Battle Eagle

by Jayne Castel

  “What now?” Modwen asked, hovering anxiously at Eithni’s side. “Is there anything else you can do?

  Eithni nodded. “I need cold freshly drawn water and a new cloth. We must continue bathing his body.”

  Modwen hurried away, returning with cold water she had just drawn from the well outside. Then she took her place opposite Eithni, and together they began to bathe Varar’s body.

  What followed was a long day and an even longer night. Urcal visited once or twice, a silent grim-faced figure in the doorway. He said nothing, his gaze riveted upon his son’s face, before he eventually left Eithni and his wife to tend Varar.

  Exhaustion swept Eithni up in its clutches. Modwen brought her a meal, and at one stage Eithni drifted off to sleep, leaning up against the stacked-stone wall of the alcove.

  She did not see Donnel although she knew he would be nearby, waiting for her.

  The night was the worst part of their vigil. In the darkest hour—the time when only owls and wolves are awake—Varar’s breathing grew shallow, and his pulse fluttered at the base of his neck.

  “The Mother watch over him,” Eithni whispered. She could feel The Reaper nearby—as she often did before someone died. A chill settled over the alcove, and the cresset on the wall opposite flickered.

  Eithni clenched her jaw. “You will not take him,” she whispered.

  She leaned forward and wiped a cool cloth over his fevered brow, murmuring the healing charm at the same time.

  With my hands I heal

  With these herbs

  With these words

  By the Hag’s cauldron

  By the power of the night.

  Evil and pain fight.

  The charm is done, so mote it be.

  Eithni repeated the charm three times before sitting back, her gaze settling upon Varar’s pale face.

  She worried that she had been brought to the lad too late—that the fever had dug its claws in too deep—but Varar mac Urcal did not die. He was strong, and when the first rays of dawn light filtered in from the tiny window above their head, the boy’s eyes fluttered open, fixing upon Eithni.

  The eyes were midnight blue, like Urcal’s—like Loxa’s.

  “Who are you?” he croaked. “One of the Fair Folk come to take me away?”

  Eithni favored him with a tired smile. “No, my name’s Eithni. I’m a healer. We nearly lost you.”

  “Varar!” Modwen burst into the alcove, joy spreading across her face. “You’re awake!” She fell to her knees beside her son, her eyes gleaming with tears.

  A shadow fell over them then, and Eithni glanced up to see Urcal standing there, lines of worry etched upon his heavy-featured face. “Welcome back, lad,” he rumbled.

  A strange sensation settled over Eithni. She had imagined Urcal as a man incapable of tenderness and compassion, yet she now saw that was not so. The four tribes of this isle had more in common than differences; yet because they had all lived in isolation for so long, it was easy to turn your neighbor into your enemy.

  Hadn’t she thought that the people of The Eagle were her enemies once?

  Eithni rose to her feet and gathered her things. She would leave Urcal and Modwen with their son.

  Emerging from the alcove, she crossed the rush strewn floor and made her way downstairs. There she found Donnel seated by the great hearth, his fingers wrapped around a bowl of stew. One of the older women was fussing over him like a broody hen. “You'll need that arm seen to,” she clucked. “That's a deep cut.”

  Donnel nodded, his face lined with fatigue and worry. “I will … thank you.”

  Relief lit in his eyes when he saw Eithni approach. His gaze then searched her face. “Did the boy survive?”

  Eithni nodded. “He’s awake … the worst is over.”

  She sat down upon a stool next to Donnel, gratefully accepting the bowl of stew the woman passed her. Around them the inhabitants of the broch were going about their morning chores. Women were kneading bread at the tables and plucking fowl for the noon meal, while warriors broke their fast with bread and stew before going outdoors to work.

  Eithni took a mouthful of stew, her belly growling as she did so. It was delicious, and she was starving. When she had devoured half the bowl, she looked up to find Donnel watching her with a half smile curving his lips.

  Eithni froze. “What? Have I got something on my face?”

  He shook his head, his smiled widening. “No, I was just reflecting on what an incredible woman you are.”

