When Briar came to, she was strapped to a gurney, riding bumpily in the back of a cart. She remembered what happened in momentary flashes – the inside of the Bahelin Forge wall, the doctors strapping her down and sticking needles into her arms. A wool blanket covered her body up to her chin. She looked around, unable to remember how she'd gotten there. She lifted her head an inch and saw an armed guard sitting near the back of the carriage.
There were wooden benches on the sides of the cart that were filled with people, faces covered in dirt from the forest. Their clothes were tattered, but they didn't shed any tears. Some of them bore warrior markings, striped with woad. Briar's eyes strained themselves to see the chains around their feet. Had there been an uprising?
An elderly woman sat closest to Briar's head. There were creases all over her face, one that was weary but fierce. Blue dye sunk into her wrinkles, a mage-like stripe that sat over her eyes like a mask. Her lips were like stone. The ruts in the road caused the wheels of the carriage to clack loudly enough that she could whisper without being scolded.
"Do ya know where y'are, child?" The old woman asked.
"No," Briar whispered.
"Ya were half-dead when they brought ya in. We were surprised they sent ya off with us. Were ya hiding with the lowlanders in the forest?"
"No," Briar coughed, "I was crossing."
"Ha – crossing. No one crosses the forge by way of the valley. You're a fool for trying, little lass," a man spoke up beside her, long ashy beard gathered in a braid.
"QUIET!" Said the man guarding the back of the carriage. His accent was thick as Cal's.
"Foolish, but brave," the old woman remarked. Her eyes creased tenderly. She looked at the man with the ashy beard sternly, speaking in a way that was half-mad. "She's little, like me, and she's come to fight with us," the woman worked her way into a howl. "FOR THE HIGHLANDS!"
Briar feared that the guard at the back of the cart would come by and hit the old woman. Instead, he rolled his eyes and spoke in broken Gaelic. His speech was much like Briar's, understandable but mixed with too much of the Standard Tongue. He had the lowland accent, while the rest of them spoke the tongue of the mountains.
"Innis, you dotty old woman! Be quiet!" She heard him tell her in the minced tongue. Bereaved, he spoke to her in Standard. "I don't want them to cane you. You're a grandmother."
"Feall-duine!" Innis spat at his feet.
She had called him a traitor, and one of the worst kinds. The phrase implied that he was worthless and full of deceit. The soldier's muddy eyes became hazy, his face red and low. It was clear that this was not of his choosing, and the insult wounded him greatly.
"Hard times for everyone," he said, loosening the chains around Briar's feet. "I'm no traitor. See? Sit up, lass."
"You loosen them for her, while we sit in metal collars," the bearded man hissed in the mountain dialect.
"She didn't come to the forge in war paint, axes strapped to her bare chest with nothing beneath her kilt," the muddy eyes returned. "And, she didn't bring her gran."
"Innis is the wisest of all of us," another, younger man spoke up in Standard. He wore his woad as a single stripe over his eyes, like the old woman. "And, we couldn't keep her from coming. She insisted."
"I may be batty, but ya know I can hear ya," Innis spoke up. "Even when yer speakin' in Standard. And yer lucky to have me. I stood alongside the shield maidens at the River Banshee, and took twenty beards alongside the Nordmen, and our Gael brethren."
"Granaidh, you're not a bloody valkyrie. How many times must I tell ya? Ya weren't at the River Banshee, ya were birthing me uncle!" Another boy spoke up. This one had hair of Briar's same coppery color. Innis glared at him.
"That's not what cousin Ingrid told me."
"Ingrid's not our cousin," the man with the braided beard told her. "She was me mother, an old Nordland witch who died thirty-five years ago after catching blue boils from our laird. Now, we didn't bring ya 'cause of her. We didn't bring ya at all! Ya wouldn't stay off, sayin' ya were the war queen Lilliard! Now look at us!"
"Careful how ya speak to me grandmother, Bard," the copper haired boy spoke up.
