by Jayne Castel
His mouth quirked. Despite that he was beaten and in chains, this man’s arrogance reached out, enveloping her. “Have you come to do what he wouldn’t then?”
“No … I’ve come to warn you. Give him what he wants tomorrow, or your end will be a painful one.”
Talor mac Donnel huffed a bitter laugh. “What do I care?” he rasped. “I’ll not die a traitor.”
Mor watched him, drinking in the haughty lines of his face. She liked the rough timbre of his voice, the sultry lilt of his accent—different to her own flatter tones.
“You don’t fear pain then?” she asked coolly. She was not sure why she had gotten up in the middle of the night to speak to this man. It was almost as if an invisible hand had taken hers and led her here; she felt compelled to converse with him.
Again, that arrogant half-smile. His blue eyes gleamed in the light of the nearby cressets. “Not half as much as failure.”
“But you have failed.”
His mouth twisted. “Aye, thanks to you.”
“I wasn’t going to let you cut my father down, was I?”
“He’s a butcher.”
“We’re all butchers, mac Donnel. How many warriors have you slain in the heat of battle?”
Talor’s gaze guttered, and Mor realized that finally, she had gotten to him, had managed to penetrate his brash shield.
“I didn’t invade your home,” he replied after a moment, his voice harsh now. “I didn’t take lands that were not my own.”
“My father says land belongs to no one. The strongest take what they want … it’s always been that way.”
His lip curled. “What’s your name?”
“Mor.”
“Mor.” A shiver of pleasure went through her as he said her name, even if wrath burned in his eyes now. His swollen face had gone taut and strained. “You can take what you want, but that doesn’t mean you get to keep it.”
The threatening edge to his voice did not intimidate her. Instead, it sent a frisson of excitement through her lower belly, igniting a fire there that had lain dormant for months now. Back on the mainland she had taken a lover, but their relationship had ended before the invasion. The warrior had fallen during the initial conflict with The Boar—and after that she had been too preoccupied with war to think about taking another consort.
It surprised her that this prisoner, this local man who had been about to slay her father, incited such a response.
Likewise, she saw his pupils dilate as he stared back at her. He felt it too—this unsettling pull.
“I suggest,” Mor said after a long pause, “that you cooperate with my father tomorrow. Give him details, false ones if you want … and he may give you a warrior’s death.”
Talor watched the woman with fiery auburn hair and moss-green eyes. He did not understand why she had approached him, or even why she was bothering to give him advice. Yet the longer they talked, the more he wanted her to stay.
The impact of their gazes meeting had hit him like a blow to the belly. Even now, he reeled in the aftermath, and was at a loss as to why he had reacted so strongly. He had fought her earlier in the hall, and she had watched while her father’s men beat him.
But now, face-to-face, while the rest of the keep slumbered, something sparked.
She observed him with cool appraisal, and during the silences between them, he noted her reaction to his closeness: the way her breathing quickened, the parting of her full lips.
He had never seen a woman like this one.
She was taller than any woman of his tribe, tall enough to stand eye-to-eye with him. Broad-shouldered and full-breasted, she had long limbs and narrow hips. But it was her face he could not take his eyes off. She had high cheekbones, milky skin, and a scattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She crouched so close that he could smell the sweet, musky scent of her skin.
And despite everything, despite that his body ached and that he could no longer feel his hands, his groin tightened. He resolutely ignored the arousal; it had poor timing indeed.
“You said nothing earlier,” he murmured finally, breaking the tension-filled silence between them. “Why?”
Those full lips curved. “I prefer to let my father interrogate prisoners without interference,” she replied. Mor had a beguiling voice, low and sultry. “He knows what he’s doing.”
“And yet you’re here … giving me advice on how to deal with him. Why?”
Again, that cool smile, although her gaze was now shadowed. “Grief sent you on this mission … it was a stupid, yet noble reason. You’re reckless and clearly half-mad to break into this fort on your own. But I respect you for your actions. I know what grief can do to someone.”
