by Jayne Castel
“How did it go?” Mor asked, her voice barely above a whisper.
“Slowly,” Talor replied.
Studying him, Mor noted that although he looked exhausted and chilled to the marrow, the swelling on his face had now subsided greatly. His injuries were healing.
When she did not speak again, Talor’s mouth lifted at the corners. “You were right about the burning pitch.” He paused there. “But thanks to you, they wasted most of it.”
Their gazes held, and suddenly Mor did not care that she stood amidst a sea of frustrated warriors who would gladly shove a blade through her guts.
At least there was no hostility in Talor’s loch-blue eyes.
Eventually, Mor swallowed, breaking the spell. “I betrayed my people,” she said huskily. “I want that to mean something.”
He stepped closer still. “It already has, Mor.”
Talor watched Mor walk away, flanked by two guards. They were leading her back to her tent, where she would continue to be guarded until the chieftains decided her fate.
It was not safe for her out here, not when everyone’s blood was up. It had been a long, cold, and frustrating day—and there were likely to be more of them to come, before they managed to break through The Serpents’ defenses. Nevertheless, Mor had already helped them significantly.
She walked tall and proud, her broad shoulders set, but Talor had seen the strain upon Mor’s face. This morning had nearly broken her, and yet she was already rallying. He had seen the dogged determination in her eyes, before she turned away. Mor was far from beaten.
The woman was even stronger than he had realized. She was magnificent.
Tearing his gaze from Mor’s retreating back, he clenched his hands by his sides. What’s happening to you?
“Is something amiss, Talor?” The rumble of Muin’s voice roused him. Talor glanced up to find two of his cousins standing before him: Muin and his younger brother, Aaron. Muin’s brow was furrowed in concern, while Aaron wore a strained expression.
“Are your injuries paining you?” Muin asked.
Talor shook his head. The bruises, even those that had gone deep, were fading. “I’m fine,” he said roughly. “Just ill-tempered.”
Aaron snorted. “Just your usual self then?”
Talor raised an eyebrow and considered his young cousin a moment. Aaron had only recently reached manhood, and like Talor at the same age, he could be insufferably cocky—a freshly blooded warrior with something to prove. In the past, Aaron’s quip would have been an invitation to bite back, but this evening Talor merely favored him with a tired smile.
He slung an arm around Aaron’s shoulders, steering him toward the heart of the camp, where a great fire pit now burned. Wordlessly, Muin fell in behind the two of them. Talor cast a glance over his shoulder at him. “I think we’ve all earned ourselves a horn of mead and a hot meal, don’t you think?”
Muin grunted his agreement. The aroma of boar stew reached them then, and Talor’s mouth filled with saliva. Of course, while they had been trying to get close to the inner walks of Dun Ringill, the women who had accompanied them to the camp had been preparing a meal for when they returned.
A crowd of warriors now jostled around the fire, eager hands reaching for steaming bowls of stew. Muin, Aaron, and Talor joined them.
“There you all are!” A tall, dark-haired woman dressed in a long plaid skirt and a thick woolen tunic, a heavy cloak wrapped around her shoulders, approached them. Ailene’s face stretched into a smile as she held out a tray containing three bowls of stew. “I kept these back for you.”
Warmth spread through Talor at the sight of his cousin, although as soon as she had flashed him a smile, her attention shifted to Muin. Talor watched her drink him in. Ailene handed Talor and Aaron their bowls, before she went to Muin. He pulled her close, lowering his mouth to hers for a passionate kiss. “It’s good to see you, mo ghràdh,” he murmured.
Talor smiled at the affection between them. Muin and Ailene had been friends since childhood although for the past few years, Muin had carried a secret love for the comely seer. Unfortunately, Ailene had been blind to his passion for her, and determined to resist her own feelings, until a sequence of events a few months earlier had brought them together.
