Warrior's Wrath (The Pict Wars Book 3) Page 3

  It was a sore subject for Tormud.

  Resisting the urge to smile, Mor straightened up and drained the dregs of ale from her cup. It was getting late, and a pile of soft furs in her alcove beckoned. The bitter season was starting to drag on now. The chill weather had arrived just after Gateway and had not let up since. She longed for the soft warmth of a summer breeze, to feel the heat of the sun on her face, to inhale the woody scent of flowering heather. But spring still felt a long way off.

  And spring was not something she could look forward to, for with it hostilities between her people and the other tribes would resume once more. Mor’s breathing quickened at the thought. Her father was proud, but even he would have realized that after the siege of Balintur their numbers were seriously diminished. They could hold Dun Ringill for a time, for sure, but it was merely delaying the inevitable.

  Mor glanced back toward the chieftain’s table. Her father and uncle were still deep in intense discussion. Artair’s scowl was now as fierce as Cathal’s. She wondered if they were arguing that very subject.

  Weariness spread through her, making Mor’s shoulders sag a little.

  It was the same sensation that had swept over her as she stood before that ‘mother oak’ a month earlier. She had grown so tired of conflict of late. For as long as Mor could remember, her people had fought against the neighboring tribes, until they finally drove them from their homeland. But arriving upon The Winged Isle had not brought the peace she had hoped for. Instead, the fighting here was much worse, much bloodier. They were now set on a course of destruction.

  If her father did not change direction, they were all doomed.

  “You’re making a mistake shunning my affections.” Tormud spoke up finally, shattering her introspection. There was no missing the threatening edge to his voice. “I’m not a man to forget such a slight … you could do much worse than the likes of me.”

  His arrogance made Mor itch to lunge across the table and slam her fist into his nose. She was tired of this conversation and tired of him. She merely wanted to sink into her furs and forget about life for a short while. Instead, she gave him a cold look and inhaled deeply, preparing herself to utter the words that would end this discussion for good.

  The crash of the heavy oaken door to the broch flying open and smashing against the wall prevented her.

  Chapter Three

  Captured

  MOR TWISTED AROUND to see a tall, dark-haired man leap through the open doorway. In an instant, one of the warriors nearest the door leaped to his feet and tried to intercept him. An iron blade flashed, and The Serpent warrior crumpled.

  As nimble as a running deer, the intruder dodged the next man to rush him and dove across the feasting hall. His gaze was upon the chieftain’s table.

  Upon her father.

  A cry echoed through the hall as the intruder cut down another man who threw himself into his path. His pace did not slow, and his attention did not wander. He had wild eyes; his face twisted in a rictus of hate.

  In a heartbeat, Mor was up.

  She launched herself from her seat and tackled her father’s would-be assassin, just four feet from the chieftain’s table. In the meantime, neither Cathal nor Artair had moved. The attack had been so unexpected that both of them had frozen in surprise.

  Mor and the intruder crashed to the rush-strewn floor, yet he twisted under her. His blade flashed, narrowly missing Mor’s arm. She drove a knee into his gut and heard the air rush from his lungs.

  Gripping hold of his right wrist, she yanked it back. However, his grip was as strong as iron, as was his arm. She gritted her teeth and threw her entire weight against him, struggling to hold the man still.

  A heavy booted foot swung in then, catching the attacker on the side of the head.

  Tormud had joined her.

  The attacker grunted, falling back against the rushes. Mor took the opportunity to drive her knee into his belly once more. Then Tormud slammed his heavy foot down onto the attacker’s wrist, grinding it into the floor till he released the warrior grip upon the blade.

  But the attacker was not defeated yet. Cursing, his sea-blue eyes crazed with wrath, he kicked up, his knee driving into Mor’s hip. She gritted her teeth against the pain and, drawing back her right arm, landed a hard punch on the intruder’s cheek.

  He spat out another curse, body arching up toward her as he got his left hand free and reached down to another blade that was strapped to his hip.

