16 UNWORTHY
HALTING AT THE top of the last hill before Duncrag, Alar swept his gaze over the vast fort that he’d soon co-rule.
A slow smile curved his lips.
“Gloating?”
He glanced over his shoulder at where Dolph had stepped close.
The Sweeper buffeted them, ruffling the plush fawn-colored fur that covered Dolph’s head and neck, and making Alar’s thick cloak billow and snap around him.
The wind had followed them all the way south for days now, and today, it pushed fat clouds across a leached-out blue sky above.
“Aye,” he admitted. “Aren’t you?”
“Of course. This is the next step … and we’re ready for it. Ready to take our rightful place.”
“So, you have taken the High Queen at her word?” Lyall moved up next to Dolph. The huge wulver loomed over them both. “We’d better not be walking into a trap.”
“I can make no such promises.”
Neither wulver replied to this, although both their amber gazes glinted.
“Lara mac Talorc isn’t her father,” he went on. “But she hasn’t proved herself to us … or me.”
Turning, he surveyed the long column of wulvers, all of them on foot, that stretched up the highway. Wulvers didn’t travel on horseback, and so the journey had taken several days. Of course, Duncrag scouts had already marked their passage south.
Lara would be waiting for him.
And as he’d promised, his arrival was one turn of the moon after Doure. Gateway was half a turn away, and autumn was sliding toward winter.
“Come.” He swiveled on his heel once more and started off down the final slope. Ahead, lay the sparkling waters of the River Lethe, spanned by a wooden bridg e . “Let’s prepare ourselves for a warm Duncrag welcome.”
The wulvers entered the fort to the clang of iron.
The noise didn’t surprise Alar. In every Marav settlement in The Wolds, smiths were hard at work forging weapons to combat the Shee—they had been for years now.
It didn’t surprise him either that their arrival drew crowds.
Men, women, and bairns gathered around the large dirt meeting ground inside the gates and lined The Thoroughfare, all gawking rudely at Alar and his companions. Of course, many of them had never seen wulvers before.
Today changed all that.
It wasn’t Alar’s first trip to Duncrag in his seventy-two summers.
He’d visited a few times, mainly to pick up weapons or supplies.
He’d always enjoyed the vibrancy of Albia’s capital, even if the acrid tang of iron in the air mixed with the ripe odor of too many bodies living in close quarters, and the stench from the open sewers on the lower levels, called for a strong stomach.
Fortunately, as they climbed The Thoroughfare through the various levels, with densely-packed roundhouses and sod-roofed cottages lining the way, the smell improved.
However, the mood amongst the inhabitants didn’t.
He caught their muttering, the growled curses. Some even spat on the ground as the wulvers approached, although the timid amongst them clutched iron protection amulets and murmured prayers to the Gods.
Alar couldn’t help but smirk at their superstition. Fools.
He noted then, on the fringes of the swelling crowd, many leather-clad warriors, domed iron helmets jammed upon their heads and spears in their hands. The High Queen had sent out her Fort Guard to ensure Alar and his army could enter unmolested.
Or to prevent fighting from breaking out.
Up they climbed, until finally, they crested the tip of the promontory.
Duncrag was immense, many times larger than Doure, and from the top, Alar had a wide view of pinewoods and hills to the south and west, the edge of an estuary to the east, and the craggy outline of the Shiel Range to the north.
But his attention didn’t linger on the views for long. Instead, he focused on the high walls surrounding the massive beehive-shaped broch.
Anticipation tightened his stomach.
Lara would be waiting for him.
He had to be wary of his bride-to-be. She’d made that blood oath in an act of desperation, but a moon had turned since then. No doubt, she was looking for an excuse to break their agreement.
He wouldn’t let her.
Alar strode through the open gates and into the wide courtyard before the broch.
He spied Lara then, standing in front of the vast oaken doors leading inside.
His step slowed as he raked his gaze over her, from the crown of her head to her sandalled feet.
Her thick auburn waves had been tamed into twin coils, amber pendants hung from her ears, and a gleaming bronze torque encircled her throat, while bronze, silver, and gold rings decorated her bare arms. She wore a gold-trimmed, jade- green sleeveless tunic that reached the ankle, and a thick wolf’s pelt hung from her shoulders.
Her warder and the chief-enforcer flanked her, while more black-clad enforcers stood below them on the steps.
Mac Brochan’s fae hound was present too—and its golden eyes fastened on Alar.
