The pony and rider disappeared from view and Lucrezia turned away. She made her way down the narrow steps from the wall and strode back toward the fort. There was no time to waste; she would saddle a pony and ride after him.
But when Lucrezia entered the stable yard, she stopped short.
A company of ponies and warriors were amassing there—Galan and Donnel among them. The chieftain spotted Lucrezia and strode across to greet her. Galan looked formidable this morning, two swords strapped across his back, his long hair tied back at the nape of his neck.
Seeing Lucrezia’s shock, he smiled. “You didn’t think we’d let Tarl go alone, did you?”
Donnel approached from behind Galan, his expression feral. “He’ll not keep all the fun for himself.”
Lucrezia swallowed, finally finding her tongue. “You’re going after him?”
Galan inclined his head, taking in her attire. “As are you, I’d guess.”
Lucrezia nodded. “I can fight.”
“I know you can.” Galan motioned toward the stables. “Go on—Alpia’s saddled the dun mare for you. Hurry, we leave now.”
Lucrezia did as bid, flying across the yard to where Alpia was now leading the pony out for her. The female warrior smiled at her, although exasperation flared in her blue eyes. “I don’t know where you thought you were going on your own,” she chided her. “The Eagles of Dun Ringill fly together. We’re stronger that way.”
Lucrezia returned the smile, took the reins from Alpia, and swung up onto the mare’s back. The pony stamped its feathered hooves and snaked its head round, snapping its teeth at her. Lucrezia sighed. She had hoped to choose a different pony for this journey. Still, she was relieved Galan was letting her come at all. When she had seen him approach, she had worried he would be angry at her.
Tea entered the stable yard, and she and Galan embraced. The chieftain’s wife looked stern but calm this morning, her hand resting on her swelling belly as she waved them off. Lucrezia did not doubt that if Tea had not been with child, she would have joined them.
The company of twelve warriors thundered out of Dun Ringill, following Tarl’s path south-east. Galan had left the fort well defended, just in case Wurgest planned an attack while their attention was diverted elsewhere.
The warriors of The Eagle rode at a steady canter, the crisp morning air brushing their faces. A milky mist curled in from Loch Slapin, but inland the sky was clear, save for a few wispy clouds upon the horizon.
A short distance from Dun Ringill, the company turned south—Galan and Donnel leading the way. Lucrezia rode toward the back of the group, alongside Alpia. They had been riding for some distance before the warrior called out to her.
“You kept us all awake last night, you know.”
Lucrezia glanced over, meeting Alpia’s eye. Unlike when the woman had teased her earlier about Tarl, she felt no embarrassment. She had known they had been noisy. Once the lovemaking had begun, the pair of them had lost all inhibition. Lucrezia was sure she had screamed the rafters down at one stage.
Holding Alpia’s gaze she merely smiled.
“I’m happy for you,” Alpia said warmly. “For you both.”
Warmth spread through Lucrezia. That long night would be forever etched upon Lucrezia’s mind. It had taken everything she had to go to Tarl and disrobe before him, but she was so relieved she had. Months of pent-up longing had culminated in a night she would never forget.
He had surprised her too. He was a headstrong man, and she had expected him to be a commanding and controlling lover. Yet Tarl had let her take the lead numerous times, had enjoyed watching her ride him. Not only that, but he had held her gaze throughout, and in those eyes the color of weathered iron she had seen a depth of emotion that had shocked her. He had been with her at every moment, taking her to the brink and over, before he found his own release.
Alpia was right—he knew how to please a woman in the furs—only Lucrezia would never admit it to her. She felt too possessive of her discovery to share it with anyone besides Tarl.
She had once dreamed of such a union, but marriage to a man who could never fully love her had turned those dreams to dust. Who would have thought that she would find love here, far beyond the fringes of the Empire? Who would have thought a man of the Picti—the ‘painted people’ north of the wall—would steal her heart?
Tarl urged his pony through a shallow burn and up a rounded jade hill. He had made good time since leaving Dun Ringill, but there was still some way to go.