Muin and Ailene broke apart and gazed into each other’s eyes. Watching them, Talor suddenly felt like an intruder. He picked up the wooden spoon in the stew and took a large mouthful, moving away from the couple toward where Aaron was already devouring his supper. The food was hot, scalding his tongue, yet he was too hungry to care.
But even the hot stew could not fill the gnawing emptiness that now clawed at his gut.
Chapter Twenty-two
With My Help
STANDING BEFORE THE brazier in her tent, huddling as close as she dared to its heat, Mor went over the plan she had been mulling over for the past couple of days. It was risky—and was likely to spell her own doom—but she could see no other way forward.
The siege of Dun Ringill had lasted three days so far.
The defenders still held the fort. The snow had fallen steadily since the attack had begun. It had made visibility difficult and worked in her father’s favor.
The assault of burning pitch had ceased, but instead, Cruthini archers sent down a hail of arrows from the top of wall.
By the end of the third day of the siege, the attackers were in a fury. They returned to Dun Ringill in a foul mood. Sensing tension in the air, Mor remained within her tent as dusk settled. She heard the rough voices and felt the tension that filled the camp with the return of the army.
It was best to let them calm down a little, before she showed her face.
Heaving a sigh, Mor stretched out her chilled fingers over the glowing lump of peat. This conflict was taking its toll on her now; her nerves felt stretched taut. She had awoken with a stiff jaw that morning, after clenching it in her sleep.
At the end of the first day of battle, the chieftains had questioned her further about her father’s defenses. Mor had answered them, yet each answer she had given had been like a knife wound to her heart. Each new betrayal cut her deeper.
But it had been necessary. She needed to gain these men’s trust.
Her father’s reaction to her plea still haunted her. She had hoped that he would listen to her, and still tasted the bitterness of disappointment in the aftermath. But there had to be another way. Her failure on the first day had only made her more determined.
Mor was a fighter; she would not give up. She had to do something to ensure she was present when Dun Ringill finally fell. She needed to be able to plead for her people one last time.
Flexing her fingers, Mor’s eyelids fluttered shut for a few moments. A familiar hollow sensation settled in her belly. She had felt so alone over the past days. She had hoped Talor would visit her again, but there had been no sign of him since the evening of the first day of the siege. She wondered if he deliberately stayed away.
Squeezing her eyes shut, she finally made her decision.
She dreaded what she must do, for it would require further sacrifice from her. She would need to sever herself entirely from her tribe in order to save them—but it was either that or allow every last one of them to be slaughtered. Aye, for the moment they were holding Dun Ringill, but their defenses were close to breaking. She knew it.
The thought of her people’s destruction suddenly made it hard to breathe. Mor lifted her chin, her eyes snapping open.
It’s time.
Moving away from the brazier, Mor pushed her way, head first, through the flap that covered the entrance to the tent. There, two big men bearing ash spears barred her way.
One of them raised an eyebrow, fixing her with a gimlet stare. “Going somewhere?”
Mor stared back at him, her jaw tensing. “I need to speak to the chieftains. Take me to them.”
Talor pulled the collar of his fur mantle up, in an attempt to protect the back of his neck from the wind’s teeth. That
was the problem with cutting his hair short. The warriors with long hair had more protection from the cold. Like his father, Talor preferred to shear his dark-hair close to his scalp. He did not like to give the enemy anything to grab onto in battle.
Night had fallen, and the chill that settled over the encampment was numbing; it felt the worst of the bitter season so far.
“The Reaper’s cods,” Muin muttered beside him. “It’s cold enough to freeze off your balls.”
Talor managed a grimace of a smile. “At least it’s stopped snowing.”
Muin gave a terse nod, his gaze shifting back to where the four chieftains stood around the fire pit before them. Although Talor and Muin did not take part in discussions, they joined the chieftains each night as they talked over the day’s progress and made a plan for the following day.
Listening to them, Talor felt excitement kindle in his belly. The past few days had been frustrating, but they had known taking back Dun Ringill would not be easy. He noted that the chieftains were deferring to Galan. No one knew the broch’s defenses like he did; they would expect him to lead the way into the fort.
