by Jayne Castel
Forcus had not moved. He stood there observing her from under hooded lids. She could see his derision for her woman’s tears; in the past he had always admired her coldness, her hard approach. It possibly disappointed him to see that she was not made of stone after all.
Next to Forcus, Eithni had sat down upon a stool. Her pale, thin hands were clasped on her lap and Tea saw that her sister’s face was wet with tears. It was the only sign that Tea’s sorrow had touched her—or that she shared it.
Tea blinked, her eyes felt swollen and her face raw from the salt of her tears. Now that she had mastered herself, once the paroxysm of grief had passed, her befuddled mind started to clear. She remembered the reason that had brought her back to Dun Ardtreck, the reason that finding out about Loc’s death had obliterated.
Wiping her eyes, Tea rose to her feet and faced Forcus once more. “Do you wonder why I’m here?” she asked him, her voice husky from crying.
He smiled. “I knew you would not suffer to remain at Dun Ringill long—the wife of that Eagle maggot. You are indeed your father’s daughter.”
He had meant the words as a compliment, but Tea found it difficult not to flinch.
“That’s not why I left,” she replied. “Raiders bearing the mark of The Wolf have been attacking and killing upon the Strathaird Peninsula—Galan’s territory. I came to find out why Loc has broken the peace, but now I see he did not.”
Forcus’s smile widened into a grin. “I sent those warriors,” he confirmed, his broad chest expanding with pride. “It is reckoning for your father, one he should have had moons ago.”
Tea stiffened. “This was vengeance?”
“Aye, and it’s only the beginning. I’ve got men out gathering more warriors as we speak—and my people here are eager to march to war. I will not stop until Dun Ringill falls—until Galan mac Muin crawls before me. Then I will sink my blade into his guts.”
Tea’s breathing hitched in her chest. His words hit her like a physical blow. Despite her anger toward Galan, she could not bear the thought of any harm coming to him. Forcus’s threats made her feel ill. Bile crept up her throat. She swallowed, clenching her fists by her sides.
To think she had been like Forcus once, full of mindless hate. To think she had once thought about hurting Galan. Now she knew with absolute clarity that she would defend his life with her own.
He needs to know that Loc didn’t betray him, she thought suddenly panicked.
She watched Forcus then, stunned by the viciousness that twisted his handsome face, turning him suddenly ugly. She understood her father’s hatred for the People of The Eagle, and even her own, but she did not see why Forcus loathed them so. A chill passed through her as she observed him.
Now that he was chief of their tribe, everything Loc and Galan had worked for would be destroyed. Their people had only known but a few months of peace, and now war was about to tear them apart once more.
Faileas was breathing hard when Galan reined him in at the crest of the last hill before Dun Ardtreck. He had never travelled to the fort before, and he paused to see it now; an austere fortress shaped like a giant beehive, looming over the rocky slopes upon a craggy headland. It was a lonely, cold spot, and he wondered what it would have been like to grow up here.
“What now?” Cal pulled his pony up next to Galan, his gaze also riveted upon the towering bulk of the fort.
Galan did not reply immediately. Instead, he scanned the broch, before searching the rocks and slopes below it, looking for signs of warriors guarding the fort. He could see the outlines of figures on the walls and spears bristling against the sky.
Somewhere inside that stone bulk was his wife. A woman who now likely hated him. He wanted to make peace with her first, yet the man who now ruled here saw him as the enemy.
Forcus mac Vist would not welcome him into his broch.
Turning his attention back to his warriors, Galan took in their faces. Ru, Namet, Lutrin and Cal—all had proved their loyalty to him by riding here. Yet what he was about to ask would test that loyalty further.
Galan urged Faileas forward so that the twenty warriors riding behind could also see him. “I must go inside,” he told them, his voice ringing out over the hillside. “I must find my wife and face Forcus mac Vist.” He paused here, weighing his words before he spoke them. “I don’t ask the same of you. If any of you wish to remain behind, you may.”
His warriors stared back at him. Ru was the first to respond, his bearded face fierce. “You are our chief, Galan. We would follow you to the bottom of the sea, if you asked it.”
