by Jayne Castel
When the riders had reached them just before dawn, bringing news of a successful attack, her legs had nearly given out under her.
There had been many injured warriors to tend to—Galan among them—but now that the noon meal was upon them, she desperately needed to sit for a while, and eat and drink. She would not be much assistance to those she was tending if she collapsed.
Taking a seat at one of the long tables, Ailene shared a smile with the woman next to her before reaching for a piece of bread. She then cut off a wedge of aged sheep’s cheese, sliced up a small sweet onion to go with it, and fell upon her simple meal.
She was just washing it down with a gulp of ale, when Muin took a seat opposite.
Their gazes met and fused for a long moment. Ailene drank him in, grateful to see that apart from the odd graze and shallow cuts that she had dressed, he was unhurt. His face, however, bore lines of exhaustion and strain. He had not slept for two days, and it was starting to show.
“You need to rest,” she said, pouring him a cup of ale. “You look ready to drop.”
Muin winced. “Aye … and I feel it too.” He glanced up at the raised platform at the far end of the hall, where Varar and Fina sat side by side at a long table. “But it’s good to see The Boar chieftain and his wife taking their rightful seats.”
Ailene nodded as she too took in the happy couple as they spoke together, heads bent close. Varar’s carven chair was magnificent. Made of polished oak and high-backed, it had two carved boar heads for armrests.
Once again, a surge of relief flooded through Ailene. As the night had inched by, she had been so sure they had been on the brink of disaster. She had gotten herself in such a state, she had begun to second-guess her readings of the bones and even her dream.
All she had been able to think about was the ‘Death Tide’ and how she should have warned everyone. In the aftermath, she was thankful that she had trusted her instincts—however, she never wanted to pass a night like that again.
“Are you well?”
Ailene glanced back to find Muin watching her. “Of course,” she replied quickly.
“A shadow just passed across your face,” he observed.
Ailene let out a nervous laugh. Muin knew her better than anyone; he had always been able to read her expressions easier that most folk. “I’m just weary,” she said, deliberately breaking eye contact with him, “and relieved that the siege was a success.”
She glanced up to see Muin still observing her. His lips parted to speak, but movement to his right, at the entrance to the broch, caught his eye.
A brown haired and bearded warrior, sweat-soaked and wild-eyed, rushed in.
“Mungo.” Muin put down his cup and rose to his feet. “What are you doing here?”
Ailene went still. Mungo mac Muir had not come on this campaign with them. The Eagle warrior had remained behind with Talor and the others.
“Balintur,” Mungo gasped the name as he strode across the floor toward them.
Ailene’s meal curdled in her belly then. She knew what the warrior’s next words would be, before he uttered them.
“The village is under attack.”
Chapter Twenty-five
Smoke Over Balintur
Balintur
Territory of The Eagle
CATHAL MAC CALUM sat upon his pony at the brow of the hill, his gaze sweeping over the village that nestled into the valley below. Shouts rose into the still air. After days of howling winds, a morning of utter tranquility had dawned. The smoke rising from the roofs of the dwellings within the village rose vertically into a dull-grey sky.
“They’ll break through the north gate soon, Da.” Cathal tore his gaze from where his warriors boiled around the base of the high stone walls surrounding the village, to where his daughter sat. She rode a magnificent grey stallion. The beast was high-spirited and did not like being held back from battle. It danced now, tossing its head. However, Mor held the pony in check. “Tamhas brought the battering ram down with him.”
“They’d better,” Cathal rumbled. “I tire of waiting. It’s now well past noon, and they still haven’t managed to breach it … maybe they should focus their attention on the south gate instead.”
The siege had not started well. A deep ditch filled with iron spikes now ringed the walls, making it impossible to get close enough to scale them. Arrows rained down, thudding into the shields his warriors held aloft. However, one or two found their mark, bringing down the men and women laying siege to Balintur.
Cathal ground his teeth at the sight, and his stocky bay stallion—the pony he had taken from Tarl mac Muin a few months earlier—snorted and tossed its head in response.
Every warrior was precious—he wanted to lose as few as possible during the attack. Protect An Teanga or attack Balintur—Cathal had not taken long to make his decision. Much to his son’s ire, he had taken Tormud mac Alec’s advice.
“I’m not waiting much longer,” he growled. Cathal hated to look on while others fought. He loved to be in the thick of the fighting, where he could hear the screams and breathe in the stench of battle.
However, Tormud and his son had convinced him to wait on the edge of the valley while they breached the walls. The plan had made sense—it still did—yet Cathal now seethed with impatience.
“Surely there can’t be four hundred of them inside those walls.” Beside him, Mor leaned forward in the saddle and peered down at the village.
Cathal frowned. He too had expected to see a number of them camped around the perimeter, yet the cottars working the fields outside the village had fled inside the moment the horn had wailed across the valley, warning the inhabitants of an imminent attack.
“It seems unlikely,” he replied. “Perhaps they have moved some of their force north again?”
“Why would they do that?”
A deep scowl furrowed Cathal’s brow as he pondered the question. “I don’t know.”
