by Jayne Castel
Galan had told Muin how, as a younger man, Donnel had been restless and reckless; he had gone savage with grief after the loss of his first wife, Luana.
“There is little point in sending warriors after Talor, Donnel … you must realize that.” Wid mac Manus, chieftain of The Wolf, was the first to answer him. A dark-haired, stocky, bearded man of a similar age to Donnel, Wid bore a careworn face. “You know as well as I that they will have him by now. If by some miracle he managed to bring Cathal down, he won’t have escaped the broch alive.”
Wid’s words were direct, harsh even. Rage pulsed through Muin at the thought of his cousin falling into Serpent hands, but he would not lose hope that his cousin still lived—not yet.
Muin watched Donnel stare Wid down. The glower on his uncle’s face told him that he too was not ready to accept Wid’s grim view of the situation.
“I won’t leave him there,” Donnel ground out the words. “I will go and bring back my son’s body alone, if I have to.”
“You know it won’t come to that.” Tarl, who had been seated next to Donnel, spoke up. The middle of the three brothers, Tarl mac Muin wore a strained expression this morning, although his grey eyes were as hard as Donnel’s. “One thing’s for sure though … Talor’s departure changes our plans.”
“How so?” Tadhg mac Fortrenn, chieftain of The Stag, spoke up. The only chieftain not present this morning was Varar of The Boar. He and Muin’s cousin, Fina, had departed for An Teanga, The Boar stronghold, after Muin and Ailene’s handfasting a few days earlier.
“We were going to attack anyway,” Tarl replied, meeting Tadhg’s eye. “After the snows had cleared.” Tarl’s jaw hardened then. “But now we can’t wait. We must hit them now … and hard.”
Aggression surged in a hot tide through Muin’s veins. It was similar to the sensation that rose within him in battle—a type of madness that seized him and made him lose all fear for his own safety. Like his uncles, he had no intention of sitting on his hands while Talor died in Serpent hands.
A charged silence settled over the meeting house.
Galan met Tadhg’s gaze for a long moment, before he shifted his attention to Wid. “Naturally, I agree with my brothers,” he murmured. “I wish to move on Dun Ringill at our first opportunity. What say you both? Will you join us?”
The silence continued. Wid and Tadhg shared a long look. There was no aggression on either of their faces, just weary resignation. They had both agreed to help take back Dun Ringill moons ago. They were assisting The Eagle, but they were also helping themselves. Once Dun Ringill fell, the hold that The Serpent had over The Winged Isle would shatter. They could return home to their brochs knowing that these invading Cruthini no longer posed a threat.
“Very well,” Wid said finally, “The Wolf is with you.”
“As is The Stag … although the snow will make the siege harder on us,” Tadhg pointed out. He was a huge, broad-shouldered man and this morning wore his ceremonial cloak, which bore the head and antlers of a great red stag. It made The Stag chieftain an imposing sight indeed. “But I can see why you wish to attack now. Talor may yet still breathe.”
“And if he doesn’t, I’ll slaughter every last one of those Cruthini bastards to avenge him,” Donnel’s growled threat split the air.
The fire in Muin’s belly raged hotter still. They were fighting words. His churning worry for Talor morphed into something fierce and dark. He had to believe his cousin still lived, but if he discovered otherwise, he would bring down any Serpent who crossed his path.
“I will send out riders to An Teanga immediately,” Galan broke the tension-filled silence that filled the meeting house. “Varar has vowed to stand with us. He and Fina can meet us east of the fort.”
The other two chieftains nodded at this. They knew that Varar mac Urcal had pledged to fight alongside them, although his oath had surprised them.
Muin was not surprised though. He had no doubts about Varar, not any longer. He had fought alongside the man enough times of late to know that his word was good. Plus, he was wed to Fina, Tarl’s fiery daughter. The Boar and The Eagle were now united in marriage—an alliance that would strengthen both tribes.
Together, the united tribes of The Winged Isle would stand against The Serpent.
Muin emerged from the meeting roundhouse to find that a blizzard had blown in. The snow fell in heavy, swirling flakes, nearly blinding him.
Behind him Aaron cursed as he stepped out into the calf-deep snow. “How are we supposed to go to battle in this weather?” he muttered.
Muin cut his brother a sharp look. “We’ll manage,” he replied. “We need to move now, Aaron. Perhaps if we do, there’s a chance that Talor still lives.”
His brother’s gaze guttered then, and Muin realized that despite Aaron’s bluster, he was genuinely worried about Talor. The two of them bickered constantly, although even that had ceased of late as Talor closed himself off from friends and family. But there was real affection underneath—just like Talor, Aaron had a good heart.
The two brothers trudged through the snow, making their way through a warren of narrow streets back to the hut where Muin lived with Ailene. The roundhouse that Aaron shared with his parents lay farther down the street, but Muin motioned for his brother to follow him. “Ailene is preparing stew and dumplings for the noon meal,” Muin told him with a half-smile. “There’s plenty for you too … if you’re hungry?”
It was a foolish question. Aaron was always hungry. Even so, his brother hesitated a moment before nodding. He did not like to interrupt upon Muin and Ailene’s time alone.