Despite that the beast had displayed a surprising affection for him in Doure, the hound’s stare was a little unsettling.
Lara held herself proudly. However, her heart-shaped face was pale, strained.
Discomfort flickered through Alar then, catching him unawares.
What was this?
When they’d met outside Doure, she’d been dressed in hard-wearing, practical tunics, for she was on campaign, with little jewelry or finery.
But now she was back in Duncrag and dressed like a High Queen once more, he suddenly felt unworthy of her.
Scarred and covered in dirt and sweat from days on the road, he looked like the outcast he was.
Irritation sliced through him then.
Unworthy?
He’d spent most of his life clawing out of that fucking pit. He wasn’t going back there. Ever.
His bride-to-be might look as untouchable as The Maiden, but he’d earned a place at her side. He’d worked up to this moment for so long, the fact that it was finally coming true made the situation feel surreal, as if it were happening to someone else.
But it was his moment, and he’d grasp it with both hands.
Halting at the bottom of the steps, Alar nodded. “We meet again.”
“I trust you had a safe journey south?” Lara’s voice was low, only a slight huskiness betraying her nerves.
“Aye … some bother with a clutch of trows a few days ago, but we saw them off.” Actually, both trows and powries had been plentiful during the journey, harassing them nightly. He decided not to burden the queen with this though. They could talk about such things when they were alone.
Lara cleared her throat. “A feast has been prepared for this evening in honor of your arrival.”
Alar inclined his head in thanks. “Are you happy for our handfasting to take place tomorrow?”
“So soon?”
“Why wait?”
Bree and Cailean both scowled at his glib tone, yet Alar ignored them. Instead, his attention remained upon the High Queen.
Her throat worked. “As you wish … tomorrow it is.”
“Good.” He motioned to where Lyall and Dolph stood behind him, followed by the ranks of wulvers who now filled the yard. “I trust accommodation has been organized for my host?”
Lara nodded stiffly. “The Fort Guard will escort them down to the two levels beneath us, where they will be lodged. Six wulvers will share each roundhouse.” She didn’t add that she’d had to move out many residents from that level and provide accommodation for them elsewhere in the fort—yet another thing her people had complained about.
“There is space there for them to train.”
“Is the meal to your liking?”
“Aye. It’s delicious.”
Despite that her appetite was poor this evening, Lara cut herself a sliver of cheese from the round upon the table before them and placed it upon her trencher. And all the while, she was aware of Alar’s gaze.
The Mother’s tits, did he have to watch her so closely?
He wasn’t a wulver, yet there was something vulpine about his gaze.
A cunning that set her nerves on edge. It made her want to do anything to break the tension, including asking simpering questions.
What did she care if Alar liked his meal or not?
With any luck, he’d choke on it so she wouldn’t have to go through with this handfasting.
That wouldn’t solve her problems though. She wouldn’t have to wed him, but she’d be without his army. And since the envoy they’d sent into The Goatfells hadn’t yet returned, she had to be careful.
“I plan to push north as soon as Gateway is over,” she said after a pause. “Are your wulvers ready?”
He inclined his head. “Of course. Is your army?”
Her spine stiffened at the challenge in his voice, and she raised her chin. “It will be.”
Around them, warriors and wulvers crammed the hall of Duncrag broch.
Extra trestle tables had been carried in to accommodate the huge numbers.
The slaves serving the feasters had to squeeze their way in between the tightly-packed rows.
Rumbles and growls echoed up, mingling with the pall of blue-black peat smoke that hung beneath the heavy rafters.
Nonetheless, it didn’t escape her notice that the wulvers sat on one side of her hall, and her warriors on the other.
Just like in Doure—it was as if they were oil and water, never meant to mix.
And when she looked closely, she noted that it wasn’t just her warriors who weren’t making an effort.
Back in Doure, the wulvers had been elated by their victory, yet still humble.
But this evening, many held themselves with a new arrogance.
They stared down the men and women seated on the other side of the hall.
Nervousness tightened her belly. Over a thousand wulvers now resided in this fort. What if they ran amok?
Next to her, Alar helped himself to more braised boar and onion stew. His gaze then shifted down the table to where Gil sat to Bree’s left. Eight of them sat upon the dais this evening: Lara, Alar, Bree, Cailean, Torran, Gil—as well as the Half-blood’s captains, Lyall and Dolph.