Chapter Five
Games
DESPITE THAT HE had told himself he would not listen to the woman, Talor decided to take Mor’s advice the following day.
He had hung there, awake and in pain, for a long while after she left him. Talor had watched her walk away, noting her long, confident strides, her proud bearing, and the way her wild auburn hair tumbled down her back.
The Mother save him, he did not want to lust after this Serpent woman, and yet his shaft had gone rock hard as his gaze traveled down the length of her to where those plaid breeches hugged the contours of her rounded buttocks.
Lust. It was just lust. He had not lain with a woman in a while. Ever since Bonnie’s death, he had no longer felt like flirting or enjoying female company as he used to. Usually, every fire festival was an opportunity to find a woman to warm his furs for a night or two. But at Mid-Winter Fire, he had taken the watch upon the walls of Balintur while his friends and family celebrated the Long Night.
This was probably his last night alive, and as he watched Mor walk away, he wished he could have spent it in her furs, driving into her as she wrapped those long legs about him. She was the enemy, but he wanted her nonetheless.
By the time dawn arrived, Talor had fallen into a pain-filled doze, all lusty thoughts gone. His whole body throbbed now, the parts of it he could actually feel. And when they released him from the wall, he merely crumpled to the floor, unable to support himself with his arms or legs.
The Cruthini dogs who had cut him down laughed long and hard at that. One of them got in a sharp kick to his ribs for good measure, before Cathal’s piercing reprimand brought them up short.
“Hands off,” The Serpent chieftain barked. “Give the prisoner bread and broth. I don’t want him fainting, before I get a chance to question him.”
Talor sat, back pressed up against the wall, rubbing his tingling wrists as a Cruthini woman brought him a bowl of broth and a hunk of oaten bread. She shoved them at him, her expression as hard as her eyes.
Unlike Mor, this one was no beauty.
Lifting the bowl to his lips, Talor took a gulp, sighing as the hot liquid filled his belly. He had not eaten since leaving Balintur. He had been in such pain that he had barely noticed the hunger gnawing at his belly.
He lowered the bowl and set it on the floor beside him, before tearing off a piece of bread and stuffing it into his mouth. He spied the chieftain’s daughter then. She was seated a few yards away at her father’s table.
She did not look his way.
However, that Boar traitor, Tormud, was glaring at him from the far end of the table. He had been frustrated the night before, itching to take Talor outside and spill his entrails onto the snow. He would be hoping for the chance this morning.
Revived by the food and drink, Talor leaned back against the wall. Never had he been so relieved to have the chance to simply sit. Hanging there by his arms all night had made them feel as if they were slowly being pulled from their sockets.
Breathing deeply, Talor closed his eyes. Exhaustion settled over him in a heavy mantle, turning his thoughts foggy and his emotions jumbled. Through it all though, he knew he was a doomed man.
The chieftain’s daughter’s words echoed in his head as he dozed against the wall.
Give him detail
s, false ones if you want … and he may give you a warrior’s death.
Cathal was desperate, Talor had seen it in his eyes the night before. Talor did not care how he died—the result would be just the same in the end. But stubbornness would not aid him now. There was always a chance Cathal might free him from his chains, might give him the chance to attack him again.
And this time Talor would not fail.
Excitement tightened his breathing at the thought.
He had come here to avenge Bonnie, but instead had ended up a prisoner. If he got another chance, he would not fail again.
Cathal mac Calum took his time over his oatcakes and ale. He ate a mountain of oatcakes, slathering them with butter and honey. And despite that the broth and bread had taken the edge off Talor’s hunger, his belly growled nonetheless.
Talor’s mouth thinned. His stomach did not seem to realize that he would not likely live to see another dawn.
Mor broke her fast in silence, her gaze never once straying to Talor.
He could almost believe she had not visited him in the night—but he could not forget the heat that had flared between them.
Finishing his last oatcake, Cathal brushed crumbs off his broad chest and shifted his gaze to Talor.
“Are you ready to talk now?”
