by Selena Kitt
Mayhaps bloodshed and panic could still be avoided, she thought.
“One of our pack’s blood has been spilled! Ye, Alistair MacFalon, are in violation of the wolf pact!” Raife raised his sword high, speaking to the gathered crowd, but he was looking straight at Alistair. “We’re invokin’ single combat blood rite!”
“There is no wolf pact!” Alistair spat, shaking loose of the men who held him. “We hold t’no such thing.”
“Will it be war then?” Raife stared the man down.
The crowd murmured its disapproval and Sibyl glanced at many of them, who were dressed in finery for attending a wedding but hadn’t at all planned on being slaughtered in the midst of a battle between man and wulver.
“Ye have t’honor the pact!” A cry rose up from the crowd. Sibyl didn’t know from where, but she was grateful when the rest of them began to take up the chant.
“Honor the pact! Honor the pact!”
Alistair reddened, his face twisted in a sneer at the sudden turn of the crowd’s allegiance from their laird.
“I’ll honor it!” Alistair announced loudly, bowing in Raife’s direction with much show. “The wolf pact allows for blood rite if either party feels the pact has been violated.”
He was explaining to the crowd, Sibyl realized, her heart hammering in her chest at his words. He had that smile on his face, that cold, calculating smile. What was he up to? Whatever it was, she didn’t like it.
“But as laird, I’ve a right t’call for a stand-in!” Alistair raised his voice, looking at his men, his eyes a cloudy, glittering gray. “Which of ye brave men will stand in me place?”
Sibyl held her breath, waiting. Of course Alistair would take this way out—and it looked, to the crowd, as if he were being magnanimous by calling on one of his “brave men” to take his place. Of course their laird couldn’t fight—he was laird. He had a clan to run, after all. Sibyl hated the way he made it look, as if the men who stood by, considering his offer, were the ones who were cowards for staying silent.
“He broke the pact!” someone murmured.
Sibyl’s head came up, eyes widening as those phrases peppered the crowd.
“He took the wolf-woman!”
“Fight yer own battles!” This last was spoken so clearly it echoed against the castle’s gray walls.
“Donal?” Alistair turned to his brother, looking up and smiling at him on horseback. “As second son, tis yer place to stand in for yer laird.”
“Tis true. The pact allows for a stand-in.” Donal reined his horse away from his brother, glancing over his shoulder as he clearly replied, “But all have the right of refusal, brother. Even the second son. And I’m sorry, but I refuse. Do as the man said—fight yer own battles.”
A cheer—an actual cheer—went up from the crowd.
“Ye wanna see a fight?” Alistair called, his face twisted in a scowl as he called for his sword and a man brought it to him. The crowd cheered again. Of course they wanted to see a fight. They’d come for a wedding, but a fight was even better, she judged from the reactions.
Sibyl had seen all manner of jousts back home in England but she didn’t understand how this was going to work. Alistair swung his sword through the air, showing off for the crowd. He looked back over his shoulder at Raife, goading the man.
“Ye ready, dog?”
Raife shook his head and a slow smile spread across Alistair’s face.
“Afraid, are ye?” Alistair called loudly—for the benefit of the show, of course. “Get down here and face me like a man.”
“Tis my brother who’s callin’ for blood rite.” Raife’s voice rose over the crowd, sure and clear. Just the sound of it made Sibyl want to run to him. “Tis Darrow ye’ll be facin’.”
“Dog-boy, is that what ye said?” Alistair swung his sword, stabbing at thin air. “What was yer name again? Ruff? Ruff?”
Alistair barked and howled and the crowd laughed.
Sibyl had been so focused on Raife, she had missed Darrow in the crowd of wulvers. He reined his horse up next to his brother and Sibyl saw the horn he’d blown still in his hand. His eyes were dark, so dark, glittering as he slid off his horse. He handed the horn to his brother and drew his sword as he approached Alistair in the middle of the field.
Sibyl thought of Laina. She thought of their little blue-eyed boy back in the mountain, a baby Sibyl had seen birthed, had put to his mother’s breast so he could help keep her from bleeding to death. Sweet, gentle Laina, whose mother had been captured by the MacFalons, who had birthed Laina in a cage, and had been killed before she even had a chance to hold her daughter.
Smart, determined Laina, so insistent, so sure she could find a “cure” for their wulver affliction. Where was Laina now? Sibyl scanned the crowd, hoping against hope to see her face. Had the maid told her the truth when she said Laina had thrown herself upon a spike? Could it possibly be true? She didn’t want to believe it.
“Come on, dog.” Alistair turned toward Darrow as the big man approached. The crowd gasped at the size difference between the competitors. Darrow towered over the Scot—and Darrow was small compared to his brother, Raife, who sat still in his saddle, watching. Donal had reined his horse in on Sibyl’s side of the field and she moved closer.
“Let’s get this over wit’!” Alistair said loudly. “I do’na wanna get fleas.”
