by Jayne Castel
But halfway down the hill, Talor’s legs suddenly gave out from under him.
He tumbled forward, unable to save himself, and rolled down the bank, landing on a crust of fresh snow at the bottom of the valley.
Talor groaned, rolling over and glaring up at the pale sky. It had stopped snowing for the moment, but he could see that the light was fading; dusk approached. He was still too far away from An Teanga. His chest constricted as he realized that he would not reach it by nightfall.
Still refusing to be beaten, Talor heaved himself to his feet. He had rarely ever felt so weak. The beatings, coupled with the cold and the lack of food, were finally starting to take their toll. Fear curled up within him then. He risked collapsing out here in the wilderness. And if it snowed again, his body would be covered, only to be discovered when the spring thaw came.
The grisly thought spurred him on.
He had only gone a few feet across the wide valley floor, when a shout drew his attention. Talor’s head snapped up.
The sound had come from the south, and he craned his neck, his gaze scanning the tor-studded hillside. It came to a rest upon the dark outlines of warriors and ponies against the sky. A large band had halted at the crest of the next hill.
Relief suffused Talor, the emotion so strong that his vision misted. He lifted an arm and waved, for he knew, even without seeing their faces, who these people were.
The war band, a carpet of spears that bristled against the sky, advanced down the hillside. And as they drew closer, Talor spied many familiar faces. The warriors were dressed for battle, and carried weapons and shields. Despite the freezing weather, some of the men went bare-chested, their chests and arms smeared with blue woad; while many of the women dressed scantily in short leather or plaid skirts, with leather bands binding their breasts. Their only concessions to the cold were the fur cloaks each warrior wore around their shoulders and heavy fur boots.
His cousin Fina was among the group. She stalked toward him now, her heart-shaped face rigid with concern.
Talor realized then that she had been the one to call out, the one who had spied him first.
“Talor!” Fina rushed at him. “What are you doing out here?” Her iron-grey eyes narrowed then, as she took in the state of him. “The Reaper’s Cods,” she muttered. “What happened to you?”
Talor attempted a cocky smile but failed. He was so exhausted that it was difficult to appear otherwise.
“It’s a long tale,” he rasped. “But give me some food and drink, and let me catch my breath, and I will tell you it all.”
Chapter Fifteen
Stubborn
THE BOAR MADE camp in the Valley of the Tors. Night was almost upon them, and the valley made as good a place as any to settle down for the evening.
Huddled over a brazier, where a lump of peat burned hot, Talor let out a long sigh. He had forgotten what it was like to feel warm. But inside this tent, with soft fur beneath his bare feet, he almost felt his old self again.
Almost.
“I don’t know whether to be impressed or horrified.” A deep male voice rumbled. Varar mac Urcal, chieftain of The Boar, reclined upon a pile of furs a few feet away. Despite his relaxed posture, leaning back as he listened to Talor’s tale, Varar possessed a predatory stillness. Talor had rarely met a man as dangerous as Varar, or as brave.
Talor huffed a laugh, before he shifted his attention to the small woman wearing a scowl who stood a few feet away, watching him, hands on hips. “You’ve done some daft things in your life … but that was by far the stupidest,” Fina growled out the words. “It’s only by the grace of the Gods that you are still breathing. Not that you deserve to be.”
Talor winced at her harsh words. Fina was never one to hold back. And, in the wake of everything that had happened, he now agreed with her.
If he could go back in time, he would not have set out on this path. It was idiotic; he saw that now. But at the time he had been blinded by grief. The sorrow was still there, simmering away in the pit of his belly, a constant reminder of what he had lost.
“The behavior of Cathal’s daughter surprises me,” Varar spoke up, shattering the tense silence that had settled over the tent. “I find it hard to believe that she actually wants peace.”
Fina snorted, making it clear that she agreed with him.
“The woman is a half-wit,” Talor replied with a sneer. “She betrayed her own people on a whim. She can’t go back to them now, not without punishment.”