“Are you sure?”
“Aye … Ailene always cooks too much. You know that.”
Aaron grinned. “Watch out, brother, or you’ll run to fat.”
Ducking into the hut, both men stamped the snow off their boots on the front step and did their best to remove their snow encrusted cloaks without showering the interior of the dwelling with snowflakes.
“Close the door … quickly,” a female voice instructed. “That wind is freezing.”
Muin hastily did as bid before following his brother to the fireside. A tall, dark-haired woman with sea-blue eyes stood over a bubbling cauldron of stew. Her cheeks were flushed; it was hot inside the hut, in sharp contrast to the bitter wind outdoors.
At the sight of his wife, the rage and urgency within Muin dimmed a little. Ailene, who was the bandruí—seer—of The Eagle tribe, was his anchor in an increasingly uncertain world.
Ailene’s gaze met his, and a knowing look flared in her eyes. She had been surprised when the chieftains had not called her with Muin to the meeting. As seer, she was usually requested to join them for such gatherings.
“You’re going after him, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Aye,” Muin replied gruffly as he warmed his hands before the fire. “We’re going to launch our campaign early against Dun Ringill.”
Ailene’s gaze widened. “When?”
“As soon as we are ready.”
His wife’s slender jaw tensed. “I should have been at the meeting. Didn’t they want me to cast the bones?”
Muin tensed. Of course, his people rarely went to war without consulting their bandruí first. However, there had been conflict between Ailene and the chieftains before Mid-Winter Fire. Ailene had made a mistake that nearly cost them all dearly. Muin wondered if the chieftains had deliberately not requested Ailene’s presence at the meeting—perhaps Wid and Tadhg still sought to punish her. “There will be time for that, love,” he replied. “We will need you to bless the warriors, before we move out.”
Ailene’s mouth compressed. “And if I cast the bones and see something worrying?”
Next to Muin, Aaron shifted uncomfortably on his seat. “I thought your tellings have been more positive of late,” Muin’s brother replied with a frown.
She nodded. “I cast the bones on the eve of the Long Night and saw a far brighter future for our people.”
“Ay
e,” Muin murmured, meeting his wife’s eye across the fire. “No longer does a cloud of doom hang over us … it’s the right time to move.”
“And what of my prediction that The Eagle and The Serpent will somehow be united in the future?”
Ailene’s words brought a derisive snort from Aaron, and although Muin cut him a quelling look, he found himself agreeing with his brother. He could not see a day when such a thing would ever come to pass.
“Maybe, this is one of the rare instances when the bones are wrong, mo ghràdh,” he replied.
Chapter Seven
Worse Ways to Die
THERE WERE WORSE ways to die.
They could have slit open his belly, pulled out his entrails, and left him to fade in slow agony. Instead, Cathal had decided to let Talor gradually freeze as he hung from the outer wall of Dun Ringill. It was a kinder death than he had expected—but the end result would be the same.
The day was waning. It was snowing so heavily that Talor had not been able to track the progress of the sun across the sky. But even through the surrounding curtain of white, he realized that the light was dimming.
Soon night would be upon them, and the temperature would plummet. Already, he could not feel his hands or feet. The cold cocooned him, strangely removing a lot of the aches and pains the beatings had caused.
Talor knew that was not a good sign. It meant his body was slowly shutting down. And he knew when he ceased to feel the cold at all, the end would be near. He had seen men freeze to death before. They had stopped shivering and even complained of being too warm.
Idiot.
He had not thought his attack through at all. Blinded by revenge, an illness that had raged through him for the past two moons, Talor had been unable to think of anything else.
He had just wanted Cathal dead. And he had wanted to be the one to drive his blade into the bastard’s throat.
But it had all gone awry. Bonnie would not be avenged. And soon he would be joining her in the halls of their fathers.
Despair filtered through Talor then. He did not recognize it at first, the heavy numbing sensation that dragged down at him, penetrating the chills that wracked his body. As The Reaper approached, his gleaming scythe at the ready, it dawned on Talor that he had perhaps been a trifle careless to throw his life away.
Suddenly, he wanted nothing more than to live.
He thought then of all the things he would miss. He would never see another spring bloom, would not see the world come to life after the bleakness of the bitter season. He would never warm himself again by a roaring fire.
He would never lie with a woman again, or down a horn of mead, or eat a dish of blood sausage.
The despair grew heavier still, like a boulder fastened around his neck.
Survival had not mattered to him of late. Life had become a struggle, and he had been filled with rage that no one else seemed to care as much as he did that Bonnie was gone. He had felt bitterness toward his father and Eithni—that they still continued with their lives.
The world should have stopped, and yet it hadn’t.
He now knew better—now when it was too late to do anything about it.
Life and death were just part of the same cycle, and fighting against it was futile. All he had done was shorten his own life in this reckless pursuit of vengeance.
Bonnie wouldn’t care. Bonnie was gone.
“Lackwit,” he muttered to himself. “You deserve this end.”
“What’s that?” A Serpent warrior, bundled up in furs, who was standing guard a few feet away, called out. “Did you just squawk, Eagle?”