Talor stared back at him, keeping his stubborn silence. It was best not to look too helpful, or the chieftain would suspect he was being played.
Cathal cast a sidelong glance at his brother. Artair lifted his cup of ale to his lips with a shrug. “I did warn you,” he replied.
Cathal huffed out a breath and rose to his feet. Seated on the ground, Talor was forced to raise his chin to meet the man’s eye. He was huge, frankly, the biggest man that Talor had ever set eyes upon. What did these Cruthini eat as bairns that made them grow so tall and strong?
“Get him on his feet,” Cathal ordered, and two warriors—the same two who had held Talor while he was beaten the night before—rose from the table below the platform and made their way over to him.
Talor heaved out a weary sigh. The reprieve had been too short.
The warriors hauled him to his feet, and Talor clenched his jaw to prevent himself from crying out. Pain lanced across his chest, and he imagined that under his vest, his torso would be mottled with bruises.
“Very well, Eagle. Let’s start again.” Cathal moved closer to him. “Tell me of the numbers at Balintur.”
Talor held his silence and braced himself for the blow that would follow. The heavy punch to the guts made him double over as pain pulsed through him. He wanted to hold his tongue, to let them beat him to death if need be, but he remembered his resolve. Let him play with Cathal a while.
“Just under three hundred warriors,” he wheezed.
Silence followed this proclamation, and when Cathal spoke, his voice was rough with suspicion. “That seems too few.”
It was. There were nearer four hundred warriors camped at Balintur.
“Many died during the siege,” Talor replied, his voice raspy as he struggled to catch his breath. The punch to the belly made him feel sick. One more blow like that and he would throw up the broth and bread he had recently consumed. “Some perished from their wounds afterward as well.”
A brittle silence fell. Talor watched Cathal’s face. He was viewing Talor with a narrow-eyed stare that made Talor realize The Serpent chieftain was no fool.
“Three hundred warriors it is then,” he replied, his voice was soft but held an edge of menace to it nonetheless. “Let’s hear you answer another question.”
Talor held his gaze, injecting a dose of belligerence into his own.
“Who holds the most influence of the four chieftains?” Cathal asked after a pause.
Talor pretended to consider this. The truth was that he had not seen any of the four dominate the others. Galan and Varar had led some of the campaigns merely because they were on their lands, but they did not hold sway over the other chieftains. However, he would not tell Cathal that. “Galan mac Muin of The Eagle,” he said. “My uncle is not a man to cross.”
“And yet he rode away from Dun Ringill without a backward glance,” Tormud spoke up, his tone goading. “That isn’t the act of a fearless leader.”
Rage surged, cramping Talor’s belly. Tormud’s insult had cut deep; like all The Eagle warriors, Talor had hated leaving Dun Ringill. Initially, he had questioned his uncle’s decision to abandon the fort. Later though, he had understood the wisdom in it. At that stage the invaders had far outnumbered them. Galan had been right: they were far stronger united with the other tribes.
“Traitor,” Talor snarled out the word as he met Tormud’s eye. “Your opinion isn’t worth shit to me.”
Tormud smirked, although Talor saw anger flare in the man’s eyes. He had hit a nerve.
“And who is the weak link?” Cathal pushed on. “Who among the chieftains would be most likely to betray the others?”
Talor hesitated at this question. He did not like the way Cathal’s mind worked. He was as cunning as a weasel. He was looking for something to exploit. Once again, Talor did not see any of the chieftains as capable of betraying the others. Even Wid of The Wolf—who had argued with the others over some of the decisions—was committed to ridding the isle of this scourge. But he would not reveal that to Cathal. He would let him believe one of them could be brought to his side.
“Varar mac Urcal,” he said after a lengthy pause. His gaze then returned to Tormud. “A Boar cannot be trusted.”
It had not been so long ago that Talor would have believed such an accusation. Relations between The Eagle and The Boar had been strained over the years, with many bloody altercations in their history. But Talor respected Varar. The Boar chieftain, though he could be even more arrogant than Talor himself at times, had proved himself worthy of trust. He had also won Talor’s cousin, Fina’s, heart.
