Warrior's Wrath (The Pict Wars Book 3)

by Jayne Castel

  Mor stepped up onto the walls and breathed in, drawing in a great lungful of gelid air.

  She had come up here to think, but the steps leading up to the top of the wall had been perilous, even for one as light footed as her. It was not her turn to take the night watch; she should not even be up here.

  Peering through the fluttering snow, Mor could see the huddled, cloaked figures of warriors farther up the wall, their hunched shoulders outlined against the burning braziers that ringed the walls of the fort. One or two of the faces she glimpsed were pale and strained. Like many within these walls, they wore worried expressions, hope for the future leeching from them.

  One of the men peered at her curiously, but Mor ignored him. Apart from her alcove, this was one of the few places where she could be alone. She needed to think.

  Something was building inside her, a sensation that had been flowering for a while now.

  She had not liked it at first. When the traitorous thoughts had first presented themselves on the eve of the Long Night, she had tried not to dwell upon them. But even before the reckless Talor mac Donnel had burst into her life, she had been considering going against her father to achieve peace. She had even entertained the idea of riding to Balintur and offering herself up to the enemy as a gesture of goodwill.

  A healthy sense of self-preservation had prevented her. If she took that road, there would be no returning from it.

  Mor walked to the edge of the wall, her boots sinking into the ankle-deep snow, and stared out at the murky horizon. She knew Loch Slapin lay before her, but she could barely make it out, for the blizzard had closed in, enclosing her in a bleak, white world.

  Night was falling. The prisoner would not last much longer—if he had not perished already.

  The conflict within her surged, clamping her ribs in a vise and making it hard to breathe.

  Mor balled her hands into fists and drew in another deep breath.

  She had not wanted the situation to come to this. She hated the idea of being pitted against her father. But the conversation after supper had proved to her what she had suspected for a while now. Cathal mac Calum’s desire to control this isle had turned into madness. He could not see clearly any more. He could not seem to make a rational decision. To an onlooker, the situation was hopeless. Her uncle had been attempting in vain for days now to sway his brother’s opinion.

  But Tormud was always there, whispering into her father’s ear. This was Tormud’s homeland, and it had become evident of late that the warrior wished to remain on The Winged Isle, to put down roots here again. Mor could not help but think that The Boar warrior was using her father to his own ends. But Cathal was too proud to see it.

  Mor let out a long breath, watching it cloud in the icy air before her. This was it—the turning point had come.

  She had to act tonight, or not at all.

  Chapter Eight

  Not Dead Yet

  TALOR COULD NOT feel his body any longer. The numbness had started in his lower limbs and worked its way up into his torso. And as night fell, he wondered how long it would be, before the cold ended him.

  Part of him hoped it would be swift, for this was not a warrior’s death. The best end he could have chosen was death in battle, like Bonnie. Instead, he had been chained to the wall of his own broch, and now hung there limply.

  Closing his eyes, Talor whispered a prayer to The Hag, the goddess that presided over the bitter season. She would be waiting nearby in the shadow of the god of death, The Reaper.

  This isn’t my time. It seemed a bit foolish to think such a thing. Death came when it chose to. However, in his gut, Talor knew that this was not his moment. This was not how he was supposed to die.

  An image of his father floated before him then. Donnel mac Muin’s proud face, with his grey eyes that could go as hard as iron when angered and the color of a stormy sky when he laughed. They had clashed increasingly often of late. It was not anything unusual; even Muin, who was far less argumentative than Talor, had locked horns with his own father in the past year. Even so, now that he would never see Donnel again, Talor wished he had not been so stubborn, so determined to carve his own path. There had been times over the past year or so when he had deliberately shunned his father’s well-meant advice.

  He had not wanted his old man to tell him what to do. It seemed so petty now.

  Sagging against the iron manacles that bit into his wrists, Talor’s chin dropped toward his chest.

  Sorry, Da. How he wished he could go back in time and do things differently.

  “Mac Donnel,” a cool female voice intruded upon his self-pity. “You’re not dead yet?”

  Talor’s eyes fluttered open, surprise filtering through him when his gaze rested upon the chieftain’s daughter.

  Mor stood before Talor, swathed in furs. Her gaze narrowed as she surveyed him.

  Talor swallowed. He had barely the strength to respond to her. Yet he managed to dredge up the words. “Come to gloat, have you?” he rasped. “I took your advice, and look where it got me.”

  “I told you to speak to my father,” she replied with a frown. “Not to take him for a fool. You’re lucky he didn’t gut you then and there.”

  If Talor had been able to shrug, he would have. Frankly, Cathal would have done him a kindness to save him this pitiful end.

  “I’m not here to gloat,” Mor said when he did not answer.

  Talor glanced left to right, realizing then that they stood alone. The glow of a nearby brazier usually illuminated the cloaked outlines of guards that had watched over him all day. But they were now absent.

  “I’m here to make you an offer,” Mor continued. “Think carefully upon it, for I won’t ask twice.”

  Talor stared back at her. He was so cold that he could not bring himself to care about any offer she could make him. Nonetheless, he eventually replied, “Go on.”