The others in the band silently nodded their agreement with Ru, fire in their eyes.
Galan stared back at them, humbled by their courage. “It won’t be easy,” he pointed out. “An ambush or a trap might await us.”
“Then it’s one you shouldn’t go into without us,” Cal replied. “Enough said. We will not let you ride into Dun Ardtreck alone.”
***
“Leave us.” Forcus’s voice lashed across the feasting hall, causing the two servant girls laying the table to cringe. They stared at their chief, their faces paling.
“But, the stew,” one of them began hesitantly. “It’s ready.”
“Get out now,” Forcus growled, “and tell the others not to come in until I call for them.”
The girls nodded and fled from the hall, leaving Forcus alone with Eithni and Tea.
Forcus turned to Eithni, addressing her for the first time since Tea had entered the broch. “Eithni—fetch us some ale.”
Tea stiffened at the commanding edge to his tone. His barely concealed distaste. Since when had Forcus taken such a vehement dislike to Eithni? Tea remembered him being respectful toward her in the past.
Eithni nodded and, eyes still downcast, made her way over to the scrubbed oaken table behind them, where a ewer of ale and a row cups sat. Tea noted that her sister walked with an odd shuffle this morning, almost as if she was in pain. Tea’s gaze narrowed. “Eithni, are you hurt?”
She saw her sister’s shoulders stiffen, but she did not reply.
“She’s fine,” Forcus spoke on Eithni’s behalf. “I told you the girl took Loc’s death badly. She’s not as tough as you. She refuses to eat.”
Tea saw now that Eithni’s slender shoulders were shaking, as if she was trying to keep her emotions back. Her hands trembled as she picked up the ewer and began to pour the ales. She was shaking so badly that she spilled ale onto the table.
Unable to watch her sister’s suffering any longer, Tea rushed across the floor. Reaching Eithni’s side, she put an arm around her, drawing her close.
“I’m so sorry, love,” she murmured into her sister’s hair. “I’m so sorry I wasn’t here to comfort you.” She squeezed Eithni’s body close, tensing at her fragility. Her sister had never been so thin.
Eithni gasped and sank against Tea, her head bowing close to her sister’s.
“Run,” she whispered hoarsely. “Get out now.”
“Eithni!” Forcus’s voice boomed across the space. “Just pour the ale and hold your tongue, girl.”
Tea released her sister and turned to Forcus, viewing him through a narrowed gaze. “What gives you the right to speak to Eithni so? She’s the daughter and sister of chieftains. She has a revered place at Dun Ardtreck and yet you address her like a slave.”
Forcus sneered. “I’m chief,” he said simply. “Eithni seems to resent that fact—but you would both do well to remember who commands here.”
Tea stiffened and drew herself up to her full height. Eithni had stopped trying to pour the ale; instead she stood cringing against Tea, her body quivering like a drawn bow-string. Her obvious distress made a wave of protectiveness surge through Tea. She did not know what Forcus had done to her sister, but she knew that something terrible must have happened for Eithni to act this way.
Tea would not let him speak to either of them this way. Now that the shock of Loc’s death had sunk in, a cold rage had repl
aced it. “The women of this family have as much right to command as the men,” she reminded him. “I only suffered Loc’s sending me away because he was my blood kin. You are nothing to us, you have no right to terrify my sister.”
Forcus stared at her, his ice-blue eyes glittering. “You always were a mouthy wench,” he said, slowly advancing. “I once used to put that mouth of yours to better use—maybe I will do so again.”
His coarseness made Tea clench her jaw, yet she gave no other reaction.
He advanced on her, stalking her like the wolf he was. She watched as his fists clenched at his sides.
“I liked your fire once, but I tire of it now,” he growled. “Neither of you compare to your mother. I plowed you both, hoping to find Fina—yet you are both but pale shadows in her memory.”
Tea recoiled at his words.
Plowed you both.
Suddenly she knew why Eithni trembled and cringed in her arms.
