Daughter of the Witcher Ch. 04

"I recall it," the old man said, "It was said to me that without her aid, I would have had two losses to my heart that night. I was there, walking a long furrow into the floor over my girl's hardship and I saw how Oighrig worked as though it was her own child coming forth. "

Ranald nodded, "I saw it as my duty to help my sister – in spite of my father's will and it cost me as well. Regardless. I did what I could."

There were sniggers among some of the others in the laird's hall and there were two things about Niall Ciar which were constants. He'd always been a large man – and he'd also always been a loud one as well.

His voice thundered out across the hall, having seen several who had made comments and he called out little things which nobody knew that he was aware of; little things which might serve as reminders that it was best not to test his patience in this regard and in his hall.

Little unimportant things such as some of the other bastards living under his roof, and in three cases, just which man was said to be responsible in each case. It brought restored order rather quickly after that.

"It is our law," Ranald reminded his liege, "that in cases of illegitimacy, there is a burden on the father – whomever he might be to support his child. In Màiri's case there was no one to give that support and without such, Màiri has no claim to my holdings and more, she is not even known and recognized as a member of clan Ciar."

"I hear you, Ranald," the laird rumbled, "but why must I recognize her? I seek to know more, which is what drives my question. So you tell me now that you and your own sister made this girl?"

The warrior nodded, "I do, my laird. She is my girl."

Ranald did his best to sound convincing, since it was important to his daughter, even though she was close to saying that she wanted nothing from the laird.

"The fact is that she does exist, my laird, quite plainly."

"I can see that," the old man rumbled, "I can even see much of Oighrig in her as she stands here." He smiled a little warmly, "I know you my old friend. You would say it as you have even if you were not the true father. You would do for your sister's girl out of her memory."

Ranald held his gaze solidly on the eyes of his liege and spoke, "I say that I am her true father and now I want to make right what I should have done so long ago."

"And I say that I still do not believe you, Ranald," the old man smiled, "but I will accept your claim. In either case, what you would now do is right and just, though perhaps better late than never on the one hand." He turned to call for his scribe and issued instructions that the details be annotated.

Ranald wanted to sigh in relief but he didn't. To his mind, all that he'd done was admit what he should have long ago. "Then let it be known that she was born in that little place and she learned her mother's craft at her hands until the age of eighteen," Ranald said, "when the English came and took her away back with them to their lands. In the six years hence, she was taught by their mage, and yet – she never once accompanied them here for their depredations on our people."

The laird nodded, "And that mage has been a thorn to all of us many times over. Now his learner comes here? What for?"

"I come because there was little more that I could learn from Herbert," Màiri said in a clear voice, "I came because I did not belong there and wanted to be among the people of my clan.

And because I wanted to tell Laird Niall Ciar himself that Herbert is no more and that clan of English has no mage anymore, other than perhaps a hedge mage or two who pose no threat."

She looked around the hall directly into the eyes of the ones who had joked the loudest, "I killed Herbert. I am the daughter of Oighrig Ciar. I learned what was taught to me by my mother – all that she had to teach me, my laird.

But no matter what it all was to the minds of others, it was still the knowledge of a hedge witch, for that was what my mother was and as such, she would have done anything to thwart the efforts of any witch or warlock, mage or sorcerer who came with the English to raid.

But it would have stopped nothing against the likes of the one who took me away. I would still have been taken and my mother and Beathag's lovely mother would still have been killed. Neither of them were much of a match against one like Herbert."

A man rose to speak and awaited acknowledgement from the laird and when it was granted, he turned to Màiri, "And what proof do you bring that you are learned in these arts, and what proofs do you have that this warlock is dead? For that matter, why are any other mages no threat to our laird?"

Màiri smiled, "This man seeks to have me prove myself so that I might be burned as a witch on the one hand and be seen as a teller of falsehoods on the other. How am I to answer, my laird? How badly do you need someone such as me?"

