Stooping, he picked up the old claymore and stood facing the south, his hands upon the hilt, the blade resting on the earth. It was a fine weapon, and had served him well all those years ago. Yet holding it now gave him no pleasure, no surging sense of pride. All he could feel was sorrow.
The line of riders came down the long hill into the valley. Now he could count them. One hundred and fifty men and five officers. Too large a group to have come for hostages. No, he told himself, this is a killing raid. One hundred and fifty-five soldiers for a village of forty-seven men, thirty-eight women and fifty-one children! As he thought of the little ones a spark of anger burned through his grief, flaming to life in his breast. His huge hands curled around the claymore, the blade flashing up. Once he could have taken three, maybe four enemy soldiers. Today he would find out how much he had lost.
Turning his back upon the distant enemy, Tovi laid the claymore blade on his shoulder and strode down the long road to home. He was high above Cilfallen and from here the buildings seemed tiny set against the green hills and the mighty mountains. Newer dwellings of stone alongside the older timbered houses, and ancient log cabins with roofs of turf, all clustered together in a friendly harmony of wood and stone. Aye, thought Tovi, that is the mark of Cilfallen. The village is friendly and welcoming. There were no walls, for up to now the people had lived without fear.
Cilfallen was indefensible. Tovi sighed, and paused for one last look at the village he had known all his life.
Never will you look the same to me again, he knew. For now I can see the lack of walls and parapets. I see hills from which cavalry can charge into our square. I see buildings with no strong doors, or bowmen's windows. There is no moat. Only the stream, and the white rocks upon which the women and children beat the clothes to wash them.
Tovi walked on, aware also of his own weakness, the large belly fed with too much fresh bread and country butter, and a right arm already tired from holding the claymore.
'I'll find the strength,' he said, aloud.
*
Captain Chard led his men down into the valley, riding slowly, stiff-backed in the saddle. Despite the honey salve on his back the whip wounds flared as if being constantly stung by angry wasps.
The weight of his chain-mail added tongues of flame to his shoulders, and his mood was foul. He knew that if Obrin had followed the Baron's orders with more relish he would not now be alive, for the three-pronged whip could kill a man within thirty lashes if delivered with venom. Obrin had been sparing with his strokes, but each of the whip-heads had a tiny piece of lead attached, adding weight to each lash, scoring the skin, opening the flesh. Chard felt sick as he remembered standing at the stake, biting into the leather belt, determined not to scream. But scream he did, until he passed out on the thirty-fourth stroke.
A mixture of honey and wine had been applied to his blood-drenched back. Three of the deeper cuts had needed stiches, twenty-two in all. Yet here he was, within a fortnight, sitting his saddle and leading his men.
He did not question the Baron's change of heart, and had accepted the commission with a burbled speech of gratitude that the Baron had cut short. 'Do not fail me again, Chard,' he had warned.
'How many men will you need?'
'Three hundred, sir.'
The Baron had laughed at him. 'For a village? why not take a thousand?'
'There are nearly two hundred of them, sir!'
The Baron had lifted a sheet of paper. 'One hundred and fifty, approximately. Fifty of them are children under the age of twelve. Around forty are women. The remainder are men. Farmers, cattle-herders - not a good sword among them. Take one hundred and fifty men. No prisoners, Chard. Hang all the bodies so they can be clearly seen. Burn the buildings.'
'Yes, sir. When you say no prisoners ... you mean the men?'
'Kill them all. I have chosen the men you will have with you. They are mercenaries, scum mostly.
They'll have no problem with the task. When they're finished let them loot. They will also - most certainly -keep some of the younger women alive for a while. Let them have their enjoyment, it's good for morale.' The Baron's cold eyes fixed on Chard. 'You have a problem with this?'
Chard wished he had the courage to tell the man just how much a problem he had with butchery.
Instead he had swallowed hard and mumbled, 'No, sir.'
'How is your back?'
'Healing, sir.'
'You won't fail me again, will you, Chard?'
'No, sir.'
The sun was high and sweat trickled down on to the whip wounds. Chard groaned. An officer rode alongside as they reached the valley floor.
'Beyond that line of hills, isn't it?' the man asked and Chard turned his head. The officer was thin-faced, with protruding eyes, his face marred by the scars of smallpox. Several white-headed pimples showed around his nostrils and a boil was beginning on the nape of his neck. 'Many women there?' asked the officer, as Chard ignored the first question.
'Set the men in a skirmish line,' Chard ordered.
'What for? It's only a pigging village. There's no fighting men likely to ambush us.'
'Give the order,' said Chard.
'Whatever you say,' answered the officer, with a thinly disguised sneer. Twisting in the saddle, he called out to the men, 'Every second man left skirmish. All others to the right!' He swung back to Chard. 'You have orders for the attack?'
'How many ways are there to attack a helpless village?'
'Depends if they know they're going to be attacked. If they don't, you just ride in and get the head man to call all the people together. When they're all in one place you slaughter 'em. If they do know, then they'll all be locked in their houses, or running for the woods. Lots of different ways, on foot, in a charge. It's up to you.'
'Attacked many villages, have you?'
'Too many to count. It's good practice. I'll tell you, you can learn a lot about your men by the way they conduct themselves in a situation like this. Not everyone can do it, you know. We had a young lad once, fearless and damn good with a sword or lance. But this sort of mission, useless.
Blubbed like a baby . .. ran around witlessly. Know what happened? Some young kid ran at him and slashed his throat open with a scythe. It was a damn shame. That boy had potential, you know?'
'Send a scout up to the high ground. He'll see the village from there.'
The officer wheeled his horse and rode to the left. A young mercenary kicked his horse into a run and Chard watched him climb the hill and rein in at the top. The soldier waved them on.
Chard led the men up the hill. The officer came alongside and the two men stared down at the cluster of buildings. A narrow stream cut across the south of Cilfallen, and there were two small bridges. Chard examined the line of water; the horses could cross it with ease. Beyond the stream was a low retaining wall, around two feet high and some thirty feet in length. Beyond that were the homes he had been sent to destroy. As he watched a young woman walked from one of the buildings; she was carrying a wicker basket full of clothes, and she knelt at the stream and began to wash them. Chard sighed, then he spoke. 'Send fifty men around the village to the north to cut them off from the hills. The rest of us will attack from the south."
The officer gave out his orders and two troops filed off to the north-east. Then he leaned across his saddle. 'Listen, Chard, I'd advise you to wait here. From what I hear your back's in a mess, so you won't be able to fight. And I guess you won't want any . .. pleasures. So leave it to me and my men. You agree?'