by Jayne Castel
“Aye,” Urcal replied, a grin spreading across his hairy face, “you do.”
Chapter Twenty-seven
Widow’s Lament
“WHY DID YOU agree to it?” Eithni choked out the words. “Can’t you see Urcal’s toying with you?”
They were alone, seated on straw in a stall in the stables. Urcal had put them there for the night, with a group of warriors guarding the entrance to the building in case they tried to flee. There was no light in here; Eithni could only see Donnel’s silhouette against the deeper darkness surrounding him.
“I had to,” he replied, his voice low. “You can see how angry Urcal is. I need to do this his way.”
“He’ll have you butchered.”
Donnel snorted. “Your confidence in me is flattering.”
Eithni balled up her fists at her side. “This isn’t about your male pride. You know what will happen if you fall.”
Donnel shifted across to her, and she felt his arms go around her. “Listen to me, mo ghràdh,” he whispered into her hair. “I swear to you I will not fall tomorrow. I’ll not risk any harm coming to you.”
Eithni’s breathing hitched. My love. Did he really mean that? “You shouldn’t make such promises,” she whispered, all the anger draining from her voice. “You aren’t immortal.”
“You haven’t seen me fight,” he replied.
His arrogance—his confidence in his ability as a warrior—was breathtaking. There really was no doubt in him. Eithni wanted to believe him, but she had seen men and women—all formidable fighters—cut down by one well-timed blade. Alpia had been one. No one could cheat death, not even Donnel.
Eithni closed her eyes, glad he could not see her expression. She reached up and traced the lines of his face with her fingertips. “I trust in your skill,” she whispered back. “I just don’t trust Urcal. Watch yourself tomorrow.”
A chill, clear morning dawned, and a crowd gathered at the base of the broch of An Teanga to see Donnel fight.
There was a wide space, bounded by rocks and water on each side, which led down to the stables and the gate into the village beyond. News of the challenge had spread, and a large crowd of men, women, and children jostled for position around the fighting ring.
Donnel stood in the center of it, stripped to the waist and barefoot. He wore a sword at his hip and a fighting knife strapped to his right thigh.
Eithni stood at the edge of the ring, heckled and shoved by villagers. Wrapping her cloak around her, she ignored them, her gaze fixed upon Donnel. She had barely slept overnight, and now her belly felt twisted up in knots.
Cheers went up as Urcal appeared above, emerging from the broch. He lumbered down the steps, his wife and daughter following. Modwen looked peaky this morning, and her daughter wore a strained expression. Watching them Eithni wondered if there had been an argument in the broch, for even Urcal looked unsettled. His craggy face was set in grim lines, his dark blue gaze uneasy.
The Boar chief reached the bottom of the steps and strode up to where Gurth stood at the far side of the ring. Eithni had made sure to stand as far as possible from the chief and his cousin.
Urcal’s gaze swept over the crowd, and his uneasy expression changed to one of shrewd calculation. He lifted a hand to greet them, and the folk of An Teanga called out to him, their voices ringing out over the water.
Grinning now, Urcal shifted his attention to Donnel, who stood calmly in the center of the ring watching him.
“Morning, Battle Eagle,” Urcal boomed. “Sleep well?”
“Aye, like a bairn,” Donnel replied. “Thanks for your concern.”
The crowd rumbled at this—a mix of laughter and muttering. However, Urcal’s expression did not change as he watched Donnel. “A blade and a dagger, eh? Surely a warrior of your skill doesn’t need them?”
Donnel raised a dark eyebrow. “You’d go into battle with only your fists as weapons?”
Urcal gave a soft laugh that caused the crowd around them to grow still. “I have, laddie.” He stepped forward while Gurth smirked at his side. “I’ll take your weapons.” The Boar chieftain walked across the grass and halted before Donnel. “Hand them over.”
Donnel held Urcal’s gaze for a long moment before he wordlessly unbuckled his sword and unsheathed his knife, passing them both over to Urcal.
The Boar grinned at him. “That’s the spirit.”
Urcal turned, swaggered back to where Gurth was glaring at Donnel, and dumped the weapons at his cousin’s feet. “Gurth will look after these for you.” Urcal then glanced over his shoulder, at where a big man with long brown hair and a short beard stood waiting. “Denoch—you can go first.”
