Battle Eagle Read online

  Besides the group of warriors Galan would leave behind to protect the fort in his absence, a few others would stay on in Dun Ringill. Mael was among those; after losing her husband she was in no mood for celebration.

  As he approached the southern perimeter, Donnel’s gaze shifted to the two huts to the right of the gate. He spied Ruith emerge from her hovel. The bandruí was dressed for travel in a long plaid tunic, belted at the waist. She wore a pack on her back and carried a wooden walking staff. At sixty winters the woman was still a force to be reckoned with, yet she lacked the stamina of the younger members of the party.

  Eithni waited for the seer at the end of the path. Dressed in a long sleeveless tunic, a woolen wrap around her slender shoulders, the healer wore a pensive expression this morning. Her fine walnut-brown hair had grown long of late, and she wore it braided down her back. The young woman was gazing out over the procession of riders, her heart-shaped face composed, her hazel eyes shuttered.

  Eithni annoyed Donnel, and yet he found his gaze drawn toward her. You would not think such a slight fey-looking girl could be so irritating—but she was like a dog with a bone, constantly nagging him about his responsibilities as a father.

  Donnel had taken vicious pleasure in defying her. And it was odd, for he noted that each fiery encounter between them cost her. Yet she persisted. He had heard rumors that she had been ill-treated at Dun Ardtreck before coming here. He believed it too, for he had seen fear in her eyes two days earlier when he had pushed his face close to hers and told her to leave him be.

  There was another reason he resented Eithni though, not just for her interfering ways.

  She had saved his life.

  He had awoken after that deathly fever on his return home from the campaign to the south, only to find himself in the alcove where his wife had perished three moons earlier. Then he had met Eithni’s gaze and resentment had consumed him. He had wanted to die—why would she not let him?

  Donnel tore his gaze from the healer, who now hurried alongside Ruith to join the column, and urged Reothadh forward. He rode up alongside Lutrin, who journeyed upon a heavyset chestnut mare.

  “Fine morning, Donnel,” Lutrin greeted him. Donnel merely grunted a response.

  He and Lutrin were the same age, born just two days apart during the same harsh winter. The warrior was loyal to Galan, but it was Donnel with whom Lutrin had grown up and sparred with. The two of them had once been as close as brothers, but these days they had little to say to each other. Lutrin was unwed and seemed happy to remain so. He did not understand what Donnel had suffered.

  “So, Galan let you come after all,” Lutrin observed with a wry grin. “He says you won’t cause any trouble.”

  Donnel scowled. “I gave my word.”

  Lutrin gave him a speculative look. It reminded Donnel that the warrior had a sharp mind; he was not easy to fool. “And what weight does your word carry these days?” he asked.

  Donnel snorted, looking away. “We shall soon see,” he replied.

  Eithni was one of the last to leave Dun Ringill. She walked up the slope, leaving the stone perimeter behind, and paused. Twisting, she looked back over her shoulder at where the fort spread out behind her.

  Dun Ringill was glorious this morning. Perched on the edge of the glittering waters of Loch Slapin, the fort sat upon the western shores of The Winged Isle, looking over a vast lake that led out to sea. To the north she could see the dark craggy outline of the Black Cuillins. The silhouette of those mountains would always remind her of Tea and Galan’s wedding, for they had been handfasted in the shadow of those mighty peaks. To the south a long headland thrust out into the water, and beyond it rose layers of mountains that faded to grey blue against the clear sky.

  Eithni sighed. She loved this land. The broch of Dun Ringill stood proud and solid against the sky, the conical roofs of the roundhouses spreading out around it gilded in the sun.

  “You gaze as if this will be the last time you look upon the fort.” A woman’s voice, edged with amusement, reached her, drawing Eithni out of her reverie. She turned to see Ruith watching her. The seer had a penetrating stare, like she was trying to see into your very soul.

  Eithni smiled in an attempt to mask her discomfort. “It’s just that I miss my home already. I hope it doesn’t get overrun with mice while we’re away.”