The sun rose to the west, and the sky turned pale blue promising a fine day to come. A light breeze feathered his face as he rode. His stallion was a hardy beast; it kept up a tireless pace, its ears pricked forward in the direction of travel. If Tarl had not been riding to meet Wurgest, he might have enjoyed the excursion.
As it was, he felt tense this morning, his mind a whirl of conflicting thoughts.
He had not slept much the night before—never a good idea before a battle—but he could not bring himself to regret that. If he was to meet his end today, he would rather do it with one fine memory to cherish.
Leaving Lucrezia at dawn, walking out of the alcove and to the armory, where he had readied himself for departure, had been hard. Still, he had forced himself to focus, to concentrate on what lay ahead. If he wanted to survive this day, he could not let himself be distracted.
Yet it was difficult not to think of her as he rode south.
He also berated himself. Had he not been nursing his wounded pride for months, he would have realized he loved her earlier. They could have had more time together. He had wasted precious days that he could never get back.
At the rise of the next hill Tarl rode by a massive cairn of stones. Legend told that this was the grave of the King of the Giants, when their kind had ruled the world. The cairn was so old that grass grew upon its summit, and weeds poked out between the stacked stones. The story went that the king had died here after turning his back on his enemy during a battle.
Tarl gave a grim smile—he would not make the same mistake. He knew Wurgest well. The warrior had a mind like a ferret: cunning and sharp. You never turned your back on such a man.
Pushing thoughts of Wurgest’s wild eyes and crazed grin aside, Tarl urged his stallion on, toward the wide valley strewn with heather below.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Valley of the Tors
tarl reached the Valley of the Tors just as the sun crested the top of its arc across the sky.
He knew his destination was near when he passed giant slabs of rock, protruding from the ground like the broken stumps of teeth. The landscape was distinctive here. The tors which littered the hillsides were said to have come from that long ago battle between two tribes of giants.
Slowing his stallion to a walk, Tarl approached the northern edge of the valley. He reined his pony in at the top and cast his gaze into the wide vale below. The Valley of the Tors was a lonely spot, windswept and barren. The breeze whistled in between the stones, keening a soft lament.
Tarl’s gaze narrowed as he studied the terrain. A solitary figure waited below. A hulking bearded man with untamed dark hair stood in the midst of the valley, his pony tethered a few yards distant.
Wurgest was here—but had he brought friends?
Tarl scanned the southern edge of the vale, where a forest of high tors rose against the sky. He could see no one, but that did not mean there were not men waiting up there, ready to attack when Wurgest gave the word.
He would need to be careful.
Tarl reined his stallion west and entered the valley from that direction. Wurgest watched him approach, his heavy-featured face an expressionless mask. Tarl’s wariness increased. If Wurgest was not grinning, he was definitely up to something.
Around twenty yards away from The Boar warrior, Tarl halted and dismounted, tethering his stallion to a rock. He put on an iron helm—the one he had taken from the Roman general he had slain at the wall. Then he slung his shield
over his shoulder and walked forward to meet Wurgest mac Wrad.
“Still strutting like a rooster,” Wurgest rumbled in greeting.
Tarl grinned. He always liked the banter between opponents before a fight, and Wurgest was inventive with his insults.
Wurgest spat on the ground and loosened the muscles in his neck and shoulders. “I’ve been looking forward to spilling your guts, and listening to you scream like a girl. This has been a long time coming, Eagle.”
Tarl shrugged, his grin widening. “And I shall enjoy cleaving that ugly head from your shoulders.”
Lucrezia spotted the tors first, great slabs of granite thrusting up from the damp earth on the far horizon. “Look.”
Alpia nodded, her strong face creased with concentration. “Aye—we draw close to the valley now.” The warrior then glanced up at the sky. “Tarl will be meeting Wurgest as we speak.”
Her words caused anxiety to tighten its grip around Lucrezia’s chest. She hoped they were not too late.
