by Jayne Castel
The world closed around Talor mac Donnel, and for the first time in his life he tasted the bitter gall of defeat.
Cathal loved the chaos of battle. When he was amongst it, he forgot everything: his grief at losing Lena and Dunchadh faded, his anger at being forced to abandon the lands his people had farmed for decades dimmed.
All the mattered was dealing out death.
Cathal cut down a Stag warrior who rushed at him as he strode into the clearing in the middle of the village. The man collapsed against him, his big hands clutching at Cathal’s throat. With a snarl, The Serpent chieftain shoved him aside and strode on.
Stopping in the heart of the clearing, Cathal let his gaze travel around the chaos that his people had caused. The buildings around him burned, including the large round-house that dominated the southern edge of the clearing.
Acrid smoke choked the air. It stung the back of Cathal’s throat, yet he paid it little mind. A vicious smile stretched his face. Indeed, only half the number of warriors he had expected resided around Balintur. Once they breached the north gate, the sheer numbers of his own people had crushed the defenders.
Joy pulsed in his breast.
By nightfall this village would be his.
The entire southern territory of The Winged Isle would belong to The Serpent.
“Da!” A tall woman strode toward him through the smoke. Blood and grime streaked Mor’s proud face, although her eyes were aflame. She bore a gash to her right arm. Blood trickled down over her wrist to where her hand gripped her sword. But she did not appear to notice.
As his daughter approached, Cathal stiffened. It was not battle fury but alarm he saw in her eyes.
“We’re under attack,” she announced.
Cathal’s victory smile faded. “What?”
“A large company of warriors, many of them on ponies, have just hit us. Most of them are entering through the north gate.” Mor broke off there, breathing hard as her tall frame vibrated with outrage. “They’re butchering us. If we remain here, we’ll be trapped.”
Cathal stared at his daughter for a long moment. If she had just struck him across the face, he would have been less shocked.
He could not believe it. In just a few instants, everything had changed. Victory had been so close he had almost been able to touch it. Now bitterness flooded into his mouth.
Cathal snarled a curse and spat on the ground, glancing around him. Indeed, he could hear shouting and screams coming from the northern end of the village. “We need ponies.”
Both he and Mor had dismounted soon after entering the village, as father and daughter preferred to fight on foot. However, without ponies, they would be run down by the enemy. The burning dwellings were their allies now, for the thick smoke would make it difficult for the rescue party to spot friend from foe.
Unslinging his hunting horn, Cathal blew hard.
The sound boomed across the village, cutting through the shouting and the crackle of devouring flames.
Cathal sounded the horn once more, fury pulsing through him now.
He had wondered where the rest of the enemy force had been. The fact that only half the defense he had expected was here had initially concerned him, but once the battle had begun, he had forgotten his worries.
The rest of the enemy had indeed left Balintur. Unfortunately, the dogs had been close enough to come to their people’s aid.
Cathal tore the horn from his lips and turned to the tide of Cruthini who flooded into the clearing. “Fall back!” he boomed. “Make for the south gate!”
Cold anger hammered through Muin as he drove Feannag through the narrow dirt streets between the smoldering ruins of houses. Inside the walls of Balintur, the carnage was even worse than he had expected. Bodies of men, women, and children littered the streets, butchered when they tried to flee.
Muin headed toward the central clearing, and on the way, he cut down any Cruthini who crossed his path.
It had taken some time to fight their way into the village, as the majority of the enemy had amassed there. However, once they had broken through, The Serpent warriors realized they were outnumbered.
And then, once that hunting horn echoed through the valley, many of them had simply turned and fled. Some had tried to steal ponies in order to escape the village quicker.
A frenzied man with long braided red hair threw himself at Muin now and tried to wrestle him off his stallion. Muin kicked him in the face, drew his knife, and stabbed the warrior in the neck.
“They’re running!” Varar, who had just ridden his stallion into the central clearing, twisted around to meet Muin’s eye. “I’ll see how many we can bring down … you and the others make the village safe.”
