Warrior's Wrath (The Pict Wars Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Mor frowned. She felt naked without her weapons, the numerous blades she always kept strapped to her body. Many warriors within this encampment had a score to settle with The Serpent. They would want to do her harm—and now was their chance. Of course, guards ringed the tent, but how many of them also sought vengeance against her people. She would not sleep easily tonight.

  Talor strode from the tent, intent on getting away from his uncle as quickly as possible. However, it was not to be.

  “Talor.” Galan’s voice boomed out behind him. “A moment, please.”

  Heaving a sigh, Talor turned, his boots crunching in the snow. Around them the last of the day had faded, and a chill night had settled over the world. The sky was clear; a slender crescent moon rode high overhead. It cast a hoary light over the sea of tents around the two men as they faced each other.

  “I’m tired, uncle,” Talor said. “Can this wait?”

  Galan raised an eyebrow, folding his arms across his broad chest. It was a gesture that Talor knew well; the chieftain wanted answers.

  “I see there is more to the tale you have both spun,” Galan said. His voice was low and hard. He did not like being lied to.

  Talor shook his head. “We both spoke the truth.”

  “But you left out an important detail. This woman is now your lover.”

  “She isn’t,” Talor countered, his brow furrowing. An ache rose under his ribs as he realized just how much he wished that was the case. As much as he wanted Mor, he could not have her now. “It was just a kiss.”

  Galan scowled, his grey eyes darkening. “There are many different types of kiss,” he said, his voice developing a warning edge. “But that was not a casual one.”

  Talor stared back at him, not understanding what his uncle was insinuating.

  After a beat, Galan’s mouth unexpectedly quirked. “I was wondering when you’d finally fall for a lass.”

  Talor huffed a laugh, even if his gut twisted. “That’s ridiculous.” He raked a hand through his short hair, silently pleading for this conversation to end. “It was just a kiss … can we leave it at that?”

  “That’s quite a collection of bruises you’ve got there.” Eithni’s voice was lightly chiding. “But they’ll fade … eventually.”

  Talor grunted. He sat on a low stool before the fire pit in his parents’ tent. Stripped to the waist, he hunched over while his stepmother checked his bruises and grazes, and then rubbed ointment onto them. A few feet away, his little sister, Eara, watched him with wide eyes. Behind her, sitting cross-legged upon a fur as he sharpened a knife blade upon a whet-stone, Donnel looked on. The rhythmic scrape of iron against stone joined the gentle crackle of the fire.

  “It could have been worse,” Talor admitted. “I’m aware of that.”

  “Just as well that you are,” Donnel spoke up. There was a flat edge to his voice that warned Talor his father was still smoldering. “The Gods were looking down on you it seems.”

  “I’m so happy you’re back, Talor.” Eara shuffled across to him, her small hands clasping his knee. “Everyone said you wouldn’t return, but I knew you would. There is no one stronger or braver than you.”

  Talor’s mouth twisted. Reaching out, he clasped his half-sister’s small hands in his, squeezing gently. “I’m strong, but even I am mortal, little bird,” he murmured. “I did a foolish thing. Make sure when you grow up, you think before you act.”

  “Wise words indeed, son.” Donnel halted sharpening his blade. His voice had softened slightly. Talor realized that his contrition had unbalanced his father a little. It was not feigned; Talor was sorry for doing what he had done. But he could see his altered manner concerned Donnel.

  “Not so wise,” Talor said, glancing up and meeting his father’s eye. “The words come from bitter experience.”

  “So, you no longer seek reckoning for Bonnie?” Donnel asked.

  Talor considered the question. The anger was still there—a dark stain across his soul. But his fury had drawn back slightly. It no longer drove him as it had. “The Serpent must fall. We have to get Dun Ringill back,” he replied after a pause. “But even if I am the one to sink a blade in Cathal mac Calum’s belly, it will never return Bonnie to us.”

