by Jayne Castel
With a muttered curse, Talor did as instructed, allowing Mor to slide her shoulder under his elbow so that he could wrap one arm around her shoulders. His weight dragged her down, reminding Mor that fatigue pressed down upon her as well. Her toes now throbbed with cold, even through her boots, and she could feel the chill biting through her layers of clothing. Nevertheless, she knew that she could have traveled for a while longer. Talor could not.
They staggered on together, entwined like lovers, as they made their way down a narrow vale. Boulders surrounded them, peeking up through the snow. And just as the torch was on the verge of dying, Mor spied a squat shape ahead.
Her breathing caught, and relief hit her. The hut. They had reached it at last.
Made of stacked stone, with a conical roof covered with sods, the hut was tiny—barely big enough for a hunting party of four warriors to sit comfortably within. Relief slammed into Mor as they struggled down the valley. The hut represented survival.
Stooping, she entered the dwelling, hauling Talor in after her.
Breathing another curse, he sank to the ground. The door to the hut had been left open, and as such, snow had fluttered in. Yet most of the space was dry. An unlit hearth sat in the center of the dwelling. The last hunters to stay here had kindly left a fresh lump of peat in the fire pit. It was a hunter’s tradition that when you left a hut, you did your best to make the next visitors welcome. Without that lump of peat, it would have been impossible to light a fire, for she could not go foraging for firewood.
Mor unslung the leather pack she had donned underneath her cloak. It had been difficult to help herself to the supplies she needed before leaving, but she had managed to pack her flint, tinder, a bladder of water, and a parcel of curd-cheese dumplings leftover from that night’s supper. The dumplings had actually been meant for the guards keeping watch on the wall. It had been a good excuse, both to leave the broch, and to don her cloak and take the food without arousing suspicion. It had been a risk, but seeing the gaunt lines on Talor’s face, Mor was relieved she had made the effort to bring food.
He needed to eat.
Once again, her concern for this man’s welfare surprised Mor.
She was a warrior, born and raised to be ruthless. A female warrior had to be even more cold-blooded at times than her male counterparts. It was a natural female tendency to nurture, to take care of others’ needs. Such an instinct could get you killed in battle. Mor had learned to quash it from an early age.
But this man, this enemy, brought out a side in her she did not know she possessed. It was odd, for his arrogance was abrasive.
You need to keep him alive, she counselled herself. Desperation wreathed up within Mor like wood smoke. She hated not having a plan. You can’t weave peace alone.
That was it, she assured herself. She did not actually care what happened to this warrior. But what she did care about was ensuring that the rest of her people, who now sheltered at Dun Ringill, survived. She had to save them.
The first thing Mor did was get the fire lit. Her flint and tinder did the work, and shortly after the peat was alight. It was slightly damp and hissed as it burned, omitting a thick, pungent smoke that tickled the back of Mor’s throat. Nevertheless, the heat was welcome.
Talor had drawn close to the fire pit and was lying on his side now. The fur mantle she had given him draped over his torso and legs, although his face was worryingly pale.
Mor unwrapped the food she had brought and handed him a dumpling. “Here,” she murmured. “You need to eat.”
He took the dumpling with a nod before devouring it. She then handed him another before passing him the bladder of water as well.
“Thank you,” Talor finally grunted.
Mor fought the urge to smile. She knew it had cost him to thank his enemy.
Sitting back, Mor poked at the burning peat with a stick, rousing it. “This fire doesn’t feel like it’s putting out enough heat,” she grumbled.
“It does to me,” Talor replied. He had eaten and drunk, and a little color had returned to his cheeks.
Silence fell between them then. Now that they had fled Dun Ringill, and completed their journey safely to the mountains, there was nothing to do but wait the rest of the night out. Still, Mor could tell from Talor’s shuttered expression that he was wary of her. The bruises and swelling on his face added a harshness to his look. He still did not trust her, despite that she had saved his life.