“You stinking turd,” she hissed, pushing Eithni behind her and facing Forcus, balling her own fists at her side. “How dare you lay a finger on my sister.”
He continued to advance on her. He was a big, intimidating man; easily as big as Galan. However, she stared him down, refusing to cower before him.
Forcus stopped a few feet away, his gaze trapping hers. Behind Tea, she heard Eithni’s whimper of fear. “Please Tea … just run.”
“I’m not running,” Tea shot back, anger surging through her. “This is our home. I’ll not let him touch you again.”
“He lies,” her sister gasped, her voice stronger now, almost as if Tea’s body providing a barrier between them gave her strength. “He lies about everything.”
“Silence, bitch!” Forcus’s voice slashed toward them. “Swallow that forked-tongue!”
Tea’s belly clenched. She did not look Eithni’s way, instead keeping her gaze riveted upon Forcus, watching him. “Go on, Eithni,” she commanded. “Tell me of these lies.”
“Loc,” Eithni choked their brother’s name out. “He did not die on a hunt. He and Forcus argued about keeping the peace. And then Forcus drew his blade and sliced Loc open here, in his own hall, and let him bleed to death in front of the hearth.”
Bile rose in Tea’s throat, burning. She swallowed with difficulty, fighting the urge to be sick. Her mind spun, but she kept her gaze upon Forcus, and saw an ugly change creep over his face.
Until now he had been playing a role, keeping up a pretense, but suddenly the mask fell away. Now that Eithni had spoken, Tea watched him transform. Slowly smiling, he relaxed his clenched fists by his sides.
“So now you know.” He paused here, his expression turning feral. “And since you know that much, you and Eithni should learn the rest.”
Galan knew they would only have one chance to get inside the broch. The men on the walls would spot his band as they galloped up the incline toward the entrance to the fort, however they would need time to rally themselves.
Speed was essential if he was ever going to get through the gates.
Faileas thundered up the incline, sending villagers, fowl and dogs scattering. Galan had already realized that Dun Ardtreck was harder to attack than Dun Ringill. Perched high on a cliff-face with only one entrance in a cleft between two boulders, it was a bottle-neck. Once they closed the gates, he and his men would be locked out.
Shouts echoed down from the walls above—they had been spotted.
Even so, the two warriors guarding the gate were still scrambling to close the gates when Galan reached them.
Roaring the battle cry of the Eagle and flanked by Cal and Lutrin, he rode Faileas against the heavy oaken gates. Their heavy-set ponies drove through the gates like a battering ram, trampling men underfoot.
Inside, warriors rushed at them from all angles, howling with rage as they scrambled for their weapons.
Sword drawn, Galan leaped down from his stallion and met them head on. Behind him, the rest of his band poured in through the breach. He heard their shouts and tasted their bloodlust. The madness of battle took fire in his veins. Galan roared his people’s battle cry once more, and slashing his blade before him, he began cutting his way through the throng.
The Reaper had come to Dun Ardtreck, and he would leave none untouched.
Chapter Twenty-seven
The Secret
Silence settled inside the broch—a hollow, breathless silence that told Tea she should run.
She did not.
Instead she continued to watch Forcus. Apart from a slender knife at her waist, which she used for preparing vegetables or gutting animals, she had no weapon. Her breathing stilled as she calculated if she could reach for an axe hanging on the wall behind her in time should he leap for her.
The rest.
What she had learned so far was bad enough—she needed to hear no more.
“Your mother was nearly a decade older than me, but I wanted her,” Forcus began, his voice roughening. “Even after she wed Domech, I still wanted her.”
Tea wished for Forcus to stop talking, but now that he began his tale, the words poured out in an unstoppable tide; years of pent-up frustration and rage finally set free.
“She knew how I felt but she kept me at arm’s length,” Forcus continued. “For years I watched her, longed for her. Then, one summer she visited an ailing aunt at Dun Skudiburgh. For once, Domech and her brats did not accompany her, and I finally had my chance. I would convince her she had chosen the wrong man.”
Forcus started to pace then, circling the women as memories of the past consumed him. Tea and Eithni stood, frozen in place while he began to speak once more.
