Warrior's Wrath (The Pict Wars Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Around them, many of the camp rose from their firesides and approached the newcomers, gazes alight with interest. Talor knew they were shocked to see him return to them.

  Eithni stood a couple of feet behind her husband, with Talor’s half-sister, Eara, at her side. They stared at Talor, their eyes glittering with tears of joy at seeing him alive. But his father merely looked angry.

  Talor welcomed his fury; he almost wished his father would lash out, would bust his nose or split his lip.

  He deserved it.

  “Because of you, the army has mobilized early,” Donnel continued. “Because of you, we’re going to lay siege to Dun Ringill in a blizzard.”

  “I’m sorry,” he said finally, letting his father’s anger wash over him. “I shouldn’t have left as I did. It was selfish and rash.”

  Donnel drew back slightly, his gaze widening. “What? You’re not going to make some excuse? You’re not going to argue with me?”

  Talor shook his head. “No, I’m not.”

  Donnel’s gaze narrowed. “What’s wrong with you?”

  “He’s clearly exhausted and injured, Donnel,” Eithni spoke up. Her voice held an uncharacteristic sharp edge as she addressed her husband. “You can tear your son to pieces later … I should check him first.”

  Donnel glanced back at his wife and cast her an exasperated look. “You can tend to his wounds soon enough,” he replied, “but there are other, more urgent matters to be addressed first.”

  Talor tensed at these words. He had hoped his father would leave well enough alone once he admitted he had been at fault, but it seemed Donnel had no intention of doing so.

  His father’s eyes were a dark storm-grey as his gaze fused with his son’s once more. “We’ve been camped here since yesterday morning,” he said after a pause, “and at dusk we had a visitor.”

  Donnel broke off there, and Talor shifted his attention to where three men approached: Galan mac Muin, Tadhg mac Fortrenn, and Wid mac Manus. All three chieftains wore grim expressions.

  A chill feathered down Talor’s spine, before he glanced back at his father. “A visitor?”

  Donnel’s mouth thinned. “Aye … a friend of yours.” When Talor frowned, confused, his father continued. “Cathal mac Calum’s daughter is now our captive.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  That is My Fate

  TALOR FOLLOWED THE chieftains into the tent, his gaze arrowing immediately to the tall, proud figure that stood in the center of it. Hands bound behind her, Mor watched the men enter. But her inscrutable expression slipped just a little when she saw who accompanied them.

  Their gazes fused. For a moment Talor felt his surroundings slip away. All that existed was Mor’s long-lashed cool-green eyes drawing him into their depths. She mesmerized him, as she had the first time they locked gazes in Dun Ringill.

  He realized then with a jolt that although he had known Mor only a short while, he had actually missed her over the past day.

  How was it possible? He had stridden from that cave without a backward glance, but, somehow, Mor had gotten under his skin.

  The realization was not something that pleased him.

  “Look who arrived with the dusk.” Wid of the Wolf’s voice was a low rumble as he approached the brazier that glowed in the center of the tent. Wid glowered across at their captive. “Lucky for you, he did.”

  The hard edge to the Wolf chieftain’s voice made Talor tense, as did the threatening undertone. He cast a glance then at his uncle Galan. Likewise, The Eagle chieftain was frowning, his dark brows knitted together. His mouth compressed as he returned Talor’s stare. “None of us believed her story,” he admitted. “If you hadn’t returned to us by dawn, we were going to drag this Serpent out before the walls of Dun Ringill and make an example of her.”

  These words alarmed Talor, although he did his best to hide his reaction. He should not care what happened to Mor. After all, she was the enemy. But the thought of her being executed made something twist deep inside his chest.

  He glanced over at Varar. The Boar chieftain’s expression was guarded. He had joined them for this meeting, but he was holding his tongue, preferring to let Talor take the lead.

  “So, she was telling the truth then?” Tadhg of The Wolf asked. The big bearded warrior was watching Talor, his gaze narrowed. “She helped you escape Dun Ringill?”

