Barbarian Slave

by Jayne Castel

  “It’s to ensure an easy birth.”

  A man’s voice to her left drew Lucrezia’s gaze away from where Galan was now twirling Tea around. They were both laughing, the joy on their faces illuminating the night.

  Lucrezia turned to find Tarl standing next to her. “What is?” she asked, scowling. Tarl looked distracting this eve, dressed in dark leather, blue woad designs painted upon his arms. His nearness made her nervous. She wished he would leave her be.

  “When a woman with child steps through the flames,” he replied with a smile. “Later, unwed women will jump over the fire, in the hope they’ll find a good husband.” His gaze remained upon her, his smile widening. “You could try it.”

  Lucrezia snorted. It was an unladylike sound, one her mother would have once chastised her for, but she did not care. “I’ll not wed again,” she replied.

  His storm-grey eyes widened. “Why not?”

  Lucrezia inhaled sharply, regretting her candor. “I … I didn’t enjoy being a wife,” she hedged.

  Tarl’s gaze narrowed. “Was your husband cruel to you?”

  She shook her head. “Marcus was a good man … it’s just that …” She broke off here, wishing they had never begun this conversation. How had she gotten herself onto this topic? “He … he preferred men.” She eventually bit the words out.

  Tarl gave her a long slow look. “You didn’t lie together?”

  She shook her head, her cheeks suddenly burning. This was the most embarrassing talk she had ever had; she could not believe she was having it with Tarl. But since she had come this far, he might as well know the rest. “Only once … on our wedding night. It … it didn’t go well.”

  Their gazes met and held. She did not know what his people thought about men desiring men, or women desiring women. It was accepted amongst her own people, even if Marcus’s position in society meant that he was expected to sire children.

  “The man was a fool,” Tarl said softly, the words caressing her as if he had just reached out and stroked her cheek. “He must have been blind.”

  Lucrezia huffed a bitter laugh. “No … he just didn’t want me. We lived together companionably enough … became friends even. But it never went any further than—”

  “A honeyed-oatcake?” Deri appeared before them. She wore a crown of primroses in her thick brown hair and carried a basket of cakes.

  Lucrezia shook her head; she had suddenly lost her appetite.

  Tarl smiled at the young woman. “Maybe later.”

  Sensing she had just interrupted something, Deri gave them a bright smile and moved on.

  A charged silence settled between them. Lucrezia looked away, watching the revelry once more. However, this time she was distracted; she was too aware of the virile man standing next to her, of his gaze searing her.

  Lucrezia swallowed. “The brands those men are waving about,” she began, desperate to steer the conversation into safer waters. “What’s it for?”

  “They’re imitating the circling of the sun in the sky,” he replied. “This night beckons the sun back after the long darkness.”

  Lucrezia nodded, resolutely keeping her gaze upon the crowd. “Where’s Donnel this eve?” she then asked lightly. “I haven’t seen him.”

  Tarl let out a long sigh. “He’s in ill-humor these days. I don’t think he’ll be joining us.”

  She glanced at him then. “He grieves for his wife still?”

  Tarl nodded, his gaze snaring hers once more. “They were very happy together. Evenings like this will bring back memories for Donnel.”

  Lucrezia watched him. Ever since their conversation while out hawking a few days earlier, she had found herself thinking about Tarl frequently; something which equally irritated and unsettled her. The words they had shared during the ride home had revealed his restlessness, his insecurity when it came to his elder brother. Donnel was not the only one of the three brothers who was unhappy.

  “The other day, you said you felt trapped here,” she said after a moment. “But you never told me why.”

  Tarl’s mouth quirked. “It doesn’t matter. Like you said … I have no reason to feel that way. Dun Ringill is a good place to live. Galan is a fair chief.”

  Lucrezia gave him a hard look. Had she really been that dismissive? “Eithni told me you and Galan argued about Wurgest upon your return here,” she said quietly. “Do you believe he resents you for stirring up trouble?”

  Tarl shook his head, his gaze traveling to where Galan now kissed Tea, much to the delight of the revelers. “Galan isn’t a man to hold grudges,” he ground out, his face going taut.

