The king’s mother, Meria, and the wives and younger children of Bendegit Bran and Fiallach were among several hundred people who travelled south to Three Streams in the second week of spring. They travelled with an escort of twenty Iron Wolves, led by Finnigal, Fiallach’s eldest son. It was his first command, and he tried to hide his disappointment at being offered such a lowly task. He had begged to be allowed to ride with his father, and if not that, then to assist Bran and the northern army. However, the king himself had decided his role, and now he would miss both battles.
‘Is this a punishment?’ he had asked the king.
Connavar had shaken his head. ‘You are a good and brave soldier, Finn, and deserving of no punishment. There are outlaws and robber gangs in the area surrounding Three Streams. Your presence will deter them from raids. You think I would punish a man by asking him to protect my mother, and the wives and children of my closest friends?’
‘No, sir. It is just that I will miss the fighting.’
Connavar had laughed then. ‘Spoken like the son of Fiallach. My boy, you are seventeen years old. There will be plenty of time for battles. Trust me on this.’
Finnigal twisted in his saddle and looked back along the line of wagons. The ancient tracker Parax was seated alongside Meria in the first, and it was Meria who held the reins and urged the horses onward. The old man was slumped in his seat, his head on his chest. Finnigal rode back to the wagon.
‘Shall I get one of my men to take over?’ he asked Meria nervously. The king’s mother was a stern woman, her tightly braided hair the colour of iron, her green eyes cold and hard.
‘You think I am incapable of driving a wagon?’ she asked him.
‘No, lady, of course not.’
‘Then be about your business, Captain Finnigal.’
Bendegit Bran’s five-year-old son Orrin peeped out from under the canvas canopy. ‘Are we there yet, Uncle Finn?’ he called out. Finnigal’s mood rose as he saw the straw-haired youngster’s freckled face.
‘Not yet,’ he answered, with a grin. ‘Soon. How is Ruathain?’
‘He’s sleeping again,’ said Orrin. ‘He’s very hot.’
Finnigal swung his horse and cantered ahead of the wagons. Ruathain was dying, and it was hard to take. Only last year the seventeen-year-old had been wide-shouldered and powerful as a young bull. Now he was all bone, a shadow of what once he was. His eyes were sunken, the skin around them bruised and dark, and his face looked like that of an old man. Finnigal shivered, remembering that he too had succumbed to the Yellow Fever, but had recovered within weeks. Not so poor Ruathain.
An hour later, just before dusk, Finnigal crested the last hill above
Three Streams, and gazed down on the settlement. It was here that his father and mother had met. It was here that Connavar the King had been born. He glanced back. Maybe here Meria would learn to smile again, he thought. Then he laughed at his own stupidity. If Meria were ever to smile, her face would crack apart under the strain of it.
Sixty miles to the east four of Shard’s long ships beached in a secluded bay, and two hundred and fifty raiders waded ashore.
Their leader, Snarri Daggerbright, was a veteran of many raids. A hulking figure with deep-set eyes and a misshapen mouth – the result of a kick from a horse some years before, which had smashed out his front teeth and crushed his nose flat against his skull – Snarri relished this mission. Shard’s informant had assured him that almost all of the fighting men would have been moved either north to face Shard or south to resist Jasaray. That left only the old men and the women. Snarri felt his blood rise at the thought of the Rigante women, and the days ahead of blood and rape and cleansing fire.
He marched his men across the sand, and up into the woods, halting at the tree line to scan the surrounding land.
‘Where do we strike first?’ asked Dratha, his second in command.