Finally, the door opened a crack, and the dirty face of an old woman appeared.
"If ye're coming for coins for yer laird, we got none left, master," she said.
"Not for coins," Bannagran replied. "And I trust that if you happened upon a few, you would know to deliver the proper amount to Castle Pryd."
"Then what? More food's what ye're wanting? Oh, but ain't we to keep enough to feed our own skinny bodies?"
"Not food," Bannagran replied. "A regiment of Laird Ethelbert has been sighted in the east. Men are needed."
The woman gave a cry and fell back, trying to close the door tight, but Bannagran's heavy fist knocked it open. He and the two soldiers accompanying him strode into the one-room hovel.
"Bah, ye took me husband and now who's knowing if he's dead? Ye took me brothers and not a one's to be found! What more are ye asking?"
"You have a son of fifteen winters," Bannagran replied.
"He's dead!" the woman shrieked. "I killed him meself. Better that than he get all chopped in some bloody field!"
As she spoke, Bannagran motioned to one of the soldiers, who moved to the hanging curtain that divided the room. A tug pulled it down, revealing a small cot, really no more than a wooden frame covered in hay.
The soldier looked back at Bannagran, who nodded for him to proceed.
"Dead, I tell ye!" the woman continued, her voice rising with obvious terror. "I put a pillow over his face while he slept. A peaceful way."
"If I believed your tale, then I would have you executed," Bannagran said matter-of-factly.
"For murder? He's me son, and I can kill him if I'm choosing."
"For stealing from Laird Prydae," the large man replied. "All the folk are the property of the laird, and you've no right to deny him his possessions. Whether he is your child is not important." He nodded and the soldier upended the cot, revealing a teenage boy and a younger girl, huddled together on the floor against the wall.
"Come on," the soldier said, and he reached down and hooked the boy under the arm and roughly pulled him to his feet.
The girl started crying; the woman rushed past to intercept.
But Bannagran caught her by the back of her tunic and easily held her in place. She tried to turn and swing at him, but he had her quickly wrapped in one powerful arm, and she couldn't begin to wriggle away.
"Ye can't have him!" she cried. "Ye can't be taking him! Oh, ye dogs!"
Bannagran squeezed her more tightly and hoisted her up so that his scowling face was barely an inch from hers. "Foolish woman. If we do not go out and meet the threat of Ethelbert, his soldiers will knock down your door and knock down your house. They'll kill your boy when he hasn't even a weapon in hand to defend himself, and they'll take you…" He paused and offered a wicked smile. "Might be that you're too ugly to interest them, but that wouldn't be your gain. They'd take your daughter instead, every one of them would, and leave her torn and bleeding and broken. Perhaps she's old enough to bear a child-is that what you're wanting, old fool? Do you wish upon your daughter a bastard child whose father you'll never know?"
The woman was crying so violently now that she couldn't answer. Nor did she offer any more resistance. Bannagran released her and shoved her back, then followed the two soldiers, who were flanking the subdued boy, out of the house.
"That makes twelve," one of the soldiers said when they were outside.
"Enough for this group, then," Bannagran explained. "Get him to the castle and fit him with leather armor and a weapon." He looked more closely at the boy, even reached over and felt the skinny biceps. "A spear for him. He couldn't hit anything hard enough with a sword to make a difference."
Bannagran quickly climbed onto his horse and turned the mount away, not wanting the others to see his continuing scowl. He found this duty distasteful, and he was quite weary of pulling men-and now boys-from their families. He heard the woman's frantic shrieks and prodded his horse on more swiftly, wanting to put the noises far behind.
He rode away from the others and moved closer to Pryd Town, trying to ignore the haunted stares of the many people in the streets. Not a family had escaped the last six months of the war unscathed. Bannagran wondered if Pryd Holding would survive this wave of battle; an entire generation of menfolk could be wiped out if Laird Ethelbert persisted in his designs for conquest. Already, more than three hundred of Pryd's menfolk were known dead-a hundred and fifty alone in the battle of Bariglen's Coe.
As he rode toward Castle Pryd, Bannagran thought back to those days of battle against the powries in the east, when Laird Ethelbert and his legions had held the flanking ground north of the men of Pryd. The laird of the great holding in southeastern Honce had rescued him, Prydae, and all the others when they had been caught in a powrie web. Even then, though, Bannagran had seen the first signs of coming trouble. The roads were complete, crossing Honce from Delaval City to Ethelbert dos Entel, through Pryd and Cannis and all the way to Palmaristown on the mouth of the great river, the Masur Delaval. With that network came the march of armies to push the powries back, and with that network came the march of armies to expand the influence of their respective lairds. Already, Palmaristown was under the rule of Laird Delaval, and all the Mantis Arm heeded the commands of Laird Ethelbert.
It was Pryd Holding's bad fortune to rest halfway between the two dominating lairds.
Castle Pryd's drawbridge was down over the newly constructed moat, and the great champion of Pryd, the most recognizable warrior in all the land, didn't slow as he thundered across the wooden bridge and between the gate towers-also newly built-and into the lower bailey of the rapidly expanding castle. He pulled up short and leaped down as attendants moved quickly to tend to his strong mount.
To his right sat the Laird Prydae's private chapel, with an open garden behind it for those occasions when Bernivvigar came into the castle proper to offer his prayers and blessings. This was the oldest building in the castle, dating back many generations, and was of a stone more gray than the main castle structure. The architecture of the chapel, too, was more primitive, with thicker walls and smaller windows. Past the chapel lay the only predominantly wooden building in the complex, the barracks, nearly empty now, as most of the men were off patrolling.
Directly ahead of Bannagran, opposite the main gate, sat the great keep, the tower of Laird Prydae, connected at its base to the castle's dining hall and audience chamber.
The two men standing guard at the keep's heavy wooden door moved quickly when they saw Bannagran's approach, pulling wide the double doors, then standing at attention, eyes ahead and unblinking, as their commander walked through.
The bottom floor of the keep, the only square room in the tower, was sparsely appointed, with only a pair of chairs set before the large hearth, a thick rug beneath them. Bannagran's eyes were drawn to that hearth and to the empty hooks above it. Not too long ago, Laird Prydae's magnificent sword, a gift of the brothers of Abelle, had hung there. But the laird had recently moved it to his private quarters, safely out of sight whenever any of the noblemen of Laird Delaval's court came calling. For when they came, they did so with their hands out, seeking money or goods, and Laird Prydae knew well that his sword, a creation far beyond anything any blacksmith in Honce could hope to forge, would be greatly desired.
That was the one treasure in all his holding that Laird Prydae would not surrender.
Bannagran was surprised that his friend wasn't down here taking his breakfast, as was Prydae's custom at this hour. The warrior moved for the stairs on the left side of the room but paused at the base when he heard a woman crying up above.
Somewhere behind her, Prydae cursed, "Harlot!" and then, "Rotfish!"