  “I will free you and take you from Dun Ringill,” she said softly, stepping closer to him. In the flickering light of the brazier, her eyes had deepened to a deep jade green. “But in return, you must swear an oath that you will cease your quest for vengeance against my father. You must swear that you will do as I ask, and follow me.”

  For a moment or two her request did not register.

  Was this woman actually offering to free him? It made no sense at all.

  “Why would you do that?” The question came out in a croak.

  A nerve flickered on her cheek, and the woman frowned. A moment later she drew in a steadying breath, casting another cautious look from side to side before answering him. “I’m tired to my bones of this war,” she murmured. “Our people won’t survive the coming year, and yet my father won’t consider the path of peace. I have to do something.”

  Talor’s gaze narrowed. “And what will freeing me achieve?”

  Annoyance flashed across her features. “Do you want to live or not, Eagle?”

  “Denying me my right to vengeance seems a high price to pay,” Talor replied, his voice lowering to a growl.

  “So, you’d rather die … freeze to death like a dog out here in the snow?”

  Heat kindled in Talor’s belly. Anger wreathed up inside him like smoke. He welcomed the sensation, as it distracted him from the gnawing, biting cold.

  When he did not answer, Mor drew closer still. Tension bracketed her mouth, and Talor suddenly realized that she was nervous. “I’ve sent the guards away,” she said tightly. “The next shift will arrive soon … you won’t have another chance to escape. What is your answer?”

  Their gazes fused for a heartbeat. Her closeness enveloped Talor; he could feel the heat of her body radiating out toward him. How he wished he too was wrapped in furs. The moment was charged, and despite that anger now pulsed like a stoked ember within him, Talor knew he was being offered his last chance at survival.

  He might have been hotheaded and insanely rash, but he wasn’t a complete fool. He still did not understand how this woman thought she was going t
o benefit from freeing him, but he was not going to stop her.

  “Very well,” he ground out the words. “I swear that I will not seek revenge again on your father.” He paused then, the moment drawing out between them. “Can you cut me down now?”

  Talor collapsed on to his knees the moment Mor released the shackles from around his wrists. Muttering a curse under his breath, he tried to rise to his feet and failed. “This isn’t going to work,” he wheezed. “I can’t walk.”

  “You’re going to have to,” Mor growled back, her voice flint-hard. “I can’t drag you.”

  The harshness of her voice, her utter lack of sympathy for his situation, galvanized Talor. He was not going to let this Serpent woman dominate him. “Help me up then,” he snarled back. “It’s both our necks on the line now.”

  A moment later her hand fastened around his arm, and together they managed to get him to his feet. Then, Mor shoved a shoulder under Talor’s armpit, bearing much of his weight. Together they stumbled forward, through the deepening snow.

  The blizzard had not lessened all afternoon, and as the last of the daylight faded from the world, Talor realized with a sinking sensation that it was probably going to snow all night as well.

  The white-out was a mixed blessing. With the snow falling so thickly no one would be able to follow them, for their tracks would be covered almost immediately. The downside was that they would be traveling blindly in such weather.

  But this was his only chance to escape, and he would take it.

  Mor led him around the base of the broch, across the empty yard before the front steps, and under the archway that led out into the village. Talor lurched forward, gritting his teeth as he forced each foot in front of the other. He had never found walking so hard. His body would not cooperate with him. Yet with each step, he found the blood returning to his limbs, rushing through his numb legs and arms. Unfortunately, the sensation brought pain with it, and Talor had to bite down on his tongue to stop a groan escaping.

  Craning his neck up as they passed through the archway, Talor spied the outline of two guards atop the wall a few yards distant. However, they were facing away from them—and Mor and Talor passed into the village unnoticed.

  The weather was so foul that there did not appear to be anyone about. To Talor’s surprise, Mor seemed to know her way about the fort as well as he did. She moved confidently, her path never wavering. He realized then that she was taking him to the south gate, a narrow gateway that led down a steep path to the stony beach south of the fort.

  Although the gate was closed, they found no warriors guarding it.

  “Where is everyone?” Talor asked through gritted teeth. His hands and feet were throbbing dully now.

  Torches hung on the wall next to a burning brazier. Mor helped herself to one, and lit it, before casting Talor a sidelong glance. “I sent the guards away,” she replied, her tone clipped. “I told them that, owing to the blizzard, they could end their shift early tonight and that others would arrive shortly to replace them. On a night like this, those on the watch are relieved to be able to get indoors. None of the warriors questioned me.”

  Talor was not surprised by this news—Mor was the chieftain’s daughter after all.

  Leaving Talor standing on his own, Mor moved forward and unbarred the gate. She then used her shoulder to open it wide enough for them to get through.

  “I wanted to get us ponies,” she said, beckoning to him to follow her. “But I think that would have been stretching our good fortune.”

  Talor could see her point. Sneaking out on foot was one thing—stealing two ponies without being spotted was another. Nonetheless, he could have done with a pony to carry him.

  He shuffled forward, grateful that his limbs were now cooperating with him at least, and followed Mor out of the gate.

  He then hauled it shut behind him and turned to face his unlikely savior.