Denoch—a man who looked around Donnel’s age—strode into the fighting ring. He was huge, his shoulders as broad as an oxen yoke. In his right hand he carried a heavy two-headed axe. Its sharp edges gleamed in the morning light.
“What’s this?” Donnel spoke up, ignoring Denoch for a moment as his attention returned to Urcal. “No weapons for me, but my opponents are allowed them?”
“Aye, that’s right,” Urcal called out, a grin still stretching his face. “My rules here, Battle Eagle.”
Eithni clenched her hands, gripping her fur cloak so tightly her fingers began to ache. This was what she had feared. She had known Urcal would not play fair, that he would do his best to rattle Donnel and put him at a disadvantage.
Yet if Donnel had been thrown by Urcal’s move, his face did not show it. Instead he shifted his attention to Denoch. The big man stood around four yards away, watching Donnel with an expressionless face and cold eyes.
Eithni swallowed the panic clawing up her throat. Events were now spiraling out of their control. Donnel’s words the night before now seemed foolish and hollow. How could Donnel fight that man without a weapon?
Denoch moved first, lunging at Donnel and bringing his axe down overhead in a savage cut. Donnel moved, ducking out of the way as the blade whistled by, but The Boar warrior kept moving. He struck again with an inside cut aimed at Donnel’s belly. Donnel dodged again, dancing back, light on his feet. The crowd around them roared. They wanted blood, not this game of cat and mouse.
Denoch’s axe cut again and again—and then the game changed when Donnel stepped inside his guard and grabbed hold of the axe shaft. The fight shifted, and the crowd grew still. Donnel kneed his opponent in the groin, drove an elbow into his belly, and sent Denoch staggering back doubled up in agony.
Ripping the axe from his opponent’s hands, Donnel tossed it aside and went after Denoch again. Two punches dropped him, and The Boar lay curled up cradling his injured cods, groaning.
Breathing hard Donnel straightened up, his gaze swiveling to Urcal.
The Boar chief was not smiling now. “Finish him then,” Urcal snarled. “Send him to meet The Reaper.”
Donnel shook his head. “I’ve spilled a loch of blood over the last year—I’ll not kill a man who was ordered to fight me.” He stepped back from the fallen Denoch. “Send the next one in.”
Eithni watched, torn between awe and terror. She loathed violence, and it had sickened her to see that fight. And yet the sight of Donnel, the way he handled himself, was magnificent. He had not lied to her. The man could definitely fight.
A warrior bearing a sword came at him next—a lithe dangerous female with long, braided hair who moved like lightning. It took Donnel longer to disarm her, and she managed to draw blood—scoring his left arm—before he did. After that, he knocked her out with a blow to the jaw that sent her sprawling.
The third warrior to enter the ring was a man of similar size and build to Donnel. Eithni had seen him at the ringside, watching the previous two fights with interest, looking for a weakness to exploit. He came at Donnel with a fighting knife; a long, wicked blade that flashed in the sunlight as he moved.
After a dance that led them around the perimeter of the ring, right up to the edge of the baying crowd, Donnel managed to grab the man’s wrist. After tha
t he made short work of him. He broke his arm, drove him to his knees, and forced him to the ground. Donnel’s knee was positioned in the small of the warrior’s back.
The man screamed in agony, for Donnel had twisted his broken arm behind him. A moment later he yielded.
“You fight dirty, Battle Eagle,” Urcal observed as Donnel’s third opponent crawled from the fighting ring.
Donnel straightened up and wiped a forearm over his sweat-slicked brow. “Aye—my father taught me well. He told me to do whatever it takes to win.”
Urcal laughed at that, his dark-blue eyes sparkling. “Sounds like something Muin would have said.”
“I’ll end him,” Gurth growled from next to Urcal. The warrior had watched every fight with predatory intensity. “Let me slice the bastard open.”
Urcal inclined his head to his cousin. “Are you sure about this, Gurth? I was going to let Elpin go last.”