He was watching her under half-lowered lids, and when he spoke once more, there was a suspicious edge to his voice. “What now, Serpent?”
“Now, we rest and regain our strength.”
“You do realize you can’t go back?”
Mor clenched her jaw. She really did not need reminding. “I’m aware of that.”
“And how exactly do you think this is going to weave peace? The Serpent have no right to our lands.”
“I’m not sure yet,” she admitted her tone sharpening. “I didn’t have time to come up with a detailed plan … you were freezing to death, remember?”
Talor snorted. “You’ve betrayed your people for nothing.”
Mor went still, even as anger stirred in her belly. She leaned forward, her gaze seizing Talor’s. “It’s not for nothing,” she growled. “I intend to make this count.”
Chapter Ten
A Crossroads
BLINKING, TALOR straightened up outside the hut. Compared to the dim interior, the morning was blinding in its brightness. A hard blue sky and glittering sun reflected off a white world. Talor reached up and shaded his eyes as they teared from the intensity.
He had not thought he would live to see another sunrise.
It still amazed him that he had.
Still shading his eyes from the reflected whiteness, Talor trudged away from the hut, circling behind it to where a boulder jutted out of the snow. There, he unlaced his breaches and relieved his bladder. Releasing a sigh, Talor closed his eyes and tilted his face up to the sun. It was a balm upon his bruised, swollen, and aching face. Fortunately, the injuries he had sustained from the beatings were more superficial than he had originally thought. There did not appear to be any fractured or broken bones. His body was covered in bruises and grazes, but he usually healed quickly, and they would fade in days.
Talor opened his eyes and took stock of what his situation now was. He had woken up in a daze inside. For a moment, as he stirred under the heavy fur mantle, he had imagined he was back in Balintur sleeping by the fire in his own hut. But then he had opened his eyes and spied the woman with flame-red hair sleeping opposite him—and everything flooded back.
Talor rubbed a hand over his face and muttered a curse. He could not believe he had sworn to that woman that he would not seek further vengeance upon her father. Now that he was far from Dun Ringill, and alive, the need for revenge kindled once more in the pit of his belly.
He could not let it go.
She had given him little choice. It was either agree or die. And, if he was honest, even when she freed him from his chains, he had been skeptical that they would manage to flee safely.
But here they were.
Talor trudged back to the entrance of the hut. Before going inside, he paused, his keen gaze sweeping the valley. Snow covered everything, including the stand of firs that carpeted the steep eastern side of the valley. The wintry scene made the landscape look so different. In the summer, a stream trickled through the heart of the vale, but snow completely covered the waterway now. It was probably frozen solid. He was pleased to see though that the white crust around them was completely pristine; there were no signs of their footprints leading to the hut, which meant that the snow had continued to fall during the night and would have obscured their tracks leading here. The Serpent chieftain would not be able to follow them.
A harsh smile tugged at Talor’s lips. He thought just how angry Cathal mac Calum would be right now. It brightened his mood just a little.
Ducking back into the hut, Talor fou
nd Mor awake. She was seated cross-legged, rousing the glowing embers of the fire with a stick. She had added another lump of peat to it, and although the air was close and smoky inside the hut, it was welcomingly warm.
Lowering himself down onto his fur cloak, Talor also adopted a cross-legged position, wincing as he did so.
“How are the bruises?” Mor asked, handing him a cold dumpling.
Talor took the food, his mouth filling with saliva. He was absolutely starving this morning. “They hurt,” he replied. “But they’ll heal soon enough.”
“I’m surprised you aren’t more seriously injured,” Mor replied. “Tormud must have gone softly on you.”
Talor’s mouth twisted. “He was probably hoping to get me on his own later.”
Mor’s full mouth curved. It was a very slight smile, but it transformed her face. Seated before the hearth, her fiery hair tumbling down over her shoulders, the glow of the flames bathing her milky skin, she was the most striking woman he had ever set eyes on. She had wrapped her fur cloak around her shoulders for warmth, but he could see her long, shapely legs, clad in close-fitting plaid breeches, folded underneath it.
