He drew up again. This time Cathair pulled up beside him, their two chariots abreast. They watched the others come. Brihan’s or Dacha’s men?
They were Brihan’s. Two young warriors wearing his colors. One was fair, one red-haired. Neither looked friendly.
“Halt!” called the fair-headed man, though they had already done so. “Ye be on Chief Brihan’s land.”
“I am Fearghal MacErst,” Fearghal called boldly, “Chief o’ the Marren. And I come to speak with Brihan.”
The two men exchanged startled glances. The one on the left, who had half drawn his sword, thrust it back into the loop at his belt.
“Did Chief Brihan call for ye?” the other asked.
“Nay. I come to speak o’ the alliance between us.”
That alliance, informal as it may have been, surely lay shattered now, broken by Brihan’s attack upon the settlement. Yet neither of these young men was versed in such matters.
“Will ye give us safe passage to his dun?” Fearghal requested.
They conferred with one another, low, fierce tones before the first said, “Aye. Follow us.”
“Hands off weapons,” Fearghal said again to Cathair, and they rolled out.
In all his life, Ardahl had never been to the heart of Brihan’s holdings. He’d fought in many a battle on the perimeter—he and Conall had—but that had been against Dacha’s rather than Brihan’s own men.
He’d imagined one holding must be much like another and that the folk here lived as he did, more or less. But as they rattled their way in past dwellings, enclosures, and other structures beneath the warm sun, he saw signs of lack and want that surprised him.
The people turned and stared as they passed. Some looked ragged. The children had hungry looks in their eyes.
Why? The land gave much in game. There should be no reason for such want.
A further presence of a guard showed here—warriors came running. Their train halted as the escort consulted with them. A man ran ahead. Informing Brihan of their arrival, no doubt.
They drew up at length before a hall, a good, stout one. By the time they reached it, a crowd followed, and Brihan himself stood out front, surrounded by his men.
Ah, and would the battle take place here, then? The one in which Ardahl spent his life? If so, it would be fight and die. No getting away out of here safely.
Brihan did not appear pleased to see them. A man of early middle years, he had reddish hair already beginning to gray and a broad build, not much above ordinary height. He had come out in his house clothes—no armor—though he did wear a sword.
“Chief Fearghal!” he called without any welcome. “Did I send for ye?” A hint of irony hung in the words.
Fearghal grimaced in answer. “Chief Brihan.” If Fearghal felt great anger over this man’s treachery, he did not show it. “We need to speak together. I request safe conduct that we may do so.”
Brihan exchanged a look with the man at his shoulder, an advisor, no doubt. Much hung on what he would next say. If he rejected Fearghal’s request and called up his warriors, a battle would ensure. A short, sharp battle.
He did not reply with words. Instead he swept his arm out in a gesture inviting them in.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
The interior ofBrihan’s hall bustled with people, so Ardahl saw when they went in. Some must be extended family. He saw several women, a few with children. A number of servants. Warriors. Advisors? It seemed more a meeting place than a fine dwelling.
Ah, but who were they to judge? Their own hall lay blackened and burned.
“Abban,” Brihan called to a servant. “Bring drink. Clear us a place at the fire.”
Clear us a placeapparently meant chasing those already there away. A couple of old men. Two children and three women, one of whom cast a horrified look at Ardahl’s group before stepping up to Brihan and beginning an intent conversation.
The four of them waited, Ardahl’s spine tingling at the threat of attack from behind. It seemed Brihan was willing to talk, but anything could happen. It could end very badly indeed.
Ardahl did not want to die in this foreign, slightly squalid place out of sight of the sky.