The company slowed, gathering around Galan who had drawn up his black stallion and was staring south. His gaze swept back to the warriors surrounding him. “We must be careful from this point on. They can’t hear us approach.” His gaze shifted to Donnel. “You, Cal, and Alpia go on ahead and check the northern edge of the valley. As soon as you’re sure the way is clear, send word back.”
Galan had barely finished speaking, and Donnel had not even had a chance to respond, when the ground beneath their feet started to tremble.
Lucrezia, who was upon her dun mare at the back of the group, twisted in the saddle to see warriors on ponies charging up the hill behind them. There were over half a dozen of them: big men with blue painted faces and weapons drawn.
In an instant it hit her. This was Wurgest’s plan—to attack Tarl’s reinforcements while he faced him alone.
Her yell echoed across the hillside with the force of a thunderclap. “Ambush!”
The scrape of swords sliding free of leather scabbards followed—and then The Eagle warriors were wheeling their ponies north, plunging down the hill to meet their attackers.
A thrill swept over Lucrezia, frightening in its intensity. She had expected to feel fear during an attack, and had worried that her courage would desert her. But instead her blood caught fire. The wild cries of The Eagles, their feral faces as they rode past her, swept her up with them. These were her people. They were under attack, and she would not cower at the back while they fought for their lives.
She had been born into a noble Roman family, had been bred to be a lady—but her destiny lay here upon this wild island. This was who she really was: a warrior woman at heart.
She drew her sword, unslung her shield so that she held it with her left arm, and dug her knees into her pony’s sides. For once the dun mare did not balk, did not try to throw her. Instead it leaped forward, following the others down the incline, toward battle.
“How’s that pretty slave?” Wurgest sneered. “Does she squeal in the furs? Or does she still think you’re a piece of dung?”
Tarl ignored the insult. Instead he glanced right, to the southern edge of the valley, before his gaze returned to Wurgest. “Aren’t you going to bring your friends out to play? I know they’re lurking up there. Cowards.”
Wurgest gave a deep belly laugh, his midnight blue eyes gleaming. “You’ve got it wrong, Eagle. My men aren’t waiting up there … they’re circling north to where your brothers will soon meet their end.”
Tarl stilled. Despite that it was a warm day, a chill settled over him. A moment later he drew in a deep breath. Thank the gods he had insisted he come alone. So this was the treachery Ruith had warned of.
“My brothers didn’t follow me here,” he replied. “Your men will meet no one from Dun Ringill.”
Wurgest laughed again, the sound booming off the sides of the valley. “You’re wrong. Of course they’re here. They wouldn’t let you ride off to face me alone. Galan’s too noble for that.” Wurgest spat those last few words out, making it clear what he thought of Tarl’s elder brother.
Tarl smirked, masking the sense of foreboding that slid its icy fingers down his spine. Galan and Donnel thought his decision folly, but neither of them had come out to see him off this morning. He had asked them not to do so, yet had thought they would come out to say goodbye anyway. He realized then that they were probably readying themselves in their alcoves while he saddled his pony.
What if they have followed me here?
He had to delay Wurgest, had to find a way to warn Galan. And yet it was impossible to leave this valley now that he stood before his opponent. Wurgest would see it as cowardice, and would merely chase him down.
“And what of your brothers?” Tarl drawled. “Have they come to help carry your carcass home after I’m done with you?”
That wiped the grin from Wurgest’s face. “They let me fight my own battles,” he growled, pulling free two huge fighting axes from where they had been strapped to his back. The whetted blades gleamed in the noon sun. “Men loyal to me will see to your kin—while I deal with you.”
Tarl pulled his sword free and unslung his shield with practiced ease. “I’m hard to kill, Boar. Surely you’ve realized that by now.”
Wurgest sneered back at him, his teeth flashing white against his dark unruly beard. “Aye—but every man has to die sometime. Today’s your day.”
Wurgest’s axes whistled through the air.