“I was gentle with Fina on the way there, for I didn’t want to frighten her. I wanted her to come to me willingly—some part of me still believed she had never really wanted Domech; that it was me she’d yearned for all those years. But on the way home, I finally couldn’t stand it any longer. I’d spent too long watching her, aching for her. One night, I went to Fina in her tent and tried to kiss her. She struck me across the face, furious—and at that moment I realized that I’d been living in a dream of my own making. She’d never wanted me. Overcome by fury, I took her by force.”
Forcus stopped for a moment, breathing hard as if even the memory of it excited him. He turned to the two women he circled, his gaze hungry.
“It was the most beautiful experience of my life. I put my hand over Fina’s mouth, so she would make no sound, ripped off her clothes and had my fill of her. However, when I was done, she no longer breathed. Too late, I realized that, in my maddened lust, I’d smothered her.”
Forcus’s words fell like hammer blows. Tea reached behind her, fumbling for Eithni’s hand. Her sister’s fingers, ice-cold, laced through hers and squeezed.
“Once I realized she was dead I had to act quickly,” Forcus continued, oblivious to Tea and Eithni’s horror. “I couldn’t let anyone know what I’d done. I waited till the deepest night, and then I crept out and killed the man who had taken the watch. When I was sure I wouldn’t be seen, I carried Fina out into the moor and carved the mark of The Eagle into her flesh, making it looked as if she had been raped and savaged by the enemy.”
Forcus looked up, his gaze pinning Tea to the spot. “I knew Muin mac Uerd wanted her. Years earlier, barely out of boyhood, I attended the gathering of the tribes—I’d seen the way he looked at her. The next morning, I feigned shock with the rest of them when we discovered the man taking the last watch dead, and The Wolf chief’s wife’s mutilated body.” Forcus’s mouth twisted. “The rest you know.”
An icy silence settled, as if the interior of the broch had turned into a great stone cairn burying the three of them alive.
Tea could hear nothing but the thundering of her own heart. Her mind scampered, struggling to take his words in.
It was Eithni who spoke first. “Beast,” she rasped. “May The Reaper torment you for what you have done.”
Forcus snorted, his gaze narrowing with derision. “What a d
isappointment you’ve been, Eithni. You look so much like your mother but you’re a sniveling shadow compared to her.” He shifted his attention back to Tea. “You on the other hand look too much like your father for my taste. However, I like a woman with fire, and I would have saved you from that marriage, if you’d let me.”
Tea’s belly twisted at his words. She spat on the ground between them in answer, so filled with rage that she could not even speak.
Forcus laughed. “What? Not regretting the handfasting so much now? I see that Galan mac Muin has succeeded in changing you.” His eyes widened as realization dawned. Forcus’s laughter boomed through the empty space, echoing high in the rafters. “You didn’t come here to escape him, did you? You came to confront your brother about the attacks.”
“I certainly hope that’s why she’s here.”
Galan’s voice, low and hard, cut through the laughter.
The mirth died on Forcus’s lips, and he swiveled to see a tall, leather-clad figure stride into the broch. Galan’s drawn sword-blade dripped with blood, and his face was hawkish. Behind him, Tea spied Lutrin and Cal enter the broch, weapons drawn. For the first time, the sounds of fighting outside—the clang of iron and shouts—intruded.
Tea’s heart stilled a moment at the sight of Galan, her breath catching in a mixture of relief and fear that he had followed her.
Forcus drew his own sword, iron scraping against leather. “Come to die upon my blade, Eagle?” he enquired, taking a step toward Galan.
Tea did not know who would have won that fight—having trained with both men she knew them to be of equal ability. However, Forcus was rested, while Galan had ridden a day to reach them and had been forced to fight his way into the broch. Even so, Galan looked formidable, his face all sharp angles, his slate grey eyes gleaming.
But Forcus was deranged and deluded—and that made him dangerous.
Tea could not let him kill Galan; could not let him take someone else from her. Even if her next act cost Tea her own life, she had to do it.