  Eithni glowed under the compliment although she tried to mask her pleasure with a scowl. “It would take such a woman to put up with you,” she replied. “Coming here was a terrible idea. I can’t believe we’re still breathing.”

  He raised an eyebrow. “I told you to trust me.”

  “Aye, and I did. I just didn’t expect you to have to fight four armed warriors with your bare hands.”

  Donnel huffed. “I’ll admit, I was worried for a few moments. I should have realized Urcal wouldn’t fight fair.”

  Eithni shook her head, exasperated. “He did his best to kill you,” she reminded him. Her gaze went to Donnel’s left arm. The wound had stopped bleeding, but the woman’s comment earlier was right. It needed tending. “Let me take a look at that.”

  “Don’t you want to check on Gurth?” Donnel asked. “I think I hurt him badly.”

  Eithni gave him a narrow look. “The man would have cut you in half with that sword of his,” she replied. “I think he can wait.”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  Homeward Bound

  URCAL AND MODWEN led Donnel and Eithni out of the broch later that morning, escorting them down to the stables below. A stiff breeze whistled in from the sound, causing Eithni to shiver. Although the air inside the broch was stale and smoky, it was also warm. The chill outdoors came as a shock after spending over a day within.

  Donnel retrieved his pony from his stall and led the grey stallion out into the yard where the chief and his wife waited. There they said their farewells.

  Urcal addressed Eithni first. “I owe you a great debt, healer,” he rumbled, his voice uncharacteristically subdued, his expression humble. “We thought we’d lost Varar. Your skill is great indeed.”

  “Do you not have a healer here?” Eithni asked.

  Modwen shook her head. “She died nearly four moons ago.”

  Eithni frowned. That was ill-fortune, for every fort needed an able healer. She felt bad that she had left Dun Ringill so long without anyone to tend the sick.

  “If you find someone willing to learn, I’m happy to teach them what I know,” she replied. “Just send him, or her, to Dun Ringill.”

  Modwen smiled. “Thank you, lass. That is kind.” The chieftain’s wife stepped forward then and hugged Eithni tight. “I will never forget this,” she whispered.

  “Nor will I,” Urcal added. The Boar chieftain’s attention shifted to Donnel then, and his expression changed. There was exasperation mixed with respect in his eyes as he watched the younger man.

  “My cousin is in a foul temper now,” he grumbled. “He wants your guts.”

  “He had his chance,” Donnel said with a grin. “He’ll just have to accept defeat.”

  “Aye,” Urcal replied, his thick eyebrows lifting. “Only Gurth isn’t the type to forget such things. Lucky for you I rule here. When you see Galan, tell him there is no ill-feeling between our people. The Eagle and The Boar are friends again.”

  Donnel nodded. “I will.”

  They rode out of An Teanga with wispy clouds racing overhead across wild blue skies. Once they passed the last of the patchwork of fields, Donnel urged Reothadh into a canter. The stallion surged forward, kicking up dirt behind it, keen for a long run. They rode up the hills north of the fort, threading their way through copses of trees toward the skyline.

  The wind was an icy slap on Donnel’s face—a reminder that Gateway loomed and that autumn was now upon them—but he did not mind. The cold made him fee
l alive, and reminded him how close he had come to dying back there.

  He had said nothing to Eithni, but there had been a number of moments during the fights when he had cursed himself for coming here, for putting Eithni in such danger. However, he had been careful not to let his emotions show—not before or after the fighting.

  The Battle Eagle had a reputation to uphold. To those in the crowd he was more than a man—he was a legend. The folk of An Teanga had hoped to see one of their warriors cut him down. He had seen the awe, and the fear, on their faces as they had sloped away.

  He had needed to keep the mask in place while they remained at An Teanga, for he could not risk Urcal changing his mind. However, in the end, it was not Donnel’s victory over those warriors that had created goodwill between him and Urcal but Eithni’s miracle.

  She had brought the man’s son back from the brink of death, saved him from The Reaper’s scythe. Donnel had won the challenge, but he had not won these people’s hearts.