Even to his own ears, the words sounded harsh. Guilt rose once more within Talor, but he hastily crushed it. He decided he would not tell Varar and Fina about their disastrous visit to the bandruí.
Bitterness soured his mouth at the memory. Old Murdina’s divination had made fury wash over him, drowning all reason. How dare the crone suggest such a thing? She had known he was attracted to Mor, that his body wanted her. Aye, he found the Cruthini woman striking, an exotic beauty whose nearness caused his pulse to race and his groin to tighten.
But that meant nothing. He would not wed a Serpent.
Images rose unbidden then, of their fight inside the hut.
Talor had deliberately provoked Mor, and if he had not been hurting from his injuries, he might have enjoyed fighting her. She was quick, strong, and knew how to fight dirty—but uninjured he could have bested her.
He imagined the scene. Her spread-eagled beneath him on the cold, hard floor of that hunters’ hut, his body pressed flush against hers as she glared up at him, fury and defiance in those moss green eyes. He envisioned the long length of her body, imagined grinding his hips against hers and the softness of those magnificent breasts thrust up against him.
Talor’s groin hardened, responding to the heated images. Clenching his jaw, and glad that his crouched position hid his arousal, Talor banished the lusty thoughts. This wasn’t helping.
“I’m surprised you didn’t go straight back to Dun Ringill and try to slit Cathal’s throat again,” Fina said, shattering Talor’s introspection. “It’s not like you to give up so easily.”
Talor pulled a face. “I swore Mor an oath that I wouldn’t,” he admitted.
That got both their attention. Varar raised an eyebrow, and Fina tilted her head, her gaze narrowing. “Why did you do that?”
“She forced it out of me … it was either that or freeze to death.”
“And does she know that an Eagle always keeps his oaths?” Fina asked after a pause.
Talor huffed a wry laugh. “She does now.”
Another silence settled inside the tent. Beyond, Talor caught the snatches of conversation in the camp, as the war band settled down for the night. The warriors of the united tribes were moving against Dun Ringill. Talor knew that the attack had been coming. However, his disappearance had moved things forward. Despite the heavy snows, which made travel and fighting difficult, they would attack The Eagle stronghold at last.
Warmth ignited in Talor’s belly at the thought. Snow or not—it was time.
Fina had told him that a rider arrived in An Teanga the day before. The Boar war band was to meet the rest of the army in a shallow vale just east of Dun Ringill. From there they would launch a siege.
Now that the bulge in his breeches had subsided, Talor sat back on his heels and ran a hand over his tired face. He had filled his belly with buttered oatcakes and boiled eggs, washing it down with a cup of ale. All he needed now was to rest, and by morning he would be ready to face the world again.
Indeed, the world appeared a happier, brighter place the following morning. The snow had ceased for a short while, and the sky turned pale blue as the first blush of dawn faded.
Talor stepped outside the tent and stretched his stiff and aching limbs. A good night’s sleep had revived him considerably—as had the anticipation of taking back Dun Ringill for his people. He could not wait to set foot inside the broch once more, to look out over Loch Slapin with the sea-breeze on his face.
Nonetheless, Talor still
winced as he massaged a bruised muscle in his shoulder. What he needed was to soak in a tub of steaming water and let the aches and pains of the last few days seep from him. But that was not going to happen anytime soon.
Around him Boar warriors were starting to pack up the sea of hide tents that carpeted the bottom of the valley. Deciding to make himself useful too, Talor turned and began helping other men take down the large chieftain’s tent. A group of ponies followed the war band, laden down with rolls of hide and poles for erecting the tents. There was no camping without tents under the sky this time of year. And if they were going to mount a campaign against Dun Ringill, they would need time. They could not let the cold defeat them, before they brought The Serpent down.