The Boar wielded them easily, cutting and slicing with deadly precision. The two warriors danced around each other. Tarl held his shield aloft with his left arm and carried his sword with his right. He had once thought on how he would not like to meet Wurgest in battle, and he had been right. The Boar was a formidable foe. Fighting with fists was one thing, but Wurgest brandished those axes as if he had been born swinging them.
Tarl circled him, ducking and parrying, waiting for an opportunity to get under Wurgest’s guard. His best chance of winning this fight was to tire his opponent out a bit first, or to anger him and get him to overreach.
He decided to try to enrage him first. Wurgest was always quick to anger—and it was time to start fighting dirty.
“Do you know why your brothers aren’t here to watch your back?” he asked, slamming his shield against the side of one of his opponent’s axes, deflecting the blow. “I’ll tell you why. They want you dead.”
Wurgest snarled at him. “Like you soon will be.”
“Loxa said so, two days ago. He called you a witless oaf. Once you’re dead he’ll be next in line to be chief.”
Wurgest roared, lunging at him with such speed that Tarl barely avoided an axe blade embedding in his skull. “Liar!”
“It’s the truth.” Tarl was grinning now. “They were disappointed when you returned from the wall. Urcal wanted you speared upon a Roman blade.”
Wurgest’s gaze was wild. He had that crazed look Tarl had seen on him in the south.
Unfortunately, instead of enraging him to the point of making a blunder, Tarl had merely succeeded into turning The Boar into the ruthless killer he was in the heat of battle.
Wurgest slammed his right arm down hard, his axe crashing into Tarl’s shield. The force of the impact reverberated deep in Tarl’s bones and shook his teeth. The blade embedded, the point of it thrusting out just a hair’s breadth from Tarl’s forearm.
Wurgest yanked his axe back, forcing Tarl to let go of his shield. The heavy square of oak, covered in leather with a heavy iron boss in its center, flew upward, still impaled on the axe.
There was no time for Wurgest to yank his weapon free, so he cast both the shield and his axe aside, leaving him with just one weapon to fight with.
The Boar favored Tarl with a savage grin. “Let’s even things up shall we?”
It took Lucrezia mere moments to realize that fighting on foot and on horseback were entirely different matters. These warriors were skilled riders, guiding their ponies with their knees as they swung axes, maces, pi
kes, and swords with one arm, and wielded shields with the other.
Although Lucrezia considered herself a good rider, she had never sparred on horseback, and was not ready for the speed with which The Boar riders approached, or the impact as the first one’s sword hit her shield.
Pain lanced through her shoulder, and it took all her effort to keep hold of her shield. Her attacker was so close she could see the whites of his eyes. He grinned, knowing he had the advantage, and drew a fighting knife.
A heartbeat later, a pike hit him with a dull thud, knocking the man off the saddle. Lucrezia twisted to see Alpia at her side.
“Dismount!” the woman shouted at her. “Fight on the ground!”
With that, Alpia leaped off her pony, yanked the pike from The Boar warrior’s guts, and finished him off with a slash to the throat.
Lucrezia slid to the ground, clutching her sword in her right hand so hard her fingers ached. The roar of battle around her was so loud that it felt as if she stood in the midst of a great storm.
Another Boar warrior came for her then, a massive axe sweeping toward her. She was fast and light on her feet. As the axe swung toward her, Lucrezia ducked and stabbed upward with her blade, driving it into the man’s thigh.
Blood spurted over them both, and the warrior fell, roaring, off his pony. Lucrezia was on him in a moment. Alpia had taught her that you only had an instant in situations like these to go in for the kill. You could not show mercy, or hesitate, or the advantage would be lost.
He saw her coming and raised his shield, but she was too fast. Her blade slipped under his guard, and into the hollow of his neck. The sensation of sliding a blade through flesh was sickening. Acid stung the back of Lucrezia’s throat, and she averted her face from the dying man.
“Lucrezia—behind you!” Donnel’s warning shout caused her to spin around.
A huge warrior, easily as big as Wurgest—the biggest man she had ever seen—was coming for her. He wielded a long pike, and fury contorted what would have been handsome features in other circumstances.
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