn warriors, haven’t we? But it’s twice a marvel to actually see one. Most of the lads think it’s an omen, you see. It’s like dweomer, and you’re dweomer-touched. We all know it’s bound to bring us good luck.”
“Luck? Oh, it won’t bring that, but only the favor of the Moon in Her Darktime. Do you truly want that kind of favor, Ricyn? It’s a harsh thing, a cold wind from the Otherlands.”
Ricyn shuddered as if he felt that wind blowing. For a long time he stared into the campfire.
“Harsh or not, it’s all I have left to me,” he said at last. “I’ll follow you, and you follow the Goddess, and we’ll see what she brings us both.”
Cerrmor lay at the mouth of the Belaver, the watercourse that formed the natural spine of the kingdom, where the estuary had cut a broad harbor out of the chalky cliff. With over sixty thousand people sheltering behind its high stone walls, it was the biggest city in the kingdom now that Dun Deverry had been laid waste. From a long line of piers and jetties, the city spread out upriver in a sprawl of curved streets like ripples from a stone thrown into a pond. As long as its gwerbrets kept it safe, its trade with Bardek kept it rich. A fortress within a fortress, Dun Cerrmor stood on a low, artificial hill in the middle of town not far from the river. Inside a double ring of walls were the stone broch complex, stone outbuildings, and stone barracks, all with slate roofs; nowhere was there a scrap of wood that might be fired with a flaming arrow. Outside the main gate were barbicans, and the gates themselves were covered with iron, opened and shut with a winch.
When Gweniver led her warband through to the cobbled ward, cheers rang out: it’s the Wolf! By all the gods, it’s the Wolf! Men poured out of broch and barrack to watch, and pages in the king’s colors of red and silver ran to greet them.
“My lord,” a lad burst out. “We heard you were slain!”
“My brother was,” Gweniver said. “Go tell the king that the Lady Gweniver is here to honor Lord Avoic’s vow.”
The page stared goggle-eyed at her tattooed face, then dashed back into the broch. Ricyn rode up beside her and gave her a grin.
“They thought you were a ghost from the Otherlands, my lady. Shall I have the men dismount?”
“Just that. Here, you’ve been acting like the captain for days. It’s about time I told you that you officially are.”
“My lady honors me too highly.”
“She doesn’t, and you know it. You were never humble, Ricco, so don’t pretend to be so now.”
With a laugh he made her a half bow from the saddle and turned his horse back to the men.
While she waited for