Next to Varar, Fina swept her gaze over the surrounding devastation. Her beautiful face looked carven from stone, such was her fury.
Muin gave a curt nod, swinging Feannag around while Varar and Fina thundered off in the direction of the south gate.
The last of the daylight was fading when Muin finally swung down from Feannag. The gelding was lathered, his sides heaving. Breathing hard himself, Muin leaned against the pony’s sweat-slick shoulder and stroked his neck. “Brave, lad,” he murmured. “You’ve a warrior’s heart, indeed.”
Leading the pony through the streets, Muin scanned the milling crowd of survivors for familiar faces. So far he had not seen any of his kin and only a handful of his friends.
Dread lodged in a hard lump in his throat, but he would not believe any of them had fallen. Not unless he saw it with his own eyes.
Halfway along the street he met up with Aaron. His younger brother had found Donnel, Eithni, and Eara.
Relief made Muin’s heart pound as he embraced them. Donnel was limping, his face splattered with blood. Eithni’s face was bloodless, and Eara clung to her leg, weeping.
“Have you seen Bonnie or Talor,” Donnel asked. His uncle’s grey eyes were clouded with worry. “I haven’t glimpsed either of them since before the battle began.”
Muin shook his head. “I haven’t checked around the north gate yet. Let’s go.”
Facing the carnage at the gate required a strong stomach. Bodies were piled three high in places where the fighting had been at its most intense. Many of the Cruthini corpses bore fletched arrows from the archers.
Muin craned his neck up at the wall. There was not a soul there now, but he knew that since his cousin had some skill with a bow, he would have been up there at some point, defending the gate.
Moving through the dead, Muin’s mouth gradually flattened into a hard line.
So much carnage, so much blood. It all seemed so pointless. Cathal mac Calum had brought his people to a new land only to bring them to their doom. Was it really worth all this to him?
Eithni’s cry brought Muin up short.
He swiveled to see his aunt pry Eara off her leg, pick up her skirts, and sprint over to where a ladder lay against the north wall.
Muin’s gaze followed her, and his breathing hitched.
Talor sat propped up against the base of the ladder, head bowed. Bonnie lay in his arms.
Chapter Twenty-seven
Burying the Dead
CATHAL FLATTENED HIMSELF against the pony’s neck as arrows flew overhead. The beast, which he had stolen from a Wolf warrior he killed, bolted south in panic. Cathal did not care that he had lost control of the mare. The sooner it got him away from those in pursuit, the better.
Many of his people had escaped Balintur, although it was only through ruthlessness they had managed it. They had fought their way out of the village like cornered wolves, escaping through the ruins of the south gate.
Mounted warriors had come after them, hounding them south.
It was only when Cathal and his followers were many furlongs from the village that their pursuers eventually abandoned the chase. And when Cathal managed to pull up his pony and look around at his companions, a wave of chilling nausea swept over him. Night had fallen. A slender sickle moon ha
d risen, casting a silvery light over the company, highlighting just how few remained.
Four hundred had ridden into Balintur.
There looked to be fewer than a hundred of his warriors left now.
Next to Cathal, Artair sagged against his horse’s neck. His brother had taken a wound to the chest as they thundered out of Balintur. His face now twisted in agony, yet he had not uttered a noise during the journey south.
Mor rode up to Cathal. She was bleeding from her right shoulder, where an enemy hand axe had grazed her. Her wild auburn hair was tangled and sweat-soaked, and she swayed slightly upon the dun pony she too had wrested from one of the enemy. Tormud urged his pony up behind her. His weathered face was thunderous, his dark eyes blazing.
Cathal swallowed bile. How had this happened? It was supposed to have been a glorious victory, the moment when The Serpent would finally gain the upper hand over the united tribes of this isle. Instead, it had all soured.
“Cathal! Cathal!” A man’s voice called out. “Where is the chieftain?”
“I’m here,” Cathal snarled. “What is it?”
