Chapter 5 Ashes
THE NOISE INSIDE the hall was deafening: a roar of Marav and wulver voices. They rose and ebbed like waves upon a shingle shore. Usually, Alar found the sound of conversation at mealtimes soothing, but today, it got on his nerves.
Tonight, he was in the mood for silence.
Leaning back in the carven chair one of his brothers had made him in the days following their victory, he picked up his pewter goblet of apple wine. Taking a sip, he surveyed the faces of those seated around him. Many of the Circines warriors’ cheeks were flushed with drink.
There was no high seat in this hall. He and Beathan had decided that from the first. Instead of a long table upon a raised dais at the far end of the hall, where the chieftain of Dulross had once sat, the tables had been arranged into a large square in the center.
Here, Alar and Beathan faced each other—as equals.
A fire pit smoldered between them, lumps of burning peat sending oily dark smoke wreathing up toward the smoke-blackened beams that crisscrossed overhead.
Smoke vents lined the surrounding walls, but it wasn’t enough to clear the fug from the air.
Around the two rulers of Dulross sat wulvers and hill-tribe warriors.
“By the Warrior balls.” A drunken man shouted above the din. “Not fried fish again!”
Jeers followed these words, and Alar tensed, casting a glance right at where Lyall and Dolph sat. Neither of them appeared offended by the jibe. Instead, Lyall, who had one arm around Dolph’s broad shoulders, merely lifted his cup of wine in a mocking toast to the warrior who’d spoken.
Slaves had just carried in platters of fried eel and pike.
Wulvers loved fish; they preferred it to all other foods.
And since his brothers and sisters had taken over the cooking, they decided on the meals.
The Circines were happy to have someone else cook for them; however, that didn’t stop them from complaining about the fare.
They were mountain people. Hunters of deer, boar, birds, and hares.
A rich venison stew was what they really wanted.
Usually, their comments washed over Alar, but this evening, they vexed him.
Upon taking Dulross, Beathan had promised that wulvers and Circines would have the same rank here. Nearly the turn of a year had passed since then, and Alar had noticed a gradual shift. The Circines were becoming dominant, while his brothers and sisters bowed to them. He didn’t like it.
“We’re doing you all a favor,” Lyall called out then, his low, gravelly voice cutting through the heckling. “Fish keeps you lean and quick … meat makes you sluggish.”
Snorts followed these words.
Meanwhile, across the table, Beathan mac Glen raised his cup high.
“A toast!” he boomed. “To our wulver brothers and sisters … and to victories … past and future.” His blue eyes, bloodshot from drink, were still as sharp as ever.
A comely lass with thick flaxen hair perched on his knee.
Duana, the daughter of the hapless chieftain—Og mac Alpin—who’d ruled here before they arrived, was now Beathan’s bed-slave.
The young woman’s face was impassive this evening, despite the livid bruise upon her cheek.
Duana gave little away. She was strong, which was just as well, for Beathan was reputed to have quite an appetite.
The Circines chieftain had given her younger sister to one of his captains.
A sneering warrior named Lorc. The man’s rough hands were squeezing Eithne’s breasts now, as she struggled on his lap.
Unlike her more stoic elder sister, Eithne’s face was stricken.
Alar’s jaw tightened. After seizing Dulross, the surviving residents of this broch were now slaves—including the chieftain’s daughters.
He’d thought about challenging Beathan over taking mac Alpin’s daughters as his prize when they’d seized Dulross, but it was hill-tribe tradition to do so.
As such, he’d let it lie. The sight of Duana and Eithne each mealtime though, their bronze bed-slave collars gleaming at their throats, never failed to unsettle him.
He’d crossed so many lines over the past couple of years, another one shouldn’t matter. And yet it did.
“And to our ever-widening territory!” Beathan added. His gaze glinted as it met Alar’s. “Long may this alliance between Circines and wulver continue!”
Alar raised his goblet of wine. “Aye … here’s to that.”
There had been plenty to celebrate of late. Ever since taking Dulross, they’d gone from strength to strength. The Ring of Ard now belonged to them, as did the villages around it.
They’d pushed the Shee back.
“I want us to go further,” Beathan said then, raising his voice to be heard over the cheering that reverberated around the hall. “Now that we’ve started, we should take all of The Uplands for ourselves.”