  Mor slammed her knee down onto his hand, and as Tormud had done with his foot, ground the man’s fingers into the floor.

  Meanwhile, Tormud reached down, grabbed the intruder’s head and smashed it against the floor—quelling the last of his struggles.

  Talor hung limply in the warriors’ arms, his head lolling while he struggled to keep conscious. His skull throbbed, as did his belly and chest. Darkness dimmed his vision, close to swallowing him—and yet he held on.

  I’ve failed.

  Bitterness coursed through him. He had done so well until the moment that bitch had thrown herself at him. Upon scaling the wall, he had loosed a volley of arrows, bringing down the warriors who guarded it, before he had crept down the slippery stone stairs into the village. It was late, and the snow still fell thickly, so most folk were indoors. Nonetheless, he had been forced to face the guards at the gates to the wall protecting the broch itself. Casting his bow and quiver of arrows aside, he had then drawn his sword and slashed his way through them.

  After that, it had been just a few paces across the yard, up the steps, and into the broch.

  He had spotted Calum mac Cathal immediately, sitting like some great red-haired cuckoo upon what was rightfully Galan mac Muin’s chair. His uncle was chieftain of The Eagle. The Serpent chieftain had no business taking his place in this broch.

  Breathing hard, Talor hung his head, awaiting the beating that would surely start. When it did not come, he glanced up, his blurred vision resting upon the tall auburn-haired man who stood a few feet away. The woman who had stopped him from reaching the chieftain’s table stood next to Calum. One look at them standing next to each other—flame-haired and proud—and Talor realized that the woman who had thwarted him was Cathal’s kin, most likely his daughter.

  A heavyset warrior with short, greying dark hair stood close to Talor. That bastard had slammed his head into the floor so hard that Talor was surprised he had not cracked his skull like an egg.

  Talor knew who the dark-haired warrior was though—he had seen him in battle. This was Tormud mac Alec—The Boar traitor.

  Meeting his eye, Tormud favored Talor with a feral grin. He then swung his gaze over to Cathal. “Shall I beat him now?”

  “Not yet,” Cathal rumbled. He wore a harsh expression, and yet his moss-green eyes held a cunning gleam that made the first embers of fear spark within Talor. He did not like the calculating way The Serpent chieftain viewed him. “First, this Eagle warrior will tell me his name.”

  “Talor mac Donnel,” Talor snarled. Of course, they had spied the mark of The Eagle tattooed onto his left bicep. “Nephew to The Eagle chieftain.”

  A slow smile spread across Cathal’s face at this news. “Did Galan send you?”

  Talor spat a gob of blood on to the ground at Cathal’s feet. “No.”

  “So you have acted alone?”

  “Obviously.”

  Cathal inclined his head, gaze narrowing slightly. “And why’s that? You have the look of a man crazed by the need for vengeance.”

  Talor’s lip curled. “You slew my sister at Balintur. I saw you.”

  Cathal stared back at him, his expression turning blank as he took this news in. And then, like watching a cloud move past the face of the sun, Talor saw recognition flare in Cathal’s eyes. “I remember her,” he said softly. “A young lass … a pretty wee thing with braided hair.” He paused here, smirking at Tormud while his daughter remained stone-faced, her green eyes narrowed as she never shifted her gaze from Talor. “She w
as vicious with that blade of hers … but no match for me.”

  “Of course not,” Tormud rumbled, while around them a few surrounding warriors laughed. Only Mor and the man still seated at the chieftain’s table behind Cathal didn’t share their mirth. The man seated was clearly kin to Cathal as well, although he had a rougher, more careworn face, his thinning auburn hair shaved close to his skull.

  “So you came here to avenge her?” Cathal turned his attention back to Talor. The amusement on his face made Talor’s belly cramp with rage. If two burly warriors had not been holding him fast, he would have launched himself at Cathal. He would have ripped his face off with his bare hands. The Serpent chieftain crossed heavily muscled arms across his broad chest. “Well, you have failed, and now I must decide what to do with you.”

  “That’s easy,” Tormud spoke up. “Kill him.”