A man rode through the knot of ponies and men and women who had traveled on foot behind them. There were few warriors on foot, for the enemy had run most of them down. The newcomer had ridden in from the south, and although his face was strained, he was not sweat-soaked and bloodied like those surrounding him.
As he neared, Cathal recognized the man. His name was Aonghus, and Cathal had left him in charge of the defense of Dun Ringill in his absence.
“News has arrived from An Teanga,” Aonghus informed him, his gaze darting around the grim faces of the surrounding warriors. He could sense that they had just run from a crushing defeat, although like Cathal, the warrior could hardly believe this had happened. It clearly distracted him from the message he had ridden hard to deliver.
“And?” Cathal growled.
Aonghus’s gaze snapped to his chieftain, and his throat bobbed. “It has fallen. Yesterday … a force that equaled that of the fort attacked and have taken it back.”
Cathal went still, and suddenly everything fell into place. That was why Balintur had been missing so many folk, and why such a large group of armed warriors had descended upon them. They had just finished taking back An Teanga before riding north to defend their people.
Anger pulsed in Cathal’s breast. He did not trust himself to speak. Tamhas had spoken true—they should have focused their attention upon protecting The Boar stronghold.
Long moments passed, and then The Serpent chieftain’s attention shifted back to his daughter. He saw then that her cheeks were wet. Her eyes glittered. Behind her, Tormud’s face sagged with exhaustion. Next to Cathal, Artair let out a soft groan of agony.
The Reaper’s fingertips trailed down Cathal’s spine, and he suppressed a shiver. It occurred to him then that he had not seen his son since he had sent him down to breach Balintur’s north gate.
“Where’s Tamhas?” he asked, his hoarse voice cutting through the night.
Only silence answered him.
A rain squall swept over the hillside, drenching Ailene. Bent low over Eòrna’s neck, she rode down the last slope toward Balintur. A charred, ruined settlement greeted her; only the great wall surrounding the village seemed untouched, although even that was blackened in places where the fire had attempted to consume it.
Tears ran down Ailene’s face, mingling with the rain.
She had been dreading returning here, dreading what she would find.
A rider had arrived at An Teanga from Balintur with the dawn, with news of what had happened. The Serpent had been driven out, but the cost was still too high. Many had fallen during the siege of Balintur, and the village was nearly destroyed by fire.
Behind her, she heard Tea mutter a soft oath. Tea and Galan had ridden north with her. The Eagle chieftain was not really strong enough to travel, yet he had insisted. Galan had said little during the journey, although whenever Ailene had glanced his way, she noted that his face was pale and strained.
He was stubborn to a fault. Not so different from his first-born son.
Anxiety fluttered in Ailene’s belly then. She knew that Muin lived, although the messenger had brought news of many deaths among those she knew and loved.
Including Bonnie.
Ailene’s vision blurred. The lass had been so young, so brave. Tears were gushing down her face now, and she could barely see. Scrubbing at them, she drew in a long shuddering breath.
She needed to regain self-control. A bandruí had to retain her serenity, even at times of tragedy. There would be much expected of her in the days to come.
They buried the dead in cairns on the hillside north of Balintur: rows of stone mounds that would change the silhouette of the hill forever.
So many had fallen that it was impossible to sing a lament for each individual. Instead, the kin and friends of the dead gathered before the cairns while Tea sang a haunting lament. It was a song that Tea’s people, The Wolf, always sang for those they lost in harrowing circumstances.
Color drains from the sky
The winds of sadness blow
The red sun does not rise
The streams no longer flow.
The tide draws out forever
The stars dim and fade
Summer never comes
In eternal grief I wade.
After the last strains of Tea’s voice faded, silence settled over the hillside. It was a chill morning. The sun was shining and the sky blue, yet a wintry wind tugged at the cloaks of the mourners as they huddled together before the cairns.
Ailene stood apart from it all, cloaked and hooded. She let silence lie for a while after Tea’s lament, her gaze taking in the grieving faces of those surrounding her.
