They had to do this across a high, thick-planked table and through an entrance wide enough for no more than two men at most. Up.until now the bandits’ attacks had been made against isolated garths, or those garths where the Keep Lord did not care for his people. The garths had been easily taken, the people weaponless and already cowed. Aiskeep was not like that. Its buildings were built solidly; its people loved and trusted their lord, who also encouraged them to be proficient with arms.
Ciara led her women around the building. They fanned out in groups of three into the dark. Ciara reached for her striker. The woodpile should be just here somewhere, she thought.
She found it by barking her shins. She hopped a moment muttering, then ran light fingers over the wood. There! Under her hand was a feel of kindling. She moved to stand before it, shielding the striker’s spark. Dry grass had been wrapped around thin, dry sticks. The striker snapped a fat spark into the center of the kindling. In seconds there was a growing flame taking an eager hold.
With the stack of wood beginning to flame, the outside of the building came into dimly lit focus for those in the dark. Inside the bandits still attempted to get across the table. One had fallen already. Part three of the plan moved smoothly into action. Behind them the door still stood open. Trovagh dropped lightly from the roof and whistled, the call of a familiar bird, albeit one unlikely to be about here and now—although bandits from the coast would be unlikely to know that, he hoped. He edged toward the entrance to be joined by three boys with slings.
“Ready?”
“Yes, Lord.” There was both excitement and savage anticipation in the answering hisses.
“Go!”
Slings whirled in unison as the lads stepped up to the door. The slings flicked forward. Inside the room three of the rearmost men in the outlaw group crashed to the floor. The boys stepped aside. Stones dropped into good leather again. Another volley. Two men fell, the third screamed as the pebble smashed into his ear.
“Back!” Trovagh snapped, grabbing the nearest lad by a shoulder. Within the house the bandit leader spun to gape behind him. No sign of the two he’d sent around the building. One man dead, five down behind his back. He was horror-stricken. This was no soft group of garthsmen. He must have surprised the soldiers.
True to the bandit code he promptly abandoned his men, diving for the outer door. The three remaining saw this and as promptly joined him in flight, trampling their unconscious fellows in an effort to reach the door first. Outside, two of the fanners pulled tight a thin cord across the doorway. It took the fleeing leader around knee level, pitching him to the ground. His followers trampled him with vigor in turn. Trovagh slid toward them from the side, sword flickering in the light. From the other side came grim-faced garthsmen bearing weapons of various types. They had the look of those who not only knew how to use them, but were very desirous of doing so.
The remaining bandits paused for a few seconds, but for outlaws there is no mercy if taken. They attacked desperately, seeking to break away in the dark. One did. He reached the horses, leaping into the saddle only to find as his weight hit it that both he and the saddle revolved rapidly. He landed on his face with a muffled howl. Ciara’s women wielded skillets with enthusiasm. The bandit stretched out to sleep with a weary sigh. At the house the two remaining outlaws fought back to back. Both had swords, but the garthsmen ignored the danger, closing in hungrily.
But thus far only the outlaws had been hurt. Trovagh preferred to keep it that way. His father would be more ready to forgive everyone. He whistled the slingers in again. They whirled their weapons and the last two outlaws folded to the ground. The boy beamed. Praise be to Cup and Flame. It seemed there were times when all plans worked out. He jumped violently as a slender figure slid out of the dark to take him by the arm.
“Gods, Cee. Don’t do that!”
She grinned happily up at him. “We’ve got three. They’re all alive too. The women trussed them like chickens for the ; pot. Hadn’t you better look at yours?”
Trovagh smiled back, hugging her. “One of ours is dead, I know. But you’re right. We’ll check the others and tie those alive.” He rallied Jontar’s family who swiftly brought out the bandits from where they had fallen.
“This one’s dead, my lord.”
“ ’N this one here, Lord Trovagh.” Ciara dropped to her knees checking carefully.
“Two here alive, Tro. This one is, but his skull is cracked. He’ll probably die. This one’s dead as well.”
The two taken last were both dead. The slingers had struck with all the power they had. The leader, however, was alive, muttering his way back to consciousness as he was swiftly and skillfully bound by hard-eyed farmers. Ciara had vanished again. Now she came trotting back to where Trovagh directed the clearing up inside the house.
“Five dead, one who’ll probably die shortly, and six alive. The live ones are all tied. One of them said something awful to Jontar’s wife. She hit him with her skillet again so I had them all gagged as well.” Trovagh looked at her proudly. She was a grubby, untidy girl, panting with exertion and excitement—and the best lieutenant a leader could have had.
“Let’s get them into a barn with guards. Then we need to bring the horses in.”
“Already done. The horses are over at Marin’s being rubbed down. I told everyone that we were awarding a horse and its gear to each garth that had fought. Was that right?”
“Yes.” He made a mental count. “Yes. Sure. That’s five horses to them, seven to the Keep. What are they like?”
Ciara looked thoughtful. “Most of them are ordinary farm horses, but there’s a couple there that aren’t. They’re a sort of yellow, with black manes and tails. They’ve been well-treated, too. Whoever amongst that lot were riding them has looked after both very well. They aren’t young, but they’d be worth keeping. The garths won’t want them. They wouldn’t be right for working land.” She shivered suddenly. “Isn’t it awfully cold now?”
Trovagh shivered, too. It did seem to have gone really chilly in the last few minutes. Maybe snow was on its way. He shuddered again before realizing.
“No, it isn’t the cold, it’s the letdown after a battle. Hanion told me about it. Get into the house and start the women making soup for everyone.” He studied the moon briefly. “Father will be here soon with the guards. If we can give them all something hot to drink while we show him our bandits, he may be a bit less furious.”
That, Ciara thought, scuttling hastily inside to start soup pots simmering, is something to hope for. She felt fey and oddly light as she moved. Under her bodice her pendant seemed to have warmed. Her hand stole up to curve about it. She still visited the silver mist most nights before she slept. But obedient to the dangers of being known, she had not used it to heal again. Was there something she should do now?
She was distracted from that by other demands. On the fire hob two large pots of soup steamed. Ciara rounded up as many mugs and bowls as the women could find her. To that she added all the moderately fresh bread that could be found at short notice.
A third pot of soup was placed at the ready then a fourth. Tonight was a night to forget care, to share in the celebrations. It wasn’t every day that a garth earned a new horse at no cost. They had paid no coin, and shed no blood. The young lord and his lady had fought beside them. Someone produced a flute, playing an old dance tune. Another man ran for a small hand drum. The wood stack was burning merrily, not that Jontar worried. He knew his lord. Tarnoor would replace the fuel since it had burned in his service. Jontar smiled at his wife, leading her into the dance. It could have been very different.