by Jayne Castel
Tea was just taking her seat upon the bench next to Galan when a man appeared in the entrance to the fort.
She did not recognize him.
Dressed in mud-splattered leathers, his dark hair wild, his foot wrapping caked in dirt, he looked as if he had run through peat bogs to reach them. Observing the man, Tea supposed he must belong to one of the many settlements around Dun Ringill, for the People of The Eagle occupied a number of villages upon the peninsula.
Galan spied the newcomer immediately, and rose to his feet. “Mund, welcome,” he called out, before his gaze narrowed. “What brings you here?”
The man staggered across the rushes toward them, clearly close to collapse. “Raiders!” Mund gasped, his breath ragged. He stopped before the chieftain’s table and bent double to recover his breath.
Conversation died, as did the thump and clatter of food being served at the long tables.
Galan went still. “Where?”
Mund looked up, his cheeks flushed, eyes wild. “North and west. They’ve attacked, pillaged and burned two villages already, and have started on the third.”
Gasps followed this news. Tea glanced across at Galan and saw his face had turned to stone. When he spoke, his voice was hard, emotionless. “Who are they?”
Mund’s gaze flicked from Galan to Tea then. Their gazes met, and Tea saw hatred flare in the man’s dark eyes. She stiffened, her stomach clenching. She knew that look, for she had given Galan the same one shortly after their first meeting. Suddenly, she knew what the man would say next. A chill feathered over her skin, and she gripped the edge of the table.
If only she could make time stand still; in a few moments the peace she had just begun to enjoy would be shattered.
Mund shifted his attention back to Galan.
“It’s The Wolf, My Chief,” he said, his words ringing out across the fort. “Loc mac Domech has broken the peace.”
Chapter Twenty-three
Peace Breaker
Tension rippled through the hall as soon as Mund had spoken. Tea sat, frozen, next to Galan. She felt unable to look in his direction, unable to tear her gaze from Mund’s accusing stare.
It has to be a lie.
Her mind churned and scampered, like a rat chasing its tail, as she tried to take it in.
It makes no sense.
Their tribes had made peace—Loc had been as committed to it as Galan, perhaps even more so. Surely, Mund was mistaken.
She could not, would not, accept this news as truth.
Galan was silent for a few moments, marshalling his thoughts, his reaction. When he did speak his voice was calm and soft; iron cloaked in velvet. Tea sensed his anger that boiled just beneath the surface.
Tea glanced at him then, and saw that he had shifted his gaze to meet hers. Unlike the warmth of just moments earlier, his grey eyes were now like pieces of hard flint.
“Your brother betrayed us,” he accused her.
She shook her head, denying his words. “It can’t be so. Loc wants peace. This man must be mistaken—there are two other tribes on this island, it must have been them.”
“It wasn’t,” Mund cut in. “I saw the men at close quarters—none of them bore the mark of The Stag or The Boar. It was a wolf’s head tattooed and painted over their bodies.”
Tea’s chest constricted, and her head started to spin. Suddenly, she felt as she had when she had first come to Dun Ringill—as if she stood in the enemy camp. Cold, hard stares dug into her in silent accusation.
They blame me, she thought, nausea stealing over her. She turned back to Galan, her gaze seeking his. However, he would not look at her.
“Galan, please,” she murmured. “This sounds like treachery. Someone wants to rekindle the old feud.”
“And they’ve succeeded.”
Galan swung away, dismissing her, his gaze now sweeping over his four warriors who sat around him. Cal and Lutrin’s faces were rock-hewn, whereas Ru and Namet were staring at Tea as if she were a serpent coiled in their midst. “Ready your ponies and gather your weapons,” Galan ordered. “We ride out.”
With that, he stepped away from the table and strode toward the door. A heart beat later, his warriors leaped to their feet and followed him.
Tea hurried through the fort, toward the stable complex. She had to speak to Galan. She had to make him believe that Loc was not responsible for this. She knew Mund swore that he had seen men bearing her tribe’s marks attack his village, but she refused to believe it.