Not for the first time since their initial meeting, he felt heat build in his loins at the mere sight of her.
Talor clenched his jaw. His body’s reaction angered him, and he attempted to ignore his attraction to this woman. He was sick of having these animalistic urges every time he locked eyes with Mor. He could never lose sight of the fact that she was his enemy—he had to be wary of her.
But Mor had also saved his life, and that complicated matters.
Talor swallowed the last mouthful of dumpling. He could have eaten many more of them, but saw that they now only had two left. This time of year, there were very few animals and birds to hunt out here in the wilderness. That was the last of their food. Mor was wisely rationing the supplies.
“We slept late,” Mor said after a pause. Her voice was reserved, her gaze shuttered. “It’s nearly noon.”
Watching her, Talor had the sense that this was a woman who was used to keeping her emotions locked down. She gave very little away. Having grown up with a sensitive, emotional step-mother, Talor found Mor’s coldness strange.
“I’m not surprised,” Talor replied, his own tone guarded. “We spent most of the night traveling to get here.” He paused, his gaze narrowing. “Do any of your people know about this hut?”
Mor shook her head. “None, I’d guess. The only one you have to worry about is Tormud … but he doesn’t come from this part of the isle, and he’s been away for the past two decades.”
“They shouldn’t be able to follow us here,” Talor informed her. “The snow has covered our tracks.”
Relief flickered in those beautiful moss green eyes. He had rarely seen eyes that color; it suited her pale, freckled skin and auburn hair.
Stop it. He gave himself a mental shake. The last thing he wanted to do was sit here admiring the color of this woman’s eyes. She is the enemy. Never forget that.
Another silence drew out, and this time Talor broke it. “Why did you free me?” he asked, aware of the aggressive edge to his voice. She needed to know that he did not trust her, not one bit.
Mor exhaled slowly, as if his question wearied her. “I told you, back at Dun Ringill. I’ve had enough of war, of feuding, I had to break the cycle.”
Talor’s brow furrowed. He was not exactly sure what she meant. But he thought she was being a fool. “Freeing me isn’t going to achieve much.”
She shook her head. “No … but it’s the first step.”
Talor drew back slightly, his frown deepening. “Toward what?”
She held his gaze, hers unnervingly steady. “To peace, Talor.” The way she said his name caused heat to arrow through his groin. “Between your people and mine. I want The Serpent to remain upon The Winged Isle … for us to put down roots here.”
Their gazes fused for a long heartbeat. And then Talor threw back his head and barked a laugh. “There will be no peace between our people. Not now, not ever. You’ve gone too far for that. You’ve shed too much blood.”
That got a reaction from her. He watched as Mor’s features tightened, as a faint flush crept across her high cheekbones, and those moss-colored eyes darkened to a deep pine green. “You’re wrong,” she replied, an edge of panic to her voice. “It’s not too late. If we work together, we can stop this. Maybe you and I can find a way to make both sides see sense.”
Talor drew in a sharp breath. If she had slapped him across the face, he would have been less shocked. “I’m not working with you.”
Her gaze narrowed. “Why not?”
Talor leaned forward, his gaze never leaving hers. Anger pulsed through him, although he could see that he had succeeded in infuriating her as well. The Mother preserve him, she was even more striking when riled. He could see a magnificent bosom heaving beneath her mantle.
“You arrived on our shores, uninvited,” he began, his voice roughening. “You pillaged our villages, killed my family and friends … there is no way we will make peace with you. The ocean will boil, and the moon will crash to the earth, before that ever happens.”
“You’re being pigheaded,” she growled out the words now. “I too have lost those I love to this conflict.” He saw her gaze gutter as she admitted this. “But the fact remains that there is still time to make peace.”
