by Jayne Castel
Chapter Twenty
No Daughter of Mine
THE SIGHT OF Dun Ringill before her made Mor’s heart start to pound. It was strange really. She was never this nervous before battle; she had grown up readying herself to fight.
But this meeting was different. This time she was to go before her father and look him in the eye as she spoke of peace.
Her dread increased with every step.
She walked ahead of where the four chieftains of the united tribes rode upon shaggy ponies. Her wrists were still bound behind her, and Galan had leashed her to him with a long chain lest she try to run off.
The walls of the fort looked dull and cold, outlined against a flat grey sky. Despite that a new day had dawned, braziers still glowed atop the walls. Mor scanned the defenses, noting the spears that thrust up against the heavens. They would likely have barrels of burning pitch up there, ready to tip down upon the attackers. She wondered whether she should warn the chieftains about that—but then decided she would hold her tongue.
Her mission this morning was to convince all of them to lay down their weapons. She would not focus on anything else.
The army drew to a halt, a furlong back from the outer walls, and waited for Cathal to come to them. This was how a siege always began, with talks beforehand. More often than not this conversation was not a peace negotiation but rather an exchange of insults, of boasts, designed to rile their opponents all the more so that they went into battle baying for each other’s blood.
Mor continued to study the fort, her keen gaze scrutinizing every detail. The outer walls were undefended. Her people had pulled back from the village and barricaded themselves inside the inner perimeter. That was wise, for the outer walls would be impossible to hold for long, and the gates into the village were flimsy compared to the great iron and wooden slabs that prevented access to the broch itself.
Mor was not surprised her father had pulled back. Even so, the sight of the open gate made her already racing heart leap. At first glance it looked as if Cathal was going to just hand over the fort to his enemy. However, she knew he would not.
Three ponies emerged from the outer gate.
Cathal mac Calum approached them now, riding ahead upon a feather-footed bay stallion—a horse that he had stolen from Tarl mac Muin the previous summer. Mor had spotted Tarl riding behind the four chieftains. She recognized the warrior instantly, for he had been their captive for a few months earlier. This morning she had also discovered that Tarl was Fina’s father—a fact that had not surprised her. The eyes gave her away.
Behind Tarl rode Talor and his own father, Donnel mac Muin. Tall, proud, and dark-haired, father and son looked uncannily alike. Donnel had not spoken to Mor before they rode out from camp. Instead, his stormy gaze had fixed upon her, unflinching and hostile.
Although she knew that Talor and his father would still be watching her now, Mor was not concentrating on the ranks of warriors behind her, or the glares that bored a hole in her back. Instead, her attention was riveted on the tall, muscular warrior with wild auburn hair who pulled up his pony a few yards away. Two warriors drew up their ponies behind him; one of them was Tormud. The Boar warrior’s hard gaze swept over the lines of warriors before him, his eyes smoldering with hate when they settled upon Mor.
Mor ignored him. Her attention never wavered from her father.
Cathal’s gaze was riveted upon her, his lantern jaw rigid. For a heartbeat Mor realized that he was worried for her. For just an instant, she allowed him to believe that Talor had escaped without her help and had taken her prisoner. In this frozen moment in time, she had not betrayed his trust and gone to the enemy to seek peace. He was just a concerned father, and she his only surviving child.
Mor’s throat constricted, a familiar dull ache surfacing just under her breast bone. She did not want to disappoint him; she had lived her life wanting only to please her father. But now she stood upon the edge of a precipice. And once she jumped, there was no going back.
“You have something that belongs to me, I see,” Cathal broke the silence, his voice cutting through the wind that whistled through the fort, blowing in from the sea.
“Mor is ours now, Serpent.” Varar mac Urcal spoke up, his voice arrogant, deliberately provoking. “And I believe she has something to say to you.”
Mor resisted the urge to cut The Boar chieftain a vicious look. She had not expected a long preamble before the moment when she would have to speak. But Varar had not wasted time in throwing her to the wolves.
