13 STORM CLOUDS
LOCALS GATHERED ALONG the roadside to see their High Queen off. However, there were no smiles, no cheering and waving at her departure. Just stony silence.
Riding astride Bracken, Lara’s chest tightened as she marked their angry faces.
Initially, the people of Doure were shocked at the sight of the wulvers pouring into their fort.
Now, they were angry. Alar’s army had helped take back Doure, but that didn’t mean the people were grateful, or that they wanted them to remain here.
And today, they’d learned that a garrison of three hundred would remain at the fort: half wulver, half Marav.
Lara’s council didn’t like it either. They’d pushed back, Cailean and Roth in particular.
Her chief-enforcer and captain had met privately with her to discuss it, but she’d reminded them that Mor had already succeeded in taking Doure once, and she’d likely try to take the fort again.
Only a powerful garrison would prevent it.
Reluctantly, they’d accepted her choice.
All the same, arguing with them had left her drained and worried.
She didn’t like locking horns with her advisors, especially Cailean. He wasn’t pleased with her these days.
No one, except Alar, was, it seemed.
She glanced at him then, stalking by her left side while Bree rode at her right. Clad in black and armed with his blades, he unnerved her.
And, of course, his presence just made the locals more resentful.
Impatience twisted her belly then. Her stay in Doure had been a brief one, yet she wished she were already back in Duncrag, making plans.
Instead, a journey of around eight days awaited her.
Gods, she needed to get this cursed handfasting out of the way so she could march north.
Since Alar was leaving many wulvers behind in Doure, he’d need to gather more warriors.
However, she wouldn’t tolerate any further delays.
To make matters worse, her council was also divided about her decision to return to Duncrag.
None of them had wanted her to make a deal with the Half-blood.
But now that she had an army of wulvers behind her and had retaken Doure, Roth and Gregor urged her to exploit her advantage—to travel down to Dulross immediately and then strike north from there.
But Annis, Ruari, and Ren insisted she should wait.
The chief-counsellor said that the omens weren’t good, while the chief-seer warned that the bones were conflicting at present.
Meanwhile, Cailean and Bree both advised her to be wary, no matter what path she chose.
And at each meeting, Alar observed them silently—only offering his opinion when asked.
“Traitor!” Her chin jerked up, her gaze scanning the crowd to see who’d just shouted out, but it was impossible to tell.
“Don’t let them get to you, Lara,” Alar said softly. “Change is always difficult at first … but they’ll get used to the new way of things soon enough.”
Tension rippled through her. “Will they?”
“Aye, just give them time.”
Unconvinced, she shifted her gaze ahead, focusing on Bracken’s furry ears.
They left the fort and rode down the steep defile before climbing to the hill west.
A cool salt-laced breeze feathered across Lara’s cheeks as she turned to look back at Doure.
High upon the walls, she spied the outlines of figures—the dull-grey iron helmets of Marav warriors and the beastly profiles of wulvers—against the pale sky.
She twisted back then to see that Alar now stood a few yards away with two of his captains—the wulvers she’d seen him with during the siege, introduced afterward as Lyall and Dolph.
The rest of his army, those who wouldn’t remain in Doure, waited on the edge of the tree line to the north. The breeze stirred the thick fur that covered their faces and necks. The rising sun, and pride, reflected in their yellow eyes.
“Everything is in place,” Alar said, drawing her attention once more. “Our captains will co-rule the fort … they will ensure no Shee will set foot in it again.”
There was a hardness in his voice that made Lara scrutinize him. In the bright morning light, his skin was so pale it was almost translucent, and the scars upon his cheek and neck gleamed like quicksilver. She wondered where he’d gotten them. There was so much she didn’t know about this man.
And yet, she’d made a pact with him.
“I can return to Duncrag with peace of mind then?”
He nodded. “Of course.”
“You’d better be right, Half-blood,” Cailean muttered. “Or we’ve just created more problems than we’ve solved.”