  Silence fell in the tent. After a spell, Eithni sat back on her heels and reached for a cloth to clean her hands. “We all miss Bonnie too, you know,” she murmured. “Not a day goes by when I don’t catch myself thinking about that lass—missing her laugh, the wicked glint in her eyes.”

  Talor turned and met his step-mother’s gaze, his throat thickening. “I realize that now,” he replied. “I entered a strange world after Bonnie died. It was like the rest of you were cut off from me. But I don’t feel that way anymore.

  “Have the past days altered you that much?” Donnel asked. Glancing his father’s way, Talor saw he was observing him, his brow furrowed. His father was still perplexed by the change he saw in his son.

  Talor’s mouth lifted at the edges. “They have.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Moving Out

  TALOR WAS IN an introspective mood when he left his parents’ tent and stepped out into the gelid night. He felt the need to be alone for a little while. With a heavy fur mantle about his shoulders, he made his way through the encampment.

  Sending away a warrior who had been taking his turn at the watch, Talor took his place at the perimeter. He then swept his gaze over the hill before him. The moonlight illuminated the snowy landscape in silver. He was gazing west. Just a few furlongs away in that direction rose the stone bulk of Dun Ringill.

  Cathal would know that their army was waiting here. He would be preparing for the siege. It was a battle he could not win. Would he listen to his daughter and her words of reason?

  Talor was not sure he would. He had spent little time in Cathal’s company but had noted that he was a proud, stubborn man. And coming from a long line of bull-headed men, he recognized the type. The Serpent chieftain was not a warrior who easily backed down from a fight.

  “There you are,” a familiar voice sounded behind him.

  Talor turned to see a tall, broad-shouldered figure approach. Muin, his cousin. He was leading a sturdy dappled grey pony.

  Talor’s face split into a grin at the sight of both of them. “What’s Luath doing here?” He stepped forward and ran a hand down the pony’s furry neck, wincing as the stallion nudged his bruised flank in greeting.

  “We found the beast trampling vegetables in the fields outside Balintur,” Muin replied. “I brought Luath with us … for when we found you.” The cousins’ gazes met and held. “I never gave up hope we would.”

  Talor’s grin faded. The pair of them were as close as brothers, and yet Talor had barely spoken to Muin since his return to the camp. In truth, he had been avoiding him.

  As if sensing his cousin’s embarrassment, Muin smiled. “Where have you been? I checked the perimeter earlier, and you weren’t here.”

  “Eithni wanted to fuss over me,” Talor replied.

  “She probably had reason.” Muin ran a critical eye over him. “I saw the state of you when you arrived. “You look better now.”

  “It’s amazing what a wash and clean clothes will do for a man.” Talor knew he was being flippant, but he did not want Muin to see how uneasy he was tonight.

  Yet his cousin was not a dull-witted man. Muin’s grey eyes narrowed, his jaw firming. “We really did think we’d seen the last of you,” he said, his tone roughening. “Your parents were desperate.”

  Talor swallowed. “I know.”

  Muin continued to study him, in that intense way of his. Talor had never been able to hide much from him. He suddenly had the urge to tell his cousin about Mor, yet the words stuck in his throat. Muin would not judge him—but since Talor was still confused about the situation himself, he was not sure he wanted to open a discussion about it. As such, he held his tongue.

  “Don’t worry.” Muin stepped forward and clapped him on the shoul
der. “I’m not going to chew your ear off … I imagine your father’s already done so.”

  Talor forced another smile. “Aye … why do you think I’m hiding out here?”

  Mor awoke to a burning ache in her shoulders. She had fallen asleep with her arms twisted behind her. Stifling a groan, she pushed herself up and wiggled her fingers. Fortunately, her captors had not bound her wrists too tightly. Although they tingled a little, her hands had not gone numb.

  A few feet away, the brazier burned low. The air inside the tent had turned chill, and watery light filtered in through the gaps in the roof. Dawn had come, and a meeting with her father awaited.

  Mor’s bowels cramped at the thought. Although she had put on a brave face, she dreaded going before her people. They would all think her a traitor. They would not understand.