  Talor did not answer immediately. Instead, he glanced to Mor. This was his chance. If he truly hated this woman, now was his opportunity to drive the blade in and twist it hard. One word from him and she would die at dawn. Mor stared back at him, her gaze level and fearless. She would not plead; she was too proud for that.

  “Aye,” Talor admitted finally. “She doesn’t lie. I tried to kill Cathal and failed. He had me beaten and hung me up outside the broch to freeze to death in the snow. But that evening Mor freed me, and together we fled Dun Ringill. We hid in a hunters’ hut inland.”

  “And how was it you came to be separated?” Galan asked. “Why did Mor travel here on her own while you arrive a day later with The Boar war band?”

  Talor tensed further at this question. His uncle was no fool; he could tell there was something that his nephew was leaving out.

  It dawned upon Talor then that Mor had not told them of their trip to see the bandruí. He went still as he realized the implication of this. Perhaps she feared the seer’s prediction would enrage the chieftains. Likewise, Talor did not feel like revealing what Old Murdina had told them. He had not mentioned the meeting to Varar and Fina, and he felt even more reluctant to say anything now in front of the others.

  He wished to forget her words altogether. The idea of allying his people with the invaders still soured his belly.

  “We argued the following day,” Talor said after a long pause. It was the same excuse he had used with Varar and Fina. “After that we went our separate ways.”

  Galan watched him for a moment, before he glanced at Mor. “Your stories align,” his uncle admitted grudgingly. “But I still don’t understand why you would make a sacrifice of yourself, lass. You must have known what would happen if you came here?”

  Mor drew in a slow, deep breath. When she spoke, her voice was low and held a husky edge that sent a jolt of arousal straight to Talor’s groin. The Hag curse this woman, even her voice moved him.

  “I want peace between our tribes,” she said, her attention never leaving Galan. “I knew that I was breaking with my own people when I freed Talor. That sacrifice should mean something. I’m here to build a bridge between us. Why can’t we live together upon this isle? There is enough space for all of us.”

  Wid barked a harsh laugh. “You ask this of us now? After leaving a trail of carnage in your wake?”

  Around him Galan and Tadhg frowned, while Varar nodded in agreement with Wid. His people had suffered greatly because of The Serpent; he would not forget that easily.

  Mor squared her shoulders. “Launching an attack was my father’s chosen path … not mine. I wish for our peoples to share The Winged Isle.”

  “That’s only because we have you surrounded,” Varar said, a threatening edge to his voice. “You know your people are doomed.”

  Mor stared back at The Boar chieftain, her features tightening. “We can always make a fresh start,” she said hoarsely. “You just have to want it.”

  A brittle silence fell inside the tent.

  Across the brazier Tadhg mac Fortrenn folded his brawny arms across a broad chest. “So, how were you intending to achieve peace, lass?” he rumbled. “Surely, you didn’t think speaking to us would be enough?”

  Mor’s attention shifted to the big warrior, and Talor saw determination flare in her eyes once more. “There will be talks before the battle,” she replied without a trace of hesitation. It appeared she had thought all of this through. “Take me out with you, and let me speak to my father. Let me see if I can talk him around. Maybe I can convince him to negotiate. And if he agrees to lay down arms … will you spa
re our people’s lives? Will you let us stay here?”

  “There will be no negotiation … we will never share this isle with you.” Wid’s harsh voice shattered the moment of stillness that followed Mor’s words. Talor knew that the past year had taken a great toll on Wid mac Manus. He had lost a son and developed a bitter shell in the aftermath. The man before Talor now was vastly different to the good-natured, laughing warrior he remembered from his childhood. “We’re going to bring your people down.”

  Mor stared back at the Wolf chieftain, a nerve flickering under one eye. It was the only sign of the turmoil that now churned within her. “Surely, you wouldn’t slaughter those who willingly surrender?”

  Watching Mor, Talor felt a pang of sympathy for her. It was an impossible, hopeless situation, and yet she was ready to confront it. He had always thought of himself as foolishly reckless, but this woman outdid him.