Rolling up the last of the furs that carpeted the floor of Varar’s tent, Talor inhaled the aroma of baking oatcakes. Following the moreish smell, he reached a group of warriors gathered around a large central fire pit, where women were cooking batches of oatcakes. One of the women was Morag, Varar’s elder sister. Her bairn, who was barely a few moons old now, hung in a sling on her back. The lad already had a thick thatch of dark hair, and his chubby hands waved in the chill morning air as his mother expertly flipped yet another batch of cooked oatcakes onto a platter. She then handed it, with a smile, to Fina.
Thanking her, Fina moved away from the fire pit and headed toward Talor. “You’re looking better this morning,” she greeted her cousin. Fina then thrust the platter at him. “Go on, help yourself … careful though … they’re hot.”
Talor grinned at Fina before taking a large handful of cakes. She was right, they scorched his fingers, but he welcomed the heat. Although the sun was out this morning, there was no warmth in it at all; his breath clouded in front of him.
“You had me worried when we came across you yesterday,” his cousin continued. Fina helped herself to just one cake before passing the platter on. She then turned, fixing Talor with a penetrating gaze that he knew well. “You do realize you were close to collapse?”
Talor’s grin faded, and he nodded. The fact had not escaped him.
He took a big bite of oatcake, chewing vigorously. Fresh off the griddle, these were delicious; although he liked them best slathered with butter. After days without a meal, he was not about to be fussy. He noted then that his cousin, who usually had a robust appetite, was nibbling delicately at the oatcake she held. Her face was pale this morning, and she looked a bit peaky.
“Is something wrong?” Talor asked with a frown. “Are you unwell, Fina?”
Fina’s mouth curved. “Nothing is lost on you, is it, cousin?”
When Talor did not answer, she sighed. “You might as well know … I am with bairn.”
Talor’s gaze widened. “Really?”
“I’ve been feeling strange for a few days,” she replied, lowering her voice so that they were not overheard. “My moon flow never arrived last month, and when I started to feel queasy, I went to see the healer. Eachann confirmed it.”
Talor cut a glance over to where Varar mac Urcal stood on the opposite side of the fire pit. He was deep in discussion with one of his warriors and did not look their way.
“Does Varar know?”
“Of course he does,” Fina replied with a toss of her head. “We keep nothing from each other.”
“And he’s happy for you to come on this campaign?” Protectiveness rose within Talor, as did a surge of anger toward Varar. Fina was a warrior to be sure, but now that she carried a bairn, she needed to be protected.
Fina rolled her eyes. “Of course he isn’t. But he can’t stop me from fighting.” She held up a hand then, forestalling his objection. “And don’t you start either. I’ve already had this argument with Varar many times. I’m carrying a child, but that doesn’t mean I’m useless. We need every warrior at hand for the siege. I will not stand back and watch everyone else fight. That is my final word on the subject.”
Talor’s gaze narrowed. He swallowed the urge to argue with her, although irritation now boiled within him. Fina could be so pigheaded at times. It was a trait that ran in their family—passed down to the mac Muin brothers from their strong-willed father. Once they set their mind on something, they would not be swayed.
But sometimes being so stubborn got you into serious trouble. It had been a hard lesson for Talor, but the events of late had taught him a few things. If he survived the days to come, he would be more cautious in future before rashly throwing himself into situations.
Talor’s chest tightened as he realized he had Mor to thank for that.
Chapter Sixteen
A Friend of Yours
IT WAS A slow journey north. Weighed down by weapons and supplies, the company of ponies, with many warriors traveling on foot, struggled through the deep snow. The sky remained clear during the journey, which made it easier to keep watch on the horizon.
Despite that Fina had tried to give Talor her pony—asserting that he would heal faster if he rested—he had insisted on traveling on foot.
He was hardly going to take a pony from a pregnant woman. Fina had tried to argue with him, telling him that he would be no good to them in battle if he was weak and wounded. But Talor had still declined. He was feeling a lot stronger now. And he enjoyed the walking; it took his mind off things. When he focused on putting one foot in front of the other, he could distract himself from his circling thoughts.
