Chapter 12
ALAR LEFT THE alcove, his pulse thumping in his ears.
No one told him what to do—least of all the Circines chieftain. They were equals here.
However, he let the dog’s pizzle have the last word, let the three of them think they’d won. Lyall and Dolph made no move to leave with him. Instead, they stayed with Beathan. It was a silent yet powerful gesture.
They’d chosen a side. But he’d chosen his.
He wasn’t killing Lara, or Mor.
He was going. Tonight.
Out on the landing, he nearly collided with Duana and Eithne. The two women had been waiting there, listening in on their argument through the curtain. The lasses reeled back at his sudden appearance, panic flaring in their eyes.
Acting on instinct, Alar raised a finger to his lips, warning them to be silent. He then jerked his chin toward the stairwell, indicating for them to follow him into it.
Faces taut, the sisters obeyed, even as fear vibrated off them.
They still expected him to turn on them.
Unlike Beathan, he hadn’t touched either lass in his year at Dulross, nor had he mistreated them.
It didn’t matter though; they likely hated him as much as they did the chieftain.
He’d led the force that had taken this fort, and his wulvers had killed their parents.
He’d also let the chieftain and his captain claim them, and he’d been present while they groped the women, humiliated them.
He hadn’t stopped the abuse then—for doing so would have broken things between him and Beathan—but he would now.
“We’re leaving Dulross,” he whispered as they made their way down the winding stairwell, within the cavity between two thick stacked-stone walls, which circled down from the top floor of the broch to the entrance hall. Cressets guttered as Alar quickened his pace.
There wasn’t a moment to lose.
“What?” Duana hissed back. “Now?”
“Aye.”
“They’ll stop us.”
“Only if they know you’re going.”
Both lasses slowed their pace, and when Alar looked back, he saw them exchanging worried looks.
Halting, Alar turned to them. “I’ve given you little reason to trust me,” he said, keeping his voice low. “But you must now.” He paused then. “Ask yourselves. Whom do you fear more … me or Beathan?”
That decided it. Duana’s lips pursed, while Eithne swallowed audibly. Without another word, they followed him down to the entrance hall.
The hearths burning on the other side glowed through the thick curtain that shielded this narrow area from the main hall. The rough voices of men and higher-pitched responses of women, accompanied by the lower, growling tones of wulvers, drifted out.
Alar stilled a moment. They were arguing.
He tensed, wondering if he should move closer and discover what the problem was. He stopped himself though. There was no time to linger. The affairs of Dulross were no longer his concern. He’d given his brothers and sisters their freedom, but they had to find their own way now, without him.
His gaze swept the shadowy entrance hall.
Fortunately, there were no guards in here, although there would be a couple just outside these thick oak and iron doors. Duana and Eithne needed disguises.
Plucking two cloaks down from pegs on the wall—mantles that belonged to warriors arguing just a few yards away—Alar handed them to the sisters. He then took one for himself.
Their blue eyes were huge on pale faces. They were both looking at him as if he were mad.
It probably seemed that way.
“Pull your hoods up over your faces,” he ordered, keeping his voice low. “Don’t talk to anyone. And if I say ‘run’ … do it.”
“Where are we going?” Duana asked.
“I’m taking you to the High Queen.” He paused then, urgency tightening his gut. They had to move. “Come on, it’s time.”
He waited until both women had donned the voluminous cloaks and yanked the cowls up to hide their faces.
Only then did he pull open the doors.
Outside, two hulking Circines warriors flanked the entrance. Torchlight played across the woad tattoos that curled down their bare arms.
“Alar,” one greeted him gruffly.
“Evening,” he replied.
“Off somewhere?”
“I have a meeting in the lower town.”
“And these two?”
“My slaves.”
The big man’s heavy brow furrowed. As far as any of them knew, the Half-blood didn’t keep any slaves. However, things could have changed.
“It’s after curfew,” the other warrior said then.
“Aye … we’ll be careful.”
Neither of the men answered, and Alar walked on.
He made his way across the dirt-packed yard in front of the broch toward the closed gates.
The scuff of the women’s soft-soled boots behind him reassured him that Duana and Eithne were following.
He deliberately didn’t hurry his pace; if anything, he walked a little slower than usual.
The guards behind him were watching.
Fortunately, he found four of his wulver brothers guarding the gates.
All he had to do was nod, and they opened for him.
Moments later, he led the way out onto the road beyond.
However, instead of taking the long, winding way that would eventually take him down to the lower gates, he cut right and slipped into one of the narrow vennels that dropped down into the residential area of Dulross’s highest level.
The sisters followed him, hurrying now to keep up with his long stride. Out of sight of the guards, he moved faster, taking the stone steps in twos.
Along the way, they passed the headman’s roundhouse—each level of the fort had one.
These men had once kept order, although those who hadn’t lost their lives a year earlier were now powerless.
They did Alar and Beathan’s bidding or risked hanging by their neck from the walls.
The dwelling was bigger and better constructed than most. Light glowed around the door of the roundhouse as Alar and the women slipped by, the rich aroma of blood sausage drifting out into the darkness.
They continued down a network of narrow vennels, heading toward the archway that would take them to the lower levels, passing well-kept roundhouses with turf roofs.
This was the wealthiest area of the fort, where most of Dulross’s ‘elders’ lived, venerated men and women whom locals came to for advice.