She reached the stables, ignoring the glares of the warriors who were readying their ponies. She passed Ru on her way across the stable yard. The warrior cursed her under his breath and spat upon the ground, making his feelings for her clear.
Tea lifted her chin and strode past, refusing to be intimidated. She walked towards where Galan was saddling Faileas in a stall at the far end of the stables.
“Galan, please—can we speak a moment.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have time, Tea. We’re leaving now. Go back into the fort—I’ve left men there to protect you while I’m gone.”
To protect me, or keep me prisoner?
Tea ducked under the stallion’s neck so that she stood before him. They had slight privacy here, for the stallion’s bulk stood between them and Galan’s warriors, and a wooden wall rose behind them. However, she was still aware of the muttering, the hard looks, surrounding her. Even Galan’s presence did not prevent the men from showing their anger.
“Galan,” she said, her voice low. “Surely, you don’t believe that Loc would betray you?”
He swung round, his gaze spearing hers. “I don’t want to believe it, but Mund knows what he saw. Your brother is a peace breaker. He’s made a mockery of our handfasting.”
Panic welled up within Tea at these words. “That’s not true. You spoke to Loc, you saw what this meant to him. He ruined his relationship with me to forge this peace. He would never go back on it. Those warriors Mund saw could be a rogue band, trying to stir up trouble.”
His gaze narrowed further and with a sinking heart Tea realized her words had not changed his mind. If anything, her plea had hardened him against her. He stepped closer to her, however it was not an intimate gesture but a threatening one. “Did you know what he was planning?”
Tea’s gaze widened. She drew back as if he had just slapped her. “No, I’ve just told you what I believe. I’ve spoken the truth.”
“You say that, but I remember how much you hated me after the handfasting. I wanted to believe you could soften toward me, but I was a fool. Did he send you to gather information? You have a lot of freedom here—how am I to know you haven’t ridden out to meet one of your brothers’ men. How am I to know you haven’t already sent word back to him? I stand alone at Dun Ringill with both my brothers gone. It was the ideal time to attack.”
Tea stared at him, incredulous. “You think I’m a spy?”
He held her gaze. “I don’t want to, but I’m starting to doubt everything between us.” His expression was shuttered as he drew back.
Tea watched him, shock rendering her speechless. She could not believe he could be so easily swayed, that he could cast aside the bond that had formed between them so lightly.
Yet Galan had not finished. A muscle feathered in his jaw as he regarded her. “If I discover that Loc is behind this, there will be reckoning.”
With that, he swung round to finish saddling his stallion, signaling that their conversation had ended.
Tea stood upon the walls of Dun Ringill and watched the men depart. Her vision blurred with tears—pain, anger and confusion wheeled through her, each emotion vying for dominance. She felt as if someone had reached into her chest and yanked her heart out.
It hurt to breathe.
She felt helpless, frustrated. Earlier in the day she had been so happy, and had been looking forward to an afternoon outing with her husband. Now, Galan looked at her as if she was the enemy. A cold stranger had replaced the man she had b
egun to love.
Rage surged through her then, and she balled her fists at her sides.
I’ll throttle Loc, if he’s behind this.
She watched the warriors ride out of the fort in pairs, upon feather-footed ponies. Leather creaked, pine shields thumped against the men and women’s backs, and the ponies’ iron bits jangled.
Galan rode up front, flanked either side by Lutrin and Cal. He rode tall and proud, his dark hair pulled back at the nape of his neck, a fur mantle rippling from his shoulders. As Tea watched, Galan urged his stallion into a brisk canter and led the way north, over the edge of the bald hills.
None of the men or women looked back, none saw her standing there.
When the last warrior had disappeared, she remained there a while longer, staring after them.
The wind gusted and blew around her, its chill biting into her flesh. However, she paid it no mind. Still staring into the distance, she came to a decision. Whirling, she descended the steps off the wall and strode back to the stables.