More laughter from the crowd, but it was nervous laughter. They had seen Darrow now and had judged Alistair’s chances accordingly. So had Sibyl. Darrow had bloodlust in his eyes and she couldn’t blame him. If they didn’t stop this, he would be likely to kill Alistair, and then what? Would it simply mean more war?
“Donal,” Sibyl called when she was beside the man. He glanced down, frowning at her, reining his horse away. She was standing quite close and put her hand on the horse’s flank. “This blood rite? They fight until blood is drawn then? How does it work?”
Donal shook his head but the answer came from an old man to her right.
“Blood rite’s ta the death, lass.” The old man gave a single nod, his gaze on the men approaching each other across the field. “A life for a life.”
“Oh no.” She looked up at Alistair’s brother, panicked. “Donal, no!”
“Tis the pact,” he informed her, his head whirling around as the first sound of steel striking steel rang out. “Let it work, as it should. One of ‘em’ll die today.”
“T’will be an honorable death,” the old man beside her agreed.
An honorable death? What did that mean, if Darrow was dead? She saw the look in Raife’s brother’s eyes and knew, without Laina, he believed he had nothing to live for. She wanted to run to him, to plead with him to live, for his child’s sake. Don’t orphan your son, Sibyl thought, her heart breaking as the men crossed swords again. She couldn’t look. She couldn’t bear to watch.
“Is it over?” she whispered, covering her face. “Please let it be over.”
Steel against steel. The grunt of men hefting heavy swords. The rising cry of the crowd as one or the other man landed a blow. Had it been a death blow?
“Please tell me it’s over,” she whispered, saying a prayer in her head for Darrow. She had no love for Alistair, but it was Darrow she didn’t want to perish in this “blood rite.”
Darrow howled. It was a long, keening howl, a wulver wail, and Sibyl’s head came up, sure she would see the man split in two on the field.
But it was Alistair who was down, Darrow’s foot on the man’s chest, sword at his throat. Darrow’s head was thrown back, his dark hair spilling down his shoulders as he howled, not at the moon, but at the sun.
“Wait!” Alistair waved his arms, gasping for air. “Call it off! I did’na kill’er!”
Sibyl could see, even from her vantage point, the abject terror in Alistair’s eyes.
“Yer bitch is alive! She’s—” Alistair croaked, gasping for breath as Darrow took a step back, frowning at the man.
“Show me!” Darrow didn’t
take his sword from Alistair’s throat.
“Bring’er!” Alistair choked, his voice strangled. “Fer God’s sake, get the bitch!”
Sibyl watched, breath held, as one of the men—Gregor, the same one who had manhandled her, the one who had escaped them on the stairs—led a stumbling woman onto the field. Could it be? Her heart soared in her chest as the Scot shoved the woman forward. Sibyl couldn’t see her face—it was obscured by cloth. She had a grain sack pulled over her head, hands bound behind her with rope.
Was this some trick?
“Laina?” Darrow called but didn’t look over his shoulder as they approached from behind. He didn’t take his eyes off the man under his blade.
“Darrow!” Laina responded, voice muffled under the bag. Her voice was full of pain, horror, unspeakable things Sibyl didn’t want to think about, but it was also filled with longing and the sound of hope.
Darrow sheathed his sword, giving one last, low growl in his throat at the man on the ground, before turning to his wife. Gregor pushed Laina forward and she fell into her husband’s arms as he pulled the sack from her head. Her face was filthy, tear-streaked, as she turned her eyes up to him and he embraced her, a look of relief on his face that was palpable. He yanked at her restraints, pulling her free so Laina could put her arms around her husband’s neck.
Sibyl sobbed, her own relief taking flight in her chest as she saw Laina was alive. Alive! She could hardly believe it. She looked across the field and saw Raife watching them. He was a blur to her—they were all a blur through her tears. She wouldn’t have heard anything, expected anything at all, if she hadn’t heard the collective gasp from the crowd.
She saw it a moment too late. Alistair was up, stalking toward the reuniting couple, his sword drawn. Sibyl heard a scream. She thought it might be her own as she sank to her knees in the grass, watching Alistair grab Darrow’s shoulder for leverage and shove his sword straight through. Laina screamed, wiping blood from Darrow’s mouth as it flooded their kiss, the tip of the sword narrowly missing her.
It happened so quickly Sibyl thought she was dreaming. She screamed again, but the crowd drowned out the sound as Alistair pulled his blade and lifted it high in the air, aiming to take Darrow’s head clean off his shoulders. Raife was riding toward them, and so was Donal, but it was over before either horse had reached the bloody scene.
Darrow pushed Laina to her knees, turning and unsheathing his sword just in time to catch the steel of Alistair’s sword in mid-air. The swords clashed and tangled for just a moment, and then Darrow pushed forward hard, moving Alistair off-balance, and then he swung. Sibyl screamed again—she heard it in her own head—as she watched Alistair’s head topple from his shoulders. Donal’s horse had to sidestep it as it rolled in the grass, Alistair’s dead eyes staring up at a cloudless blue sky.
Darrow went to his knees, his shirt and plaid blooming bright red, and Laina helped lie him down in the grass. Raife was off his horse, kneeling before his brother’s body, and Sibyl ran to them without another thought.