  “All in good time,” Cathal replied, his gaze never leaving Talor. “He’ll be a feast for crows soon enough … but before he dies, Talor mac Donnel is going to tell us a few things about the army that is wintering at Balintur.”

  A heavy silence fell.

  As the pain in his skull subsided slightly, Talor became aware of the sound of the crackling hearth behind him. The feasting hall was far busier than it had been when he entered. Folk had emerged from alcoves and gathered from the village beyond to set eyes on the man who had been foolish enough to try and slay their chieftain.

  “Firstly,” Cathal said, breaking the hush. “I wish to know how many of you there are. We slew many of the united tribes during the siege of Balintur. Tell me the number of those remaining.”

  A stony silence answered him.

  Cathal inhaled deeply. “If you don’t give me what I ask, the beating will be worse.”

  Talor did not answer. He merely stared back at Cathal, hatred clawing at his belly like a caged beast. They could beat him to death, it made no difference to him now. He would never betray his people.

  “Looks like he’s not going to talk,” Tormud noted, cracking his knuckles as a bloodthirsty smile crept across his face. “Shall I loosen his tongue, chief?”

  “Aye.” Cathal stepped back, allowing the warrior to step forward. “Go on … enjoy yourself.”

  Mor watched the warrior slump, unconscious, in the arms of the two men holding him. His face was bloody. He had been handsome, before he had taken the beating, bearing finely chiseled features, startling blue eyes, a straight nose, and a sensual mouth. But those features were swollen, bruised, and bloodied now.

  “He’s stubborn,” Tormud muttered, stepping back. The Boar warrior’s face was red, and veins stood out on his neck. He had put a lot of effort into trying to make Talor mac Donnel talk, but the warrior had remained tight-lipped throughout. “Why don’t you let me take him out into the snow and slit his throat?”

  Beside Mor, her father heaved another sigh. “Because this man possesses details I need. He dies when I’m certain he won’t talk … and not before.”

  Shifting her attention back to the unconscious man, Mor found herself sharing Tormud’s opinion for once. The warrior was not going to talk. He was obstinate. The harder Tormud beat him, the more he clammed up.

  “He’s wasting all our time.” Behind them, Artair spoke for the first time since the beating had begun. “Kill him, and be done with it.”

  Cathal cast his brother a look of thinly veiled irritation. “What’s the hurry?”

  Mor sensed the tension between them. Ever since the disaster at Balintur, the two brothers had argued far more than she had ever remembered. For years Artair had been content to follow his elder brother’s lead. But now that they stood alone at Dun Ringill. Now that both Dunchadh and Tamhas, and many other valiant warriors, had fallen, Artair appeared to have developed strong opinions.

  Turning his attention back to the unconscious Eagle warrior, Cathal’s mouth thinned. “Chain him up to the wall. We’ll question him again in the morning and see whether he’s had a change of heart with the dawn.”

  Mor’s mouth thinned. He would not.

  Cathal then swung his gaze round, fixing Mor with a penetrating look. “You did well, daughter, bringing him down as you did.”

  “I had help,” she murmured. As much as it galled her to admit it, she knew things might have gone ill for her if Tormud had not interceded. The Eagle warrior had fought with the wildness of a man who did not care if he lived or died. It had given him incredible strength. Without Tormud’s help, he would likely have overpowered her eventually.

  “Still.” The corners of Cathal’s mouth lifted. Ever since losing both his sons, he smiled rarely. But now there was warmth in his eyes. “You defended me without a thought to your own safety, lass … I will not forget it.”

  Chapter Four

  I’ll Not Die a Traitor

  MOR COULD NOT sleep.

  Staring up at the darkness, she found herself reliving the events of the evening. Things had moved so fast she had not stopped to think. All she had known was that her father was in danger. And she’d had to protect him—no matter the cost.

  Their prisoner was now chained up against the wall at the far end of the feasting hall, behind the raised platform where the chieftain’s table sat. When she retired to her alcove, the man had still been unconscious. If he knew what was good for him, he would never awake.