Heaving in a deep breath, Mor met her father’s eye. His gaze was flat, although she could see the worry that flickered there. He wanted to believe the best of her.
And she was now going to disappoint him.
“Da,” she began, her voice husky. “I come before you to ask that we may have peace between our peoples.”
Tension rippled over Cathal mac Calum’s face. He did not speak, did not react. Instead, he waited for his daughter to explain herself.
“I freed our prisoner.” She forced out the admission. It was so hard to say this to her father. He was the one person she feared disappointing. “And I gave myself up voluntarily to the warriors of the united tribes.”
Something feral moved in the depths of her father’s eyes. “And why would you do that, daughter?” he asked, his voice dangerously soft.
“Because I want an end to war,” she replied, raising her chin to meet his stare head on. “All I have ever known is conflict and violence. You promised us all that a new life awaited us on this isle, yet the bloodshed has increased. I want you to stop this now.” She paused there, heart hammering. “I have spoken with these chieftains … they have agreed that if you lay down arms and surrender to them this morning, they will spare all your lives.”
Mor stopped speaking, letting her words settle in. She knew from the thunderous look on Tormud’s face, and the stony expression that settled over her father’s features, that her plea was not well received.
She had not expected it would be—yet it was up to her to convince them.
Tormud spat on the ground, making his opinion evident.
“Traitorous bitch.” Cathal’s words lashed across Mor, and it took all her will not to flinch. “You are no daughter of mine.”
“Father,” Mor cut in, desperation rising within her. “It is your right to be angry with me, to cast me from your side. I deserve it for betraying your trust. But know this … I didn’t do it to hurt you. I am trying to save you … to save our people.”
Cathal’s face twisted, and, straining his neck forward, he spat on the snow, mirroring Tormud’s gesture. Sensing its rider’s fury, his stallion pawed the ground, its nostrils flaring. “You think surrender is going to help me?” he snarled. “You would have me crawl on all fours before these men … you would have all honor stripped from me?”
“No,” Mor choked out the denial. “I would have your lives spared. Why can’t you see that? Why can’t you understand?”
“Coward!”
That insult made Mor flinch, even if anger now curled up inside her, entwining with the desperation that clawed at her breast.
“I’d listen to your daughter if I were you.” Galan mac Muin’s low voice cut through the tension. “If it were up to us, you wouldn’t be getting a second chance, Serpent. If your daughter had not pleaded on your behalf, there would be no negotiation at all. Our offer is a generous one, and far more than you deserve. Drop your weapons and surrender to us, and we will spare your lives.”
“Shove your offer up your arse!” Cathal’s roar echoed across the snowy clifftop. “I will not surrender. Instead, you will break against the walls of my broch like waves upon a shore. Do your worst. We will outlast you.”
With that, Cathal reined his stallion around and kicked it into a stumbling canter through the snow. Tormud and his companion followed him back into the fort.
A heavy silence settled over the world then, and Mor’s vision blurred. Her father had spok
en. There would be no surrender—and so no chance of peace. The last shreds of hope fell away, and Mor’s legs buckled under her. Her knees sank into the snow as she stared after her father, willing him to turn around, to change his mind.
But he did not. And as Mor watched him disappear, snow started to flutter down.
There would be no more negotiations between them now. Only death.
“Well, that was a waste of everyone’s time,” Wid of The Wolf muttered behind her. “I could have told you he wasn’t going to back down.”
“It was worth a try, Wid,” Galan of The Eagle replied, a note of censure in his gruff voice. “Would you have gone against your own father like that?”
The question was met with silence. Mor did not look their way. Instead, she dropped her gaze to the snowy ground. Fresh flakes were now settling there. An icy wind bit into her, but she paid it no mind.
Coward.