  Ruith made a clucking sound. “Not this time of year, there’s too much food for them elsewhere.” She gave Eithni an assessing look. “Worry not, lass. Your hut will still be standing when we return. Sometimes it's good to have a break from our surroundings. You’ll appreciate it all the more on our return.”

  The seer linked her arm through Eithni’s, and the two women continued up the slope. They were roughly the same height although Ruith’s body was hard and sinewy, while Eithni’s was slender and soft.

  Ruith cast Eithni a grin then. “The Gathering is always great fun. I attended my last one ten summers ago. There was a warrior of The Stag there who gave me many nights of pleasure. I wonder if he’s still alive … or if he’d find me too old and withered these days. I wouldn't mind some more nights in the furs with him.”

  Eithni’s cheeks warmed at this. Ruith could be so frank about her relations with men. Too frank for Eithni’s liking. She had never spoken of her past to the seer, but she sensed that Ruith knew. In a fort this size few of them had any secrets.

  Perhaps the silence alerted Ruith to her discomfort, for the bandruí gave her arm a gentle squeeze, her grin transforming into a warm smile. “Come, lass. Wipe that worried look off your face. It’s not good to remain in isolation—it breeds bad blood between the tribes. The Gathering is a time of joy, a time for us to mingle with the other folk of this isle. You will see.”

  Chapter Five

  Songs by the Fireside

  THE EAGLES OF Dun Ringill inched north, toward where the outline of a great red mountain thrust into the pastel sky. With such a large group traveling, many of them on foot, the company could not move swiftly. The warriors on ponies at the front of the column had to slow their pace to allow those trailing behind, especially the elderly and children, to keep up.

  The journey did not dampen the travelers’ excitement; if anything the chatter of their voices increased as the day wore on, echoing high up into the empty sky.

  Eithni dawdled at the back of the group, listening to the rise and fall of conversation, the creak of leather, the thump of hooves, and the rumble of heavy wooden wheels from the carts.

  After a while she realized that the seer had been right. It had been hard to drag herself away from her hut, from her daily routines. But now that she had left it behind a lightness settled over her. Not only that, but it was a beautiful day to be traveling, and to be alive. A warm wind breathed in from the south-east, bringing with it the scent of heather and rich earth. Above, birds of prey circled in the cloudless sky, observing the travelers.

  At the head of the column, some of the warriors—Galan and Tarl included—carried hawks aloft upon their wrists. The chief’s hawk was named Lann—Blade—and the bird’s sharp beak certainly lived up to its name. The birds would hunt for them on the way, and one of the contests at The Gathering also involved hunting with hawks.

  Even though they had slowed their pace to accommodate those behind, the warriors on horseback drew farther and farther ahead as the day stretched on. Eventually they became little more than specks on the horizon.

  Eithni did not mind; she was content to make her way north at her own pace. Even Ruith had drawn ahead. She was chatting with a girl who had recently given birth to her first child. The young woman carried the infant slung across her front.

  The day stretched out and Bienn na Caillich—the Red Hill—rose above them, before they skirted around its pebbly base. Eithni looked up at the mountain, the profusion of red grasses that grew upon its rocky sides giving it its name.

  Folk also called this mountain ‘The Hill of the Hag’, and Eithni imagined that the goddess h
erself—who ruled sleep, dreams, winter, and death—perched up there looking down at their passage.

  By the time they stopped for the day, The Red Hill lay to the south, a dark bulk against the sky. The company made camp in a pebbly vale next to a burn where clear water trickled over grey stones.

  During their trek north their numbers had swollen, as folk from outlying villages joined them. As such the chorus of voices was almost deafening as the travelers erected a camp of hide tents under the shadow of The Red Hill.

  Tea and Lucrezia, who had ridden with their husbands during the day, rejoined the other women as they prepared supper for the hungry travelers. The men were lighting fires—four large fire pits dominated the camp—and were dragging lumps of peat over for fuel. Few trees grew in this area of The Winged Isle, so peat provided the main source of heat.

