The warriors entered the fort. Their voices rose high into the rafters, echoing off the stone, and shattering the scene of domestic peace within.
Tea rose from her place by the hearth, the flax basket she had been weaving clutched in her hands. Next to her, Luana also got to her feet. The young woman’s delicate features scrunched in discomfort as she massaged her lower back.
“This babe kicks,” she muttered.
Tea glanced at her, casting Luana a look of sympathy. The two women had barely spoken that morning, although Luana seemed to be content to work in silence. For her part, Tea was in a black mood and did not welcome company. She had not seen Galan since their confrontation the night before; dread clenched in her belly at having to speak with him again. However, she put aside her own concerns for a moment as her gaze settled upon Luana’s face. The young woman had looked drained ever since returning from their journey.
“You should rest,” she observed.
Luana waved her away. “There’s too much to be done.”
Tea spied Galan then. Tall, dark and stern, he strode into the wide space, followed by his brothers. He saw Tea and walked to her. The intensity of his gaze speared her, and she nearly wilted under the force of it. Then, remembering who she was—the daughter of warriors who stared down their foes—she held his eye, tilting her chin imperiously.
Galan’s gaze narrowed and he shifted his gaze to Luana.
“We have visitors.” Galan greeted his sister-by-marriage, ignoring Tea completely. “They will eat with us at noon. Can you make sure we have enough to feed them?”
Luana nodded. “Who are they?”
“Warriors of this isle, and Cruthini from across the water. They’re gathering fighters for a campaign to the south.”
Tea watched the warriors with fascination as they took their places at the long tables that formed a square around the great hearth. Most of the newcomers were male although there was a handful of women amongst them.
The warriors were lightly clad. Many of them left their limbs bare, showing off their tribal markings. The women wore leather bindings across their breasts, their hair pulled back from their faces in elaborate braids.
All of them—men and women alike—bore the blue painted symbols of their people. Tea spied the mark of The Stag on a handful of them, as well as tattoos of The Boar; it appeared this group had already visited two of the tribes living upon The Winged Isle. The People of The Stag were her mother’s people, a tribe that inhabited the east and far northern coast of The Winged Isle. The People of The Boar occupied the isle’s south and south-eastern corners. Of Tea’s own people—The Wolf—she saw none. She imagined the group would travel to Dun Ardtreck next.
Seated next to Galan, Tea helped herself to some boar stew, before her gaze returned to the warriors once more.
The sight of the fierce women caused bitterness and longing for war to well within her. She too could fight. Many of the warrior women were tall and strong, as she was, and easily matched their menfolk in combat ability. Tea’s father and brother had taught her how to fight with her fists, and how to use an axe, spear or sword. They had offered the same to Eithni, but Tea’s gentle younger sister had declined; her gifts lay with healing the sick and injured, not with warfare. However, despite her father’s eagerness to teach Tea how to fight, Domech had never allowed her to accompany him to any of the skirmishes against their enemies.
You’re too valuable, lass, he had told her, his eyes glistening with emotion. I lost your mother, I will not lose you too.
Tea was deep in thought, brooding upon the past, when Galan’s voice roused her. He was questioning the leader of the band; a huge man named Wurgest with a dense black hair and beard, and wild blue eyes. Wurgest bore the mark of The Boar tattooed onto his right bicep.
“How many warriors have you gathered?” Galan asked.
“At least two-hundred of our own people wait on the shores of the mainland,” Wurgest replied in between huge bites of stew. “The Scotti and Atecotti are also gathering and travelling south as we speak.”
Galan’s dark eyebrows shot up. “They will join you?”
Wurgest nodded, his intense gaze spearing Galan. “Aye, there’s even word of the Saxones readying themselves to the south. The time has come to fight back against the Caesars.”
Listening to this, Tea felt a thrill of excitement. Yet Galan’s strong-featured face gave nothing away. She could not tell if this news pleased him or not.
“Why now?” he asked. “Have you news from beyond the wall?”
Wurgest grinned. “Aye. The great empire is weakening, rotting from the inside out. A few winters back, they fought amongst themselves, and since then the mood at their garrison has turned sour. The cruel general who leads them, Catena, is hated. There are deserters and rebels willing to join with us.”
“And when will you move against them?” Galan asked.
Wurgest’s grin widened, making him look half-mad. “Mid-winter.”
“I will go with you.”
To Galan’s right, Tarl spoke up. Tea watched Galan’s younger brother with interest. She did not like Tarl’s cockiness, but today his face was serious, and his grey eyes gleamed as he held Wurgest’s gaze. “I will bring Eagle warriors to aid you.”
“Tarl.” Galan’s voice cracked across the table like a whip. “You forget yourself.”
Blinking, as if suddenly remembering his brother sat next to him, Tarl turned to Galan. His expression hardened. “Don’t try to stop me, Galan,” he warned. “Or any of us who wish to join the campaign. Unlike you, I still have balls.”
Tea’s breath caught at this insult.
She had noticed Tarl’s attitude toward her had bordered on insolence, but she had not realized he also resented his elder brother.
Galan leaned forward, his gaze snaring his brother’s. Tea had to admit his self-restraint impressed her. Tarl had just insulted him in front of kin, warriors and guests. A more volatile man would have lashed out.
“I still have my balls, brother,” Galan growled, his face like hewn stone, his grey eyes narrowed. “Would you like to see them?”
A stunned silence followed before Tarl’s mouth quirked. Wurgest threw back his head and roared with laughter, shattering the tension at the table.
