by Jayne Castel
“Alright then.” Talor unslung the heavy fur cloak he wore around his shoulders and stepped close to his sister, casting it around her. “Here, lass. You’ll freeze up here without this.”
Bonnie snorted and tried to shrug the cloak off. “Nonsense. I don’t feel the cold.”
Talor kept his hands firmly pressed on the young woman’s shoulders. At sixteen, Bonnie could outdo him when it came to pig-headedness. “The wind is cold enough to freeze a man’s cods. You’re wearing this.”
Bonnie laughed. “Lucky for me, I’m not a man.”
However, she did not try and remove the cloak again. Talor resumed his post upon the wall. A narrow walkway, only wide enough for one warrior at a time, ran around the edge of Balintur’s high stone walls.
Without his fur mantle, the wind bit through his clothing and chilled his skin. The thought of joining his family for supper and warming his hands by the fire certainly appealed.
“Has Ailene returned yet?” he asked after a pause.
“I haven’t seen her,” Bonnie replied. “Isn’t it a strange time of year to go foraging for herbs?”
Talor frowned. “Aye,” he murmured. His cousin’s mysterious trip north bothered him. Before he retired for the evening he would seek out Ailene. If she had not returned, he would send out a search party after her.
Glancing at Bonnie’s profile, he found his sister looking south, her brow furrowed. He sensed then that her thoughts were not on Ailene, but on the fort that lay to the south—the home they had been forced to abandon. “I miss Dun Ringill,” she murmured. She shifted her gaze to him then, her hazel eyes that were so much like her mother’s shadowed. “Will we ever get it back?”
“Aye, lass,” Talor replied without a moment’s hesitation. “Come spring, we’ll drive those bastards out and send them off this isle with their tails tucked between their legs. They’ll wish they’d never crossed the water.”
His sister’s eyes lightened, and her mouth curved. “You’re always so certain of things. How is that possible?”
Talor raised an eyebrow. He knew he had inherited his father’s stubborn, forceful nature. He had no memory of his mother, Luana, for she had died shortly after giving birth to him. However, his father had told him that she was a sweet-natured woman who laughed often. Apart from her sea-blue eyes, which Talor had inherited from her, there did not appear to be much of his mother in him.
“There are some things I must be sure about,” he replied after a pause, “and returning to Dun Ringill is one of them.” He swung his attention south once more, to where tawny hills rose against the cloudy sky. “Those Serpent bastards took our home. I’m going to enjoy ripping it from them.”
He glanced back to see his sister’s expression was as fierce as his. Like Talor, Bonnie had inherited her father’s warrior spirit. Only wee Eara took after her mother. Even though she was still young, the lass had already taken an interest in Eithni’s healing herbs and potions.
“So will I,” Bonnie replied.
Occupied territory
North-east of An Teanga
Ailene stretched up and kissed Muin. “Watch your back out there,” she murmured against his lips.
Muin cupped Ailene’s face with his hands, his mouth slanting across hers. When he pulled back, he was smiling. “I always do.”
“Make a special effort to do so today,” she replied, staring deep into his eyes. “I know you’ve changed your plans so my vision should no longer come to pass … but even so, the Gods are fickle.”
Muin’s eyes were warm as he drew her against him. “I understand your worries … and I will heed them.”
Ailene was aware then that they were drawing a few glances and smiles from the surrounding warriors. Two men nearby were elbowing each other, grins plastered on their faces.
Muin ignored them, although Ailene could feel her cheeks warming under their scrutiny. It was hard to keep your affairs a secret in a community like theirs. Few events went unnoticed among her people.
Around them the light was starting to fade. It was late afternoon, and the wind had finally died—as it often did at the day’s end. A helmet of grey hung over the land, and there was a watchful feel to the sky, almost as if the Gods were indeed looking down, wondering what they would witness next.
The Death Tide … maybe I should say something?