Stiffening, Lara cast a glance over her shoulder at her scowling chief-enforcer. A few yards away, Roth waited, astride his stallion, his strong jaw bunched. Meanwhile, the rest of her council gathered farther back—none of them were smiling.
Her skin prickled then. The tension in the air was unbearable. Everyone was watching her, judging her.
“Right … it’s time to go.” She was suddenly desperate to take her leave of this man and his silently watching wulvers. Their stares held a challenge.
He smiled. “You and I shall meet again at Duncrag within the turn of the moon.”
There was a promise in the way he’d said those last words. He might as well have said: You will soon be mine .
Dread lodged like a brick in her gut. She didn’t want to think about what that entailed. She didn’t want to think about being bedded by him. Her brief marriage to Dunchadh had made her swear never to suffer a man’s touch again—and now, here she was about to go through the same ordeal.
Making a deal with the Half-blood had seemed like a wise choice when she’d been staring defeat in the face, but with each passing day, regret gathered like storm clouds within her.
Nonetheless, she had to keep focused on why she was doing this and just what was at stake. Someone had to make the hard choices.
“I shall bid you safe travels then,” she replied stiffly, gathering her reins. “And shall await you in Duncrag in due course.” She paused for a moment. “As soon as the handfasting is done, we must make plans to march north.”
He inclined his head. “We can leave just after Gateway … if that suits you?”
“It does.”
“Until our next meeting,” he answered, with a smile, taking a step back. His black cloak billowed behind him as he turned and strode away, Lyall and Dolph flanking him.
Lara watched him go.
The High Queen’s army moved with frustrating slowness, snaking through the thickly wooded hills of the borderlands. They brought their captives with them. The Shee walked ahead of Lara and her escort, with their wrists bound at their backs.
They didn’t wear iron shackles or collars, for the metal would burn their skin and eventually kill them.
Even so, Cailean and Roth didn’t trust their captives—least of all Fern Sablebane—not to make trouble.
As such, enforcers flanked them, as did blue-robed bards.
The low hum of voices drifted through the air that was thick with the scent of pine, ash, and damp, peaty earth.
The bards sang a dirge as they walked, weaving earth magic about their captives.
Many of the Shee’s faces were set, their shoulders rounded under the weight of the druidic magic that flowed around them. They hated it almost as much as they did iron.
And as the morning drew out, and they inched their way southwest, Lara’s gaze often flicked to her would-be assassin.
There was something about the Shee female that needled her.
Even with her wrists bound, Sablebane was defiant.
Unlike most of the other captives, she wasn’t cowed.
She held her chin at an arrogant tilt, her black hair tumbling down her straight back.
Even being burned by iron hadn’t broken her.
Lara hated to admit it, but the female unsettled her. She was a reminder of what dangerous adversaries the Shee were.
“Do all Shee females have backbones of tempered steel?” she asked Bree eventually.
Her warder laughed, and her response made the knots in Lara’s belly loosen just a little. Things had been strained between her and Bree over the past days, but she was relieved to see her thaw a little. “Aye … most do.”
Lara studied Bree’s face, remembering just how intimidating she’d been in her Shee form. “It might sound foolish … but I thought you were unique.”
Her friend shrugged. “Aye, well … your captives are all warriors too … and they’ve had centuries to hone their skills.”
Lara’s palms grew damp at these words. The Shee couldn’t be underestimated. How she wished they were heading to Dulross right now. But she couldn’t. Not without the Half-blood’s army. Without them—even with druids—they’d never take back the North.
“We can’t rely on the wulvers, My Queen.”
Lara swallowed a sigh. She’d been dreading this meeting and had known her advisors wouldn’t hold back. Alar’s presence at every council in Doure had checked them. However, the first words out of Annis’s mouth were a direct challenge.
After a long day’s travel through glorious autumn sunshine—where the light was deep gold and every detail was etched in sharp relief—they’d just made camp. Lara was weary and hungry, but she had to face her council first.
