The Gold Falcon - Katharine Kerr [9]
Down the hill behind Tieryn Cadryc’s recently built dun lay a long meadow, where the tieryn’s warband of thirty men were amusing themselves with mock combats in the last glow of a warm afternoon. Two men at a time would pick out wooden swords and wicker shields, then face off in the much-trampled grass. The rest of the troop sat in untidy lines off to either side and yelled comments and insults as the combat progressed. Gerran, the captain of the Red Wolf warband, sat off to one side with Lord Mirryn, Tieryn Cadryc’s son. Brown-haired and blue-eyed, with a liberal dusting of freckles across his broad cheekbones, Mirryn was lounging at full length, propped up on one elbow, and chewing on a long grass stem like a farmer.
“One of these days our miserly gwerbret’s bound to set up a proper tourney,” Mirryn said. “Although everyone knows you’d win it, so I doubt me if I can get anyone to wager against you.”
“Oh, here,” Gerran said. “It’s not that much of a sure thing.”
“Of course it is.” Mirryn grinned at him. “False humility doesn’t become you.”
Gerran allowed himself a brief smile. Out in the meadow a new fight was starting. The rest of the warband called out jests and jeers, teasing Daumyr for his bad luck in drawing his sparring partner. Daumyr, the tallest man in the troop at well over six feet, stood grinning while he swung his wooden sword in lazy circles to limber up his arm. His opponent, Warryc, was skinny and short—but fast.
“Ye gods, Daumyr’s got a long reach!” Mirryn said. “It’s truly amazing, the way Warryc beats him every time. Huh—there must be a way we can use this at the next tourney.”
“Use it for what?” Gerran said.
“Acquiring some hard coin, that’s what, by setting up a wager, getting some poor dolt to bet high on Daumyr.”
“The very soul of honor, that’s you.”
Gerran was about to say more when he heard hoof-beats and shouting. A young page on a bay pony came galloping across the meadow.
“My lord Mirryn! Captain Gerran!” the page called out. “The tieryn wants you straight away. There’s been a raid on the Great West Road.”
Mirryn led the warband back at the run. Up at the top of a hill, new walls of pale stone, built at the high king’s expense, circled the fort to protect the tall stone broch tower and its outbuildings. The men dashed through the great iron-bound gates, stopped in the ward to catch their collective breath, then hurried into the great hall. Sunlight fell in dusty shafts from narrow windows, cut directly into stone, and striped the huge round room with shadows. Gerran paused, letting his eyes adjust, then picked his way through the clutter of tables and benches, dogs and servants. The warband followed him, but Mirryn hurried on ahead to his father’s side. When he saw Gerran lingering behind, Mirryn waved him up with an impatient arm.
By the hearth of honor, Cadryc was pacing back and forth, a tall man, tending toward stout, with a thin band of gray hair clinging to the back of his head and a pair of ratty gray mustaches. Perched on the end of a table was the gerthddyn, Salamander. Mirryn and Gerran exchanged a look of faint disgust at the sight of him, a babbling fool, in their shared opinion, with his tricks and tales. When Gerran started to kneel before the tieryn, Cadryc impatiently waved him to his feet.
“Raiders,” Cadryc said. “Didn’t the page tell you? We’re riding tomorrow at dawn, so get the men ready.”
“Well and good, Your Grace,” Gerran said. “How far are they?”
“Who knows, by now?” Cadryc shook his head in frustrated rage. “Let’s hope they’re still looting the village.”
“Bastards,” Mirryn said. “I hope to all the gods they are. We’ll make them pay high for this.”
“You’re staying here, lad,” Cadryc said. “I’m not risking myself and my heir both.”
Mirryn flushed red, took a step forward, then shoved his hands into his brigga pockets.
“For all we know, the raiders have set up some sort of ruse or trap,” Cadryc went on. “I’ll be leaving you ten men to command on fort guard. Your foster brother here can handle the rest