Govannan spoke. He had changed in the last year, his face losing the roundness of youth. His dark eyes were deep set, his face almost gaunt and he sported no beard. ‘If they are coming, as you say, Conn, then how will five hundred riders succeed where armies of thousands have failed?’
‘We will not succeed alone. There will also be armies – footmen, cavalry, archers. The Stone soldiers are grouped into six units which, together, create a Panther. The head is the elite fighting force, the advance unit. Then there are the claws. Finally there is the Belly. This last group is responsible for protecting supply lines. The Stone army, being in hostile territory, must be constantly supplied with food: grain, salt, meat, dried fruits.’ Conn smiled grimly. ‘That is where my riders will be best used. Disrupting their supplies, attacking their convoys. They call themselves Panthers. We will be the Iron Wolves, hunting them as a pack. We will also harry and terrorize those who supply them. For make no mistake, they will be supplied by Keltoi chieftains. That is their method. When they fought the Perdii, they were supplied by the Gath and the Ostro. It will be the same here. They will land in the far south, and probably attack the Norvii. If they follow the same pattern as before they will first seek to befriend the Cenii and other smaller tribes. These tribes, who have long held grievances against the Norvii, will sell grain to the Stone army. Once they have a base they will set up their own supply routes.’ He looked around the room, scanning their faces. ‘Now,’ he said, ‘do I have your Blood Oaths?’
‘You have mine,’ said Ruathain.
‘And mine,’ said Govannan.
Fiallach stood silently for a moment. On another day he might have refused. But today, with the joy of Gwydia flowing through him, he smiled. ‘I’ll follow you, Connavar,’ he said. ‘To the death.’
Maccus was tired. He had spent weeks riding the lands of the Northern Rigante with Connavar, visiting minor chieftains, touring farms and communities, visiting silver and copper mines, and fishing villages on the coast. His back ached from hours in the saddle every day, and his mind reeled with weariness. Connavar was inexhaustible, full of the energy of youth. Close now to fifty, Maccus was looking forward to stepping aside once Connavar took on the role of laird. He didn’t doubt that the young man would want his own First Counsel, probably his father, Ruathain.
Maccus was thinking about moving to a small cabin, high in the Druagh mountains. He had built it with his wife some twenty years before. They had enjoyed many happy times there before the Long Laird had summoned him to Old Oaks and offered him the role of First Counsel. At first his wife, Leia, had found Old Oaks too busy and noisy for her liking, and they had moved some miles out of the settlement, taking over a small farm, which Leia had run. As the years passed the farm produced good profits, which became even greater when Leia began to breed pigs. Smoked ham was a rare delicacy in the highlands, and Leia’s was the best Maccus had ever tasted.
He rose from his bed, and groaned as a stab of pain lanced through his arthritic shoulder. The bed was too soft for him. Outside he could hear the members of the household moving around, and smelt the smoky aroma of frying bacon. He heard Connavar’s voice, then the laughter of some women.
Moving to the window he pushed it open and gazed out on the rocky landscape and the wide waters of Snake Loch. The fishermen were already out, their nets cast, their small boats bobbing on the grey waves. Maccus shivered. A cold wind was blowing from the north. It had been a nine-hour ride to the Snake, and after it Connavar had sat late into the night talking to the chieftain.
Maccus pulled on his tunic, leggings and boots, and walked out into the Long Hall. There were some twenty people present, including Connavar, all seated around a twelve-foot rectangular bench table.
‘How did you sleep?’ asked Arna, the one-eyed chieftain.