"She's yers, not mine," Bard snarled, though it seemed strangely artificial. "Now that she got us in chains, I'll speak to her how I wish."
Briar sat up, head thumping with the clamoring of the wagon wheels and the radiating heat of their words. As soon as she did, the wagon hit a bump and dropped her to their feet. Innis took her hand kindly, grip firmer than she expected for an old woman. The boy loosened her chains as well, seeing that she was of little threat. She had swarthy eyes that somehow guided her around the dim space as lamplight. She wore a pendant around her neck shaped like a nimble, silver fox. Moonlight glinted off it through a small hole in the canvas roof.
"Sit next to me, wee barra. The night is cold, and I could do with someone next to me that's kilt doesn't smell of roses and lady's perfume," Innis beckoned. Her grandsons and nephews stiffened, faces red under their indigo. She took the pendant from her neck and draped it over Briar's head. "Keep it, lass. I got no use for it anymore. It's a birthin' token, but it ain't just for bringin' bairns. There're many kinds of births. I say it suits ya well.
"The woman who gave it to me was that 'old witch' who died of blue boil. She was a very wise woman. Said it gives you the cunnin' of the fox, passes it to your child as well. Never worked for me, ya see, as most of these nitwits or their fathers came from my womb."
"Why're ya given my mother's necklace to a stranger?" Bard fumed.
"She gave it to me, and I'll give it to whoever I wish," Innis barked in reply. "Soon, they'll sort us apart, and she's all I'm gonna have." She met Briar's eyes. "Ya need all the cunnin' in the world where we're goin', a sheòid."
Briar shuddered as the wagon wheels ceased. She clung to the old woman, fearing for her life as the guard leaped out of the cart and began filing the men outside. She remembered something quickly, something that made her heart thud.
"My brother," Briar whispered in Bard's ear as he followed his brothers in chains. "Callahan MacLeod. He's a shepherd from Moorland. If you ever find him, tell him that I'll meet him in the Highlands."
"That's where we're goin'. Where you're goin', it'll be safer for the women. But, give me yer word that ya watch over me auntie. Give me yer word, and I will." Baird replied.
"I promise," Briar told him.
"Thanks, lass," Bard told her. He kissed Innis on the cheek apologetically, then did the same to Briar. He whispered in her ear, feigning goodbyes in the sight of an imperial officer. "They're gonna take ya South. Further south than Innis has ever been. Take care of her. And I know Callahan. We all do.
"Don't fear for us, Little Briar. Do ya think we're caught for nothin'? Tonight, we break the chains and knock the Magistrate's boots from our table. Stay strong for her and get far away from here, a sheòid. And don't use your real name. They'll have your head on the choppin' block in no time."
He looked at her gravely, then winked. Her fears were lessened, but not gone. Cal often spoke in such ways, and if Bard knew him, that must have meant that he was in the brigade. As he exited the carriage, Briar buried herself in Innis's warmth. She would have to regain her strength soon. They called her a sheòid, their valiant warrior.
The carriage went through meadows, stopping once in the night to pick up a group of women that's faces were covered in mud and ashes. They were pushed roughly into the wagon, clothes torn beyond what would happen if you caught your sleeve on a bush or tree. They traveled for several nights without stopping for food or sleep. The carriage only stopped to change drivers and add more women to the back, and then continued traveling. Briar remained silent, clinging to Innis. When the other women asked who she was, she remembered Bard's words and choked.
"I'm Innis Campbell, and this is me granddaughter, Aurora. Born under the lights, she was," Innis told them, holding her close.
The fox pendant glinted, and she hid it in her frock. When they finally stopped in the moors, they added someone she recognized to the caravan. It was Tilly Robinshire, a patient of her late mother. Briar knew her daughters well, sharing Sunday meals with them every month for as long as she could remember. She held her breath, praying that she wouldn't say her name.
She didn't have to. The forest had changed Briar's face, and the eyes Tilly saw were the eyes of a foreigner.