11 AT A CROSSROADS
LARA DREW HER fur-lined cloak close as she followed Alar up onto the walls.
The light was fading, color slowly leaching from the world.
The sky was a dark-blue velvet curtain, and the first of the stars twinkled to life against it.
Braziers burned upon the ramparts, both illuminating the pitted stone and throwing deep shadows.
Cold, damp air feathered against Lara’s cheeks.
She was glad for her cloak, although Alar hadn’t bothered to put one on to go outside.
Clad in a black leather vest that left his arms bare, fitted leather trousers, and long boots—with his fighting knives still strapped to his back—he was a disquieting sight.
His unbound hair flowed like ink over his shoulders, while his pale skin contrasted with its darkness, and in the gloaming, his eyes looked as black as pitch.
There was a feral edge to him. He might not be a wulver, but he carried himself like one.
Her pulse quickened then, her palms growing damp. They were alone up here. He’d insisted on it.
Bree hadn’t been pleased, and Cailean’s glare could have melted iron, but Alar hadn’t backed down. He’d pointed out that they were within Doure’s sturdy walls, and Marav guards stood watch nearby should Lara need them.
It had looked as if her friends weren’t going to let the matter lie either. However, Lara had de-escalated the situation by assuring them she’d be safe in Alar’s company. She’d then bid a slave to fetch her mantle.
She now wished she’d refused him. She didn’t want to discuss her upcoming handfasting or the other details of their agreement. The longer she could put it off, the better. Nonetheless, she couldn’t risk falling out with the Half-blood either.
Not when his wulvers outnumbered her warriors inside this fort.
The atmosphere inside the hall during supper had been tense. The wulvers and Marav had sat apart, and she hadn’t missed the looks the latter had given the former. There was no gratitude or camaraderie in their gazes, just resentment and suspicion.
Reaching the top of the steps, she surveyed the darkening world beyond. North of the walls, the remnants of a pyre smoldered—the Shee dead had been piled up there and torched.
A shiver traced down her spine then. Bree had told her that the Shee never burned their dead; they buried them instead. This disposal of the bodies was an insult to them. The Marav who’d fallen would burn the following eve though, as was their way, with bards singing their final lament.
She and Alar walked along the wall, stopping halfway. Sentries, some Marav, others wulver, lined the defenses, but none were now within earshot.
“I suggest you leave a strong garrison in Doure,” he said without preamble. “This fort isn’t an easy one to take, but the Shee succeeded once … and they’ll no doubt try again.”
Lara clenched her jaw. They’d only just taken it, and already he was telling her how to defend Doure.
“Captain mac Tav will make the necessary arrangements,” she replied, not bothering to disguise the irritation in her voice.
“Why don’t we leave two hundred wulvers here to help protect the fort?”
A brittle silence followed. She didn’t want any of his army remaining here. Nonetheless, his suggestion wasn’t a foolish one. Leaving a large Marav garrison here would cut her dwindling army in half.
Curse him, she did need his help.
After a heavy pause, she cleared her throat. “I’ll consider it.”
He flashed her a smug half-smile that made her want to slap him before glancing over at where a waxing crescent moon rose over the edges of the mountains to the north. “I wish for us to be handfasted, one turn of the moon from today … if that’s agreeable to you?”
Lara cut him a surprised look. She’d expected him to want them to be wed as soon as possible. “Why the delay?” she asked lightly. She was hesitant to pry, for she didn’t want to hurry their union along. All the same, she wondered why he wished to wait. What was he up to?
Maybe in the meantime, she could find a way out of fulfilling her side of the agreement.
His gaze gleamed in the glow of the nearby brazier. “I must return to my brothers and sisters … and let them know what we have agreed. I will then rally more warriors and bring my host south.”
Lara frowned. “I was hoping we might use this victory to our advantage and push on, up the east coast,” she said firmly. “We could take Rothie next before cutting west to Cannich.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Ambitious, aren’t we?”
Heat washed over Lara. Was he mocking her? Her plan was an embryonic one that she’d mulled over in the bath earlier. She hadn’t said anything to her council yet. Instead, she wanted to talk to him first. “It makes sense,” she said stiffly.
“You’re rushing,” he answered, holding her eye. “And taking Cannich from the east is the hardest route. Best to strike out from Dulross instead.”
“Why?”
