Galan knocked the man to the ground and thrust the iron blade into his guts. The warrior’s wail echoed down the valley, a chilling sound of agony that left Galan cold. He placed a foot on the man’s chest and pulled his sword free before slashing it down across his neck. Blood spurted, splattering across Galan’s face and clothing.
It was a clean death—cleaner than this raider deserved.
Pivoting on his heel, Galan turned to face the next warrior who sprinted, howling, toward him, axe raised, eyes wild. Galan rushed forward to meet him. The rage, the blood-lust, of battle had descended upon him. He savored it as he engaged the raider.
Galan cut the axe-man down, stabbing him until he fell twitching at his feet, the man’s axe sliding from lifeless fingers. Then dripping with blood—of his enemies rather than his own—Galan straightened up and looked around him.
They had won the skirmish. Broken and bloodied bodies lay scattered round him. Some of them belonged to the villagers who had not managed to escape before Galan and his warriors arrived—the rest belonged to the raiders.
Events this afternoon had moved swiftly.
They had come across this band as the raiders attacked their fourth village of the day. Galan had led his men down the hill in a charge; a convocation of enraged eagles that had swept over the village below. Kil was a small settlement; a cluster of hovels around a dirt square, protected by little more than a wooden fence around its perimeter.
The raiders had knocked that fence to the ground. Smoke now stained the darkening sky, rising from the ruined, smoldering shells of the houses. The raiders had set fire to them all, before raping the women and killing any of the men who did not manage to flee before them.
All the raiders had perished—except one.
Cal and Namet dragged a young man toward him. Barely out of boyhood, the lad was thin with bulbous blue eyes and a sallow face. He stared at The Eagle chieftain, who stood waiting for him. The raider’s eyes grew huge, the pale blue of his irises standing out against the whites of his eyes, as he stared at Galan.
Like the other raiders, the lad wore the mark of the wolf on his right bicep.
Galan’s simmering rage boiled once more. Mund had spoken true; The Wolf chief had indeed betrayed them. He stared down at the boy and barely restrained himself from driving his sword into his heart.
He needed to wait—he needed answers first.
Gripping his sword hilt so tightly that his hand ached, Galan strode toward the captive, closing the gap between them. The lad started to tremble as he bore down on him.
“Why?” Galan growled. “We made a peace.”
The young man stared back at him, so scared that he seemed to barely register the question. Galan stepped closer to him still, so close he could smell the sour tang of the lad’s fear, could see the sweat that coated his skin. “Tell me why?”
“The feud has begun again,” the young man finally managed, each word a gasp.
“We gave you no cause,” Galan snarled. “Loc mac Domech gave me his word.”
The lad sneered, his body stiffening at the mention of The Wolf chieftain. “Loc mac Domech no longer rules,” he spat, lifting his chin in one last show of defiance. “Forcus mac Vist is our chief now.”
***
The light had almost faded when Galan led the way back into Dun Ringill. Sweat lathered his stallion; Faileas’s sides were heaving. They had ridden hard to reach the fort by nightfall.
The last rays of sun were now slipping beyond the lines of the hills to the west, turning the sky blood-red.
Galan pulled his stallion up in the stable yard and swung down, his body tense with purpose. Ever since the raider had revealed that Loc no longer ruled Dun Ardtreck, Galan’s world had shifted on its axis.
A man Galan had met only briefly at the handfasting, Forcus mac Vist, was now chieftain. The peace had been broken but, in the end it was not Tea’s brother who had betrayed him.
Galan needed to see his wife; he had to put things right.
Leaving Faileas with one of his men, who would rub the stallion down and feed him, Galan strode out of the stables and across to the fort. Inside, the inhabitants of the fort were readying themselves for a supper of fowl and vegetable broth. Men were shucking off their heavy cloaks and settling themselves next to the hearth, gratefully accepting cups of ale from their womenfolk.
However, Galan paid none of them any notice. Instead his gaze swept over the hall, searching for the statuesque, dark-haired figure of his wife.
He did not see her. Nor did her see Calum or Dirk, the two warriors he had left here to watch over Tea.
Galan spotted Deri, whom he had often seen talking with Tea, pouring out ale for the men. She glanced up, stiffening as she spied him. However, Galan ignored her.
His focus was entirely on finding Tea.
It could be that after Galan’s treatment of her, his wife had taken refuge in their alcove. He did not blame her. He had criticized Tea openly, and made her an enemy of his people. Galan had not cared at the time, he had only seen crimson with rage, but now he regretted his behavior.
He strode over to the alcove and drew back the hanging. He expected Tea to be waiting for him, seated upon the furs, her midnight blue gaze burning with outrage, but the alcove was empty. The furs looked as if they had not been lain on all day.
Turning away and letting the hanging drop, Galan’s gaze returned to Deri. The young woman approached him, her jade-green gaze wide. She was usually a good-humored lass but this evening her expression was solemn.