  The hunting hawks had brought down a number of birds—rooks and grouse—on the journey north-east, and Eithni sat next to Lucrezia, plucking them.

  Lucrezia worked deftly, her slim fingers flying as she ripped feathers from the still warm carcass. They worked in silence for a while before Eithni realized that Lucrezia’s gaze kept straying to her.

  Eithni glanced up and noted her friend’s tense expression. “Luci … what’s wrong?”

  Lucrezia’s dark gaze shifted across the fire pit to where Tea was nursing little Muin. The babe’s pudgy hands kneaded his mother’s full breast as he suckled. “It’s a year now since Tarl and I wed,” she murmured, “and my womb has not yet quickened.”

  Compassion tugged at Eithni. She had wondered when this would start to bother Lucrezia. She was surprised her friend had not yet gotten with child. Although Eithni did not reside within the broch, she had heard the talk of how loud Lucrezia and Tarl were at night. It seemed that most eves they kept the other inhabitants of the roundtower awake with their groans and cries. They did not seem to know how to couple quietly, nor did they want to. Lucrezia was a healthy young woman; there was no reason why her womb should not quicken.

  “Sometimes you must just give things time,” Eithni replied after a moment. She met Lucrezia’s eye then. “However, I can give you herbs and mix a special tincture which should improve your chances—if you're worried.”

  Hope lit in Lucrezia’s eyes, and Eithni realized that this had been preying on her mind more than Eithni had realized. She nodded, her full lips stretching into a smile. “I’d like that … thank you.”

  Night fell and the aroma of roasting grouse and rook filled the air. It was a mild night, and as it was the warm season there was no need to sit huddled by the fireside wrapped in furs. Instead there was singing and laughter.

  After supper Eithni produced her harp and started to play. Tea, who had a lovely voice, sang beside her.

  Tea started off by singing two songs the sisters had grown up with at Dun Ardtreck in the north: tales of the people of The Wolf. These were the songs of their people, of the building of the great broch perched on the wild cliffs where seabirds wheeled and puffins nested on the rocks.

  After that she sang an eerie song of the Bean-Nighe—the washer woman. This fairy—a ghastly old woman who could be found by streams and pools—was an omen of death. She washed the clothes of those who were about to die.

  Tell me, haggard washer woman,

  Whose clothes are washed this day?

  I see the cloak of a chieftain

  Within your basket, lay.

  And is this wife to lose her man,

  My heart to be forfeit?

  And shall the banshee sing tonight,

  To wail his lament?

  The sky weeps with blackened clouds,

  And spills its rain of tears,

  The wind howls through the glen,

  To warn The Reaper is near,

  The old broch looks forlorn,

  As darkness drapes its veil,

  I wash my husband’s finest clothes,

  That he may die well.

  Tell me, haggard washer woman,

  Whose clothes are washed this day?

  I see a skirt that once was mine,

  Within your basket, lay.

  And can you wash it free of blood,

  To cleanse my blackened soul?

  And shall you say a charm for me,

  Above my cold barrow?

  Folk always enjoyed the grim songs the best. Eithni loved them to, for she was used to feeling melancholy and could let the mood flow out of her fingers into the music. She felt her freest when she played the harp. Her fingers flew over the strings, and she let the song carry her away. The music pulsed through her veins, and for a few moments she felt lifted out of her mortal body. Next to her Tea’s voice grew more strident, the clear sweet notes lifting high into the night.

  It was then that Eithni became aware of someone staring at her.

  It was a strange sensation, like a physical weight pressing down upon her. It was making it hard to breathe. The fine hair on the back of her neck prickled, and her body grew warm.

  Eithni’s eyes flickered open. She looked over the amassed crowd, and across the fire she met Donnel’s penetrating gaze.

  Donnel had been glad of the music and singing. Unlike banter, boasting, and storytelling around the fireside—which just irritated him—the music soothed the darkness in him.