"I do not know as yet," the laird smiled, "but I seek to be fair. I suppose that if you can prove yourself to be true and loyal, then it would go far in my eyes. But as far as proving that this Herbert is dead, I would see the proof as well if you have it, but only to help an old laird to sleep a little better at night."

Màiri nodded and said, "So be it."

The man who had asked the questions stood flailing a second later as he felt something on him. There were gasps and a few cries and screams from the others once they saw this proof of the warlock's demise. There on the floor, once the man had managed to get it off him, lay the entire skin of Herbert, hair and all. Several of the women there promptly threw up.

But Herbert had been seen by some in the hall and they said that what lay there looked to be the hide of the man.

"I am prepared to be tested," Màiri said to the laird, "I did not think that I could just walk here and rejoin the clan who do not know me very much – but they are my clan.

The same man sought the attention of the laird once more.

"Very well Gordon," the old man sighed, "Ask what you will. It saves me from asking the same things, most likely."

"How do we know that this woman was not sent here as a means to harm you, my laird?"

The laird smiled and leaned toward Màiri a little, "Well, my young kinswoman? Am I in danger from you?"

Màiri smiled a little, "No my laird, you are not. You could be, but it serves no purpose other than the ends of the same herd of Englishmen who now hunt me for killing their warlock.

In truth," she smiled,"if that was my purpose in coming here, then I would have already done it and not bothered with all of this, since it would suit me better to do a deed and not be seen to have done it. Whether you choose to believe my father or not, I am Màiri Ciar, and I am your kin. Now that I think that I can be of real use to my laird and my clan that is what I wish to do."

"So say you," the man said.

"Yes, "the woman smiled as she turned to face him, "So say I. You seem to have doubts about me, sir, but I care not. Do you really think that I have carried that skin all of the way here out of my pleasure? If I liked doing that, then I might take yours in the same manner to prove to you that I can. I can say that the act of the removal is not pleasant to the subject, but if you need even more proof, ..."

The man turned ashen and backed away a step.

Màiri nodded, "Then I think that you should allow our laird to set my tests and be satisfied, if you please."

"And what will happen the next time that the raiders come?" the man suddenly demanded, forgetting about asking the lord there.

Màiri shrugged, "If I am there, and I see it, I will kill as many as I can. What would you do?"

She looked at him a little hard, "As far as your question goes, I have proven as you wanted, that I have killed Herbert the warlock. Just how many Englishmen have you killed, sir?"

He waved her query aside as though it was a bothersome fly, "What would you do if you faced these hedge mages that you spoke of?"

She shrugged again, "I would kill them first. But you did not answer my – "

"I do not have to answer," he sneered, "I am not the one who is being examined here."

"Then it is my belief that you have killed no one in anything like a fair fight," Màiri smiled humorlessly, "And I will answer nothing more from you other than as the laird desires."

She looked at him and her eyes bore deep, "Otherwise I might ask my own hard questions of you – with the consent of the laird. As an example, just how is it that these raiders arrive here unnoticed?

Is there anyone who can say that they were with you while the raiders crossed over onto the land held by clan Ciar and you were elsewhere?"

The man looked about ready to explode, while Màiri looked at her chieftain and raised one eyebrow.

Her would-be inquisitor muttered and cursed, but he said nothing out loud, so the laird marked it and decided that he ought to learn what there might be to know in this regard. He looked at Màiri for a long moment.

"Are you ready to be tested?" he asked and she nodded, so the laird got to his feet and bade her to follow him.

He led her out onto a courtyard lit by the late afternoon sunshine. "You must stand here and you will face seven foes. All of them are raiders who were caught by luck of having been knocked from their mounts. No one can leave here and they will be given swords. Not the very best swords, mind," he smirked a little, "but swords.

You have said that you would kill raiders found on my lands. This is your test – to kill Englishmen who were caught. I have learned that they do far worse to any of us that they can catch, so I feel no guilt in this. Do you wish to speak to your father beforehand?"

She shook her head, "Thank you, no. I will speak with him after."

"Are you sure?" the old man asked, "You seem very certain of the outcome."