Tormud screwed up his face. “He lies.”
“Everyone on this isle knows that The Boar are loners. They prefer to keep their own counsel,” Talor continued, ignoring Tormud’s outburst. “Varar mac Urcal cares not for the fate of the other tribes. He has returned to An Teanga and will remain there.”
“So, he will not aid the rest of you to take back Dun Ringill?” Cathal did not bother to hide the skepticism in his voice.
Talor snorted. “He says he will … but I doubt his word. So do many others.”
A heavy silence followed this proclamation. Talor held his tongue, wondering if he had said too much. None of the surrounding warriors looked happy. Both Cathal’s brother and Mor, still seated at the chieftain’s table, were frowning.
Talor wondered if Cathal’s daughter realized he was bluffing. Recklessness flooded through him in a hot tide. He was starting to enjoy this. He had always been clever with words and wondered if he could manage to tie these Cruthini up in knots. If he filled their heads with nonsense, The Serpent might make a critical mistake, one that could result in their downfall.
The silence drew out, and then Cathal mac Calum’s face went stony, his gaze shuttering. He stepped back from Talor and shifted his attention to Tormud. “We’re done here. Beat him unconscious, and then hang him up by his arms outside the broch walls.” Cathal’s gaze returned to Talor, a wolfish smile stretching across his features. Talor understood then that the chieftain had not been fooled—not for a moment. “The cold can do the rest.”
Chapter Six
Standing Together
MUIN MAC GALAN walked into the meeting house, shaking the snow off his cloak. The others had already arrived and were seated around the glowing firepit. The roar of agitated voices hit Muin in a wave, as did the odor of wet wool and leather.
“There you are, Muin!” His mother, Tea, waved him over to where his kin had gathered at one edge of the fire. His father, Galan, wore a grim expression as he discussed something urgently with his brother Donnel.
Muin hesitated, noting his uncle’s austere face. He then nodded to his moth
er and crossed to the place she had kept for him, between her and his younger brother, Aaron.
“I can’t believe he’s done this,” Aaron growled, before he shot Muin an accusing look. “Did you suspect he would?”
Muin frowned. “You think I knew?”
“Talor is closer to you than anyone. If he was going to share his plans, it would be with you.”
Muin sighed. Of course, Talor would not have confided in Aaron. The two cousins argued often of late. Both young men were too strong-willed, too cocky, to be friends. In contrast, Muin and Talor had always been as close as brothers. Even if they had not been cousins, the pair of them would have been firm friends. Their characters complemented each other: Muin was quiet and steady, while Talor was forthright and impulsive.
Muin’s frown deepened. He had never minded his cousin’s reckless nature till now, but he had taken things too far this time.
“He said nothing to me,” Muin replied. “You know he hasn’t been himself of late. Ever since Bonnie died, Talor has closed up. He’s been avoiding me … I was one of the last to know he’d gone missing.”
A pang of guilt needled Muin then. He had been so happy in his new life with Ailene he had noticed little else. He knew his cousin was miserable. Talor’s brooding manner and strange silences had worried him, but he had not perhaps paid enough attention. Ailene had become his world, and after so many years of yearning for what he thought he could never have, he had reveled in it. They had been handfasted just days earlier, the happiest moment of Muin’s life.
“We must send warriors after him,” a rough, angry voice cut through the din.
Donnel, Talor’s father, had spoken.
The tall, dark-haired warrior rose to his feet, an act that caused the chatter around the fireside to die away. One look at his uncle’s face, and Muin knew why he had once been named the ‘Battle Eagle’. His slate-grey gaze blazed, and a muscle flexed in his chiseled jaw. Even now, in his mid-forties, Donnel mac Muin was not a warrior to underestimate. Watching him, Muin reflected how similar Donnel and Talor were, not just in looks—although it was clear from one glance that Talor was Donnel’s son—but in character too.