  He sat on the edge of the firelight, as far as possible from the merriment, a cup of ale clasped in his hands. As the music continued he found himself watching the sisters who sat next to each other at the fireside. They were so different. Tea was tall, dark, and proud—Galan’s equal in so many ways. Next to her Eithni appeared delicate and fey.

  His gaze remained on Eithni.

  There was something entrancing about her this eve. The firelight played across her skin, highlighting the fineness of her features and her pretty face. Her eyes were closed, and she wore a peaceful expression. She had pulled up her hair this evening, exposing the slender length of her neck.

  Donnel watched her, captivated.

  It had been a while since a woman had caught his attention. He had only ever had eyes for one. He had only ever wanted Luana.

  And yet tonight he felt a pull toward the young woman who played the harp as if it was an extension of her. He felt her sadness, the beauty of her being, and the aching emptiness of her soul.

  Had they been camped by one of the mounds of the Fair Folk, he would have thought himself ensnared by magic—for the Aos Sí liked to play games with mortals. Yet there were no such places near here. It was Eithni herself who was bewitching him.

  Eithni’s eyes opened then, and across the fire their gazes met.

  Donnel’s breathing stilled. He saw her fingers falter, before she caught herself. She played on, but the enchantment had gone. Tea, still singing, glanced across at her sister, a quizzical look upon her face.

  Eithni’s slim fingers moved over the strings of the harp, but this time her attention was downcast. Her face had gone taut, and pink stained her cheekbones.

  She had not welcomed his attention.

  Donnel looked away, fixing his gaze upon the glowing embers of the fire pit. What was wrong with him? A woman he could barely tolerate—a woman who had spent the last year and a half nagging him—had just caught him staring at her like a mooncalf.

  Turning away from the fire, as the strains of the harp lifted high into the night, Donnel took a deep draft of ale. He did not know what was wrong with him—but he did not like it one bit.

  Chapter Six

  Bodach an Stòrr

  “ARE YOU SURE you don’t want to ride up with us?” Tea adjusted her son in the sling across her front and glanced over at where Eithni was shouldering her pack. “I’m sure one of the warriors would let you travel with them.”

  Eithni smiled back. “I prefer to walk.”

  Tea snorted. “I can’t understand why?”

  “I like the feel of the earth beneath my feet.”

  Her sister gave Eithni an exasperated look. “I swear, I’ll
never understand you.”

  Eithni’s smile faded.

  Tea sighed, stepping close to her sister. Eithni saw concern in her midnight blue eyes and tensed. She had a feeling she knew what was coming next. “I worry about you sometimes, Eithni.”

  “You don’t need to.”

  “Don’t I?” A look of sadness flitted across her sister’s proud face. “You’ve grown distant of late. Sometimes I look at you, and it’s as if you’re not even there … like you’ve traveled far inside yourself.”

  Eithni held her gaze. She wasn’t going to deny it. “There’s nothing wrong,” she murmured. “It’s just how I deal with life. It makes things easier to distance myself … sometimes.”

  “You’d tell me if something was worrying you?”

  Eithni reached out and stroked the fine mat of dark hair upon Muin’s head. “Of course I would.”

  She turned away from her sister then and joined the throng of folk heading north. She felt Tea’s gaze upon her as she walked away but did not look back. Tea knew her better than anyone, but even she did not know all that had befallen Eithni during her time alone at Dun Ardtreck with Forcus. Tea had asked, and Eithni had evaded the question, telling her that she would confide in her sister when she felt ready. Many moons had passed since that conversation, and Tea had never asked again—likewise Eithni had never brought the subject up.

  She never intended to again.

  Eithni followed the others up a gentle slope, away from the shadow of Beinn na Caillich, continuing their path north. Unlike the bright sunshine of the day before, the sky was overcast today and the breeze chill. Eithni had wrapped a woolen shawl about her shoulders although she knew she would warm up soon enough.