Free The Marquis by Michael O'Neill Page B

hand me over to these feorrancund – what will happen to me.’
    Geirnarr looked at him in veiled disgust. ‘You’re an idiot. An imbecilic arrogant little fool – I don’t mind what he does with you.’ He looked back at Conn, nodding. ‘I’ll agree to your terms. You are welcome to the simpleton.’
    Dagrun went to speak again but Geirnarr backhanded him as well. He fell to the floor, blood streaming from his nose. Conn directed two of his wiga to go and collect him.
      Geirnarr looked curious as they dragged the screaming Healdend out of the tent. ‘Out of curiosity, what are you going to do with him?’
    ‘Give him to his sister. She’ll want a quiet word over the death of her bedda and child…’
    The Ancuman Aebeling opening his palms to show a modest level of contrition. ‘None of my doing…’
    ‘Somehow, I believe you…’
    ~oo0oo~
    Leaving the Ancuman behind in the tent, Conn walked outside. The fighting had ended. Conn’s Cataphracts and Sagittari stood guard over at least 3000 men as they sat in groups on the ground. Conn walked to a high point and with Derryth at his side, he addressed the crowd.
    ‘Wiga of Samria; your war is over, the battle is lost. The reign of Dagrun, Healdend, has ended, and will be replaced by his sister Efilda as Wealdend. I’m sure she weeps for every one of you that died today. So that no more lives are lost, I would like to see any Folctoga up here in this tent immediately, and I’d like the rest of you to return to your tents. We will see to your wounds as soon as we can.’
    Conn returned inside and waited. The Ancuman wiga were taken away and put under guard.
    Soon a dozen men, all nobles, arrived inside the tent. They bowed. One stepped forward; the elder of the party. He was well dressed, in his mid-forties. Round face, and the dark brown hair and light brown eyes that typified the Samrians.
    ‘I am Besywan, Marquis of Sumy. I am commander of the Samrian Fyrd.’
    As Besywan spoke, they were joined by Brys and Wystan. Derryth also returned to the tent, causing confusion amongst the Samrians. The last one to arrive was Mungan, Marquis of Sarepeta.  They were further confused when Mungan shook Conn’s hand in greeting.
    Conn returned the welcome. ‘Mungan, I see you made it.’
    He smiled. ‘I did but I arrived late and found myself in charge of transportation. I told them my tale of my sister, and cattle, being stolen by ruffians from Subari led by my old friend Wystan, and Sumy began to doubt my loyalty so put me in charge of getting everything up here.’
    Besywan looked at Mungan in confusion. ‘You have met this man before? You only mentioned Wystan. Why did you not warn us?’
    He shrugged. ‘I told you not to believe a word of what Agkell said. If he didn’t tell you that Wystan was being supported by a mercenary called the Earl of Rakia, from some place called Meshech, and that he was aided by a Twacuman, why should I? Agkell even knew of his exploits in this place called Meshech. I would have called him a liar and found myself in a dungeon. I prefer where I am, thank you.’
    Stymied, Besywan looked back at Conn and then at Wystan and then at Geirnarr, as the Ancuman sat almost bemused, in the corner of the room. Besywan took a deep breath. ‘And the Ancuman have surrendered?’
    Geirnarr shrugged. ‘A negotiated tactical retreat is my preferred choice of words.’
    Conn agreed. ‘Indeed. And now that Mungan is here, I am entrusting him to escort you back to Samriak and to supervise your departure. You will of course not leave until I have arrived.’
    ‘I understand.’
    ‘I don’t.’ Besywan wanted to exert some authority. He said it forcefully. ‘You have no right…’ His sentence was cut short by an arrow that suddenly appeared in front of his eyes. The tail still wagged as the head was imbedded into the central pole of the tent. Besywan went white.
    Conn looked approvingly at Derryth as he returned his bow to his side.