  Galan let out a sharp breath. “I’ve no wish to share The Winged Isle with these Cruthini,” he admitted, “But I will not strike down those who do not raise arms against me.” He shifted his attention to the other chieftains. “What say the rest of you? Shall we take her out with us to talk to Cathal? Shall we give them one last chance? If they surrender, we can then decide what to do with them.”

  Varar scowled. “This is Cathal’s last opportunity to back down,” he growled. “There will be no others.”

  Next to The Boar chieftain, Tadhg heaved in a deep breath before replying, “I agree.”

  Wid glowered back at Galan, clearly angry that The Eagle chieftain was prepared to compromise. A heavy pause stretched out, before Wid spat on the ground before him. “Very well … let her humiliate herself … let Cathal prove himself a worthless dog once more, and then let us get on with the battle. But even if they surrender, I will never share my homeland with that filth!”

  Mor’s expression darkened then, the first sign that any of them had angered her. A tense silence fell, before Talor shifted restlessly. “Are we done here?” he asked, meeting his uncle’s eye.

  Galan nodded, splintering the hostile atmosphere. “For now.”

  “Can I have a few moments alone with the prisoner?” Talor asked.

  Galan cocked his head, before he shared a glance with the other chieftains. “I can’t see how that will hurt,” he said finally. “But make it quick.”

  “Aye,” Tadhg rumbled. “No one else is allowed in here tonight … I have warriors encircling the tent.

  The four chieftains departed without another word, leaving Talor and Mor alone.

  They stood in silence for a few moments. Mor’s face had gone taut, her eyes burning. She was still fuming over Wid’s comments. Tension rippled off her in waves.

  “You shouldn’t be here.” When Talor spoke, he was surprised to hear the rough edge to his voice.

  Mor’s mouth thinned in response.

  “I thought you were level-headed,” Talor said, taking a step toward her. “You should leave the acts of idiocy to me.”

  “I considered my options, Talor mac Donnel,” she replied, “and this was my best one.” She paused there, her gaze narrowing. “Do you really think I would have gone home to my father?”

  Talor frowned. “I thought you had. He might have shown mercy on you. You’re his daughter after all.”

  “But then all hope at bridging the gulf between our peoples would be lost. I’m the only one who can stop this bloodshed.”

  “You take a lot upon yourself,” Talor replied, his tone softening. “Do you really think that one woman can prevent all this? It’s like holding back the tide, Mor. Some things are impossible to stop.”

  He moved closer to her then. The green of her eyes seemed to intensify as he drew nearer; the glow of the brazier she stood before flickered in their depths.

  “I have to try.” Her voice hitched slightly, revealing that her shield was starting to slip. “I’m doing this for my people. Even if I fail, I can’t keep silent anymore.” Her throat bobbed. “When my brothers … Dunchadh and Tamhas … fell, they took a piece of me with them. I’m heart sore and world weary, Talor. I just want an end to all of this.”

  Her words made Talor pause a moment. The grief within her writhed close to the surface now; her eyes gleamed with tears. For the first time Talor saw this invasion from her perspective. The Serpent had arrived upon these shores with high hopes for the future, but with each passing moon those dreams were turning to dust.

  Mor had paid a high price for a new life upon The Winged Isle.

  Talor could not help it. He shifted even nearer, so that they stood barely a foot apart now. He could feel the warmth of her body, could hear the soft whisper of her breathing. She stared at him, her full lips parting as she reacted to his nearness.

  Talor drew in a steadying breath. Did she feel that too? This irresistible pull. Whenever he stood too close to her, he found it hard to breathe. His pulse accelerated.

  Neither of them spoke then—Mor simply stared at him.

  Without considering his actions, Talor reached out, tangling his hands in her thick auburn hair. He dug his fingers deep, shifting closer still and splaying his hands across the back of her scalp. With her own hands bound behind her, she was trapped.

  Wordlessly, Talor tipped Mor’s head back, exposing her neck. Without pausing to consider his actions, he then dipped his head and grazed the column of her throat with his lips.

