Daggerspell. Katharine Kerr

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      The rider spoke the truth about that, certainly. Out in the middle of cleared farmland rose a low hill, ringed with the massive stone walls of the tieryn’s dun. Behind them stood a broch that was at least four stories high, with a red-and-gray pennant flying proudly at the top. Yet as they rode up to it, Jill saw that the great iron-bound gates in the walls were only for show. A long time ago the walls had been slighted and breached with three gaps wide enough to drive a wagon through. Ivy grew over the heaped rubble. Inside they found a muddy ward that had once sheltered many buildings, to judge from the circular foundations and the occasional piece of standing wall left amid the tall grass. Round one side of the broch itself, the wall of the top story had been knocked away. Jill could see into little empty chambers.

      “What did that, Da?”

      “A catapult, no doubt.”

      The ward was silent and empty except for a flock of big white geese, poking for snails in the ivy-covered rubble. When Cullyn called out a halloo, a young boy with a dirty red-and-gray tabard over his shirt and brigga ran out of the broch.

      “Who are you?”

      “Cullyn of Cerrmor. I want to speak with your lord.”

      “Well, Da’s talking to him right now, but they won’t mind if you just come in.”

      “Now, here! You’re supposed to bow to me and say, ‘I’ll see, good sir, but the great Tieryn Braedd may have im portant business afoot.’”

      “But he doesn’t. He never does anything unless he’s fighting with Lord Ynydd, and he isn’t today.”

      Tieryn Braedd’s great hall had once been great indeed, a vast circular room encompassing the entire ground floor of the broch. At either side were two massive stone hearths, carved with bands of interlacement and lions. In between stretched enough space to hold two hundred men at their feasting. Now, however, the far hearth served as a kitchen, where a slatternly lass stood at a battered table and chopped carrots and turnips while a joint of mutton roasted on a spit. By the nearer hearth were three tables and unsteady-looking benches. Two men were sitting and drinking at one of them: a man of solid years, with a soft black beard, and a tall, pale lad of about seventeen with a long nose that reminded Jill of a rabbit. Since he was wearing plaid brigga and a shirt embroidered with lions, the lad had to be the tieryn. The young page skipped up to the table and tugged on the tieryn’s sleeve.

      “Your Grace? There’s a silver dagger here named Cullyn of Cerrmor.”

      “Indeed?” Braedd rose from his chair. “Now, this is a handy thing. Come join me.”

      Without ceremony Braedd sat Jill and Cullyn down on a bench, sent the boy, Abryn, to fetch more ale all round, and introduced the older man as Glyn, his councillor. When the tieryn sat down again, his chair creaked alarmingly.

      “I met a pair of your men in the oak wood, Your Grace,” Cullyn said. “They told me of your feud.”

      “Ah, Ynydd, that bastard-born son of a slug!” Braedd took a moody sip of ale. “Truly, I want to offer you a hire, but my treasury matches my dun walls.” He glanced at Glyn. “Could we squeeze out something?”

      “A horse, I suppose, my lord. He could always sell it in town for the coin.”

      “True.” Braedd suddenly grinned. “Or here, what about cabbages? I’ve got fields and fields of those. Here, silver dagger, think of all the uses cabbages have. You can let them rot, then throw them at enemies in the street, or if you’re courting a wench, you can give her a bouquet of fresh ones, and that’s something she’ll have never seen before, or—”

      “Your Grace?” Glyn broke in.

      “Well, truly, I ramble a bit.” Braedd had another long swallow of ale. “But if you’ll take a horse, and your maintenance, and maintenance for your page, of course?”

      “I will,” Cullyn said. “Done, Your Grace. I’m on. But this is my daughter, actually, not a page.”

      “So she is.” Braedd leaned closer. “Do you honor your father, child?”

      “More than any man in the world, except the King, of course, but I’ve never even met him.”

      “Well spoken.” Braedd belched profoundly. “What a pity that the pusboil Ynydd doesn’t have the respect for the King that we see in this innocent little lass.”

      Cullyn turned to address his questions to Councillor Glyn.

      “What’s this feud about, good sir? The riders only told me that the woods were in dispute.”

      “Well, more or less.” Glyn stroked his beard thoughtfully. “The feud goes back a long time, when Lord Ynydd’s grandfather declared war on His Grace’s grandfather. In those days, they were fighting over who should be tieryn, and many other grave matters, but bit by bit, the thing’s gotten itself settled. The woods, you see, lie on the border of two demesnes. They’re the last thing left to squabble over.”

      “So Ynydd thinks.” Braedd slammed his hand onto the table. “A councillor from the High King himself judged the matter and awarded the claim to me.”

      “Now, Your Grace,” Glyn said soothingly. “Ynydd’s only disputing part of the judgment. He’s ceded you the trees.”

      “But the bastard! Insisting he has ancient and prior claim to swine rights.”

      “Swine rights?” Cullyn said.

      “Swine rights,” Glyn said. “In the fall, you see, the peasants take the swine into the woods to eat the acorns. Now, there’s only enough acorns for one herd of swine—his or ours.”

      “And the withered testicle of a sterile donkey says it’s his,” Braedd broke in. “His men killed one of my riders when the lad turned Ynydd’s hogs out of the woods last fall.”

      Cullyn sighed and had a very long swallow of ale.

      “Da, I don’t understand,” Jill broke in. “You mean someone was killed over pig food?”

      “It’s the honor of the thing!” Braedd slammed his tankard on the table so hard that the ale jumped out and spilled. “Never will I let a man take what’s rightfully mine. The honor of my warband calls out for vengeance! We’ll fight to the last man.”

      “Pity we can’t arm the swine,” Cullyn said. “Everyone will fight for their own food.”

      “Now, splendid!” Braedd gave him a delighted grin. “They shall have little helms, with their tusks for swords, and we shall teach them to trot at the sound of a horn.”

      “Your Grace?” Glyn moaned.

      “Well, truly, I ramble again.”

      Glyn and Abryn, the councillor’s son as it turned out, took Jill and Cullyn out to the last building standing in the ward, the barracks. As was usually the case, the warband slept directly above the stables. In the winter, the body heat from the horses helped keep the men warm, but now, on this warm summer day, the smell of horse was overwhelming. Glyn showed Cullyn a pair of unoccupied bunks, then lingered to watch as Cullyn began to stow away their gear.

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