Gurth’s face screwed up, and he spat on the ground. “I’ve had enough of watching our warriors be humiliated. It’s time I showed the Battle Eagle how a real man fights.”
Urcal raised a heavy eyebrow. “In you go then.”
Gurth lumbered into the ring, drawing a heavy double-edged iron blade. “Meet Widow’s Lament,” he said as he circled Donnel. “She sings for your blood, laddie.”
Donnel watched the warrior, his handsome face a mask. Sweat gleamed on Donnel’s face and torso, and Eithni knew he would be tiring now. He had just fought three warriors, and Urcal had deliberately not allowed him to rest between each fight. Gurth was older than the three that had come before him, but Eithni sensed he was the most dangerous of the lot. He had an intensity about him, a caged savagery that seethed just beneath the surface. His expression was hungry now.
The two men circled each other for a while, and like the other fights, Donnel did not attack first. Instead he waited for his opponent to strike.
“What’s wrong?” Gurth growled. “Don’t have the balls to fight me?”
Donnel grinned back, showing Gurth his teeth. “You’re the one with the blade. You start this.”
Gurth’s face turned hard, his heavy brows lowering over glittering eyes. A heartbeat later he lunged.
Eithni watched them, her heart hammering so violently now that she clutched her hands over her breast—afraid it might burst through her rib cage. This fight was different to the other three, and the crowd knew it too. They had stopped baying and heckling, their faces tense as they watched Gurth attack Donnel again and again. He moved swiftly for such a heavy man, each strike wielded with cunning.
Donnel had to work hard to avoid Widow’s Lament. He was still faster and more agile than his opponent, but he was tired. Eithni could see the energy draining from him.
Gurth saw it too, his mouth a rictus as he chopped, swiped, and stabbed. He had watched the other fights closely, had seen what happened when Donnel got under his opponent’s guard. As such, he attacked swiftly, dancing back the moment he had executed his strike so that Donnel could not get too close.
“Getting tired are we?” Gurth mocked as they continued to circle. “You’re not invincible after all.”
Donnel ignored him. His face was set in harsh lines, his grey eyes dark. Even from yards away, Eithni could feel the anger building in him. She had heard tales of how he had fought in the south—how centurions had fallen screaming under his blade. Fury at the world had turned him savage although the past two moons they had spent together had changed him.
Fear crushed her ribs. Had she unwittingly robbed him of the ruthless edge he now needed? After watching him fight, she was in no doubt of his ability, but he was now facing a man who lusted for his blood.
Gurth lunged once more, and this time the tip of his blade found its mark—scoring an angry red line down Donnel’s left arm. Blood flowed, but Donnel paid it no mind.
Roaring, Gurth came at him again, swinging the blade at Donnel’s waist.
Eithni stopped breathing.
Donnel dropped to the ground and rolled, moving in a blur under Gurth’s guard. Then he gripped the blade with one hand and kicked the warrior’s legs out from under him.
Gurth fell heavily, and the blade spun from his hand. Donnel caught it by the hilt and rolled to his feet.
It all happened in a heartbeat.
Donnel tossed Widow’s Lament into the sidelines. Folk screeched and jumped back to avoid the blade, but neither men in the fighting ring paid them any attention. Recovering his footing Gurth lurched to his feet and reached for his fighting dagger. Donnel was on him before he could draw it.
He drove an elbow into his chest, driving the big man back.
Gurth’s meaty fist flew out, grazing the side of Donnel’s head, but Donnel kept coming. His face was a rictus of savagery as he punched Gurth in the throat.
The Boar crumpled to the ground and lay choking, grasping his windpipe.
Gasps and mutters reverberated around Eithni. That was a potentially fatal blow.
Eyes blazing, Donnel stood over Gurth, his gaze shifting to where The Boar chieftain stood watching. “Shall I kill your cousin, or is this enough for you?” he rasped.
Urcal held his gaze, his expression thunderous. Eithni saw the war within him, then his attention shifted to where Gurth lay choking. “Leave it,” he growled. “We’ve seen enough.”
Chapter Twenty-eight
Urcal’s Son
THE CROWD DRIFTED away, many of the men muttering in disappointment. They had come to see the Battle Eagle butchered, and instead had seen their own warriors humiliated.