  The pain in his voice was palpable, and for the first time Lucrezia felt the shield around her heart lower. She could see he looked up to his brother.

  “The three of you aren’t that different,” she said softly. “You’re all branches off the same mighty oak. Galan will trust you again in time.”

  Tarl shook his head, his jaw tightening. “Not if The People of the Boar attack us. Wurgest’s elder brother is the chieftain of his tribe—and I’d guess he won’t need much convincing.”

  Lucrezia watched him, unease settling in the pit of her belly. Truthfully, she had not given Wurgest much thought these past months. She had believed he would not bother them again. “But we’ve been back awhile … why haven’t they attacked?”

  Tarl’s expression grew grim. “He’ll be biding his time.”

  “Perhaps he’s decided to let it lie?”

  Tarl shook his head. “The people of this isle never forget grievances. Wurgest has not forgotten—and sooner or later he’ll want his reckoning.”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Wurgest’s Challenge

  the people of Dun Ringill had just sat down to their noon meal when the strangers arrived.

  Seated to Galan’s right, Tarl was carving himself off some roast fowl to go with the pile of mashed turnip and butter on his platter. Catching movement out of the corner of his eye, he looked up to see Cal stride into the tower. One look at the grim expression on the warrior’s face and Tarl knew something was amiss.

  Cal’s gaze met Galan’s. “A group of warriors are here, chief,” he announced. “Boars.”

  Tarl stiffened, his appetite for the food before him dissolving. He watched Cal, but did not glance over at Galan—he did not want to see the look on his face. To Tarl’s right, Donnel shifted on the bench. He leaned forward, his gaze hard. “How many?”

  “Ten,” Cal replied. “It’s an emissary, not a war party.”

  Donnel glanced over at Tarl and their gazes met. No words were needed as an unspoken message passed between them.

  The time has come.

  “Who are these men?” Galan asked, his voice low. “Is Wurgest among them?”

  “I don’t recognize any of them, except for one,” Cal replied. “His name is Loxa—he is Wurgest’s younger brother.”

  Tarl inhaled deeply and forced himself to glance over at Galan. His brother was not looking in his direction. Galan’s brow was furrowed, his expression hawkish. “What do they want?”

  “To speak with you.”

  Galan pushed aside the platter of food he had just started and leaned back in his carven chair. “Bring them in then.”

  Tea gave her husband a wary glance. “What are they up to?”

  “I don’t know,” Galan growled, drumming his fingers on the oaken table top, “but I look forward to finding out.”

  He had still not glanced in Tarl’s direction; Galan was deliberately ignoring him. Clenching his jaw, Tarl looked across at where Lucrezia sat at one of the lower tables. She was watching him closely, for she knew what this visit meant. Their gazes met, and he saw the worry in those luminous brown eyes.

  An invisible vise clamped around Tarl’s ribcage. He dragged in a breath and tore his gaze away. This was one time he was not pleased to be proved right.

  More than anyone here, Lucrezia understood how he felt. Five days had passed since Bealtunn. He had
approached her hoping to melt the wall of ice between them, perhaps to flirt a little. Instead he had learned she had been unhappily married, and he then had revealed the bitter pitiful state of his soul.

  Afterward he had felt embarrassed about it, and had avoided Lucrezia ever since—not that he’d had to try hard, for she too seemed to be going out of her way to keep her distance from him. It was an odd dance they had begun: two steps forward and eight back. Tarl was irresistibly drawn to her, and yet when those walnut-colored eyes met his she saw too much.

  The sound of booted feet approaching up the stone steps into the fort drew Tarl’s attention to the entrance. A moment later a big clean-shaven man with wild black hair strode into Galan’s domain. He clove a path across the floor, leather creaking as he walked. And as he approached the platform at the far end, Tarl noted the man had midnight blue eyes—the same color as Wurgest’s. On his right bicep, he wore the mark of The Boar. A group of men followed the warrior into the hall.

  “Welcome to Dun Ringill,” Galan greeted him, his face an impassive mask. “Whom do I have the pleasure of addressing?”