She had little time—the men Galan had left behind would start looking for her soon. She needed to move fast or they would not let her leave.
The chestnut stallion she usually rode had gone, taken by one of Galan’s warriors. The only pony remaining was the ill-tempered dun mare that had carried Tea here four months earlier.
Tea’s heart sank at the sight of the crabby beast. It saw her approaching, flattened its ears back and snaked out its neck, teeth flashing. Tea smacked it hard across the nose before grabbing a saddle and swinging it across the mare’s broad back.
“Enough,” she muttered. “It’s time you and I made a truce—we’ve got a long ride ahead of us.
No one noticed the cloaked figure upon a heavy-set dun mare that trotted through the stone arch of the fort. The lone rider made their way through the cluster of cone-roofed roundhouses toward the outer perimeter.
No one noticed Tea go, except the bandruí of Dun Ringill.
Ruith stood next to her fowl enclosure, a bowl of grain in hand, her gaze following the chieftain’s wife as she left the fort.
Tea urged the mare into a fast canter as soon as she passed through the outer wall. The wind gusted this afternoon, and the clouds raced across the sky, obscuring the sun intermittently and casting long shadows across the green hills.
Thinking ahead, she gauged the distance she would need to cover to reach Dun Ardtreck. It was a good day’s ride between the two forts and since it was well after midday now she would not likely reach her destination until the following morning. That would mean she would need to sleep outdoors tonight. The thought did not bother her. She had been brought up to fend for herself, yet she just hoped that Galan’s men would not come after her.
Tea clenched her jaw. She had brought an ash spear and carried a sharp boning knife at her waist.
Let them come.
Tears blurred Tea’s vision then, and she dug her fingers into the mare’s spiky mane to stop herself from crying. It was incredible how quickly life could turn, from exhilaration to despair. She thought back to Luana. One moment her friend had been celebrating the birth of her son with her husband, the next she was dead. The wheel could turn in an instant—one moment you were riding high on the favor of the gods, the next they were making sport of your life.
Tea had thought that what had developed between her and Galan was strong, a connection that few couples enjoyed. She had thought they were made for each other, that she had found her other half. Yet it had taken so little for him to believe the worst.
Maybe I’m best back with my own people, she thought bitterly. If Galan could so easily turn on her she did not belong at his side.
However, that was not the reason she had fled Dun Ringill. She had to know the truth. She had to know what her brother had done and why. If she discovered that he had indeed deliberately broken the peace, Dun Ardtreck would be the best place for her. But if she discovered that her brother’s own warriors had gone behind his back, Loc needed to know—and quickly.
There was still hope that peace could be forged once more.
And Galan?
Tea wanted to believe that the sudden rift between them could be mended, but with each passing moment, she started to feel it could not. He had not given her the benefit of the doubt, not even for a moment.
Rage pulsed through her, blotting out the hurt, the pain. She did want to be upset—for it felt like weakness. It was time to start rebuilding the wall that Galan had slowly taken down, piece by piece, during the last few months.
It was time, she turned her heart back to stone.
Chapter Twenty-four
Too Late
Galan knocked the man to the ground and thrust the iron blade into his guts. The warrior’s wail echoed down the valley, a chilling sound of agony that left Galan cold. He placed a foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword free before slashing it down across his neck. Blood spurted, splattering across Galan’s face and clothing.
It was a clean death—cleaner than this raider deserved.
Pivoting on his heel, Galan turned to face the next warrior who sprinted, howling, toward him, axe raised, eyes wild. Galan rushed forward to meet him. The rage, the blood-lust, of battle had descended upon him. He savored it as he engaged the raider.
Galan cut the axe-man down, stabbing him until he fell twitching at his feet, the man’s axe sliding from lifeless fingers. Then dripping with blood—of his enemies rather than his own—Galan straightened up and looked around him.