  Clenching her eyes shut, Mor reminded herself that she did not need everyone to understand—only her father had to.

  She had to find a way to convince him.

  Climbing to her feet, she was just stretching out the kinks in her back and legs when the tent flap drew aside and a woman ducked inside.

  Disappointment stabbed Mor, as she realized she had hoped to see Talor. Last night’s kiss, and the brief words they had shared, still lingered.

  However, there was something familiar about the woman before her. Small and dark-haired, her lithe limbs smeared with woad, the warrior halted just inside the entrance and studied Mor for a long moment. Likewise, Mor stared back.

  Despite the snowy weather, she dressed lightly, as many warrior women of this isle did. The fur wrapped around her shoulders was her only concession to the biting cold. A quiver of arrows and a longbow hung over one shoulder, and Mor noted that she had numerous blades strapped to her body.

  “I’m Fina,” the woman said after a lengthy pause. “Talor’s cousin.”

  A slight smile lifted the corners of Mor’s mouth as she continued to hold the newcomer’s gaze. Of course. Talor came from a line of warriors. She could feel the same restless energy emanating from Fina that Talor often displayed.

  She nodded a wary greeting to Fina. It was hard to tell whether this woman was as hostile to her as many of the others had been, for she wore an impassive expression. Her grey eyes were hard and watchful—the same storm-grey as The Eagle chieftain’s.

  “Is it time, then?” Mor asked.

  “Aye … I’m to take you out so you can visit the privy, and then we shall join the others.”

  Mor nodded, before she moved toward Fina. As she drew closer, she realized that she towered over the woman. The females of this isle were much smaller than she was used to, although even among her own people, Mor was taller than most other women. Fina made her feel like a giantess. But the warrior did not appear intimidated by her height in the least. She merely stepped back, motioning for Mor to leave the tent ahead of her.

  Outdoors, a grey morning greeted Mor. The air was damp, and the bone-numbing cold drilled into her flesh, easily penetrating the layers of clothing she wore. Without her cloak, she felt the chill keenly.

  The sky had a faint pinkish tinge to it, a sign that the brief spell of clear skies was coming to an end. More snow was on its way.

  Fina led Mor through the encampment, to an area that had been fenced off behind a makeshift perimeter of hide: a privy of sorts. The warrior was not on her own though. A group of warriors—those who had guarded Mor’s tent during the night—followed close behind, just in case Mor tried anything.

  A bitter smile curved Mor’s mouth as she cast a glance over her shoulder at them. Did they really think she would try to escape after she had given herself up voluntarily?

  Fina followed her behind the hide screen and deftly unbound her wrists so that Mor could relieve herself. Squatting in the snow, Mor sighed as she emptied her tight bladder. She then rose to her feet and relaced her plaid leggings. “I’m ready to go.”

  Fina nodded, her expression remaining neutral. She then moved behind Mor and rebound her wrists. “There are some oatcakes left … do you want any?”

  Mor shook her head. The prospect of facing her father this morning had closed her stomach. She was not hungry in the slightest. However, she was thirsty. “Just some ale will do,” she replied.

  Fina led her out from behind the screens, and they trudged through the snow to the western side of the encampment. Despite that dawn was fully upon them now, there was no sign of anyone packing up to leave. Mor realized then that this camp would remain during the siege. The army of the warriors of the united tribes had settled in. They were not planning on going anywhere until Dun Ringill fell.

  Hostile gazes followed Mor’s path through the camp.

  A woman bearing the mark of The Stag upon her right bicep spat at Mor when she walked past. “Serpent turd.”

  Mor ignored the insult and the others that followed. Fina walked at her side, not paying the hisses and mutters any mind. The hatred Mor saw in their eyes did not surprise her in the least. This was why she had come here, why she had broken with her own people.

  Hatred like this could only end in bloodshed for them all. And it would not end with this siege; it would just dig its roots deep into this land and poison it for generations. Mor had witnessed this happen upon the mainland. She did not want the same thing to happen here. The chieftains of the united tribes were vehemently against sharing this isle with her tribe, but she still had not given up hope.