Ailene’s spine prickled then as she wrestled with her conscience once more. She stepped back from Muin, her gaze sweeping about the amassed crowd. The warriors of the united tribes— Eagles, Wolves, Stags, and Boar—were about to depart. All were heavily armed, streaks of blue painting their faces and exposed limbs. They looked dangerous—they looked unbeatable.
Ailene swallowed, pushing down her desire to share her worries with Muin.
I hope they are.
They approached An Teanga on foot, leaving their ponies behind at the camp in the sheltered valley some furlongs distant.
Muin stalked through the gathering shadows, just a few feet behind Varar and Fina. Galan walked to Muin’s left, with Aaron beside him. His younger brother glared at the settling dusk, his shoulders stiff with tension. The Battle of Bodach’s Throat had been Aaron’s first taste of battle. This was to be his second.
Their father had drawn his sword. His brow was furrowed, his face set in harsh, determined lines. Having fought alongside his father numerous times now, Muin knew that The Eagle chieftain was lethal in battle. A killing fury lay beneath his calm, controlled exterior; a fury that Muin also shared. He often forgot himself when the battle rage came.
Up ahead the squat outline of the broch rose against the darkening sky. Soon they would reach the high wooden palisade that ringed the village—and the first sentries.
Varar had sent a handful of his warriors ahead, to deal with those outlying guards.
A short while later they passed the fallen Serpent sentries: three men lay face-down in the dirt.
Approaching the fort from the north-east was the wisest choice. They had more cover here, for a patchwork of tilled fields stretched around most of the hillside beyond An Teanga, making it difficult to get close to the walls without being seen. On this hillside, bordered by a rocky shore, gorse and bramble grew in unruly bushes, obscuring them.
During their meeting earlier in the day, Varar had mentioned that this slope had always been An Teanga’s weak spot. His father, Urcal, had kept the slope cleared, for he had known that it could conceal the approach of warriors from the north—but in the last year the scrub had grown back. And The Serpent warriors who now held the fort had not thought to clear it away.
Even so, Varar led the warriors cautiously forward. Four furlongs back from the village perimeter, he raised a hand, forcing all of them to stop and crouch low.
Muin knew why. It was not quite dark enough yet.
Fires had just been lit on the walls, and he spied the outlines of figures up there, watching over the land beyond.
They would not move again until night had completely fallen.
Muin shifted position as his thigh muscles started to cramp, and for the first time since leaving the encampment, he allowed his thoughts to shift from what lay ahead, to what he had left behind.
He still could not believe what had transpired between him and Ailene.
When she had led him up to the boulders to talk, he had felt sick with dread.
And then, in an instant, everything had changed.
Something had awakened in Ailene in the past few days, an awareness of him that had maybe been there for years but had lain dormant, hidden by a complex net of fears. Muin had been so sure she did not want him. She had not recoiled when he had kissed her back in Balintur, but she had not welcomed his touch either. He had thought his feelings were one-sided, and yet when he pulled her into his arms in the shelter of those boulders, Ailene had responded with a hunger that matched his own.
And then when they had come together in the privacy of his tent, every fantasy that Muin had ever had about
Ailene had been realized.
Muin blinked, forcing thoughts of the comely seer from his mind.
There would be plenty of time for him to enjoy her fire again, for them to discover each other as lovers rather than friends. But now he had to focus on taking back An Teanga.
Before him, Varar slowly rose to his feet, a dark outline against the night that had settled around them.
Muin followed suit and, slowly, the warriors crept toward the north gate, weaving in between clumps of gorse and broom.
Varar slowed his breathing, the fingers of his right hand flexing around the hilt of his sword, while he adjusted his shield with his left.
Not long now.
The north gate hove into view, its wood and iron bulk illuminated by the glow of surrounding braziers. The gate was closed, and a line of bulky, leather-clad figures stood before it.
In the darkness, Muin allowed himself a cold smile.
In a few moments those Cruthini were about to taste iron. This was it, the moment the tide would start to turn against Cathal mac Calum and his horde. Once An Teanga fell, so would the rest of the occupied territory.