  “Coming here was a mistake, Mor,” he whispered. “You are surrounded by enemies. You know you won’t survive the battle. I doubt even Galan could save you from the others’ wrath if you fail.”

  “Then that is my fate.” Her breathing caught as she answered. He felt her tremble under his touch. “I will not shrink from it.”

  Lust barreled into Talor then, setting his veins alight. He had never met anyone like this woman. She was a Serpent—Cathal mac Calum was her father. But right now none of that mattered. Mor had a dignity that he had never seen in anyone. Her quest for peace was futile, but he respected her for it. It was more worthy than his crazed lust for vengeance. Mor could see beyond the hate, beyond the need for reckoning—and she would gladly die for it.

  With a sharply indrawn breath, Talor caught her chin and drew it lower so that their gazes fused for an instant. And then his mouth crashed down upon hers.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Poor Timing

  THE KISS WAS brutal, searing. With Mor trapped between the cradle of his hands, Talor ravaged her mouth. He had not planned on kissing her, had not thought this through at all. Desire drove Talor now, pulsing through him like a battle drum. And his shaft turned rock hard when she responded to his embrace with equal ferocity.

  Mor’s lips parted under his, allowing his tongue to dive deep. Their lips crushed, and their teeth clashed; the kiss was hot and wild. And yet their bodies still did not touch—except for where Talor’s fingers splayed across the back of Mor’s skull, holding her firm in his embrace.

  A heartbeat later the sound of someone clearing their throat interrupted them.

  Breathing hard, Talor tore his mouth from Mor’s and twisted his attention toward the entrance of the tent.

  His uncle Galan stood there, his gaze narrowed, arms folded across his chest. “I think that’s enough for now, Talor,” he said gently. “It’s time to go.”

  Talor glowered at his uncle. He had not given them any time at all alone. It seemed as if only a few moments had passed since the other chieftains left the tent. And yet there Galan was, looking at Talor as if he had just betrayed them all.

  Talor released Mor, stepping back from her and dropping his hands. He felt the softness of her hair brush against his fingers as he did so.

  And all the while, Mor did not speak. She merely watched him, her eyes luminous and her lips swollen from his kisses.

  The Reaper take Galan—his uncle had poor timing.

  Mor watched Talor stride from the tent without another word, brushing past the Eagle chieftain on the way out. Galan of The Ea
gle cast her a hard, lingering look, before he followed.

  She wondered if Galan mac Muin believed she had tried to seduce his nephew—that she had lured Talor close with the intention of getting him to free her wrists from their bonds.

  But truthfully, escape had been the last thing on her mind.

  Alone in the tent, Mor let out a long trembling breath.

  What had just happened?

  Her lips still stung from the kiss. She could still taste him, could still smell the musk of his skin. Hunger reared up within her. She could drown in the taste of him. And she longed for another kiss, for him to tangle his fingers in her hair and hold her fast as he savaged her mouth.

  Mor’s eyes fluttered shut. Lust was a distraction, and yet she welcomed it. This close to death, her senses were sharpened. The moment Talor had walked into the tent, the moment they had locked eyes, she had not cared what her fate would be. Her entire body tingled at the sight of him, and heat settled in the cradle of her hips. He had cast an enchantment over her, and now she knew that until she drew her last breath—and that moment was coming soon—she would long for that arrogant man.

  When he had kissed her, she felt a sense of completeness that had eluded Mor her entire life. It was like they were two broken pieces of the same amulet. And when they came together, nothing else in this world mattered.

  Enough. She could not let her thoughts travel in such a direction. Longing for something she could not have made sadness compress her chest. Life could be inordinately cruel at times. But to give her a glimpse of what she wanted, and then hold it out of arms reach, made Mor wonder what she had ever done to anger the Gods so.

  She sank down onto a pile of furs a few feet away from the brazier. It was awkward, with her wrists bound tightly behind her, but she managed to get comfortable, propped up on her side, facing the entrance to the tent. The flap hung closed, yet she knew there would be warriors standing guard out there.