Dawnflight by Kim Iverson Headlee Read Free Book Online

iron slave collar had been removed. Dafydd was slowly stroking his neck where the collar would have been, as though unable to believe his good fortune.
    Neither cloak nor tunic hid the angry red welts tattooed by eight long years under the band.
    To use this man today was a calculated risk. If the Breatanaich took offense at the sight of one of their own enslaved, collared or not, then so be it. The swords strapped to the saddlebows of Ogryvan and his men had not been crafted for mock combat.
    Easgan snorted and tossed his head. Ogryvan stared at the spot where the trail arrowed from the forest to cross the wide, autumn-dead meadow. Moments later, he heard the thudding hoofbeats and jingling harnesses of the approaching party. As they emerged from the pines, the travelers lifted their heads in recognition of the end of their journey.
    The Argyll honor guard cantered forward to meet the Chieftain of Clan Móran. The two bands halted a dozen paces apart and fanned out into the meadow to either side of the cart track. Twenty-four pairs of Breatanach eyes glared at the Argyll honor guard. Most of those eyes widened as Ogryvan nudged Easgan a few steps ahead of the Argyll line. He often had seen this reaction from men who had doubted the tales of his height.
    Ogryvan recognized two Dailriatanaich from the Battle of Abar-Gleann: Chieftain Dumarec and his son, Urien.
    At Ogryvan’s nod, Dafydd slid from the back of Per’s bay gelding and walked into the neutral area. Ogryvan watched the Breatanaich closely as they studied Dafydd, who stood stoically between both bands, waiting for Ogryvan to speak.
    “Hail, Dumarec, Chieftain of Clan Móran of Dailriata,” intoned Ogryvan through Dafydd. “In peace I bid you welcome to the Seat of Argyll and extend the greetings of my daughter, Chieftainess Gyanhumara.” He gestured toward his stepson. “This is Lord Peredur, Gyanhumara’s half brother.”
    “Well met, Chieftain Ogryvan, Lord Peredur,” replied Dumarec. “And you, of course, remember my son.” The ebony-and-gold-cloaked chieftain glanced at the powerfully built man on his right, the only warrior wearing Ròmanach battle-gear. “Urien.”
    Dafydd relayed Dumarec’s words, which Ogryvan answered with a curt nod.
    How could he forget the leader of the Breatanach horsemen, whose demon-swift charge at the dike had sealed the defeat of the Caledonach host? Urien’s tactic had stolen victory from the clans, and now he had come to steal Gyan’s heart. Nay, not steal it. By the terms of the treaty, she all but belonged to him already. All Urien lacked was her consent, which would be extremely difficult to obtain in his present condition.
    “Lord Urien, I advise that you change clothing before meeting my daughter. She is none too fond of anything Ròmanach.”
    When they heard the translation, Dumarec and Urien leaned over to exchange a few private words. At first, Urien seemed to be arguing with his father, but he soon fell silent.
    Dumarec straightened. He instructed Dafydd to convey their agreement to Ogryvan’s request, adding, “Shall we take cover, Chieftain Ogryvan?” He surveyed the dripping sky. “Your weather is most inhospitable.”
    When Dafydd hesitated, Ogryvan prompted, “Remember, your reward is your family’s too.”
    With a deep breath, Dafydd rendered into Caledonaiche Dumarec’s unritualistic comment about the weather.
    Ogryvan grinned. He’d noticed the hint of humor in Dumarec’s voice. Gladness at being so near to shelter was plain enough on the craggy face.
    “Aye! Let us make haste, Chieftain Dumarec, to where the fire burns hot under the mutton joints and the spiced wine mulls in the hearthpot.”
    After hearing the Breatanaiche version of Ogryvan’s suggestion, the Chieftain of Clan Móran nodded his assent. Dafydd climbed back onto Rukh. Settled behind Per, Dafydd gave Ogryvan a glance of pure relief. Ogryvan returned a brief smile, mouthing the words, “Well done.”

    URIEN SAT with