They had won the skirmish. Broken and bloodied bodies lay scattered round him. Some of them belonged to the villagers who had not managed to escape before Galan and his warriors arrived—the rest belonged to the raiders.
Events this afternoon had moved swiftly.
They had come across this band as the raiders attacked their fourth village of the day. Galan had led his men down the hill in a charge; a convocation of enraged eagles that had swept over the village below. Kil was a small settlement; a cluster of hovels around a dirt square, protected by little more than a wooden fence around its perimeter.
The raiders had knocked that fence to the ground. Smoke now stained the darkening sky, rising from the ruined, smoldering shells of the houses. The raiders had set fire to them all, before raping the women and killing any of the men who did not manage to flee before them.
All the raiders had perished—except one.
Cal and Namet dragged a young man toward him. Barely out of boyhood, the lad was thin with bulbous blue eyes and a sallow face. He stared at The Eagle chieftain, who stood waiting for him. The raider’s eyes grew huge, the pale blue of his irises standing out against the whites of his eyes, as he stared at Galan.
Like the other raiders, the lad wore the mark of the wolf on his right bicep.
Galan’s simmering rage boiled once more. Mund had spoken true; The Wolf chief had indeed betrayed them. He stared down at the boy and barely restrained himself from driving his sword into his heart.
He needed to wait—he needed answers first.
Gripping his sword hilt so tightly that his hand ached, Galan strode toward the captive, closing the gap between them. The lad started to tremble as he bore down on him.
“Why?” Galan growled. “We made a peace.”
The young man stared back at him, so scared that he seemed to barely register the question. Galan stepped closer to him still, so close he could smell the sour tang of the lad’s fear, could see the sweat that coated his skin. “Tell me why?”
“The feud has begun again,” the young man finally managed, each word a gasp.
“We gave you no cause,” Galan snarled. “Loc mac Domech gave me his word.”
The lad sneered, his body stiffening at the mention of The Wolf chieftain. “Loc mac Domech no longer rules,” he spat, lifting his chin in one last show of defiance. “Forcus mac Vist is our chief now.”
***
The light had almost faded when Galan led the way back into Du
n Ringill. Sweat lathered his stallion; Faileas’s sides were heaving. They had ridden hard to reach the fort by nightfall.
The last rays of sun were now slipping beyond the lines of the hills to the west, turning the sky blood-red.
Galan pulled his stallion up in the stable yard and swung down, his body tense with purpose. Ever since the raider had revealed that Loc no longer ruled Dun Ardtreck, Galan’s world had shifted on its axis.
A man Galan had met only briefly at the handfasting, Forcus mac Vist, was now chieftain. The peace had been broken but, in the end it was not Tea’s brother who had betrayed him.
Galan needed to see his wife; he had to put things right.
Leaving Faileas with one of his men, who would rub the stallion down and feed him, Galan strode out of the stables and across to the fort. Inside, the inhabitants of the fort were readying themselves for a supper of fowl and vegetable broth. Men were shucking off their heavy cloaks and settling themselves next to the hearth, gratefully accepting cups of ale from their womenfolk.
However, Galan paid none of them any notice. Instead his gaze swept over the hall, searching for the statuesque, dark-haired figure of his wife.
He did not see her. Nor did her see Calum or Dirk, the two warriors he had left here to watch over Tea.
Galan spotted Deri, whom he had often seen talking with Tea, pouring out ale for the men. She glanced up, stiffening as she spied him. However, Galan ignored her.
His focus was entirely on finding Tea.
It could be that after Galan’s treatment of her, his wife had taken refuge in their alcove. He did not blame her. He had criticized Tea openly, and made her an enemy of his people. Galan had not cared at the time, he had only seen crimson with rage, but now he regretted his behavior.
He strode over to the alcove and drew back the hanging. He expected Tea to be waiting for him, seated upon the furs, her midnight blue gaze burning with outrage, but the alcove was empty. The furs looked as if they had not been lain on all day.