  Mor heaved an irritated sigh and closed her eyes. However, every time she tried to sleep, she saw Talor mac Donnel’s bright blue gaze and remembered the way he had fearlessly faced down her father.

  As angry as she had been that he had managed to breach their defenses and get so close to her father, Mor also fought a growing interest in the man. He was utterly fearless—almost to the point of madness. The warrior had come here for retribution for his slain sister, and although Mor would protect her own father with her last breath, she understood how he felt.

  That familiar dull ache rose underneath her breast bone then, and she rolled over in her furs, trying to get comfortable. She had tried not to dwell too much on her brothers, but ever since Mid-Winter Fire, they were often on her mind. Their loss made her feel empty, as if the wind could blow right through her. Dunchadh and Tamhas were both very different men, and had not gotten along that well, yet she had been close to both of them.

  In the two months following Tamhas’s death, she had discovered loneliness: the sensation of feeling utterly alone in the world, even when she was surrounded by a hall of men and women. Without her brothers, she was adrift. She had not spoken of this to her father. Cathal would not understand. He was dealing with his own grief, his own loss. He did not need to share Mor’s burden as well.

  Mor huffed a sigh and rolled over onto her back once more. Before Talor mac Donnel had burst into the broch, she had been fighting tiredness. Even her altercation with Tormud had not been enough to keep her from needing sleep. Yet now, she felt wide awake.

  Muttering a curse, Mor sat up and pushed the furs off. Naked, she got up and reached for her clothing: plaid breeches, a woolen tunic, and a fur-lined vest. Then, barefoot, she padded out of the alcove and into the sleeping hall.

  All of the cressets, save those surrounding the prisoner, had been doused for the evening, casting most of the broch into shadowy darkness. However, the embers had not died in the hearth, and they emitted a soft ruddy glow over the lines of sleeping bodies spread out across the floor.

  Fortunately, Mor would not have to disturb them in order to cross the hall, for a thin walkway circuited the space. A couple of feet wide, it ran around the edge before the curtained entrances to the many alcoves that lined the broch. Cathal, what remained of his kin, and his most trusted warriors slept in the alcoves. The rest of his people either slept on the floor inside the broch, or in one of the many stacked stone huts and roundhouses in the village outside.

  Mor padded around the edge of the hall. On the way, she passed her father’s alcove—the largest of those in the broch—and heard rumbling snores from within. A wry smile curved Mo
r’s lips. Her father sounded like a sleeping dragon—he’d always snored, something his wife had complained much about over the years.

  At the thought of her mother, Mor’s step faltered. With everything that had happened of late, all the new losses that had drawn her attention, she sometimes went a day or two without thinking about her mother. And yet until recently, thoughts of her had dominated each waking moment. Lena had been her anchor; a formidable woman of great strength, it had been a shock to the whole tribe when she had succumbed to illness a year earlier.

  Pushing aside thoughts of her mother, as the ache in her chest grew stronger, Mor resumed her path around the edge of the hall.

  She came to a halt before the prisoner.

  He sat upon his knees, arms stretched up either side of him. His breathing was slow and even, which made Mor suspect he was merely sleeping rather than unconscious.

  Hunkering down, so that their gazes were level, she reached out and shook him by the shoulder.

  Talor groaned, his long dark eyelashes fluttering against his cheeks. Not for the first time, Mor was struck by the beauty of his face. Even swollen and bruised, it drew her eye and aroused a strange fascination within her.

  She gently shook him once more, and slowly, his eyes opened. The prisoner then lifted his chin, and their gazes fused.

  Mor inhaled sharply, and for a long moment the pair of them merely stared at each other. The air inside the broch was chill, now that the hearth had died down, but heat seeped through Mor’s limbs nonetheless. She felt as if she were standing before a roaring fire. Her breathing quickened, and the moment drew out. And yet neither of them spoke.

  Eventually though, it was Mor who broke the silence between them. “Da should have killed you tonight.” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper.