by Jayne Castel
And as she had predicted, her father moved those warriors on the walls down to the gates.
With a sharp nod to Talor and Mor, Muin followed the others and moved away toward the steep stairs leading down to the yard below. Silently, Mor and Talor trailed behind them.
Although she had seen Muin mac Galan a number of times since her capture, Mor had not been properly introduced to him until that morning. She had emerged from the tent with Talor at her side to find Muin waiting for them. Arms folded across his broad chest, the warrior had cast them a look that was both knowing and exasperated. “I thought I might find my cousin here.”
The wail of a hunting horn boomed off the walls of Dun Ringill.
Mor descended the stairs, drawing the long blade she carried strapped to her thigh. Her heart was now pounding so loudly that nausea crept over her. Usually, bloodlust caught hold of her as soon as her father’s horn echoed through the ranks of warriors. But today no sense of elation swelled within her. Mor’s decision to join the enemy ranks had merely been a ruse to get inside Dun Ringill, yet it felt wrong all the same.
But she did not shrink back from it. She had set out on this path the moment she had freed Talor. She would not waver now.
Nonetheless, as Muin and his companions clashed with Cruthini up ahead, the sense of wrongness within Mor grew.
These were her people. If she was with the enemy, she would have to draw her sword and attack—but she could not bear to harm them. When she had planned ahead, she had glossed over this detail.
As if sensing her conflict, Talor placed a hand upon Mor’s arm.
“Keep back,” he instructed. “If I need you, I’ll let you know.”
She pulled against his grip. “I can’t let you face them alone.”
He threw her a wolfish grin. “Worry not … Muin will watch my back.”
And with that, he released her arm and strode forward, drawing two fighting knives as he went.
Mor watched him go, her hand tightening around the hilt of her knife. She could not just stand here watching while he fought. And yet she knew what he was doing—he was trying to protect her from having to spill her own people’s blood.
He did not want her to live with more regret than she did already. She had put up a brave front standing before the chieftains, but Talor had seen through it.
However, he did not realize that he had just unwittingly helped her move one step further to her goal.
Mor was never one to shy away from a fight. She knew she was not a coward, and yet she backed away from where the warriors now battled each other. As she stepped into the shadow of the wall, never taking her gaze from where Talor slashed and stabbed at his opponent, a fresh group of warriors—these ones bearing the mark of The Boar upon their biceps—rushed past and launched themselves into the fray.
Drawing in a deep breath, and trying to quell the nausea that roiled within her, Mor let her attention shift from Talor, scanning the crowd for a sign of her father.
It was time to make her move.
Her plan hinged on finding her father—and quickly.
Cathal mac Calum was usually easy to spot. A big man, he stood out with his wild auburn hair and magnetic presence. Yet, one sweep of the crowd, and she knew he was not there.
The sense of wrongness Mor had felt upon scaling the wall intensified. Maybe it was not due to her guilt about fighting her own people at all, and instead to do with her father.
She needed to find him.
Leaving her watching place by the wall, Mor sheathed her knife for the moment, skirted the yard, and rushed up the stairs to the broch. She barged toward two warriors guarding the door. The men’s gazes flew wide at the sight of their chieftain’s daughter. Mor recognized them both—neither of them were men she was fond of. Then they launched themselves forward, grappling for her.
Mor flattened one with a punch to the jaw, before elbowing his companion in the belly and sending him toppling down the stairs.
A heartbeat later Mor slammed her shoulder against the door, only to find it bolted shut from the inside. She hammered her fists against it. “It’s me, Mor,” she shouted. “Let me in, Da!”
“Cathal mac Calum won’t answer you, lass,” a voice rasped behind her.
Mor twisted, drawing her knife once more as she did so. There, a few steps below her, stood Tormud mac Alec.
“And why’s that?” she asked, her voice turning chill. She had forgotten how much she disliked this man, how the feel of his gaze raking over her body made her want to sink a blade into his belly.
“Because he’s dead.”
Ice pooled within Mor, and she went still. Around her the sounds of fighting faded. The world receded so that she and Tormud were the only ones present.
“You killed him.” It was a statement, not a question. She knew from the gleam in the warrior’s eye, and the fact that her father was not in the midst of the fighting, that Tormud had betrayed him.
A smile stretched Tormud’s lips. “Aye. The craven dog was about to surrender to the enemy.” He advanced toward her, taking each step slowly. He carried a thin-bladed knife in his right hand, his body coiled for action. “Like you already have, you deceitful whore.”
Fury coiled up within Mor, a wild and dangerous emotion that snaked through her breast and sent heat pulsing out through her limbs. “You murdered a man who saw you as a brother,” she growled.
“It’s no worse than his own daughter running off with the enemy,” Tormud countered. “You sank the first knife into him on that day … I merely twisted the blade.”
With a roar, Mor rushed at him. Her knife-blade flashed, but Tormud was ready for her. They had sparred plenty of times; he knew she was lethal with a blade, but he also knew how she fought, and so anticipated the attack.
Leaping to one side, Tormud let Mor lunge past him. She tripped on the steps and fell forward, colliding with the warrior she had pushed down the steps earlier. The man, who had just been trying to get up, went down once more, cushioning her fall.
Mor rolled to her feet, bending her knees as Tormud reached the bottom of the stairs. He tossed his knife before casting her an arrogant smile. “Have you enjoyed your time with Talor mac Donnel?” he sneered. “I bet you didn’t waste any time spreading your legs for him.”
Mor ignored the taunt. He wanted her to answer, he wanted to goad her into losing her temper and doing something rash. He had never forgiven her for spurning his advances. He intended to kill her for it.
But now that she had weathered the initial surge of rage, calmness settled over Mor.
Finally, her battle fury was upon her—that place she entered in the midst of chaos. Around her the fight for Dun Ringill raged. Talor was somewhere in the midst of it all, yet she could not tear her attention away from Tormud in order to look for him. She had to keep present and focused.
Tormud had to die—and she would be the one to bring him down.
And with this last thought, she drew a small knife that she wore strapped to her left thigh and threw it at the warrior’s throat. It embedded with a dull, meaty thud.
Tormud had not expected that move.
He had thought she would launch herself at him again, that she would try to sink her blade under his ribs or armpit, as was her usual fighting style. But he had forgotten that Mor knew how to throw knives—with both hands.
The Boar warrior staggered back, one hand going up to grip the hilt of the blade she had just thrown. He then yanked it free—a mistake, for blood sprayed from the wound. Tormud’s eyes bulged, and he staggered again, the blade he carried in his other hand clattering to the ground. He raised both hands to his wounded neck to try and stem the bleeding.
Mor was on him in an instant. The knife she still gripped in her right hand slid up under his ribs, driving through his leather vest and deep into his flesh. Tormud crumpled, and Mor sank to her knees with him, her gaze never leaving his.
“This is for my father,” she snarled.
Torm
ud’s mouth worked, blood trickling down his chin, and then she watched the life seep from his dark eyes, felt the fight go out of his body. He collapsed upon the ground, eyes staring sightlessly up at the sky.
Breathing hard, Mor pulled the knife free from Tormud’s ribs.
She realized then that while she had been facing her father’s killer, the fighting around her had subsided. Serpent warriors lay scattered around the yard, many dead and some injured or subdued. She watched as a few yards away, Galan of The Eagle pressed a knee between a man’s shoulder-blades, pinning him to the ground. The Eagle chieftain’s iron-grey gaze swept across the yard then, resting upon Mor.
“Where’s your father?” Galan ground out, out of breath from the fighting.
“Dead.” Mor’s belly twisted as she said the word. “Tormud slew him before the battle began … he was going to surrender.”
Silence followed her words, punctuated only by the groans of the injured.
Galan’s gaze shifted to the dead man sprawled before Mor. “And that’s Tormud?”
“Aye.”
Talor approached her then, picking his way through the dead. He was blood-splattered and sweat-slicked but appeared unhurt. Nearing Mor, Talor reached out a hand. Wordlessly, she took it and rose to her feet. In the aftermath of killing Tormud, her body suddenly felt weak, and a chill that had nothing to do with the bitter season stole through her limbs.
“Are you injured?” Talor asked when she leaned against him, his brows knitting together in concern.
Mor shook her head.
She noted then that Varar of The Boar, Tadhg of The Stag, and Wid of The Wolf approached. Their faces were hard, their gazes still gleaming with battle madness.
The chill seeped into Mor’s veins, and she suppressed a shiver.
Galan secured the fallen Serpent warrior’s wrists behind his back, before he too rose to his feet, stepping up next to Varar.
Mor faced them. “Did you hear what I said?” she murmured, her throat suddenly dry and scratchy. “My father was ready to lay down arms, to negotiate with you … this last battle would have never happened if Tormud hadn’t murdered him.”
“That doesn’t matter now,” Varar, The Boar chieftain, replied. His voice was low and flat, his gaze pitiless. “The tide has turned in our favor. Your people have raped our isle … and anyone left alive in that broch must suffer the consequences.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
What is Written is Written
MOR WAS ABOUT to answer Varar, to argue with him, when the heavy door to the broch above them swung open. Twisting around, Mor’s gaze alighted upon a well-built man with short auburn hair, leaning upon a wooden crutch.
Her heart leaped into her throat.
Artair.
Why had he opened the door to the attackers? Surely, he knew what would befall those still alive inside the broch—the women and children that were all that remained of her people. If he had kept the door closed, he could have ensured their safety for a short while longer at least, he could have given her time to diffuse the anger of the four chieftains before her.
Mor’s uncle wore a grave expression as his gaze swept across the devastation in the yard before the broch. He would have expected as much, and yet Mor saw the grief that shadowed his green eyes, the tension that emanated from his once strong warrior’s body.
With an effort, Artair navigated the stone steps, slowly descending them, wincing from discomfort as he went. Halfway down, he stopped.
“Thirty women, children, and old folk wait inside the broch,” he said finally, a rasp to his voice. “And I, a cripple, am all that stands in your way.” Artair’s voice echoed across the yard. “You can cut me down and slaughter them, or you can finish this bloodshed between our peoples now.”
“You started this,” Wid mac Manus shouted. “My son now rots under a cairn of stones thanks to your people.”
“Killing the rest of us won’t bring him back,” Artair replied. “I too lost kin in this fight.”
“It’ll give me reckoning,” Wid snarled, advancing toward the bottom of the steps. Mor saw then that The Wolf chieftain carried a blood-stained sword. His gaze blazed with hate.
Heart hammering, Mor glanced back at her uncle. Artair was unarmed and crippled from his injuries—yet he was a warrior to the core. He stared down at Wid, defiant. Artair would not be stepping aside. The Wolf chieftain would have to kill him if he wanted to enter the broch.
“A bairn was born here last night,” Artair said, his attention never wavering from Wid. “The first of our people to be born upon this isle. Would you take that new life? Would you redden your hands with his blood?”
Wid snarled. Instead of making him hesitate, Artair’s words had merely inflamed his rage further. Spitting out a curse, Wid lunged forward.
Mor tore herself from Talor’s side and blocked his path. “No, Wid,” she gasped out the words. “Please stop this. You’ve had your vengeance.”
They stared at each other, and Mor cast aside the knife she still held, leaving herself unarmed before The Wolf chieftain. It was a risky move, for she could see he was maddened by rage. He could decide to cut her down before he dealt with Artair—yet that was a risk she was willing to take.
The last stage of her plan finally fell into place.
When she had offered to fight alongside these people, it had been with this end in mind. She would beg to save the lives of those inside the keep, even if she lost her own in the process.
“Mor.” Talor’s voice was tight with alarm and held a warning note. “Step aside.”
Mor refused to look at him, refused to shift her attention from Wid.
“This must end now,” she said, her voice falling. “Take my life if you have to.” She lowered herself onto her knees before him. “Strike me down in retribution for everyone you have lost … but spare the lives of those who have never raised arms against you.” Her voice hitched as she said these last words. “I beg you.”
Wid stared at her. His face was all hard angles, and a nerve twitched in his cheek. She could tell that violent emotion raged beneath the surface, that he was hanging onto his self-control by the merest thread.
It was a reckless thing she had just done.
Mor could feel Talor’s gaze boring into her, but still she did not look his way. He would be angry with her for risking her life like this.
But he did not understand how she truly felt. The fate of her people was at stake here. She would not step aside.
“Are you mad, woman?” Wid’s voice held a rasp. “Why would you sacrifice yourself?”
“Because these are my people.”
“I thought you had agreed to fight alongside us?”
“I did … but Dun Ringill has fallen now. I won’t stand by and watch anyone else die.”
“She’s right.” Talor spoke up then, his voice low and wary. “The fort has fallen … let us lower our weapons.”
And then, to Mor’s infinite surprise, Talor stepped up next to her. The thud of his knives falling to the ground filled the now silent yard. Mor chanced a glance away from Wid then, craning her neck up, her gaze taking in Talor’s proud profile. He watched The Wolf chieftain with a calm, yet resolute expression.
She knew then that he would not leave her side—no matter what happened.
“This isn’t how it’s supposed to end,” Talor continued. His attention shifted from Wid and slid over the faces of the other chieftains who looked on, stone-faced. “Don’t you remember? Ailene cast the bones at Mid-Winter Fire and told us that The Eagle and The Serpent would be united in the future.”
Muttering followed these words, as a few of the surrounding warriors exchanged glances. A few yards away, Mor saw Talor’s cousin, Muin, tense.
Mor frowned, remembering that Ailene—the bandruí of The Eagle had foreseen the same as Old Murdina.
Talor looked down at Mor, his mouth curving in a rueful smile. “Aye … two bandruí can’t be wrong, can they?” He pause
d then, focusing on the crowd that amassed around them. A few feet away, Wid had gone dangerously still, his fingers flexing around the hilt of his sword.
Mor tensed. The Wolf chieftain was just moments away from springing at her.
“You should all know that after Mor helped me escape, we visited her tribe’s seer … an old woman who now resides in the cave just south of Dun Ringill,” Talor continued, seemingly oblivious to the tension that now crackled through the air. “Old Murdina read the entrails of a stoat and told us that the only way our peoples can be united is by marriage between Mor and myself. She only had to set eyes on Mor and me to know the truth that it has taken me till now to acknowledge.”
Talor turned to Mor, ignoring everyone else. And then, to her shock, he lowered himself onto one knee before her, so their eyes were level. “You were made for me, Mor of The Serpent. You have gone against your own in an effort to bring peace between our peoples, and now I stand against my own to do the same.”
Shocked whispers rippled around them, yet Mor was unable to look away from Talor. Instead, she drowned in the blue fire of his eyes.
“You are mine, Mor,” he said huskily, “and I am yours. And if you will be my wife, we will unite our peoples.”
“Enough of this!” Wid lunged forward then—but to Mor’s shock, Tadhg of The Stag and Galan of The Eagle caught hold of his arms and hauled him back. During the exchange, the two chieftains had moved closer to Wid.
The Wolf chieftain’s roar echoed through the yard, ricocheting off the stone walls of the broch. “Bastards … let me go!”
“Calm down, Wid,” Galan growled, his grip never loosening. “See past your anger for a moment and listen, would you?”
“Aye … fury won’t help you now,” Tadhg added. Despite that Wid was broad and strong, both Tadhg and Galan held him easily. The Stag chieftain’s brow was furrowed as he stared at Talor. “And neither will rash decisions. Are you sure this is what you want, lad?”