Her father’s insult had cut her deep, had ripped a piece of her heart away. She realized then how foolish she had been. She had truly believed he could be swayed, that his love for her would allow her to reach him.
But the opposite had happened. When she looked into her father’s eyes, before he turned away, all she had seen was rage and burning hate. She was truly alone now. She wondered then, the thought rising sluggishly through the churning anguish, what would become of her.
Would they slay her here and now, or would they drag her into battle with them, to be offered up as a sacrifice—the ultimate insult to Cathal mac Calum.
Tears stung, and Mor squeezed her eyes shut, forcing them back. A warrior did not weep.
“On your feet lass.” Galan tugged at the chain attached to her wrists. “It’s time to go.”
Mor struggled up, head hanging, and awaited the sentence. But when silence stretched out, she raised her chin to meet The Eagle chieftain’s gaze. Galan was watching her, an enigmatic expression upon his hawkish face. The other three chieftains also observed her keenly.
Feeling another stare piercing her, Mor’s attention shifted to the tall, dark-haired warrior who stood behind them. Talor watched her, his handsome face taut, his eyes shadowed. The moment drew out, and then Mor looked back to the men who would now decide her fate.
Galan shifted his attention to Varar. The two men’s gazes fused for a heartbeat, and then Galan looked to Wid and Tadhg. “Does Mor deserve to die for her efforts?” he asked, his voice a low rumble. “Or shall we spare her for now?”
His gaze rested upon Wid, the chieftain who Mor sensed bore the greatest grudge against her people. No one had said as much, but she guessed that he had lost loved ones in this conflict.
Wid’s heavy brow furrowed, his bearded face growing stern. He knew that Galan was putting the decision in his hands.
“Take the woman away,” Wid muttered finally. “We can decide her fate once the siege is done.”
Mor drew in a shaky breath, despair rather than relief settling over her. She had failed her people.
Glancing back at the walls of Dun Ringill, she then settled her attention on Galan once more. She was about to betray her father once more—but if the siege was going to take place, it was best that it did not drag out. “Be wary of the walls of the inner perimeter,” she said after a pause. “We’ve been busy preparing pitch for any attack. They will have barrels of it burning up there … and will be waiting for you to get underneath them.”
Chapter Twenty-one
The Siege Begins
TALOR STUMBLED BACK, raising his shield as a stream of bubbling black liquid cascaded down from the top of the wall. As Mor had warned, The Serpent were attempting to douse them with burning pitch.
The acrid odor stung the back of Talor’s throat while he scanned the surging crowd of warriors gathered at the base of the wall; like him, they had been wary of approaching.
The Cruthini were clearly efficient at making pitch—a black tarry substance created from melted pine resin. Dun Ringill already had a few barrels of it, although they had obviously been busy making more over the past months.
Mor had saved a number of lives in warning them about it.
“Keep your distance,” he shouted to the other warriors. “They’ll run out of pitch eventually … and when they do, we’ll put up ladders.”
After issuing the order, Talor shifted farther back from the wall, lowered his shield, and joined the line of archers who were picking off as many Cruthini as they could from the top of the high perimeter that encircled the broch. Talor unslung his own bow, drew an arrow from the quiver upon his back, and notched it. His mouth thinned as he scanned the top of the wall, looking for a target.
His forefathers had done a good job when they built Dun Ringill. They had constructed this wall over twenty feet high and four feet thick. He remembered how exhausting the climb had been when he had scaled its seaward side.
His grandfather had added further defenses to the inner perimeter during his time as chieftain: high stone crenellations that gave those defending the top of the wall, and archers, something to hide behind.
But The Serpent could not cower there forever. Sooner or later, they would have to emerge from the stone defenses, and when they did, he would be ready.
A bulky figure clad in leather and fur appeared then, ducking out from behind the stone wall.
Talor’s arrow hissed as it flew from his bow. It found its mark, striking the warrior in the chest. With a strangled cry, arms wheeling, the man fell to his death.