“Where’s Tea?” he asked.
Her face tightened. “I’ve not seen her since the noon meal,” she said quietly. “I went looking for her earlier but … I thought she had ridden out with you and your warriors.”
“Calum and Dirk—where are they?”
“I haven’t seen them all afternoon either.”
Galan strode outside, his heart pounding. He went looking for Tea in all the places she might be. First, he went back to the stables, and after that the fighting enclosure where the warriors trained, but he did not find her. Instead, he found Calum and Dirk, lolling on the ground in the empty fighting arena—empty skins of wine scattered around them.
Galan strode over to them. “Where’s my wife?”
“Don’t know,” Calum slurred, peering up at him. “Couldn’t find her.”
Next to Calum, Dirk let out a loud belch. “You’re better off without that bitch anyway.”
Fury settled over Galan in a crimson haze. Ignoring Dirk—for he would deal with him later—he bent down and yanked Calum to his feet, holding him up by the collar of his vest so that their gazes were level. “I’ll ask you again—where’s my wife?”
Sweat beaded on Calum’s face. “We went looking for her after you left, to bring her inside like you said.” The reek of sloe wine was so heavy on his breath that it made Galan’s eyes water. “But she’d left already.” He stared blearily up at his chief, before gathering himself up in righteous indignation. “Dirk’s right. The treacherous she-wolf has returned to her pack. We’re well rid of her.”
Galan kneed Calum in the guts before dropping him like a sack of barley at his feet. His gaze swept over the two men cowering on the ground before him. “I decide what’s best for this tribe,” he said coldly. “Leave Dun Ringill, both of you—now. If I ever set eyes on either of you again, you’re dead men.”
Seething with rage, Galan strode from the enclosure. He did not want to believe that Tea had ran away. Cold sweat now drenched his body as he made his way to Ruith’s hovel.
The bandruí was waiting for him, standing before the door of her dwelling, a heavy fur cloak about her slender shoulders.
“I was wondering when you would think to search here,” she greeted him.
Galan took in her cool expression and hard eyes, and felt his last vestiges of hope fade. “She’s not here, is she?”
The seer shook her head. “I saw her ride out not long after you, upon a dun pony. She went north-west.”
Galan stared at her, his simmering rage boiling over. “Why did you not come to me sooner—she’ll be halfway to Dun Ardtreck by now.”
The bandruí’s dark-blue gaze narrowed. The look she gave him needed no words to clarify its meaning. She had been seated in his feasting hall at noon; she had witnessed what had happened once Mund arrived. She had heard what he had said to Tea, although she had not witnessed his harshness toward his wife in the stables.
The bandruí favored him with another long, hard look that made him feel like a cur. Then, without another word, Ruith turned and went back inside, leaving Galan outside in the gathering dusk.
Darkness settled over the land in an indigo curtain. Tea sat huddled by the small fire that she had lit. Fortunately, she had remembered to bring flints with her; even so it had taken her an age to get a fire started. She sat on the edge of a valley, just above a small, dark mere. A few clumps of gorse surrounded her, providing a little cover.
To her back rose the giant silhouette of the Black Cuillins. She was close now to the Lochans of the Fair Folk, those mystical pools were she and Galan had wed. The path ran up the hillside behind her, curling over rough, pebbly terrain, past the various pools up to the waterfalls.
Tea had deliberately turned her back to the mountains. She wanted no reminder of that day. It seemed as if she had come full circle—from hate and hurt, to love and hope, and back again. She felt raw on the inside.
She was not hungry this eve, which was just as well for she had brought no food with her. She sat, curled up next to the glowing fire, her fur mantle pulled close. The wind had died at least, although the clear sky meant it would be a cold night.
As she watched the sky, the stars twinkled to life one by one. Eventually, the moon slid into view. Tea observed the cold, silver disc in numb silence. Her skin was icy, and she could not feel her toes, but she did not care. She felt colder still on the inside.
She had ridden for as long as she could until the fading light had made it dangerous to continue. The mare waited a few yards away, tethered to the trunk of a gorse bush so she did not wander off during the night. The pony was still an irascible traveling companion, but Tea found she did not mind; the mare’s mood suited her own.
Tea took a deep, shuddering breath and closed her eyes, blocking out the night sky. Somewhere to the south, Galan would be bedding down for the night as well. He might still be out dealing with the raiders, or have already returned to Dun Ringill.
Pain knifed through Tea’s chest at the thought of his reaction to her absence. What would he do when he discovered her missing?
Would he care? Would he be angry or hurt, or just relieved that an enemy had gone from his life? Would he be sorry?
Tears squeezed out from under Tea’s eyelids and dribbled down her cheeks, but she angrily scrubbed them away.
It mattered not. They were enemies again now. It just proved how right she had been all those months ago. You could not end years of feuding with one handfasting—the past could not be cast aside so easily.