A heartbeat later Varar and Fina moved, streaking across the last stretch of ground to where the scrub ended and the gate rose.
Muin followed.
Chapter Twenty-four
A Formidable Foe
MUIN YANKED HIS sword out of the throat of the warrior he had just brought down and glanced up.
For the first time since the attack had begun, he’d had a moment to breathe, a moment to take in his surroundings properly.
Battle fury pulsed through him, although Muin could feel the shadow of exhaustion looming through it.
The Serpent were a formidable foe.
Cuts and grazes stung his arms and shoulders where the enemy blades had brushed him. The injuries were shallow, yet the men and women who had wielded those pikes, axes, and swords had been filled with the same killing rage as Muin.
His body ached, and his temples pounded. He had never fought so hard.
They had taken the village, and as hoped, the initial siege had drawn the bulk of The Serpent fighting force out of the broch. The fighting was now concentrated in the space between the armory and stable complex and the wide grassy area before the broch itself.
A huge man with braided chestnut hair ran at Muin, roaring like a stag in rutting season. He swung two axes, his face twisted into a savage mask.
Muin ducked out of his way before going in low and kicking the warrior’s legs out from under him. It was a move that Talor had perfected over the years, and one that he had taught Muin.
It was the best way to bring down a dangerous opponent.
The warrior cursed as he fell, yet despite that he was big, he rolled easily and sprang to his feet.
Muin was ready for him. He attacked, getting in close so that the Cruthini could not raise his axes against him. Such weapons needed reach. In close quarters, both men drew their fighting knives.
Fire burned across Muin’s left shoulder as his opponent’s blade grazed him. The pain galvanized him, banished the battle fatigue that had started to press down upon Muin.
With a roar, he head-butted his opponent and slashed the man’s wrist. The warrior grunted, blood pulsing from the wound as he grappled with Muin. It was a serious wound, for Muin had severed an artery, yet the warrior was strong enough to fight on for a while yet.
Muin twisted in his opponent’s grip, as the man grappled for his face, attempting to gouge his eyes out. Muin drove his elbow up into the warrior’s throat and crushed his wind-pipe. The man gasped, his gaze springing wide.
An instant later Muin had buried a knife in his opponent’s throat.
Panting, Muin pushed himself up off the warrior, retrieved his weapons, and pushed on into the fray. The fighting had reached its peak now, and he saw that indeed, the battle had turned in his own people’s favor.
Eventually, only a handful of Serpent warriors were left, and those who did not run screaming at their opponents, preferring to die than be taken captive, dropped their weapons and fell to their knees, arms raised.
Relief slammed into Muin as he bent over to regain his breath. They had hit the fort hard, giving the enemy no quarter. His plan of attack had worked.
Moving through the crowd, Muin checked to see who among his own were injured. Like Muin, Aaron was splattered with blood, his bare arms scored with cuts. Although his brother’s face was ashen, he flashed Muin a victory grin.
“It’s done,” Aaron called out, his voice raspy with fatigue. “An Teanga is ours!”
Muin grinned back, before he shifted his attention to the warriors around them. Varar and Fina had also survived the battle. They were both blood-splattered but uninjured, although there were too many of the united tribes lying dead across the ground for Muin’s liking.
Nausea closed Muin’s throat as the rage of battle dimmed. He knew that they could not have taken back the fort without spilling some of their own people’s blood. Even so, the sight sickened him.
A few yards away, he saw a big man finish off his Cruthini opponent. As Muin had predicted, Donnan mac Muir, Gavina’s husband, had survived the battle.
Muin kept moving, his gaze sweeping the bodies scattered around him.
His heart leaped when he saw that one of his friends, Alban, was among the fallen. The warrior lay sprawled on his front. Hunkering down, Muin turned him over. Green eyes stared up sightlessly; his throat had been slit from ear to ear.
Grief constricted Muin’s throat. Alban was just two winters his elder. They had grown up in Dun Ringill together, had trained together, run patrols together. Alban had left a wife and two daughters back in Balintur.