Donnel’s handsome face appeared to have aged years since Bonnie’s death. He stood, arms around his wife and youngest daughter, his grey eyes glittering with unshed tears. Eithni and Eara wept against him, while a few feet away stood Talor.
Her cousin’s arm was in a sling this morning, his battered face wet as he wept. He had been injured and losing blood when they had found him, yet Eithni had tended to his wounds.
However, there were some wounds that the healer could not mend. And looking upon Talor, Ailene saw that his eyes were full of pain. It hurt her to look upon him. Once again, guilt cramped her belly.
Feeling someone’s gaze upon her, Ailene shifted her attention to where a tall, broad-shouldered figure stood behind Talor. Muin. He did not touch him, for the grief that pulsed from Talor was a volatile, brittle thing. Yet Muin’s strong, steadying presence filtered over his cousin nonetheless.
Ailene and Muin’s gazes met and held. She saw the concern in his eyes. Since her return to Balintur the day before, they had barely spoken. There had been so much to do; they had both been kept busy. Ailene had thrown herself into helping Eithni tend to the injured and had slept close to Eithni and Eara the night before, in the make-shift tent they had erected.
She had deliberately avoided Muin and knew it confused him. However, she needed to ready herself for facing the chieftains. She had to tell them about the ‘Death Tide’—a confrontation she was not looking forward to.
You will find out soon enough why I’ve kept my distance, mo ghràdh.
My love. Aye, she loved Muin with a fierceness that frightened her. It was not the love for a brother or a friend, but something else, something that made it feel as if her heart had just been wrenched out of her chest.
Dragging her gaze from her lover, Ailene breathed in the scent of the dried herbs she was burning in the clay pot she held before her: juniper berries and pine needles to protect and purify this sacred spot.
It was now her role to complete the burial ritual.
Ailene moved along the line of cairns, leaving the scent of burning juniper and pine behind her. Despite the cold weather she was barefoot. It was important in these rituals for the bandruí to be in contact with the earth.
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Passing each mound, Ailene whispered a blessing for each soul to find peace in the afterlife. And as she walked, the sounds of quiet sobbing from the mourners followed her.
Chapter Twenty-eight
This is My Fight
AILENE FINISHED SPEAKING and silence fell in the tent.
Forcing herself not to stare down at her feet, Ailene kept her chin raised. However, her hands, clasped upon her lap, were clenched so hard together that they ached. On the other side of the fire, the four chieftains of the united tribes stared back at her.
None of them looked happy.
Galan’s face had turned to stone, Varar’s gaze had narrowed, Wid was scowling, and Tadhg’s bearded jaw clenched.
Ailene drew in a slow, steadying breath.
She expected no different, and yet her pulse had started to race. Her attention shifted from the chieftains then, to where their kin flanked them. There were no friendly expressions there either. The likes of Eithni, Lucrezia, and Tea merely looked stunned, while both Talor and Muin’s faces had paled.
“When exactly did you see the ‘Death Tide’?” Galan asked, breaking the heavy silence.
Ailene met The Eagle chieftain’s eye. “Just before you departed to take back An Teanga,” she replied softly. “I wanted to cast the bones once more before the battle.”
“And yet you never spoke of your findings to anyone?” Varar asked. His voice was quiet, although edged with displeasure.
“You’d already changed your plans because of me,” Ailene answered. “I didn’t want you to call off the siege.”
“What if it had ended in disaster?” Galan asked. His tone was as inscrutable as his face. His lack of emotion made Ailene’s nervousness increase.
“I realized my mistake as soon as you all left,” she admitted. She had walked into this meeting planning to speak the truth. She would not lie or make excuses for herself. They would know she had erred, and that she was sorry for it. “I spent the whole night pacing the camp in dread … I was so sure I’d made a terrible mistake.” She broke off there, stealing a glance in Muin’s direction. Like his father, Muin’s expression was impossible to read. “When the riders arrived from An Teanga, I felt as if I’d just had a knife removed from my throat. My earlier prediction had come true … it had been the right thing to take back An Teanga.”