A moment later a hunting horn sounded, booming through the stillness of the early afternoon.
A grin stretched across Cathal’s face, and he glanced over at Mor. “Finally! Come, lass. Let’s go and spill some blood.”
His daughter stared back at him, her moss-green eyes gleaming.
Without another word, they urged their ponies down the hill, bringing a tide of warriors on foot—bearing pikes, swords, and axes—with them.
“They’ve breached the north gate!”
Donnel mac Muin’s face was grim as he strode into the round-house he shared with his wife and children. Eithni stood before a glowing fire pit, Eara clutching at her skirts. The sight of them there, unarmed and vulnerable, made fear kindle in the pit of his belly. He had to protect Eithni and Eara.
“The Warrior keep us,” his wife whispered. “I thought we’d hold out longer.”
“They have an iron-tipped battering ram,” Donnel replied. “The gates are strong … but not indestructible.”
The sounds of shouting reached them then; panic raced through the village like wildfire.
Donnel cursed. “We can’t stay here.” He strode forward, scooped Eara up into his arms, and took Eithni by the hand. They exited the round-house and hurried up the narrow alleyway beyond.
“Donnel!” A familiar voice hailed him. He turned to see his elder brother, Tarl, stride up behind him, his wife Lucrezia at his side. Lucrezia had donned plaid breeches and a leather vest and carried a sword at her hip. Tarl’s wife had trained as a warrior when she had first come to live with them many years earlier. Over the years, she had not needed to join the others in battle, but since they had abandoned Dun Ringill, she had been forced to pick up a sword once more.
“They’re just three streets back now,” Tarl said, his face hard, “and closing in fast.”
“We’re trapped.” Eithni replied. She was trying to remain calm, yet Donnel could hear the panic creeping into her voice. “There’s nowhere to hide.”
“We need to get to the walls,” Donnel replie
d, meeting his brother’s eye. He saw his own anger and determination reflected in Tarl’s gaze. “Right now, it’s the safest place in Balintur.”
Tarl nodded. “There’s a ladder to the east wall close by. Follow me.”
“Loose!” Talor bellowed. An instant later he too let his arrow fly. Perched high atop the wall, he and the other archers were attempting to slow the tide of Cruthini that now poured into Balintur through the north gate.
They had managed to bring down a few—but the sheer number of the attackers that now surged into the village was making their task near to impossible. They were close to being overrun.
My kin.
Fear arrowed through him at the thought of Eithni and Eara in peril, before he reassured himself. His father would protect them. Like him, Bonnie could protect herself. She was on the walls too, leading the defense of the south gate with strict instructions to remain there no matter the circumstances. He did not want his sister fighting down in the village, not unless all hope was lost.
“Loose!”
Once again, a volley of feather-fletched arrows shot down from the walls, peppering the sea of jostling rectangular-shaped shields below.
Talor scowled as his arrow embedded into leather and wood, but not flesh. They were too tightly packed for him to find his mark easily. Talor thought about Mungo then, his friend, who had ridden for help. He had sent the warrior, who was the fastest rider in the tribe, south as soon as the sentries on the wall had spied the approaching army. If the siege of An Teanga had gone as hoped, they would be able to ride to Balintur’s aid.
Mungo should have reached An Teanga by now.
They could not hold this village alone, not against such a large force.
“Fire at will!”
Talor notched another arrow, drew it back against his cheek, and let it fly, bringing down a man directly below him. The warrior let out a wail and crumpled, only to be trampled by the Cruthini pushing in through the gate behind him.
Why didn’t Ailene warn us?
She had foretold that dark times lay ahead for The Eagle. Was this it? Would this last stronghold of his people fall to The Serpent as well?
No.
He would not let this village fall. He would defend it with his last breath.
Talor shifted his attention from the gates to the nearest ladder against the walls. He spied two Serpent warriors scaling it.
Two arrows whistled through the air. One caught the first warrior—a brawny man with red-gold hair—in the shoulder. The second pierced a dark-haired woman through the ribs. Crying out, they both let go of the ladder and slid back to the ground.
Talor reached into his quiver to grasp another arrow, only to find it empty. Casting his bow and arrow aside, he drew his twin axes.
It was time to fight the enemy face-to-face.
Muin saw smoke rising to the north and knew that it was coming from Balintur.
The bastards have torched it.
He urged Feannag on, and despite that the pony had been traveling all afternoon at a swift canter, it flattened into a gallop.
We’re too late.
As soon as Mungo had delivered the news, they had saddled their ponies and ridden from An Teanga without delay. However, Balintur lay some distance to the north. The day was waning now, the light draining from the sky. They had ridden as fast as they could, but it would not be swiftly enough.
Dread settled like a boulder in Muin’s belly. He thought of his friends and family in Balintur.
How many of them still lived?
Muin pushed the question aside, glancing at where Varar rode alongside him.
The animosities of the past between The Eagle and The Boar had truly been healed. Varar’s presence here was proof of it.
