At the use of his title Tovi stiffened, and Sigarni saw the anger in his eyes. ‘You have fought one battle, Sigarni. I have fought many. I know what war is, and I know what it achieves. It is no more than a pestilence. It is a terrible thing – it consumes and destroys, birthing hatreds that last for generations. But I am the Hunt Lord, and I will not leave my people in this desperate hour.’
‘Then kneel,’ she said, her voice flat and unrelenting.
Tovi stepped forward and dropped to one knee. ‘My sword and my life,’ he said, solemnly.
‘Let it be so,’ she told him.
Sigarni left him there and walked from the bakery. Grame was sitting by his forge with a bloody bandage around his upper arm. Gwalchmai was with him. The smith grinned as he saw her. Gwalchmai belched, stood, staggered and sat down. ‘He’s drunk,’ said Grame.
‘He always is,’ said Sigarni. ‘Will you serve me, Grame?’
The smith scratched his thick white beard. ‘You’ve changed, lass. You always had iron in you, but I’d guess it has been run through the fire and moulded into something sharp and deadly. Aye, I’ll serve you. What would you have me do?’
‘Make the pledge.’
‘I gave that pledge once already, and the King ran away and left me and others to rot.’
‘I will not run, Grame. Make the pledge.’
He stood and looked into her eyes. Bending his knee, he took a deep breath. ‘My sword and my life,’ he said.
‘Let it be so.’
‘Where do I begin?’ he asked, rising.
‘See Tovi. He will tell you what I require in the coming weeks. For now, gather all weapons and supplies and lead our people deep into Pallides territory. We will speak again when the evacuation is complete. Any man who comes to you, Grame, and wishes to serve, make him speak the pledge. From now on we are Highlanders again. Nothing and no one will ever steal our pride. You understand?’
‘Hail to thee, Battle Queen!’ shouted Gwalchmai, lifting his jug in salute.
The words chilled Sigarni. ‘Be silent, old fool! This is no place for your drunken ramblings.’
‘He may be drunk,’ said Grame, ‘but he is not wrong. Only the sovereign can call for the pledge. And only to a sovereign would I make it. You are the Battle Queen, Sigarni. Nothing can change that.’
Sigarni said nothing. Fell and his foresters came into sight, along with scores of villagers, forming a great semi-circle around the forge. All had heard Gwalchmai’s drunken salute, and Sigarni saw both confusion and apprehension on the faces of the people around her.
She walked slowly to her horse and stepped into the saddle. There was no noise now, and she felt their eyes upon her as she rode slowly towards the hills.
8
LIKE A GIFT from a merciful god winter came twelve days early, blizzards sweeping across the mountains, heavy snowfalls blocking narrow passes and making treacherous even the best of the roads. Sigarni sat alone on a high ridge, wrapped in a cloak of sheepskin, and stared out over the hills to the south. A mile away she could see three figures making their slow progress through the snow.
The heady days of victory at Cilfallen were weeks behind her now, and all the subsequent news had been bad. Stung by unexpected defeat the Outlanders had reacted savagely, sending three forces deep into the mountains to the east and the west. Three Farlain villages had been attacked, and more than four hundred Highlanders massacred in their homes. In the east a Pallides settlement was razed to the ground, and several Loda hamlets were struck during the same week, bringing the death total to more than five hundred.
Ten days before the slaughter Sigarni had travelled with Fell and Asmidir to the main Farlain town, seeking warriors to join their growing band. The experience had proved a hard lesson. As she sat watching the walkers in the snow, Sigarni steeled herself to recall the day.
More than five hundred people had gathered in the main square as the Hunt Lord, Torgan, waited to greet her. There were no cheers as the trio rode in. Torgan, a tall slender man, with wiry black hair cut short to expose a sharp widow’s peak and a bald spot at the crown, was waiting for them. He was sitting on a high seat in the centre of the square, flanked by six warriors carrying ritual ebony staffs, adorned with silver. Sitting at his feet was a white-bearded old man dressed in a long robe of faded grey.