"I am certain enough," she said without pride, "If my father were here with me, he would want to defend me, not knowing what I can do himself. It would not be allowed and I would not want this. Failing that, he would try to give me his advice, which I believe would be sound as far as he knows."

She looked at the laird for a moment and said, "This is to be my test for you, Laird Ciar. That is how I want it."

He looked at her for a moment, "This is a hard business Màiri, and you have said that you would serve me. I see no weapon in your hand, not even a stave. Do you wish the loan of one? For a kinswoman of mine, and one who speaks so loudly of wanting to rejoin her clan, I would lend you my own blade."

Màiri looked down for a moment and then she looked up into the laird's eyes, "I would use your blade only out of the honor of it if this were a battle on a field. For this, I have my own blade, though I thank you, my chieftain."

Niall was puzzled for he saw no weapon, but he thought that if any of her tale were true, then she had to know her business, so he took his leave of her as the surrounding balconies began to fill with the spectators from the hall.

Màiri stood alone waiting, her cloak around her like a dark rumor.

It took perhaps ten minutes of standing there waiting and hearing the comments of the ones in the balconies above before a door opened and six men walked out. The seventh was thrown out against his will, looking for all the world as though he was afraid to even hold the nicked and slightly bent sword that he'd been given. He looked as though he didn't possess the strength to wield it. He tried to stay as far away behind the others as he could.

And he was sobbing.

While she'd been standing, she'd listened in her mind to the instructions which the six men were given by the man who had asked all of the questions of her. What they'd been told was that they were to face a simple task; to rid the laird of a bothersome would-be witch and in return, they'd be taken to the border and released on their word that they would never come back.

What was a little curious to Màiri was that both of the parties had lied to the other. There was no way that the six men would ever be set free. If they lived here, they'd be killed in their cells later that night. The other side of it was that the men had agreed that it they won this and were set free that they would honor it and never return. For poor men who would rather rob than work, it was an easy thing to say.

What bothered Màiri was the seventh man. He was closer to being a boy, really. It was plain to her that he'd never held much more than a paring knife in his life and now he was to fight for his life. She wondered what his crime had been and after a moment, she knew that the laird didn't know either.

The men fanned out and tried to come at her from several directions at once. Màiri pre-empted their attempts to get behind her by stepping backwards.

At what she judged was the best moment, she threw her cloak open and the men gaped at a woman who was more than beautiful – she was dressed, but the style and fit of the clothing left little to the imagination. It had the same effect as though she was almost naked. She aided that effect by pulling open her cuirass to expose her breasts.

While the thought registered, a thing appeared in her right hand.

It looked to be silver for the gleam of it, but that was hard to tell, since she kept it in motion and with an overhand roll, it became a blade, long and thin but substantial-looking enough to appear deadly. It also looked to be too long for her as it was held out leveled at the men.

The first of them to recover hadn't even really begun to show signs of it yet when she stepped forward and the blade changed, shortening a little to be just perfect in length for a person who could wield such a thing out of well-practiced habit.

Màiri stepped forward one more step, but it was more of a lunge while the silvery blade gleamed and trailed a little swirling blackness from its length. Faster than the eye could follow, she struck twice – once in a thrusting motion and once again with the blade appearing even shorter, though the stroke was in and then pulled aside and upward before she danced back and the curious smoking blade grew in length once more. One man fell, run through in an instant and the second stepped back, bent a little and looking down.

He'd been eviscerated.

After a moment, he began to scream in horror.

But Màiri was moving again and the sword arm of another man flew off to land in the dirt. The man ran three steps to where Màiri no longer stood before he realized that he lacked an arm.

She spun, cleaving the man who had gotten in behind her right through evenly with one stroke through the midsection. Every time that her blade could even be seen, it appeared as almost a living thing which trailed a little black smoke behind it as it moved through the air. Most of the time, it wasn't even visible as more than the guarded haft in her hand.

She faded from sight as a man came at her swinging blindly, as fast as he could from side to side. His desperation was evident as he continued to swing, thinking that she was still there, but invisible somehow.