  Mor’s face, illuminated by the torch she held aloft, was set in hard, determined lines. “Here.” She shrugged off her fur mantle, and Talor saw that she wore another cloak underneath. She handed him the fur. “I brought this for you.”

  Giving a grunt of thanks, Talor cast the mantle over his shoulders. Almost instantly he started to feel better. His hands and feet ached, and his teeth chattered, but the heavy cloak provided a barrier from the seeking wind and bone numbing chill.

  Maybe the Gods were with him after all—it did not look as if he was going to freeze tonight. Not yet anyway.

  Chapter Nine

  Lead the Way

  SHORTLY AFTER LEAVING Dun Ringill, Mor realized that she had no idea where she was taking them.

  Halting, she turned to Talor. “I think I’m getting us lost,” she admitted. “You’d better take the lead.”

  His face, illuminated by the glow of her torch, looked strained and pale. He had been close to succumbing to the cold when she approached him earlier. She had almost left it too late.

  She had almost not come at all.

  She could not believe she had embarked on this folly. Knots twisted in her belly as she thought of her father’s reaction when he discovered both his daughter and his prisoner gone. He would be so hurt by her act. She knew he would never recover from it—but she had to do this.

  Yet it would only be worthwhile if they did not wander around in circles all night.

  Fortunately for them both, the snow had eased a little, as had the wind. The torch she carried had nearly guttered and died a number of times in the first stretch of the journey. Yet it burned brightly now, illuminating the snow-covered hillside they trudged up.

  But despite that the visibility was better than it had been, Mor had completely lost any sense of direction.

  With a sigh, Talor took the torch from her. “We are south-east of the fort now,” he replied. His voice was rough, edged in pain. He was tough; she would give him that. Mor had been hard on him when he had struggled to rise after being chained to the wall for so long. But the reality was that she was surprised how well he had coped.

  The folk of this isle were resilient indeed.

  “I suggest we turn east and head directly inland,” Talor continued. “There is a stag hunters’ hut in one of the valleys. We can shelter there.”

  Mor’s tension eased slightly at these words. A hut. Somewhere they could take refuge from the cold and possibly even light a fire. “How far away is it?” she asked.

  Talor held her gaze. His blue eyes were not friendly. There was a reserve in him, a hostility that bubbled just beneath the surface. He had agreed not to kill her father, but they were far from friends.

  Even so, there was something about this man that made it hard for her to look away. That fascination surfaced once more, and she found her gaze devouring him. She wanted to know what Talor mac Donnel was thinking.

  “It will probably take us most of the night to reach the hut,” he replied finally.

  Mor’s burgeoning hope splintered at this news. A roof over her head and a warm fire would have to wait a while.

  “Very well,” she huffed. She then pulled up the hood of her cloak, doing her best to protect her face from the stinging cold. “Lead the way.”

  It felt like the longest journey of Mor’s life.

  She slogged through the snow, just a couple of feet behind Talor. He carried the torch now, and although it had stopped snowing for the time being, she was amazed that Talor walked so confidently. Some of the snowdrifts were knee deep in places.

  And as they traveled, Mor tried not to dwell on what she had done, what she had left behind. She had no plan, only a dogged determination to somehow weave peace. Every time her thoughts settled upon this fact, anxiety fluttered up within her like a trapped bird.

  This has to be done, she reminded herself grimly, shoving down her panic. If there had been another way, I would have taken it.

  A sea of undulating hills stretched east, and then gradually, the land became rougher, the dips between the rise of each hill deeper. It
slowed their progress, and when they passed a copse of birch trees, Talor broke off a branch and used it to feel out the land before him.

  “The land is uneven here,” he explained, as he continued his way forward. “You could easily walk into a hole and end up with a broken leg.” Mor heard the rasp of exhaustion in his voice. Her own body was starting to protest as the night wore on, and she could only imagine how he felt. The man had suffered serious beatings. Not only that, but he had barely eaten since being taken prisoner. If they did not reach their destination soon, he would collapse.

  They continued on, and it was not long before Talor started to stagger. Drawing up alongside him, Mor cut her companion a look. “We should rest,” she announced. “If you continue, you’re going to fall over.”

  Talor glowered at her. “I’m well.”

  “You’re staggering as if you just consumed a barrel of mead,” she pointed out dryly. “We both know you’re far from well, so stop pretending otherwise.”

  Talor halted, leaning on his stick for support. He shut his eyes briefly, and when they opened, she saw desperation flicker in their depths. They both knew the truth of it. He was reaching the end of his endurance.

  “The hut isn’t far,” he said, his voice rough. “If my memory serves me correctly, we should find it at the end of this valley.”

  Mor nodded, relief rising within her. “Come on then.”

  She stepped close to him and, reaching out, took the guttering torch. Very soon it would sputter and die. Without it they would be traveling blind. A starry sky had appeared briefly earlier, but now a bank of clouds had passed before it, and the snow was starting to flutter down once more. They really needed to get to that hut.

  “Lean on my shoulder,” Mor instructed.

  Talor shook his head, stubbornness lighting in his eyes.

  “Do it, Eagle.” Mor did not have any patience for his stubbornness. “I don’t want to have to drag you the rest of the way.”