“No, we can’t,” Cailean agreed roughly, even as he gently stroked the thick fur on Skaal’s back. The fae hound had pressed her large hairy body up against his as he stood before the meeting table. “Once we get back to Duncrag, we should increase security.”
“Aye … the Fort Guard will need to be ready for them,” Roth said, folding his muscular arms across his chest. “I shall recruit more warriors from The Wolds … although that might prove a challenge these days.”
Lara nodded briskly, even as misgiving clutched at her.
She’d deliberately avoided issuing a draft, but they were getting to the stage where one might be necessary.
“See it all done then.” Surprise rippled over Cailean and Roth’s faces, as if they’d expected her to argue, and irritation spiked through her.
“Don’t you think I understand the risks that come with allowing an army of wulvers to reside within Duncrag’s walls? ”
Both men frowned, making it clear they had indeed doubted her.
Sucking in a deep breath, Lara resisted the urge to rub her temples. Another headache loomed.
“I suggest sending word to the Isle of Arryn,” Ren added, a trifle timidly, for she wasn’t one to speak up at meetings. “We require more enforcers and bards for the fight ahead.”
“I shall,” Lara assured her. She didn’t hold out much hope though. The Arch-druid had warned just a year earlier that they weren’t getting enough initiates these days. There weren’t as many druids being trained as before.
A brittle silence followed before Annis spoke once more.
“All of this is sage counsel, My Queen … but I was referring to something else when I said we shouldn’t ‘rely’ on the wulvers.
” Her gaze was sharp as it met Lara’s. “If you find more allies, then you won’t be so dependent on the Half-blood and his army. ”
The chief-counsellor was right, of course. Depending wholly on the wulvers would give her husband too much power. She couldn’t let him think he was indispensable. And she had to be ready, if he tried to overthrow her.
“Go on,” Lara murmured.
“For centuries, the rulers of Albia have relied on the might of The Uplands to fill the ranks of their armies,” the chief-counsellor replied. “The hill-tribe warriors are fierce fighters. You need them on your side.”
Lara stilled. Aye, she did.
“The Circines serve the Raven Queen now, not the High Queen of Albia,” Gregor reminded Annis sourly.
Lara’s pulse quickened. “Aye, but don’t you wonder what she promised them?”
Gregor frowned.
“Didn’t the Raven Queen assure the faerie creatures they could re-enter Sheehallion after five years of service?” Ruari asked.
“Aye, but that’s no good to the Circines,” Gregor replied. “Since our kind can’t pass through the barrows or the stone circles.”
“And nor would we want to,” Ren murmured.
“We must learn what Mor has promised them … so we can offer something better.” Annis drew herself up then, her gaze sweeping over the circle of men and women gathered in the meeting pavilion. “I have an idea.”
Lara observed her warily. “Aye?”
“Let me choose two of my most able counsellors. They shall travel to The Uplands and track down the Circines chieftain. They will then assure him that the High Queen of Albia will better any terms the Raven Queen has offered.”
Lara considered this plan for a few moments. It had merit. Unlike her father, who’d ill-treated the hill-tribes and ended up earning the resentment of their chieftains, she’d gain their respect. Their love.
“That could work,” she murmured. “Although they can’t go on their own.”
“You’ll need some enforcers,” Cailean said gruffly.
“And an escort of warriors,” Roth added.
Lara drew in a deep breath. She was pleased they were all working together again—instead of arguing—although her chief-enforcer and captain’s grave expressions were yet another reminder of their dwindling resources.
Encouraged, Annis folded her arms across her chest. “The Shee took The Uplands because they understood the power of alliances, My Queen. We need to do the same … and I’m not talking about wulvers.”
“It’ll also weaken the Shee’s hold on the North before we get there,” Gregor flashed Annis a grudging smile. “Well, done.”
Annis’s lips curved in response. The chief-sacrificer wasn’t one to hand out praise.
Moments passed, and Lara surveyed the faces of those gathered around her. They were watching her keenly, waiting for her answer.
“Very well,” she said after a pause. “A peace envoy shall leave for The Goatfells with the dawn.”