  The first step would be getting her father to listen.

  Approaching the western edge of the camp, she spied the army waiting for her. Mor stopped next to Fina, her gaze sweeping the ranks of men and women who awaited orders to move out. She breathed in the restless, nervous energy that vibrated through the crowd—as it always did before battle. She witnessed the steely looks upon the warrior’s faces, their hard gazes.

  Mor’s chest tightened at the sight of them; their numbers were huge, far greater than she had anticipated. Her father could never hold Dun Ringill for long if he were to face such a horde.

  “Fina … there you are!”

  A strange woman strode toward them. Mor knew at a glance that she was a bandruí, for her long dark hair was braided in many tiny plaits, her shapely limbs rattling with bone jewelry.

  Murdina might have looked like her once, Mor thought. However, this woman, who carried a pot of burning herbs and a slender divining rod, was much taller than their elderly seer. And as she drew near, Mor saw that the woman was beautiful—with startling sea-blue eyes of a familiar hue.

  “Is she a relation to Talor?” Mor asked Fina.

  The warrior raised her eyebrows, surprised that Mor had broken the silence between them with such a question. She handed Mor a bladder of ale before answering. “Aye, they are cousins … they both lost their mothers young.”

  Fina had just finished speaking when the seer stopped before them. She murmured words in a low, musical voice, the divining wand moving over them both.

  Mor stiffened. “Why are you blessing me?” she asked, her tone sharper than she had intended. “I’m one of the enemy.”

  The bandruí’s gaze met hers, holding her fast. “You came to us seeking peace,” she said, her tone low and firm. “I do not see you as my foe.”

  Fina snorted at this. “Careful, Ailene … don’t let anyone overhear you saying that.”

  The seer’s gaze narrowed. “Maybe they should listen to me,” she replied. “I cast the bones again this morning, and they tell me the same as they did upon the Long Night … there will be a union between The Eagle and The Serpent.”

  Mor’s breathing hitched at these words. She stared at Ailene. “Talor and I visited our bandruí a couple of days ago,” she began softly. “And she told us something similar.”

  Ailene’s pretty features tightened. “What did she say?”

  Mor hesitated then. She had deliberately avoided bringing up the subject, for she knew it would not be well-received. The likes of Wid of The Wolf had been itching to call her a l
iar. And judging from the fierce look upon Fina’s face, the seer was the only one receptive to the news. “She was vague,” Mor mumbled, tearing her gaze from Ailene’s and focusing on the hills to the west, “but she said something about the future lying in an alliance between our peoples.”

  Fina was frowning now. “Talor hasn’t mentioned visiting your seer. Why didn’t you say anything about this before?”

  Mor shrugged, her attention swiveling back to the warrior woman. “I don’t know why Talor didn’t speak of this … but I didn’t think any of you would believe such a tale. I imagined you would think I was trying to manipulate you.”

  Fina’s jaw tightened. “And aren’t you?”

  “No.” The word was hard and flat, and a tense silence followed in its wake.

  A few yards away, Mor spotted Talor then. Rested and clothed in fresh leathers, a fur cloak hanging from his shoulders, he strode through the crowd toward her. A tall, broad-shouldered warrior with long dark hair, grey eyes, and a stern expression followed him.

  Reaching the women, Talor stopped. His gaze swept over them, taking in the strained looks upon their faces.

  “We’re moving out now,” he informed them, before his gaze met Mor’s.

  For a long moment their gazes held. Heat rushed through Mor as she remembered their kiss the night before.

  She had been surprised at his boldness, at how he had moved close and taken hold of her before running his lips in a sensual caress down the column of her throat. He had no idea how that had excited her. Her entire body had pulsed with need, even before he had claimed her mouth with his.

  That same aching want pulsed through her now, making her forget why she was standing here, and what lay ahead.

  Talor’s next words shattered the illusion.

  “Ready to face your father?”

  Mor grimaced. “No … but I will all the same.”