“Is it fatal?” she gasped, hands already moving on Darrow’s belly, searching for the wound. So much blood. So very much blood.
“What d’ye care?” Raife looked at her, his blue eyes clouded, dark. His gaze raked her and Sibyl looked down, seeing the ruin of her wedding dress, now soaking up Darrow’s blood.
“Bring ‘im inside,” Donal ordered his men. “And take yer laird’s body to the tombs. We’ll be plannin’ a funeral.”
Laina sobbed over Darrow’s body. She refused to let him go when the men brought a carrying litter to take him inside.
“Where’re ye going?” Raife grabbed Sibyl’s arm when she went to follow, yanking her back to face him.
“To help!” she cried, trying to shake him loose, but he was too strong. “Raife! Let me go!”
Beside them, the men were putting Alistair’s body on another litter. His head was still at their feet, a sight that turned Sibyl’s stomach. She avoided looking down, meeting Raife’s eyes. She had never seen that look in them before, so dark, so…
“He’s the man ye want.” Raife glanced down, letting go of her arm long enough to grab Alistair’s head by the hair. She found herself face to face with her betrothed, his face still retaining that same wide-eyed look he’d worn when Darrow lopped off his head. “Here’s yer prize. Take it. It’s yers. Ye earned it.”
The crowd around her gasped as Raife tossed the man’s head at Sibyl.
And she caught it.
It was a reflex action from years of playing ball with the boys in the yard, and Sibyl watched, aghast, as the man she loved left her there, sinking to her knees in the middle of the empty field wearing a bloody wedding dress and holding the head of a man she had once promised to marry in her lap. Raife left her. He left her. The pain that seared through her middle was far worse than any sword he could have used to run her through.
Sibyl threw her head back and howled.
* * * *
“He still will’na see ye.” Laina shook her head sadly as Sibyl asked, for the hundredth time, if Raife had asked about her. “But he’ll come ‘round. He’s jus’… well. Wulvers are stubborn.”
“Some of us more’n others!” Darrow called from across the room, attempting to sit up.
“Oh no you don’t!” Sibyl rushed over, pushing him back into bed, checking his bandage, seeing blood blooming there. “Speaking of stubborn. Stay in bed, will you, please?”
“Even wulvers need t’heal, Darrow.” Laina agreed, climbing into bed with her husband and pushing him back onto the mattress. “What’m I gonna hafta do t’keep ye in bed, hm?”
“Lemme think on that…” Darrow grinned, wrapping an arm around Laina’s waist and pulling her in for a kiss. It was a sight that both delighted Sibyl and hurt her heart.
“Keep him in bed,” Sibyl warned, taking Darrow’s tray and carrying it toward the door.
“Oh, aye.” Laina giggled as she kissed her husband down onto the mattress.
“No strenuous movements!” Sibyl warned, backing out of the door, still carrying the tray.
“Tell me stupid, stubborn brother I wanna see him!” Darrow called.
“Lemme take that, banrighinn.” Kirstin frowned, stopping Sibyl in the hallway to relieve her of the tray. “Ye should’na be carrying a tray like a servant.”
Banrighinn—that was the Gaelic word for “queen.” Kirstin—who had come without being asked to help nurse Darrow back to health—had taken to calling Sibyl banrighinn, even though Raife had never marked her, hadn’t claimed her in front of the pact. Kirstin was as sure as Laina that the man would come around. Sibyl wasn’t so sure. But being called any variation of “queen,” no matter the language, was taking some getting used to.
“It keeps me busy,” Sibyl argued as she handed over the tray. Darrow had eaten stew and half a loaf of bread—his appetite was definitely back.
She was still surprised that Darrow had survived his wound, but somehow Alistair had managed to miss most of his major organs. And the ones he had hit had healed themselves miraculously fast, in true wulver fashion. Alistair, however, had not managed to survive his wounds, and wouldn’t have, even if he’d been a wulver. Sibyl had been sure Alistair’s death would start a war between the wulvers and the clan, but so many people had seen the despicable thing their laird had done, word quickly spread.
Donal had been declared laird before Alistair’s body was laid to rest.
“Donal was askin after ye,” Kirstin told her, unable to hide the small smile on her lips. Kirstin had taken a bit of a shine to the man. Even Sibyl, lost in her old world, had noticed.
Kirstin looked at Sibyl with sympathetic eyes. Everyone knew she was in love with Raife—and everyone knew the man refused to speak to her. She had tried, several times, to reason with him, but he simply looked at her with those sad, blue eyes, and walked away. He managed to escape her and whatever she had to say, even if it meant mounting his horse and riding away.
Donal welcomed them graciously into his home and offered them all a room and food for as long as they required. He had been very kind, as always, a marked difference from his brother, and the way he conducted himself as laird had been the exact opposite as well. When Sibyl had begun to sob at Alistair’s funeral—she caught Raife’s eye during the proceedings and couldn’t get the image of him throwing Alistair’s head at her—Donal had offered his shoulder.