  Only Eithni could have done that.

  They crested the hill and rode over wind-seared moors. Reothadh seemed to know the way—there was no need to guide the stallion back to Dun Ringill. An odd blend of excitement and dread warred within Donnel the farther north they rode.

  He was going home, back to a place he had spent the last year and a half railing against. He now realized how much he loved it. He was a part of the land, the stones of the great broch, and the briny waters of Loch Slapin that stretched west to the horizon. It was only when his home had become forbidden to him that he had finally realized its worth.

  Donnel rode one-handed, his other arm wrapped around Eithni. She leaned back against him, and he felt her melt into his chest as sleep claimed her. The poor lass had barely slept the night before in her effort to save Varar. Despite the pony’s jolting gait and the biting wind on their faces, sleep pulled her down into its clutches.

  He let her sleep and did not bother to try and talk. There would be plenty of time for that later.

  They passed The Valley of the Tors sometime after noon. It had been a late start, and they would not reach Dun Ringill before dark. As such they made camp for the night west of the Red Hill.

  Donnel lit a fire before glancing up at the grass and rock-strewn slopes of Bienn na Caillich. The mountain had always been a point of reference for him. He knew that, once he spied its russet-colored bulk, home was never far away.

  Modwen had filled a bag with food for them so there was no need for Donnel to go hunting. Just as well, for he was bone-weary tonight. Seated next to glowing lumps of peat, they shared a supper of bread, butter, boiled eggs, and cold slices of roast venison—a feast indeed after their lean diet of the past two moons.

  Eithni sighed as she ate. “I’ll never take food for granted again,” she mumbled as she took another bite of boiled egg. “Never.”

  Donnel grinned at her. “You never complained about night after night of dried venison.”

  She gave him a rueful look. “You wanted to send me away. I didn’t want to give you another reason to, did I?”

  He huffed. She was right. He held her gaze then, taking in the delicate beauty of her face bathed in firelight. “I’m glad I didn’t manage to chase you off,” he said after a moment. “I was so rude, no one could have blamed you for leaving.”

  Eithni gave him a wry smile. “There were times when I wondered what I’d gotten myself into,” she admitted, “but I knew I had to stay.”

  Eithni finished her meal and brushed crumbs off her skirt.

  The mood had changed between them, the conversation venturing into shallow waters were they could easily get grounded. Now that they were safe, and far from An Teanga, her thoughts returned to her and Donnel. What did the future hold for them? Nervousness fluttered under her ribcage. Her instincts told her that he cared, yet part of her still doubted him.

  She needed to know how he really felt about her.

  Eithni’s gaze settled upon Donnel. He looked up from poking the fire with a stick. “What is it?”

  “Back at the hut, you told me you could never give me your heart,” she began hesitantly, forcing herself to hold his gaze. “Do you still feel that way?”

  He watched her. His features tightened, and a shadow moved in his eyes. Her belly contracted, and she prepared herself to hear the worst.

  “No, I don’t,” he said after a long pause, “and I’m sorry I said those words … I know they hurt you.” He glanced away then, his expression pained. “There’s no real excuse I can give, other than I was scared of what I felt for you. I acted on instinct.” His gaze returned to her. “I’m not scared anymore.”

  Eithni swallowed, her heart now beating furiously. “Back in An Teanga, you said I was your woman … you called me ‘my love’. Do you remember?”

  Donnel gave her a slow smile. “Of course I do.”

  “Did you mean it?”

  Donnel slid close to Eithni and cupped her face with his hands. “Yes, I did … do you not believe me?”

  “I don’t know,” she whispered. “Things have moved so swiftly of late. I’m not sure what to believe.”

  Donnel’s mouth slanted over hers. He did not hold back—he kissed her deeply, passionately—and when they broke apart both of them were gasping for breath.

  “I meant it,” he said, his gaze snaring hers. “After everything I’ve done of late, all the blood I’ve spilled, I thought the gods had forsaken me. But instead they brought me a gift. Eithni … mo ghràdh … if you will have me I am yours.”