Instead, Màiri appeared behind the man who was still trying to hold his guts in and failing at it.

She yanked his hair and his head snapped back in howling surprise. The blade in her hand shortened instantly and she cut his throat out. He stood wide-eyed and trembling for just a moment before his legs began to fail him. But in that time, she pushed him staggering forward to bump against the man who was still swinging at nothing. He turned and stabbed the chest of the gutted man who was wailing now at having stepped on his own entrails. It was his last act and he was dead as he fell.

While he stared in confusion and alarm, Màiri killed the man who'd lost an arm, before she was back and engaging the one who could only swing in fear. She watched as his blade passed her once, twice, and then she kicked him in the chest.

He tumbled backward and when he landed on his back, Màiri was there; standing next to him and looking down as she held the haft with her thumb away from the guard and rammed her sword through his chest so that he shivered once and was still.

But something bothered her now and pulling her blade free easily, she stepped backward as she thought to feel for it. The watchers on the balcony saw the she was walking backward right toward the last living man of the six. She looked up at the balcony and stabbed back behind herself; killing the last man before his overhead stroke got underway. She pulled her blade free and pointed it toward the balcony as she yelled.

"HOLD!"

Everyone's eyes followed the point of her blade as it indicated a little unobserved scene on one of the balconies. Beathag stood trembling as the man with the questions for Màiri and the promises for the raiders stood pulling her head back with a dagger at her throat. Neither of them could move, held as they were in her fetter.

Màiri turned then and walked to the one man who had not sought to attack her.

He cowered with his face in the dirt, sobbing.

"Look at me," she said in English.

No one could see for the angle of it, but he did open his eyes then. All that he had in his field of view was the dirt and the tip of her blade as it hung there before him qualming a little black mist.

"It is best, "she said in Gaelic," for a man to face his death when it comes for him."

He wept in his fear.

"I d-don't know what you – you're saying!"

He'd pissed himself and the proof of that was there in the dirt.

She pushed the sword that he'd been given aside a little with her boot, away from where his hand had let it fall as soon as he'd fallen to cower where he still was.

"Look at me," she said again in English and he slowly raised his head.

"P-p-ple-ease, he stammered, "I have done noth-nothing. I was l-lost and hungry."

Màiri turned to look at the laird, "I will not kill this one. This is no raider. He is a boy who wandered lost over the border and was caught and beaten. He is here because he was added to the group by your man there, the one who tries to kill my only friend Beathag but cannot."

The laird was astounded and ordered the young man to be brought to him. He turned and looked at Màiri. "That was, ... he searched for the words.

She shrugged as her cape drifted to lie tightly around her and said, "That was a show for you and little more. I could have killed them all at once, but I thought that for this much trouble, I could play a little – until I knew what that one would do."

She followed the men who came to bring the boy to the balcony and several people stepped back out of fear of her. Màiri pulled her cape around herself and smiled a little, "You lived with a snake in your midst. Why would you fear me when I have done no one harm that did not deserve it? I walk most everywhere the same as you and to me; a broom is a thing to sweep the hearth of ashes and dirt.

Fear what needs to be feared, not what you do not know of. I am the daughter of a midwife and have the same skill besides. How can you fear one who helps mothers in their need?"

Her eyes fell on the man who still held the dagger against Beathag's throat. "But this one, ..."

She looked at the laird and waited until the boy was brought to him. The chieftain knew at once that this boy was no warrior, just from the way that he'd held the sword very reluctantly as though it was a foreign thing to him. He put his arm over the boy's shoulder and walked away a little with him, telling him that he needed to speak the truth now for his life hung on it.

It took only a moment and the laird sighed and actually apologized for what had nearly happened to the boy.

"What you did," he said in clear but accented English, "was blunder across a border where there has been little more than fighting, robbing, and killing for a few years now, lad. I cannot give you over to the one that you sought for, since he has trials of his own now. Have you a home where you came from? I would send you back there if you did. Are there any there who miss you?"