Before the Circines and wulvers’ arrival, they’d settled disputes and warned the headmen or the fort chieftain if there was any trouble brewing among the residents. Now, they kept their own counsel.
Since it was after dark, Dulross’s residents had locked themselves away behind sturdy oak doors.
If Alar had any sense, he’d be inside too.
The Slew hadn’t attacked in a few days now, but that didn’t stop other wraiths from stalking the wynds and vennels of Dulross, looking for a way inside homes or an idiot who didn’t respect the curfew.
“Things are moving in the shadows,” Eithne whispered, her voice catching.
“Aye … there will be,” Alar replied. He thought then of the boggart who’d visited him days earlier. “Don’t look at them … and keep moving.”
They reached the archway that led out of the top level then and slipped through, moving past two brightly burning braziers.
Dulross glowed like a beacon each night—something Lara could have used against them if she’d wished.
Perhaps she planned to, once her mission in the North was complete.
Nonetheless, fire was necessary. Spirits didn’t like it.
They were born from the shadows and preferred to linger there.
As such, Alar avoided some of the darkest, dankest back streets now, sticking to the better-lit paths.
On the way down to the gates, they passed no one. At one stage, a large brown rat scuttled across their path, and then farther down, a rail-thin cat hissed at them.
Finally, they crossed the market ground, a wide dirt area before the gates.
Both wulver and Circines warriors flanked the way out.
“A bit late for a walk, isn’t it?” One of the Circines greeted him. Alar recognized the man. His name was Ewart. Tall and blunt-featured with long curly straw-colored hair, he was one of Beathan’s trusted senior warriors.
“I’m off on an errand,” Alar replied, flashing the man a cool half-smile. “Beathan and I have met. I have a proposal for the queens.”
Ewart raised ruddy brows. “He’s sending you out now?”
Alar shrugged. “We prefer not to wait. None of us wants the Raven Queen or that fire-wielder to linger at Dulross.”
Ewart nodded, although his gaze was still wary. He glanced then at the two hooded figures who stood behind Alar, heads bowed. “I’ve never known you to take an escort anywhere?”
“These two are slaves … offerings. They carry gifts.”
The warrior frowned. “You’re trying to buy the queens off?”
“It’s part of our plan, aye.” Alar was starting to sweat now.
If these questions continued, he’d have to draw his blades and kill Ewart—and anyone else who tried to stop him.
“Do you want me to send up a runner to the broch, haul Beathan out of the furs, and get him to explain this to you?” He paused then.
“When I left him, he was about to give his bed-slave a tumble … shall we disturb him?”
Behind him, one of the sisters—Alar wasn’t sure which—squeaked.
Shit.
A moment passed, and Ewart’s lips pursed.
Everyone knew Beathan was as randy as a ram in rutting season. After supper each eve, he retired early to give Duana a seeing to—and he didn’t like being interrupted.
“He should keep me better informed,” the warrior grumbled then, stepping back and gesturing to the men standing by the large iron bolts that kept the gates locked.
Alar didn’t answer.
A rumble followed as the drawbridge on the other side lowered over the spike-filled ditch. Moments later, the warriors and wulvers pushed the gates open, just wide enough for Alar and his companions to slip through.
“How long will you be?” Ewart asked as Alar moved forward.
“If I don’t return from the pines by the witching hour, I’m likely dead.”
Alar departed then, with the sisters right behind him. The moment they walked out onto the drawbridge, their boots thudding on wood, the gates started to close. But as they did, the faint echo of shouts reached Alar’s ears.
His heart kicked. Someone had raised the alarm.
Fuck.
Halting, he whipped around, grabbed Duana and Eithne by the arms, and pushed them ahead of him. “Run.”
Neither lass reacted as he hoped. Instead, they stumbled and smacked into each other, fear turning them both clumsy.
“Run!”
Choking out a curse, Duana took her sister’s hand. Together, they fled like hunted hinds across the drawbridge and into the meadow beyond.
Alar was right behind them.
Fortunately, all three of them were wearing black cloaks, which helped them blend in with the shadows. Unfortunately, though, the waxing crescent moon was high and bright, and the sky was clear. A faint veil of silvery light bathed the grass.
Alar’s gut clenched. Suddenly, the stretch between the walls of Dulross and the pinewood to the west seemed endless.
They’d hardly gone more than a dozen yards when arrows flew from the walls above them, peppering the ground like deadly hailstones.
“Don’t run in a straight line,” Alar called, even as heat rippled out from his chest. His tattoo was awakening, earth magic channeling through his veins. Good. His instincts would be sharper now. He’d run faster. “Cut left and right.”
He wasn’t sure the women had heard him, but he could hear their ragged breathing and panicked gasps.
Something whistled past his right ear then, so close the feather fletching brushed his skin.
Teeth clenched, he bowed his head and sprinted on, dreading the impact of something slamming in between his shoulder blades. They just had to hang on for a few more yards. Soon they’d be out of range of the archers on the walls.
A woman’s cry split the night.
One of the cloaked figures that fled before him was down.
An instant later, both Alar and Duana were at Eithne’s side. “Where did it get you?” Duana asked, her voice high and panicked. All the while, arrows flew around them.
“It didn’t,” Eithni ground out. “I twisted my ankle.”
Relief barreled into Alar. Grabbing Eithne under the arms, he hauled the lass to her feet. She shrieked as he threw her over his shoulder. “Run!” he barked at Duana. “And no matter what happens to us, don’t stop.”