Even so, as the day wore on, he found himself wondering about Mor.
He had been dismissive of her in front of Varar and Fina, yet the woman was never far from his thoughts. Where had she gone after leaving Old Murdina? She had not chased him, so he guessed she would have remained overnight in the bandruí’s cave. But after that? Perhaps she had returned to the hunters’ hut. Had she expected to find him there? Of course, she would be sorely disappointed if she had. Maybe she had returned to Dun Ringill to face her father instead?
Talor frowned as he considered this. Would she take such a risk?
He had not known Mor for very long, and in reality did not understand the woman at all, but he sensed that she was not the type to hide from conflict. Now that Talor had abandoned her, she would likely decide to face her father and deal with the consequences.
She would suffer because of him.
Talor’s belly clenched at the prospect. It was her choice to free you, he reminded himself, irritated by the turn of his thoughts. You owe her nothing.
The words were true enough, but in the stark light of day, they felt hollow. The fact remained that Mor had saved his life, and he had refused to help her.
An image flashed before him then, of Mor staring at him after his outburst in the bandruí’s cave. He had seen the hurt in her eyes.
He might have felt justified, but he had acted badly all the same.
She’s not your responsibility, he reminded himself, irritation flaring into anger. Stop thinking about her.
Talor gave his head a shake and quickened his step through the soft, powdery snow. His gaze fixed north, and for the rest of the afternoon he focused only on reaching his destination.
Dusk was settling when they arrived at the camp of the warriors of the united tribes at last.
Talor paused on the edge of the shallow valley that stretched before them. The sight took his breath away: a great carpet of tents and glowing fires filled the valley. It made their numbers seem huge. Gazing at the army, Talor reckoned that they were at least four hundred strong. They had brought warriors from every corner of the isle, emptying out Dun Grianan and Dun Ardtreck, as well as many of the smaller settlements to the north. They would launch everything they had at Dun Ringill for the siege.
This was the turning point. The coming days would decide the fate of them all.
“An impressive sight, isn’t it?”
Varar’s voice roused Talor from his scrutiny. He cut The Boar warrior a glance and favored him with a grim smile. “A welcome one indeed,” he replied. “Our numbers are bigger than I expected.”
&nb
sp; Varar nodded. “I was worried after Balintur that we would be too weakened, but the people of this isle are hard to crush, it seems.”
Talor’s gaze shifted once more to the glowing encampment before him. They had already set up a watch around the perimeter; a line of guttering pitch torches formed a protective circle on all sides of the valley. “I wish Bonnie was here to see this,” he murmured. “Battle was in her blood. She loved a good scrap.”
“Then she died how she would have chosen,” Varar replied, his voice lowering. “The lass fell too young, but none of us who choose a warrior’s life know when the end will come. I’m sure Bonnie was aware of the risks she took. She will be looking down on you now though … be sure of that.”
Talor raised an eyebrow, fixing Varar with a wry look. “Really?”
“Don’t look so skeptical,” The Boar chastised him. “Every time I go into battle, I can feel my father watching over me. Urcal mac Wrad loved getting blood on his hands.” Varar’s gaze shadowed then. “Unfortunately, my father didn’t die a warrior’s death … illness took him from us. He would have been bitter about that.”
At the mention of Varar’s father, Talor thought of his own, and as he did so, his belly tightened.
Donnel would not be happy with his errant son. He was not looking forward to facing him.
“Idiot!” Donnel stepped close to Talor, going nose to nose with him. “If your face didn’t look like you’ve been trampled by a herd of goats, I’d blacken your eye.”
Talor held his father’s gaze, unwavering. He had barely set foot inside the camp when he had seen his kin approach. Joy and relief had mingled with dread at the sight of them. Then, he had left Varar’s side and stridden toward the small group. There were some meetings that could not be put off.