“I was just wondering if you’d cut me down and sit me in front of a warm fire with a dish of hot stew?” Talor called back. “It’s a little chilly out here.”
The warrior snorted. “No chance of that. I’d use your imagination if I were you,” he replied gruffly. “Remember your last meal fondly … because you won’t be getting another.”
“Do you think he’s dead yet?” Tormud’s question rumbled across the table, causing some of the warriors seated around him to chortle.
“I don’t know,” Artair replied, raising a dark eyebrow at the warrior. “You could brave the blizzard and check for yourself?”
“I don’t think I’ll bother,” Tormud replied with a sneer. “It’s cold out there.”
More laughter followed this comment. Looking on, Mor noted just how much sway Tormud held here. Obviously, the warriors of their tribe followed Cathal and none other, but at the same time many of them held a deep respect for Tormud. He was a man who knew how to command and inspired respect in those who fought alongside him. However, Mor, like Tamhas, had never shared their respect.
Tormud raised his cup to his lips and took a deep draft of mead. Then his attention shifted to where Cathal sat in his high-backed wooden chair, drinking horn in hand. “I still think you should have let me have some more fun with Talor mac Donnel,” The Boar warrior muttered. “Freezing to death is too kind for the likes of him.”
Cathal shrugged. “Either way, he’ll be dead by morning.”
Mor studied her father’s face and wondered at his thoughts. She had advised Talor to break his silence, but he had taken it too far earlier, giving details that her father had suspected were false. Not surprisingly, Cathal had seen through him.
Mor sat at the far end of the table, an untouched cup of mead before her. They had just consumed a light supper of turnip and cabbage stew, accompanied by cheese curd dumplings. But Mor had eaten little. She’d had a poor appetite all day, and had felt on edge—restless inside the confines of the broch.
Underneath the table her foot tapped restively. She often felt like this in winter, confined by the snow and cold weather. But today was worse. After the events of the night before, she did not feel herself.
She appreciated that her father had not been unnecessarily cruel to the Eagle warrior. Nonetheless, the thought of Talor slowly freezing to death outside in that biting wind put her on edge.
The sensation irritated her.
She did not know the man and had every reason to despise him. And yet she was irresistibly drawn to him. She was not sure what had caused her to rise from her furs and go to speak with him, but once she had, their brief conversation had plagued her for the rest of the night. She had deliberately remained aloof from Talor the following morning, but it did not matter. A tenuous link had been somehow forged between them.
This fierce, reckless stranger, who seemed to care so little for his own life, had brought all the things that had been churning within her for a while now to a head.
His presence here only made her feelings plainer.
She wanted an end to war, an end to this invasion.
Mor was not afraid of a fight, or of falling in a bloody battle, but she was tired of the struggle. She was tired of rising every morning ready to fight yet again. The conflict that she had grown up with had followed them to The Winged Isle, and it would never end.
“I see you and uncle often discussing things, Da,” she said finally, speaking up for the first time that evening. “Do you speak of the future?”
Cathal snorted. “We argue about the future, lass, if that’s what you mean.”
A few feet away, Artair grimaced.
“And why’s that?” Mor asked.
“Our time here is coming to an end,” Artair replied, ignoring the dark glance that his older brother cast him. Her uncle sat hunched over his cup of mead. The cold made his healing injuries pain him. “I believe that we would be wise to pack up and leave The Winged Isle, before the warriors of the united tribes come for us.”
Mor’s heart leaped at the suggestion. Her uncle had been bold to argue for such a thing.
“That is the act of a coward,” Cathal growled.
Anger lit in Artair’s eyes. “It’s not craven to look after your people,” he pointed out. “If things continue as they are, every last Serpent upon this rock will die. Is that what you want?”
Silence fell over the table, and despite that it was warm inside the feasting hall, a chill settled over Mor. She agreed with her uncle, if they kept to their current course, only death and destruction would follow. She was not surprised that Tormud refused to back down. The man felt he had a claim to the lands here—but not so her father. Cathal was born and bred on the mainland, and his roots were there. He had made a mistake in coming here, they all had. But stubbornness had overtaken him of late, perhaps as a result of his grief.
“Unlike Artair, I don’t think we should flee,” she said finally, only to earn a scowl from her uncle. But Mor pressed on. “Instead, we should make peace with the tribes of this isle.”
It was rare for her to voice an opinion contrary to her father’s, and she saw surprise ripple across his face. Tamhas had always been the one to lock horns with him. Until now she had only ever sought to gain her father’s praise, not risk his ire.
Cathal’s brow furrowed. “What’s this?” he growled. “Has my fierce daughter lost her stomach for war?”
“I’ve never loved war for the sake of it,” she replied, keeping her voice cool to mask the anger that was now simmering in her gut. “I followed you here because I thought we were going to a better life. But the only things I have known on this isle are grief and loss. If we want a new life in this place, we need to work with the people here, not against them.”
Her father glowered back at her. “A Serpent doesn’t share power, girl.” His voice turned flint-hard, and his green eyes darkened as his temper rose. “When I led us across the water to this isle, I knew there would be bloodshed. I brought us here … and I will see us to victory. No matter what it takes.”