And Talor would be right up at the front—at his uncle’s side.
“If you let me fight alongside you, I will reveal how my father will defend the broch once the gates are breached.”
A cool female voice interrupted them then—and all gazes swiveled to where a tall woman, with wild auburn hair, shouldered her way through the crowd.
Talor’s breathing hitched. Even with her wrists bound behind her, and shadowed by two hulking warriors, Mor was striking. If she felt any fear at standing before the chieftains, at being surrounded by men and women who had bayed for her blood through the campaign so far, she did not show it.
Instead, Mor was watching Galan. “My father’s not defeated yet,” she said, her voice steady, betraying no emotion at all. Likewise, her moss-green eyes were shuttered. “But I can help you bring him down faster.”
Galan shared a look with Varar beside him, before he finally answered. “And how can we do that?” he asked.
Talor heard the suspicion in his uncle’s voice and did not blame him. His own gaze narrowed as he stared at Mor, willing her to look his way. But she did not. What is she up to?
“Free me … allow me to remain on this isle … and let me fight alongside you tomorrow, and I will tell you everything I know,” she replied.
These words caused surprise to ripple through the surrounding crowd. Talor shared a glance with Muin. His cousin was scowling, while next to him, Ailene was watching Mor intently. A few feet away, standing next to Varar, Fina was glaring at Mor, suspicion bright in her eyes.
Talor shifted his attention back to Mor, hoping to catch her eye. But still she did not look his way. Instead, she continued to watch Galan, her gaze unwavering. To look at her you would think she was made of stone. And yet Talor remembered how he had managed to ignite her temper back at that hunter’s hut, and how she had responded to his kiss the night before the siege had begun. Underneath that ice shield, this woman was pure fire.
But she kept that part of herself carefully hidden as she faced the chieftains.
“Why would you want to fight alongside us?” Galan asked Mor, frowning.
“I gave my father a chance to surrender,” she replied, her voice lowering. Her gaze shadowed then. “But he refused … and disowned me … I owe him nothing. It’s time to look to my own future. When Dun Ringill falls, I want to be a free woman. This isle has become home to me. I want to stay here.”
Listening to these words, Talor tensed. He had never seen this side to Mor before. He had not realized she could be so pragmatic, so cold-blooded.
Galan turned to the other chieftains. “Do we trust her?”
Wid’s face screwed up. “We can’t trust a Serpent.”
“And yet the woman has not betrayed us as yet,” Varar reminded him quietly. “She did try to convince her father to surrender. She also told us about the burning pitch … and if she hadn’t many of our warriors would have been maimed or killed. Everything we have asked of her, she has given.”
The Boar chieftain’s words surprised Talor. As always, you could never read Varar’s expression. He kept his shield up, especially during meetings like these. And yet his words contrasted with his expression.
“She is willing to betray her own father,” Tadhg answered, scowling. “If she can do that … she would turn on us in a heartbeat.”
“Betraying my father is the hardest thing I have ever done.” Mor’s voice cut through their midst, the tremble in it revealing the war she was fighting within. “It rips out my heart … but there comes a time when we all must decide what’s worth living and dying for.” Her eyes burned now, huge against the paleness of her face.
“And your freedom is more important to you than kin?” Wid growled, his lip curling as he met Mor’s eye.
Mor’s face went rigid. “I did my best to work for peace, to save my people from this fate … but I won’t sacrifice myself for a man who no longer recognizes me as his daughter.”
Wid barked a laugh at this, although there was no mirth in it. No one around the fire joined him.
“It’s a lonely path you’ve chosen, lass.” Galan spoke up once more. However, his gaze was not angry, but concerned. “Even if you earn your freedom and remain upon this isle, you’ll still be an outcast.”