  “I am Loxa mac Wrad,” the newcomer replied, his voice deep and booming. He stood arrogantly in the center of Galan’s hall, as if he owned it, before his gaze swept across the chieftain’s table, taking in the faces of those seated there.

  Half-way along, the young warrior’s attention rested upon Eithni. Tarl witnessed the man grow still for a heart-beat, his blue eyes widening. The girl stared back, her jaw tensing under his scrutiny.

  A moment later Loxa’s attention moved on, sweeping back to Galan. “And you must be Galan mac Muin.”

  “Aye,” Galan replied, with that same neutral manner. “What brings you to Dun Ringill?”

  Loxa’s gaze shifted to Galan’s right, and flicked between Tarl and Donnel. “Which of you is Tarl?”

  Tarl nodded curtly.

  Loxa smiled, showing his teeth. “Then you’ll know why I’m here.”

  Tarl gritted his teeth. “I have no idea—speak plainly.”

  Loxa watched him with that same wolfish look Wurgest had, before his smile twisted. “Wurgest has a high standing among our people. Our brother, Urcal, rules our tribe—when you offended Wurgest, you offended us all.”

  “I didn’t offend him,” Tarl growled. “He took offense. There’s a difference.”

  “You stole his war prize. You dishonored him.”

  “We know what happened at the wall,” Galan interrupted, his voice curt. “Get to the point.”

  Loxa tore his gaze from Tarl and focused upon The Eagle chief, his eyes narrowing. “Your brother has potentially soured relations between our peoples. However, you have the chance to put things right.”

  Galan’s lip curled. “Aye—and how’s that?”

  “Urcal is within his rights to attack this territory for such a slight,” Loxa continued, his own tone hardening, “but he does not want to ruin the good relationship he built with your father. To avoid a feud, he has come up with a solution—one that involves only Wurgest and Tarl.”

  The feasting hall went still. Tarl watched Loxa and curled his fingers into fists under the table. This poison-tongued serpent needed a blade in his belly.

  “And what is that?” Galan asked quietly. Tarl could feel the simmering rage burning off his brother. Galan was slow to anger, but terrible when crossed. Yet Loxa did not seem to notice, or care, that the chieftain of The Eagle was moments away from losing his temper.

  “A duel to the death—just the two of them.” The sound of indrawn breaths and curses hissed between clenched teeth reverberated around the stone tower. But before anyone could speak up, Loxa pressed on. “Urcal has set a date—two nights from now. At noon on the third day, the two warriors will meet in the center of The Valley of the Tors, half a day’s journey south of here. They will come alone … and they will fight until one of them is dead. Only then will this slight be settled.”

  Tarl could feel Lucrezia’s gaze boring into him, willing him to look her way. Yet, this time, he did not. He knew she would be horrified by this challenge, and he could not bear to see the look in her eyes. Instead he opened his mouth to respond to Loxa, but was forestalled by Galan.

  “We need time to discuss this.” The words fell, heavy and cold in the hush. “Leave us for a few moments.”

  Loxa nodded. He then threw Tarl a savage smile and turned, stalking from the hall with his men at his heels.

  As soon as The Boar warriors had departed, Donnel turned to Galan. “You cannot be thinking to agree to this?” he demanded. “I say we send Loxa back to his chief with his tongue cut out.”

  Galan’s mouth twisted. “Aye—I’m tempted. I didn’t send him out so that I could consider whether to accept the challenge. I did it because, just one word more and there would have been Boar blood staining the rushes.” Galan leaned back in his chair, his mouth thinning. “There will be no agreement.”

  Tarl cleared his throat. “Am I to have no say in this?” He felt all eyes swivel to him. He saw the surprise on Donnel’s face, the grim look on Galan’s, and knew this was not going to be an easy argument to win. “If I don’t accept Wurgest’s challenge, then we’ll make an enemy of Urcal.”

  Galan clenched his jaw, his dark brows knitting together, and he scowled. “This is your life, Tarl. I won’t throw it away.”

  Tarl snorted. “You won’t be. It’s a fight, man to man. I’ve bested Wurgest before, and I’ll do it again.” He glanced left at where Donnel sat watching him as if he had just lost his mind. “Tell him.”