Talor craned his neck forward, as rage now ignited within him. It pounded through his veins, hot and reckless. He itched to strike out, to hurt those who had harmed the ones he loved. Those who had brought so much grief to his people. “I hope this campaign has cost you dearly,” he said, his voice low and hard. “I hope it has stripped away everything from you.”
Her gaze guttered further, and misgiving twisted Talor’s gut, before he shoved it aside. No pity for these people. Ever.
“I lost both my brothers,” she replied, her voice low and flat. “They meant as much to me as your sister did to you. I could take my vengeance upon you for their deaths, but I choose not to.”
“Well that’s not my choice,” Talor spat out the words. “I choose to finish this the way it started. With blood.”
“What are you going to do?” There was a taunting edge to her voice, and a nerve flickered in her cheek, hinting at the emotions churning beneath her controlled exterior. She was truly angry now. He only had to push her just a little bit further, and he would get what he wanted: a fight. “We stripped you of all your weapons, Eagle. Are you going to try and kill me with your bare hands?”
“What I’m going to do is leave this hut, and you, behind,” he snarled. “I’m going to march back to Dun Ringill, and I’m going to rip your father’s heart out.”
“Treacherous dog, you swore an oath!”
“Under duress. You can’t strip a warrior of his need for vengeance. Your father’s had it coming … you’ve all had it coming.”
And with that, Talor rose to his feet and made for the door.
He never reached it, for Mor barreled into him. Talor flew backward and crashed onto the floor. Pain exploded through his body, as the injuries that had not even yet started to heal properly protested at such rough treatment. “Bastard.” A fist slammed into his jaw. “You dare go back on your oath, and I’ll kill you.”
Talor hit back, anger giving him a strength he did not even realize he possessed. Despite that he was bruised, cold, and exhausted—he had regained some strength after having eaten and rested. Rage did the rest.
Their fists flew as they rolled over and over on the dirt floor of the hut, cursing and snarling at each other.
Talor landed a few solid punches, one to her belly and another to her jaw, but Mor punched back just as hard. Agony exploded in Talor’s skull as her knuckles slammed into his bruised ribs; unlike her, his body could not withstand much more of a beating.
But that did not stop him from fighting. Wrath flowed out of him in a molten tide. Talor forgot his aches and pains, for
got everything except his loathing for these people. They had torn his life down. They had destroyed his world.
This woman had saved him, and he should have been grateful to her. But if she had been wise, she would have left him to die in the cold.
They were mortal enemies. They would never be anything else.
Mor’s knee drove into his gut, while he grabbed a handful of her hair and tried to smash her head down against the floor. With a curse, she head-butted him. The world darkened, and for a moment Talor thought he would lose consciousness. His vision blurred, and he slackened his hold on her.
Snarling another curse, Mor pushed herself off him.
As Talor came to, shaking his head to clear it, his gaze settled upon her. She was crouched a few feet away, poised to spring at him again should he give her a reason.
“You can die right here,” she panted. “If that’s what you really want?” Mor spat on the ground between them then, making her disdain for him clear. “I saved you because I thought you too might want an end to this bloodshed.” Her lip curled then. “But it appears I misjudged you. I took you to be a better man than you actually are.”
Her insults washed off Talor. All the same, he did not make a move to attack her. Instead, clenching his jaw as his bruised belly tormented him, he rolled onto his side. “That was your mistake then,” he growled. “You’re clearly a poor judge of character.”
“Enough,” she countered. “I tire of listening to your venom. If you won’t help me, then you’re of no use to me.” In one smooth movement, she unsheathed the blade she had strapped to her thigh. “Maybe I’ll just cut your throat and be done with it.”
Talor stared at her. He had grown up amongst warrior women. His aunt Tea was fierce, and his cousin Fina was a warrior to be reckoned with despite that most men towered over her. But this woman was something else. There was a core of iron inside her, and the rage on her face only made her beauty burn brighter.
The Hag shrivel his cods, Mor was something to behold.