Alar stilled, his fingers tightening around the stem of his goblet.
He’d been waiting for this.
Power was seductive. First, you wanted just a taste, but as it settled upon your tongue, you grew hungry for more. And over time, the hunger grew to greed.
Together, Circines and wulver ruled a wide belt of territory: Doure on the east coast, all the Goatfell Mountains in the central Uplands, and now the Ring of Ard as well. But it wasn’t enough for Beathan. He was drunk on more than potent apple wine tonight. He was drunk on victory.
“We don’t stand alone,” the chieftain went on. “The other tribes will unite with us.”
The rumble of voices around the table died at these words. A bold statement. The three hill-tribes within The Uplands rarely joined forces. The Circines, Druthen, and Lothin had a long history of blood feuds.
“What if they don’t?” Alar asked, swirling his wine. “What if the Raven Queen has bought them … as she once did you?”
Beathan’s dark eyebrows drew together. “People change sides.”
Alar inclined his head. He hadn’t been able to stop himself from making the dig.
The Circines had initially fought for the Shee.
Mor had promised them revenge against the High King of Albia …
and then, when she pushed south, she’d promised Beathan could have Duncrag.
But the Raven Queen’s plans had moved too slowly for the Circines chieftain.
And Alar had exploited his frustration.
After they’d taken back Doure a year earlier, he’d told Lara he needed time to spread word amongst his brethren of their victory and to rally his warriors.
And he had. But the real reason he’d waited a moon’s turn before traveling south and marrying the High Queen was to visit The Goatfells.
There, he’d met with Beathan and made his own proposal.
“There are other things to consider,” he said after a pause. “What about the Slew … and their friends?”
Beathan’s brow furrowed. He didn’t like to discuss the problems they’d been having of late—problems that were growing—but ignoring them wasn’t going to work either.
Taking back The Ring of Ard and the lands surrounding it had brought them face-to-face with the fact that various spirits now swarmed in the darkness each night.
Some of the wraiths were curious or restless, others mischievous.
But many wished to cause harm. And they did.
The Slew had swarmed in on the night they’d taken back the stone circle.
Beathan and Alar had camped inside the towering stones and surrounded their warband with huge bonfires.
Even then, some of the wraiths had gotten through.
They’d taken warriors, and the fight had drawn out as exhaustion hammered at them.
They’d been on the verge of collapse when the Slew finally drew back.
“I’m not going to let those fuckers ruin this,” Beathan bellowed. The Circines chieftain’s expression turned fierce as he raised his cup high once more. “They might stalk the night … but we rule the day.”
Alar didn’t reply. He admired Beathan’s stubbornness in the face of adversity.
However, even within the sheltering walls of this fort, their problems with spirits were growing.
The Slew hunted with chilling regularity now, and just two days earlier, a grimloch had killed an entire family in the lower fort.
It had squeezed through the smoke vent and snuffed out the peat fire, suffocating a carpenter, his wife, and their two bairns while they slept.
No, they couldn’t sweep it all away—although the Circines chieftain was making a valiant attempt.
“Just imagine it, Alar.” Beathan sat back in his chair, his hand playing with Duana’s soft hair.
The lass sat, as if carved from stone. Her blue eyes were distant.
“The whole of The Uplands … ours. From Darkmere in the northeast, to The Spine and Harra in the far north, and the Isle of Laggan in the east. The High Queen can keep The Wolds … but the mountains, glens, and valleys of the North belong to us.”
Something in the chieftain’s voice called to Alar then.
It was tempting.
Of late, he’d gotten bored. It surprised him how quickly he’d fallen into a routine in Dulross, how quickly he’d forgotten how hard he’d fought to be here.
It was easy to think the solution was to gain more territory, but was it?
Would it ever fill the aching pit in his chest?
Lyall and Dolph exchanged glances then, their gazes glinting.
“The Shee are at their weakest when the weather turns bitter,” The chieftain went on, oblivious to the wulvers’ reactions. “I suggest we wait until mid-winter and then hit Cannich first … rather than taking smaller villages and forts. Strike fast and hard.”
Excited murmuring erupted at this suggestion, and a grin stretched Beathan’s face. His attention then shifted to Alar. “You’re quiet.”
“I’m thinking.”
Beathan cocked a dark eyebrow. “And your conclusion?”