Mor’s throat bobbed, and she held Galan’s gaze for a long moment, before she answered. “Let me worry about that,” she whispered. “I know how my father thinks … how he will defend the broch tomorrow. Don’t under-estimate him. He’s more dangerous than ever when cornered.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Bravery Turns into Madness
A HEAVY SILENCE followed Mor’s words.
There was no muttering this time, just uneasy looks and a tension in the air that you could have cut with a knife.
Talor’s belly clenched. He did not know what Mor was doing, but this recklessness he now witnessed in her concerned him. She had the eyes of a doomed warrior, the same light he was sure his own gaze held when he had ridden to Dun Ringill on his quest to kill Cathal mac Calum.
Mor was not going to let this go.
She wanted her freedom—no matter what it cost her.
“I don’t know whether you are ruthless, brave, or goose-witted, lass,” Tadhg’s low voice broke the silence. “But if you wish to fight at our side tomorrow, to help us bring your father down, then I agree to setting you free, to letting you live out the remainder of your days upon The Winged Isle.”
The Stag chieftain shifted his gaze between the three remaining chieftains. “What about the rest of you?”
“I agree,” Galan answered. However, Talor noted the wariness in his uncle’s gaze. Like Talor, this whole scene was making him uncomfortable.
“I too agree,” Varar added.
“So that just leaves me … again.” Wid folded brawny arms across his chest. “Why does the last word always rest with The Wolf?”
“Take it as a compliment,” Varar replied with a snort. “What will it be, Wid?”
The Wolf chieftain huffed out a long sigh, before he fixed Mor with a dark look. “I don’t understand you, lass. But if you are set on taking this betrayal of yours to its limit then, aye … fight with us tomorrow.”
Mor swallowed, before she nodded.
Galan turned to one of the men flanking Mor. “Free her.”
The warrior did as bid, stepping behind Mor and untying the cord that bound her wrists. Unspeaking, Mor shook out her hands, her face tensing as blood rushed back into her fingers. Then, rubbing the red welts upon her wrists where the cord had bit in, she met Galan’s eye once more.
“Are you ready to hear this?”
“Aye,” Galan replied. “Tell us everything.”
The bairn came into the world wailing. The babe’s cries shook the broch, echoing high into the smoke-blackened rafters.
“He’s a fighter, this on
e,” Cathal told the tired mother as she leaned back against a nest of furs, her eyes hollowed with exhaustion and shadowed with grief. The lad still bawled as he lay against her breast. “He’ll not go easily to The Reaper.”
The woman, Edina, favored him with a wan smile. “Then I shall name him ‘Bhaltair’,” she murmured. “He who is as strong as a bear.”
Cathal, who stood at the entrance to the alcove where Edina had given birth, managed a smile in return, even if a strange sensation had now gripped his ribs in a vise. “A fine choice of name.”
His gaze shifted then to the healer, Lessa. She was the tall, heavy-set woman who was tending to Edina, readying her to pass the afterbirth. It was time to leave them. Apart from the healer, Edina had given birth on her own. Her man had not been present to stroke her back or hold her hand.
Gill had fallen the day before, on the walls, and the shock had sent Edina into labor.
Feeling as if he had a boulder sitting in his belly, Cathal let the curtain drop and walked to the far end of the feasting hall. There, he stepped up onto the raised platform and took his seat at the chieftain’s table. Supper had ended, and only two others sat there: Artair and Tormud.
The former caught Cathal’s eye when he sat down, while the latter helped himself to another horn of mead.
“The bairn was not due for nearly another moon … is it well?” Artair asked.
Cathal nodded. “Lessa tells me that the birth wasn’t an overly difficult one … the bairn is small but healthy, as is his mother.”
“Not that it will do either of them any good,” Artair replied, a rasp to his voice. “The enemy won’t care that the bairn is newborn … they’ll slay him like everyone else in this broch.”
“All the more reason to defend the fort well tomorrow then,” Tormud quipped from a few feet away. “I tire of your whining, Artair … you’ve turned into a woman of late.”
