Ironhand's Daughter (20 page)

Tovi squinted. “Flashes of sunlight upon metal. The enemy are coming. It will take them at least an hour to cross the valley floor.”

“How many?”

“They are too far away to count accurately. Go back to Cilfallen and tell them the Outlanders are coming.”

“What about you?” asked Gwalch, pushing himself to his feet. Behind him the grey hounds rose also.

“I'll wait awhile and count them. Then I'll join you.” Gwalch climbed into the cart, still nursing his jug. He flicked the reins and the two war hounds lurched into the traces. Tovi watched as the little cart trundled out of view, then he stood and stretched. His thoughts flicked to the Pallides man, Loran, and his warnings concerning the Outlanders. He had hoped the clansman was wrong, but now he knew otherwise. A few weeks ago the world had been a calm and pleasant place, filled with the smell of fresh-baked bread and the laughter and noise of his children. Now the days of blood had dawned again.

Stooping, he picked up the old claymore and stood facing the south, his hands upon the hilt, the blade resting on the earth. It was a fine weapon, and had served him well all those years ago. Yet holding it now gave him no pleasure, no surging sense of pride. All he could feel was sorrow.

The line of riders came down the long hill into the valley. Now he could count them. One hundred and fifty men and five officers. Too large a group to have come for hostages. No, he told himself, this is a killing raid. One hundred and fifty-five soldiers for a village of forty-seven men, thirty-eight women, and fifty-one children! As he thought of the little ones a spark of anger burned through his grief, flaming to life in his breast. His huge hands curled around the claymore, the blade flashing up. Once he could have taken three, maybe four enemy soldiers. Today he would find out how much he had lost.

Turning his back upon the distant enemy, Tovi laid the claymore blade on his shoulder and strode down the long road to home. He was high above Cilfallen and from here the buildings seemed tiny set against the green hills and the mighty mountains. Newer dwellings of stone alongside the older timbered houses, and ancient log cabins with roofs of turf, all clustered together in a friendly harmony of wood and stone. Aye, thought Tovi, that is the mark of Cilfallen. The village is friendly and welcoming. There were no walls, for up to now the people had lived without fear.

Cilfallen was indefensible. Tovi sighed, and paused for one last look at the village he had known all his life.

Never will you look the same to me again, he knew. For now I can see the lack of walls and parapets. I see hills from which cavalry can charge into our square. I see buildings with no strong doors, or bowmen's windows. There is no moat. Only the stream, and the white rocks upon which the women and children beat the clothes to wash them.

Tovi walked on, aware also of his own weakness, the large belly fed with too much fresh bread and country butter, and a right arm already tired from holding the claymore.

“I'll find the strength,” he said aloud.

Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps. The weight of his chain mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron's orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.

A mixture of honey and wine had been applied to his blood-drenched back. Three of the deeper cuts had needed stitches, twenty-two in all. Yet here he was, within a fortnight, sitting his saddle and leading his men.

He did not question the Baron's change of heart, and had accepted the commission with a burbled speech of gratitude that the Baron had cut short. “Do not fail me again, Chard,” he had warned. “How many men will you need?”

“Three hundred, sir.”

The Baron had laughed at him. “For a village? Why not take a thousand?”

“There are nearly two hundred of them, sir!”

The Baron had lifted a sheet of paper. “One hundred and fifty, approximately. Fifty of them are children under the age of twelve. Around forty are women. The remainder are men. Farmers, cattle herders—not a good sword among them. Take one hundred and fifty men. No prisoners, Chard. Hang all the bodies so they can be clearly seen. Burn the buildings.”

“Yes, sir. When you say no prisoners . . . you mean the men?”

“Kill them
all
. I have chosen the men you will have with you. They are mercenaries, scum mostly. They'll have no problem with the task. When they're finished let them loot. They will also—most certainly—keep some of the younger women alive for a while. Let them have their enjoyment, it's good for morale.” The Baron's cold eyes fixed on Chard. “You have a problem with this?”

Chard wished he had the courage to tell the man just how much a problem he had with butchery. Instead he had swallowed hard and mumbled, “No, sir.”

“How is your back?”

“Healing, sir.”

“You won't fail me again, will you, Chard?”

“No, sir.”

The sun was high and sweat trickled down onto the whip wounds. Chard groaned. An officer rode alongside as they reached the valley floor.

“Beyond that line of hills, isn't it?” the man asked and Chard turned his head. The officer was thin-faced, with protruding eyes, his face marred by the scars of smallpox. Several white-headed pimples showed around his nostrils and a boil was beginning on the nape of his neck. “Many women there?” asked the officer as Chard ignored the first question.

“Set the men in a skirmish line,” Chard ordered.

“What for? It's only a pigging village. There's no fighting men likely to ambush us.”

“Give the order,” said Chard.

“Whatever you say,” answered the officer, with a thinly disguised sneer. Twisting in the saddle, he called out to the men, “Every second man left skirmish. All others to the right!” He swung back to Chard. “You have orders for the attack?”

“How many ways are there to attack a helpless village?”

“Depends if they know they're going to be attacked. If they don't, you just ride in and get the headman to call all the people together. When they're all in one place you slaughter 'em. If they do know, then they'll all be locked in their houses, or running for the woods. Lots of different ways, on foot, in a charge. It's up to you.”

“Attacked many villages, have you?”

“Too many to count. It's good practice. I'll tell you, you can learn a lot about your men by the way they conduct themselves in a situation like this. Not everyone can do it, you know. We had a young lad once, fearless and damn good with a sword or lance. But this sort of mission, useless. Blubbed like a baby . . . ran around witlessly. Know what happened? Some young kid ran at him and slashed his throat open with a scythe. It was a damn shame. That boy had potential, you know?”