Reaching out, Muin gently shut his friend’s eyes. “Go to your long sleep, brother,” he whispered.
“Da!” Muin’s chin jerked up to see Aaron elbow his way through the crowd to where Galan had sunk to his knees. He had been fighting near the steps to the broch, the bodies of his opponents littered around him.
Leaving Alban, Muin followed his brother to their father’s side.
“I’m fine,” Galan grunted, attempting to push Aaron away as he tried to help him to his feet.
“No, you’re not,” Muin countered, taking hold of his father’s opposite arm. An axe blade had caught him on his left flank, just below the ribs. Blood ran down his leather breeches.
Galan muttered a curse under his breath, yet his face had gone the color of milk, and he was sweating. Muin knew he was in agony. Together, the two brothers helped him to the steps, where they lowered him onto the stone. The light of the nearby brazier played across the strained lines of The Eagle chieftain’s face.
Varar and Fina moved past, climbing the steps into the broch, bringing a company of fighters with them.
There would likely still be some Serpent warriors inside, but the battle was won now. The rest of the fort had fallen. The rest of the warriors of the united tribes were combing the village, taking captives and checking on their own injured.
Shouting echoed out of the entrance to the broch, shattering the night once more.
Muin glanced up, frowning. “I’m going in there to help,” he said to his brother. “Stay with Da.”
“I don’t need to be watched over,” Galan growled. He went to rise, as if he too planned to join the final battle for An Teanga. But his eyelids fluttered, and he sagged. He would have toppled sideways if Aaron had not caught him.
“Stay with him,” Muin repeated, meeting Aaron’s eye.
His brother nodded.
Without another word, Muin sheathed his sword, drew his still bloodied knife, and rushed up the steps into the broch.
Ailene pushed the thin strand of thread made from stretched and dried sheep’s intestines through the wound in Galan’s side, before knotting it. Then, drawing back slightly, she surveyed her work.
The wound was long and deep, yet she had cleaned it first with strong wine before doing sutures a
s Eithni had taught her. It was not as neat a job as the healer would have done, but Ailene was glad that she’d assisted Eithni so often over the years. Galan could not wait till they reached Balintur for assistance.
In Eithni’s absence her skills would have to do.
“What do you think?”
Ailene glanced right to see Muin watching her, his grey eyes shadowed.
Galan lay upon a pile of furs, in what had once been Varar’s alcove. Unlike Dun Ringill, An Teanga was built on two levels. The top floor was for the chieftain and his kin.
“I think I’ve done all I can for now,” she replied with a tired smile. “The wound is clean … once we get back to Balintur, Eithni will be able to take care of him properly.’
“She would be pleased with your skills, I think,” Tea spoke up. She sat at her husband’s side, still grasping his hand.
When Ailene had washed the wound with wine, Galan had let out a strangled cry and fainted. He still lay unconscious now. It had been for the best anyway, for it had made sewing the sutures much easier.
The soft light of the cressets burning on the stone wall next to the furs illuminated the worry on Tea’s face. Behind her, Aaron looked on, his expression sickly. He had looked ready to faint when they had removed his father’s leather vest to reveal the full extent of his wound.
“From what I can see, the blade didn’t pierce his gut,” Ailene continued. The three of them looked so worried that she wanted to ease their concerns. “Galan was very lucky.”
Tea nodded, her midnight blue eyes gleaming. “Thank you, lass,” she whispered.
Descending the stone steps, Ailene took in the crowd of men and women that sat at the long tables below. Their voices, jubilant in the aftermath of victory, shook the rafters.
Another smile curved Ailene’s mouth.
Relief suffused her, the sensation so strong she almost felt light-headed from it. After the army had departed from camp, she had been unable to settle. She could not stay by the fire pit and keep Tea company, nor could she return to the tent where she and Muin had spent the night before. Instead, she had circled the camp, a fur mantle wrapped around her shoulders, her thoughts churning.