  Joy flowered within Eithni, robbing her of breath.

  He smiled then, and reached out, caressing her cheek. “I’ve never met anyone who wears their soul for the whole world to see like you do,” he murmured, looking deep into her eyes. “It makes me want to protect you, guard you like a sacred flame … will you let me?”

  Eithni eventually found her voice, although her vision swam as she blinked back tears. “Of course I will,” she whispered. “I’m yours, Donnel mac Muin.”

  With that she threw her arms around his neck and kissed him back.

  A misty, wet dawn greeted Donnel and Eithni the following morning. A fine rain fell, causing the embers in the fire pit to smoke and sizzle. A heavy mantle of cloud shrouded the bulk of Bienn na Caillich to the east.

  After finishing the last of the food Modwen had given them, Donnel and Eithni packed up and rode west. The closer they got to Dun Ringill, the more settlements they passed—villages ringed by stone walls. Galan had worked hard over the past two years to build defenses for each village, to keep the inhabitants safe from raiders.

  Eithni perched before Donnel as Reothadh thundered through the veil of fine misty rain. The weather could not dampen her spirits this morning; a warm sense of well-being enveloped her as if she sat before a roaring fire.

  Last night, after opening their hearts to each other, Donnel had made love to her with heartbreaking tenderness. It had been very different to their urgent coupling in The Valley of the Tors. There had been a wild hunger, a desperation between them that afternoon; the moment Donnel had finally given in to his feelings for her.

  Donnel had been different ever since that moment in that valley. A sense of purpose emanated from him. He had survived The Boar’s lair and with Eithni’s help had healed the rift between the two tribes. He was now free to focus on the future.

  Images of the night before returned to Eithni, and her lower belly fluttered with excitement. She recalled the things he had done to her and the feel of the cool night air caressing her skin as she arched toward him crying his name. She could not wait to do it all again.

  However, despite her own happiness, she could not fail to notice that Donnel grew quieter and tenser as the morning progressed—the closer they drew to Dun Ringill.

  He’s worried about seeing Galan again.

  Donnel had not spoken to Eithni about his brother this morning, yet she knew Galan was never far from his thoughts. She understood Donnel’s disquiet, f
or she had witnessed the final words between them. She had never seen Galan like that before—fury had turned him savage, dangerous. If Donnel had not accepted his exile, had he not walked away, she was not sure what Galan would have done.

  What now? Will Galan still be angry? Will he want to listen to anything Donnel has to say?

  Up ahead the bulk of Dun Ringill appeared on the western horizon, a broad stacked-stone tower rising out of the mist.

  Eithni reached out and placed a hand over Donnel’s arm that clasped her firmly around the wait, giving it a gentle squeeze. His tense wait was nearly over. Soon they would know.

  “Galan’s not here. He rode north with Tea, Tarl, and Lucrezia.”

  Lutrin’s words fell heavily in the damp air. The warrior had come out to meet them, his rugged face creased with joy. He had clasped Donnel in a bear hug before the other warriors—Namet, Ru, and Cal, who had emerged from the broch behind him—had done the same.

  They greeted them with relieved smiles, but Donnel saw the wariness in their eyes. Something was amiss.

  The news his brother was away deflated him. “North?” he asked with a frown. “Where?”

  “To the Glen of the Stags,” Cal spoke up. “Wid sent word that some of his hunters had seen you there. Galan’s gone looking for you.”

  A tense silence fell, and Donnel shared a long look with Eithni. He then turned back to the others. “We left the north five days ago. How long has Galan been away?”

  Lutrin’s brow furrowed. “Around the same time.”

  Beside Donnel, Eithni shifted. “They will have found our hut by now. They’ll be wondering what has become of us.”

  Donnel nodded, raking a hand through his hair. Why was nothing in life straightforward? He had been steeling himself for his arrival home, only to discover Galan had gone looking for him. He did not know whether to be pleased or worried by the news.

  “I should go north and meet them,” he said after a long pause.

  Ru huffed, his sharp-featured face tightening. “But you just got here.”