“Dulross is still yours, so you won’t waste resources winning it back. ‘The Brooch of Albia’ sits at a strategic point in the southern Uplands.”
Lara’s jaw tightened. He was right about that. Dulross was important. It was said that whoever held Dulross, held the realm. The Raven Queen would want the fort, but she wouldn’t get it.
“But that’s not the only reason why your plan is flawed,” Alar went on.
“The road from Rothie to Cannich takes you right by Bracehell Barrow. It’s too risky to march an army through there.
The Shee will swarm us before we get as far as Morae.
” He paused then. “Our alliance isn’t just about reclaiming The Uplands, Lara …
it’s about Marav and wulvers living as equals.
You’ll need time to return to Duncrag and prepare your people.
Soon, my brothers and sisters will reside at the capital … and its residents must be ready.”
Lara’s stomach clenched. Once again, he was telling her what to do.
Curse him though, was he right? Was she in too much of a hurry?
He did have a point; she had to warn the residents of Duncrag before an army of wulvers turned up.
Her breathing grew shallow at the thought.
Who was she fooling? It didn’t matter how much time she had.
Her people were never going to like this.
It galled her to wait though, especially when her gut told her they should keep going. But she wasn’t a military strategist. Alar had more experience in these matters, and she’d be a fool to disregard his advice.
“So be it,” she finally managed. “I shall await your arrival.” Feeling sick, she turned from him, her fingers curving around the rough stone wall. It bore scorch marks and grooves, scars from the recent battle.
To her consternation, Alar moved closer.
His proximity made her freeze. He smelled of leather, mixed with the woodsy, earthy scent of oak, with the undertone of something fresh like mint.
It wasn’t unpleasant, yet she wanted him to step back, to give her space.
Pulse racing, she shifted forward, pressing herself against the sturdy bulk of the wall. It steadied her.
“Have your overkings been putting pressure on you?” he asked finally.
“Of course … and they’re right to. They know what will happen if the enemy crosses into The Wolds.”
“The Shee will never take the South, Lara,” he replied, steel creeping into his voice then. “I promise you that.”
Surprised by the vehemence of his answer, she drew in a steadying breath, her gaze traveling over the dark pinewood that covered the hills to the north. She was about to ask how he could make such assurances when something in the sky above the forest caught her eye. “Shades … what’s that?”
The scuff of boots on stone followed as Alar stepped up to the wall next to her, so close that their elbows accidentally brushed.
Ignoring him, she craned her neck forward and narrowed her gaze. The last glimmers of daylight were fading now, yet there was no mistaking the dark shapes that twisted and dove like monstrous swallows above the tree line.
Alar whispered an oath under his breath. “It’s the Slew.”
Alarm shivered through her. “But it’s not yet time.”
“No … they’ve grown … active … of late.”
Lara’s pulse sped up. Over the past years, the Slew had become more vicious at Gateway—even forcing their way into dwellings to steal the souls of the sick, weak, or frightened. But seeing them on the wing outside of Gateway made her belly churn.
This is the last thing we need.
“There’s a burial ground in the middle of that pine forest, and they’ve been straying from it,” Alar added. “But this … is not something I’ve yet seen.”
As they watched, the dark shapes rose and fell.
From this distance, it resembled a great swarm, and Lara held her breath, readying herself to flee from the walls should they head in her direction.
But they didn’t. Instead, they arched high once more before diving beneath the canopy of dark conifers again.
Lara’s heart pounded as she continued to stare at the pinewood and the sky over it, searching for more black, writhing shapes. But The Unforgiven didn’t reappear. Only then did she exhale, her lightheadedness returning.
“We should probably get off the walls,” Alar murmured.
“Aye,” Lara agreed. “Let’s go.”
They stepped away from the edge, turned, and made their way back toward the steps leading down to the inner ward.
“Before we go inside … there’s something I’d like you to see,” Alar said then.
Lara cut him a sidelong glance. “Not more malevolent spirits on the wing? Or maybe, there’s a family of powries living inside the walls I don’t yet know about?”
Alar surprised her by grinning then, revealing a dimple in his left cheek. His smile was disarming, and she stumbled. His hand shot out, his fingers curving around her upper arm to steady her.
Extracting herself gently from his grip, she halted on the walkway and turned to face him squarely. “I don’t like surprises … best you tell me what you’ve got planned.”