“Good shot,” Fina grunted from beside him. She then loosed an arrow that narrowly missed a Cruthini’s skull as he poked his head over the crenellation. She muttered a curse. “Almost had him.”
“Patience,” Talor counseled her. Although Fina was skilled with a bow, he had always been the better of the two of them. He was not a patient man by nature, but when it came to getting the right shot with his bow, he could wait for an eternity. Not so, Fina.
“This is ridiculous,” she growled. “Let me draw my sword and fight with the others at the wall.”
“And defy your husband’s wishes?” Talor did not take his gaze off the top of the defenses as he replied. The enemy had just emptied another barrel of flaming pitch over the side, causing the tide of attackers to draw back even farther. “Varar’s only trying to take care of you.”
“I should have known you would take his side,” Fina muttered. She loosed another arrow then, and this time it found its mark, piercing a Cruthini through the leg. The man, who had foolishly ventured out into the open for a moment, collapsed on the wall, disappearing from sight.
“Aye, you are carrying a bairn, Fina,” Talor countered as he drew another arrow and notched it. “If it were up to me, you wouldn’t be taking part in this siege at all … but Varar knows we need your skill with a bow. However, if I catch you sneaking up to the front, I’ll drag you back by the hair myself.”
“Just you try,” Fina replied. Talor allowed himself a grim smile. Even without looking her way, he knew his cousin would be glaring at him ferociously. It mattered not. He stood firmly with Varar on this. Fina was not to put herself and the bairn she carried at risk.
Focusing once more on the wall, he narrowed his gaze. Around him the snow gusted in, swirling thickly. If it snowed any heavier, it would impede the archers’ visibility. The siege was going slower than he would have liked. The snow shrouded their vision, and as Mor had warned, the enemy had numerous barrels of burning pitch. While they lasted, they could not risk climbing the wall or getting a battering ram near the gates.
Talor’s jaw tightened then. Sooner or later the pitch would run out—and when it did, they would be ready.
Night was settling over the ivory-colored hills when the army drew back from Dun Ringill and returned to the encampment. Standing on the edge, her hands still bound behind her back, Mor watched them arrive.
Their numbers seemed as great as they had been that morning—so her father’s warriors had not managed to weaken them—although many of t
he approaching men and women were scowling.
At a glance she realized that the siege was progressing slowly.
Of course it will, she reminded herself, and despite everything, pride surged. My father defends Dun Ringill.
Cathal mac Calum was a veteran of many sieges. He knew how to hold out against the enemy; only, she was aware how limited their supplies were inside the broch, and how few warriors there were to defend it. Once the attackers started putting up ladders, it would be hard to stem the tide; and once they breached the gates, it would be over for those inside.
Her belly twisted at the thought, cold sweat beading upon her skin.
The despair that had consumed her at dawn sloughed away, her stubborn will surfacing once more.
I won’t give up.
She had to make sure they did not slaughter everyone once they entered the broch. She had to try once more to get the chieftains of the united tribes to show mercy for her people.
Flanked by two warriors, Mor continued to watch the approaching army. They reached the outskirts of the camp, flowing past her. Many of them did not even spare her a glance, although one or two spat on the ground as they strode by.
Mor did not flinch, did not respond. She could hardly expect any better. Her fingers curled, her fingernails biting into her palms. It did not matter if she was an outcast; she would not lose hope.
She spotted Talor then. Relief swept through her; a welcome distraction from the isolation she felt. She was glad to see he still lived, for she had been worried he might do something reckless during the first day of the siege—something that might cost him his life.
Talor strode through the midst of the milling crowd toward her, his cousin Fina just a few feet behind him. Both of them had tired, pale faces, their expressions strained. The snow had continued to fall throughout the day, and Mor knew that would have made the siege even harder.
Fina cast Mor a baleful glance before continuing past her; however, Talor halted. Standing just a couple of feet apart, they looked at each other.