Aoife’s mood sobered again at the mention of Dromdara.
It seemed an awful thing to hope, but she couldn’t bear to think something worse might be on the horizon.
Around them people stood in knots, talking in low voices, grieving together.
Then the clatter of boots cut through the murmur, sharp against the stone.
A group of soldiers marched into the square, steel glinting at their belts. One barked in clipped Eldrossi. “Clear the square!”
He wasn’t dressed like the others. His coat was heavier, trimmed with braiding at the shoulders, a red sash drawn tightacross his chest. A curved sabre hung at his side, where the others carried rifles or plain swords. If his dress was not enough, the way the soldiers rushed to obey made it clear he was their captain.
The villagers startled. Many bolted at once. Others, like Cormac, stood defiant.
A soldier shoved a man hard enough that he stumbled and fell. Aoife tensed, taking half a step forward to help before Cormac caught her arm and pulled her behind him.
“We’re not doing anything wrong,” he said, nostrils flaring as he drew in a sharp breath.
The captain strode towards him, towering a head over Cormac and carrying a good deal more weight. “You’re not allowed to assemble,” he snapped.
“We’re not assembling,” Cormac shot back. “We’re grieving.”
“Then grieve elsewhere.” The captain’s voice was icy. He jerked his chin at his men.
The soldiers surged forward, shoving and dragging people away.
Martan, the village’s oldest inhabitant, straightened as best he could and fixed the captain with milky eyes.
“The Sheedar saw what you did in Dromdara,” he said. “And they’ll see this too.”
A soldier shoved Martan, and he went down hard. “Your spirits will have to get past my boots first.” A ripple of uneasy laughter passed through the gathered soldiers.
“Save your fairy-stories, old man,” the captain shouted.
Aoife knelt to help him as the soldier stepped away. “Martan, please. They don’t fear the Sheedar. They don’t even believe in them. You’ll only draw their anger.”
He gave her a thin, bitter smile. “Someone has to speak the truth, child.”
As she helped Martan to his feet, the soldiers surrounding them moved to clear the square. One dragged a woman by the arm. Another reached for the children huddled beside the well, pulling at their hair when they refused to move.
Before Aoife could react, Cormac was already there. He caught the soldier’s wrist, shoving him away with more courage than sense. “Leave them!” he barked. The movement earned him a rifle-butt to the ribs. He doubled over.
Aoife darted in, hauling the two children clear. “Go!” she urged, pushing them towards the lane. When she turned, the soldier was raising his weapon to strike again.
“Don’t,” she shouted, and to her surprise, the soldier stopped.
He turned his attention to her. “You want to take the beating in his place? Your customs allow for that, right?”
He looked from her to Cormac. The soldier was right. The law of surety meant anyone could volunteer to receive punishment on some else’s behalf. But it was intended for judgement handed down by the magistrate, not indiscriminate beatings. She didn’t answer. Cormac glared daggers at him.
“We can have fun thinking of other ways for you to take the punishment.” The soldier looked her up and down.
“Don’t you touch her,” Cormac yelled, leaping at him. The soldier struck him with the rifle again, this time in the side of the head. Cormac hit the ground hard. The soldier drew back his weapon, but before the blow could fall, one of the younger soldiers stepped in, his broad shoulders blocking the way. His hand shot out and caught his comrade’s arm. They stared at each other a moment, then the younger soldier, his dark hair tied back, turned to Cormac. “Go home.” His voice was low but firm, the Morran lilt plain in his words.
Cormac straightened, breath ragged, one arm pressed to his ribs. Aoife darted to his side.
“Cormac—”
“I’m fine.” He grimaced, but forced a grin.