Eithni watched them go before she stepped into the fighting ring and crossed to Donnel’s side.
“Shall I take a look at him?” she asked, glancing down at Gurth’s purple face. Tears of rage and pain streamed down his cheeks.
Donnel nodded, his expression unyielding. The rage had not yet left him either. “Be careful though,” he rasped.
Eithni knelt beside Gurth and examined his throat. After a few moments she looked up, meeting Urcal’s gaze across the ring. “His wind pipe isn’t crushed,” she told him coldly. “He’ll live … although he might have problems with his voice for a while.”
Urcal held her gaze for a heartbeat before nodding. He then nodded to two men who had remained behind. “Take my cousin back to his alcove.”
The warriors obeyed, grabbing the barrel-chested warrior under each armpit and dragging him away. Meanwhile, Eithni rose to her feet and stepped close to Donnel once more.
“So, Urcal,” Donnel said after a long pause. “Do you honor your agreement? Will there be peace?”
The Boar chieftain folded his arms over his broad chest and grimaced. “Aye. I’m a man of my word.”
“You’re a healer?” A woman’s voice, interrupted them. Modwen stepped forward, her pale face taut. Eithni saw the desperation in her gaze when Modwen met her eye.
“I am,” Eithni replied. “Why?”
“Silence, Modwen,” Urcal growled. “This isn’t the time.”
The chieftain’s wife whirled to face Urcal, high spots of color staining her pale cheeks. “Your son is dying. If this woman is a healer, we need her help.”
Urcal’s face turned thunderous although despair flared in those midnight blue eyes of his.
Eithni stepped forward, her gaze flicking between the two of them. “Your son is ill?”
Modwen nodded, her eyes gleaming. “Aye, Varar went to his furs with a fever three days ago … and hasn’t risen since. The fever is getting worse.”
Eithni did not hesitate. “Can I see him?”
“Aye,” Modwen stepped away from her husband and bid Eithni to follow. “Come with me.”
The lad lay in a small alcove on the top floor of the broch. His private space sat at the edge of the wide space his parents occupied, next to the one where his elder sister slept.
One look at Varar’s flushed face, the way his body twitched under the furs, and Eithni knew she had come not a moment too soon. She ducke
d into the alcove and knelt next to the boy. He was around three, a handsome lad with a mop of dark hair and a face that reminded Eithni of Loxa’s. The warrior would have looked like this boy at the same age.
Shaking off the unwelcome memory of Loxa, Eithni reached out and placed a hand on Varar’s brow.
He’s burning up.
“Can you help?” Modwen spoke behind her. Eithni glanced over at the woman’s worried face.
“I will try,” she replied. She hated to give false hope to the loved-ones of those she tended. The truth was that the lad was in a bad way. He was no longer conscious, and the fever was now taking hold of his limbs, making them shiver and jerk.
“I need herbs,” Eithni informed the chieftain’s wife. “Meadowsweet, Woundwort, Boneknit, or Elderberry—do you have any of these?”
Modwen gave a swift nod. “I will be back soon.”
The woman disappeared, leaving Eithni alone with Varar in the alcove. Next to the furs was a bowl of water and a cloth. Eithni wet the cloth, wrung it out, and started to bathe the boy’s feverish body. She needed to lower the fever, or it would consume him in no time at all.
Eithni wished she had her healer’s basket with her—yet it had been left behind at The Gathering Place. The herbs, powders, and tinctures in it had taken her over a year to gather and prepare. She hoped that the chieftain’s wife would be able to find the herbs she needed.
Modwen returned a while later, flushed and sweating, carrying a basket of herbs. “I’ve found them,” she gasped.
Eithni took the basket, her heart lifting when she saw that Modwen had indeed found everything. She got to work, using a pestle and mortar to crush the herbs. She then mixed them with water and drained the juice through a fine cloth into a cup.
With Modwen’s help, she raised Varar up into a sitting position and held the cup to his lips. They could only give him a little at a time, otherwise they risked choking him—and Eithni was loath to waste any of the drink. She waited patiently, giving him the contents of the cup bit by bit, knowing that each swallow was doing him good. Eventually the cup was drained.