“Send a scout up to the high ground. He'll see the village from there.”

The officer wheeled his horse and rode to the left. A young mercenary kicked his horse into a run and Chard watched him climb the hill and rein in at the top. The soldier waved them on.

Chard led the men up the hill. The officer came alongside and the two men stared down at the cluster of buildings. A narrow stream cut across the south of Cilfallen, and there were two small bridges. Chard examined the line of water; the horses could cross it with ease. Beyond the stream was a low retaining wall, around two feet high and some thirty feet in length. Beyond that were the homes he had been sent to destroy. As he watched a young woman walked from one of the buildings; she was carrying a wicker basket full of clothes, and she knelt at the stream and began to wash them. Chard sighed, then he spoke. “Send fifty men around the village to the north to cut them off from the hills. The rest of us will attack from the south.”

The officer gave out his orders and two troops filed off to the northeast. Then he leaned across his saddle. “Listen, Chard, I'd advise you to wait here. From what I hear your back's in a mess, so you won't be able to fight. And I guess you won't want any . . . pleasures. So leave it to me and my men. You agree?”

Chard longed to agree. Instead he shook his head. “I will ride in with the attack,” he said. “When it is over I will leave you to your . . . pleasures.”

“Only trying to be helpful,” said the officer with a wide grin.

They waited until the fifty horsemen had reached their position to the north of the village, then Chard drew his sword. “Give the order,” he told the officer.

“No prisoners!” shouted the man. “And all the looting to be left until the job is done! Forward!”

Chard wondered briefly if God would ever forgive him for this day, then touched spurs to his mount. The beast leaped forward. The soldiers around him drew their weapons and charged. The men were lighter armored than he, wearing leather breastplates and no helms, and the mercenaries soon outpaced him, forming three attacking lines.

Chard was some fifteen lengths behind the last man when the first line of mercenaries reached the stream. The woman there dropped her washing and, lifting her heavy skirts, ran back toward the buildings. The raucous cries of the mercenaries filled the air and then the horses galloped into the water, sending up glittering fountains that caught the sunlight and shone like diamonds.

The first line had reached the middle of the stream when disaster struck. Horses whinnied in fear and pain as they fell headlong, tipping their riders over their necks. For a moment only Chard was stunned.

Trip wire! Staked beneath the waterline. My God, they were ready for us!

The riders of the second line dragged on their reins, but they collided with their downed comrades in a confused mass. Chard pulled up his mount. Experienced in battle, he knew that the trip wire was only the beginning. Swiftly he scanned the buildings. There was no sign of a defensive force . . .

And then they were there!

Rising up from behind the low retaining wall, a score of bowmen sent volley after volley of shafts into the milling men. Wounded mercenaries began to scream and run, but long shafts slashed into them, slicing through their pitiful armor.

“Dismount!” shouted Chard. “Attack on foot!”

Scum though they were, the mercenaries were not afraid to fight. Leaping from their horses they rushed the bowmen, who stood their ground some thirty feet beyond the stream. More than twenty mercenaries went down, but Chard was confident that once hand-to-hand fighting began they would be swept aside by weight of numbers.

Urging his horse to the edge of the stream, he shouted encouragement to his men.

From behind the buildings came a surging mass of fighting men, armed with claymores, scythes, spears, and hammers—and women carrying knives and hatchets. They smote the mercenaries' left flank. Chard saw the baker, Fat Tovi, slash his claymore through the shoulder and chest of a mercenary, and then the white-bearded smith, Grame, grabbed the pox-marked officer by the throat, braining him with his forge hammer.

The mercenaries broke and ran. But there was no escape.

Chard wheeled his horse and galloped along the stream, crossing a small bridge, then riding for the second group. All fifty were waiting as ordered in skirmish formation some twenty yards below the tree line. With these men he could yet turn the battle.

His pain was forgotten as he urged his stallion up the hill.

As Chard came closer he watched with horror as a dozen men pitched from their saddles with arrows jutting from their backs. Horses reared, spilling their riders.

A line of mounted bowmen rode from the trees, shooting as they came: grim, dark men, clothed in black and silver. As they neared the stunned mercenaries they threw aside their bows, drawing shining silver sabers. There were no more than twenty soldiers left. A few of them tried to fight, the others fled.

Chard, his force in ruins, his fragile reputation gone forever, shouted his defiance and galloped toward the attackers. From their center, on a jet-black horse, came a red-cloaked rider in silver armor. Chard raised his sword, slamming his spurs into the weary stallion's flanks. The horse leaped forward.

The silver rider swung her horse at the last second and the two beasts collided. Chard was flung from the saddle as his stallion went down. The silver rider sprang from her mount and ran in just as he was trying to rise. Despairingly he swung his broadsword at her legs. She jumped nimbly and, as she landed, lashed her saber across his face. The blade struck his temple, biting deep and dislodging his helm.

Chard fell, rolled, and struggled to rise. The saber smashed down upon his skull, glancing from the chain-mail head guard. The blow stunned him and he sagged to his back. The saber lanced into his throat. Chard felt pain only briefly, for the sword plunged through his neck and into the cold earth beneath him.

All was quiet now, and he felt a curious sense of relief. No dead children, no raped and murdered women. Perhaps God would forgive him after all.

Perhaps . . .

Sigarni stepped back from the corpse and heard Asmidir order his men into the village to check on casualties. She was breathing heavily, yet her limbs felt light. Asmidir came alongside her. “How are you feeling?” As he spoke, his hand came down on her shoulder.