Although he had only just won back his fort, Varar had not hesitated. The Boar chieftain had ridden out with them, as had Fina, and he had brought as many warriors as he could spare, leaving just a small number behind to defend An Teanga.
Galan had remained at the fort, as had Tea and Ailene. His father was still unconscious when Muin left. It was up to Galan’s first-born to lead The Eagle into battle. However, this time it was not a siege they were conducting but a race to prevent a massacre.
Thundering up the last incline, Muin reached the brow of the hill and drew Feannag up.
Next to him, Varar let out an explosive curse.
Balintur was indeed burning. Flames leaped high in the air from the tightly-packed dwellings inside the walls. Screams and cries for help knifed the air. Figures on foot streamed out of the south gate, although there was also fighting going on there, as warriors chased them from the village and cut them down before they had gone a furlong from the gate.
Bile rose in Muin’s throat. Sensing movement to his right, he swung his gaze to where his brother had just reined in his pony.
Aaron stared down at the massacre, the inferno. Black smoke poured up into the darkening sky. His blue eyes, so much like his mother’s, stretched wide, and a nerve flickered under one eye.
The same horror he saw in his brother’s face also pulsed through Muin.
An image flashed through his mind then, the memory of Ailene’s face. He had just swung up onto Feannag’s back at An Teanga when she had rushed across the stable yard toward him.
She had stared up at him, tears running down her face, her lovely eyes haunted. “This is my fault, Muin,” she had gasped. “I am to blame.”
“No, you aren’t,” he had countered, irritation spearing through him. He did not need Ailene’s self-recrimination over things that were beyond her control—not now.
Ailene had not corrected him. Perhaps sensing that his thoughts were now elsewhere, she had only backed away, her face stricken.
The look on her face still troubled him as he gazed down upon Balintur. While they had been focused on An Teanga, the enemy had been making plans of their own. Ailene blamed herself for not being able to warn them—but how would she have known The Serpent would do this?
Shoving aside his misgivings, Muin drew his sword and raised it high.
“For our people!” His shout echoed across the hillside, rising above the din of battle below. This fight was not just for The Eagle, but for all those who had stood at their shoulder over the past months. Stag, Wolf, and Boar warriors were all down there, fighting for their lives.
“For our people!” The cries answered him, breaking like storm driven waves against rocks.
And then, in a roar of rage and thundering hooves, they descended upon Balintur.
Chapter Twenty-six
Defeat
TALOR RAISED HIS shield just in time to deflect the vicious pike aimed at his belly. Knocking the weapon aside with one of his axes, he sunk the other into his attacker’s skull. The man fell twitching onto the wall.
Breathing hard, Talor stepped over his body and prepared himself to face the next warrior, a huge woman with wild brown hair and cold grey eyes. Talor flexed his fingers around the handles of his axes. His body was starting to protest, every muscle screaming for rest. Sweat poured off him, and his vision blurred. He had been fighting on the walls, had hardly moved a few feet beyond his original position near the gates.
One by one he faced them. It was fortunate for him that the walkway atop the wall was narrow, for he would have been quickly outnumbered otherwise.
As it was, the Cruthini all had to wait their turn as they tried to kill him.
Talor had just jammed his axe into another attacker’s throat, and pushed the warrior off the wall onto the churning crowd below, when something caught his eye.
Heart pounding, Talor dragged his gaze from where three more huge Cruthini men were climbing the ladder, to where a small yet fierce woman fought for her life in the melee at the base of the wall.
Terror slammed into Talor, turning his sweat-soaked body cold.
Bonnie.
Blood splattered her naked limbs, and her long slender braids twirled around her as she attacked, feinte
d, and parried. Her pert face was hard, twisted into a rictus of killing rage that made pride swell within him.
However, that pride extinguished like a tender flame in a winter’s draft when a huge man with wild auburn hair came at her.
Talor recognized the warrior instantly. A thin silver scar slashed over his left cheek, and he wielded a huge iron sword with deadly precision.
Cathal mac Calum bore down upon Bonnie, and all Talor could do was watch.
They began their dance, while the fighting continued to rage around them. Bonnie was fearless, and she fought with every ounce of skill that Talor, Muin, and Donnel had taught her.
But it would not be enough. Talor knew that.
With a roar, he lunged toward the ladder. He had to get down to her. He had to intervene.
However, he had three Cruthini warriors in his way.
Lowering himself over the edge of the wall, Talor kicked the first man in the face before slamming his booted foot down on the hand that grasped onto the ladder. The man cursed him, his sword stabbing upward and narrowly missing Talor’s thigh. But one more well-aimed kick sent the man tumbling off the ladder.
And in that moment, Talor saw The Serpent chieftain cut his sister down.
Time slowed, and the din of battle receded.
All Talor could hear was his own cry; all he could see was the shock on Bonnie’s face as that long iron blade ran her through. And then she crumpled.
Cathal mac Calum kicked her aside, yanked out his blade and turned, hacking his way through the melee toward the heart of the village.
Talor wanted to follow him, yet a huge man wielding a double-headed axe was almost upon him now. He could not reach his sister, nor could he avenge her.