Galan shifted his attention to The Boar warrior. “I decide who joins with you,” he rumbled. “I can spare twenty spears, and my brother will lead them.”
The big warrior nodded, still grinning. “A generous offer—thank you, Galan.”
“I want to go too.”
Tea had spoken without even realizing it. Desperation had welled up in her upon hearing Galan offer his warriors to the war band. The chance to escape this marriage, to fight for The Winged Isle, was too enticing and she could not still her tongue.
Galan inclined his head toward her. “You cannot, Tea.”
She narrowed her gaze. “I can fight as well as any of them—my kin taught me well.”
A smile crinkled the corners of Galan’s eyes, the austerity of his face softening. “I’m sure they did, but the answer is still the same. Your purpose, to forge peace between our tribes, is just as noble as Tarl’s.”
His words kindled rage in Tea’s breast. Her heart started to thud against her ribs, and she was aware that every eye at the table now rested upon her. Fuming, she glared at him. “In your eyes, perhaps. But I’m better suited to warfare,” she challenged. “I’m no peace-weaver.”
“She speaks true,” Tarl agreed with a grin. He gave Tea an appraising look that made her want to lash out at him. “Worry not, Galan—I’ll look out for your fiery wife while we’re away.”
“She stays here,” Galan replied, his tone almost bored now. He picked up his bronze cup and raised it to his lips. “And that’s the end of it.”
Tea fisted her hands under the table, fuming at his dominance. However, both Tarl and Wurgest were still grinning, clearly enjoying the show she had put on for them. To Tarl’s left, Donnel was observing the conversation with cool interest. He met his brother’s eye when Tarl turned to him.
“Will you join us, brother?”
Donnel’s chiseled features tightened. “I would, but someone has to stay behind to guard the fort.”
“Galan and his warriors will be enough to defend it,” Tarl countered. “I’d feel better knowing one of you was fighting at my side.”
Next to Donnel, Luana had gone the color of porridge. Her blue eyes were huge upon her delicate face as she watched her husband. Tea saw her alarm, her naked fear.
“My wife is heavy with child,” Donnel replied finally. He looked ill at ease as he said the words, as if he knew he was making an excuse and a weak one at that. Scorn rose within Tea at his words—men did not use their wives as a shield.
“And she will be taken care of here,” Tarl answered, the look on his face mirroring Tea’s own thoughts. “She needs no coddling from you.”
Donnel’s mouth thinned and his slate-grey eyes hardened. The mood between the two brothers suddenly felt charged.
Galan broke the silence between them. “Let Donnel make his own decisions. You have no woman or children here, nothing to bind you. Don’t judge your brother for not being as eager as you to die in battle.”
“I’m as eager as any of you to fight,” Donnel growled, “but my responsibility, for now, lies here.”
Tarl rolled his eyes in response before downing the dregs of ale from his cup. He then refilled it from the ewer in front of them before holding it aloft at Wurgest. He met the warrior’s gaze and favored him with a wolfish grin. “Fear not, at least one of Muin’s sons will join you.”
***
Galan stood upon the wall outside Dun Ringill and watched the war band leave. They were riding north, to gather more warriors from Dun Ardtreck. Donnel stood beside him, his lean frame taut, his face stern. Galan could feel the tension emanating off him, could sense his inner conflict.
It was a still, bright morning and the misty green of the surrounding hills, and the deep-blue of the loch at his back, stood out against a smoky sky. The sun glinted off the iron spear-tips and the polished bosses of the warriors’ square shields. Tarl rode at the head of The Eagle band, a proud figure clad in leather, a deer-skin cloak hanging from his broad shoulders. As he rode off, he glanced back at them—two lone silhouettes upon the stacked stone wall—and raised a hand in farewell. He was too far away for Galan to make out his expression, although he imagined Tarl was grinning at them, as always.
“It’s better this way,” Galan mused aloud. “Tarl is restless. He thirsts for battle, for glory, and will not settle until he finds it.”
Next to him, Donnel snorted. “He thinks me craven.”
Galan glanced over at Donnel, his brow furrowing. His brother met his gaze, his own troubled. “He thinks the same of me,” Galan replied, “but that doesn’t make it the truth.”
Donnel’s features tightened. “We had words last night. He doesn’t understand why I can’t go—why I can’t leave Luana.”
“I do,” Galan replied. “All three of us have seen battle, have killed. You have nothing to prove. Tarl too would think differently if he had a woman he loved.”
Donnel held his gaze for a few moments, before his mouth curved into a smile. “What’s your excuse then?”
“For what?”
“Not going with them. If I had a bride that cold I’d be happy to leave her.”
Now it was Galan’s turn to snort. He did not disagree with Donnel about Tea; her outburst yesterday had angered him, although he had been careful not to let her, or anyone else, see it. They had not spoken since. “What, and leave Dun Ringill undefended. We’ve only just negotiated a fragile peace with The Wolf—we still need to be wary of The Stag and The Boar.”
Donnel frowned. “You think they will attack us?”
Galan shrugged, casting a glance back at the departing riders. They were crossing the last hill before the north-western horizon swallowed them. He was not sure of anything, least of all his own feelings on a host of matters, yet he did not share his thoughts with Donnel. “I know not,” he said quietly, his gaze still resting upon the point where the warriors had disappeared, “but The Boar have grown bold of late, sending hunting parties deep into our territory without asking for permission. With war coming to the north, we must keep our defenses strong.”