  Donnel huffed out an exasperated laugh. “Aye—you beat him with your fists. But I’ve seen Wurgest with blades. He fights with two axes, which he wields like The Warrior himself.”

  “And I’m skilled with a blade as well. I don’t need to show off with two of them.”

  “Damn you and your pride, Tarl!” Galan exploded. “I’ll not have you put your life at stake for a madman with a grudge.”

  Tarl held his gaze, unflinching. “But you’d put the safety of this tribe at risk?” A deathly silence fell then, but Tarl pressed on. He did not care if he angered Galan over this. There were things that needed to be said. “I started this, and I need to finish it. Ever since we got back, you’ve hardly been able to look me in the eye.”

  Galan stared at him, and Tarl saw guilt flicker in his iron-grey eyes.

  Frustrated, Tarl continued. “You were right. I was stupid, impulsive, and thoughtless. I need to put this right. Please let me.”

  A long hush drew out between them. The others who sat at the long table—Donnel, Eithni, Tea, and Galan’s men and their wives—all held their tongues. They knew, as did Tarl, that this was a crucial moment between the two brothers. A deciding moment for their relationship from this point forward.

  Galan eventually let out a long sigh and raked a hand through his hair. His face twisted, and his eyes were pained. Watching him, Tarl knew he had won.

  “I could command you not to fight him,” Galan said eventually. “I could forbid it—but this is not my decision.”

  “It is,” Donnel cut in, his voice harsh. “You’re the chief. You’re—”

  Galan put up his hand to him. However, his gaze remained upon Tarl. “You spoke the truth, Tarl. I was disappointed in you … but that doesn’t mean I want you to sacrifice yourself. I’d never want that. Are you sure you realize what you’re doing?”

  Tarl nodded. “I’ll fight him, and I’ll win. It’s the best way … it’s the only way.”

  “Clod-head,” Donnel growled from beside him. “It’s the stupidest idea I’ve ever heard—he’ll cut you up for fish-bait.”

  Tarl glanced at him, a bitter smile curving his lips. “Maybe, but at least we can end this.”

  Across the hall Lucrezia watched the conversation unfold between Tarl and his brothers. Aghast, she heard Tarl cast aside his brothers’ concerns and advice, and force Galan into letting him decide for himself. Her stomach twisted itself in knots a
s she saw the chief send one of his men out to retrieve Loxa and his warriors.

  The strutting dark haired Boar re-entered the fort, his gaze swiveling to Eithni—as it had on his arrival—before he fixed his attention upon Galan. A wild smile split his face when the chieftain of The Eagles announced that Tarl would accept his challenge and meet his brother in battle, just two days hence.

  Without another word Loxa nodded, swung around, and strode from the hall, leaving a brittle silence in his wake.

  This is madness.

  Lucrezia looked down at the platter of food she had barely touched, panic swelling in her breast. She fixed her gaze upon Tarl, willing him to look her way. Yet, stubbornly, he did not. Now that The Boars had departed, conversation resumed in the feasting hall; however, it was not the good-natured banter and laughter of earlier, but angry murmuring, punctuated by curses.

  Tarl looked to be arguing with Donnel and Galan again. Lucrezia could no longer hear what they were saying. Frustration bubbled up, and she clenched her jaw. What was Tarl up to? And why had Galan agreed to it?

  Men, and their stupid—pig-headed—pride. Had she ever met a man who was not ruled by it? Marcus had remained at Vindolanda because of his pride—despite that he had ached for his homeland—and her own father had made political enemies over his stubborn refusal to temper his opinion when challenged.

  She glanced over at where Ruith sat next to her. The seer had been silent ever since Loxa and his men had left, and her expression was thoughtful. Although the men and women around her muttered amongst themselves, the bandruí seemed apart from it all, almost as if she had watched the whole scene from another perspective.

  Over the past few months, she had seen the influence Ruith wielded here. Folk trusted her divinations, and she bore an ancient kind of wisdom. The practices Ruith used were not completely foreign to Lucrezia. Her own people used augury, although it had fallen out of favor of late. She remembered her grandmother telling her that you could tell whether the gods looked favorably upon you from the sighting and flight of birds.