29 BEYOND THE WALLS
LARA EMERGED FROM the broch and halted on the top step.
Before her, the High Queen’s banner snapped in the wind. A black wolf on a snow-white field. The Whistle gusted through Duncrag this morning, its shrill notes whining as it battered the high walls. The sky above was pale blue and filled with scudding clouds.
It was a fine day to set off on a journey.
The southern enclosure was a sea of leather and mail-clad bodies, bristling spears, and horses this morning. Gazes snapped her way, and a cheer went up, echoing off stone. They were waiting for her to join them.
Lara smiled, anticipation tightening her chest.
It’s time.
Since her return from Doure, the smiths of Duncrag had worked hard to provide her with enough iron.
She’d have liked more weapons for this campaign—for some of the warriors would go into battle armed with nothing but pikes—but since Braewall and Baldeen had turned on her, she would have to make do.
Likewise, she didn’t have as many warriors as she’d hoped for, although the carpet of iron helmets spilling out of the enclosure and onto The Thoroughfare beyond reassured her. Roth had done an admirable job.
The wulvers heavily outnumbered her own army—but this would still be a Marav victory.
“I should be coming with you, My Queen.” Lara turned to find Mirren standing behind her.
Clad in a sky-blue tunic that matched her eyes, her handmaid clutched a woolen shawl around her shoulders.
A deep groove had etched between Mirren’s eyebrows.
The lass then cast a look over at where Florie, Ani, and Lilith—dressed in thick woolen tunics and fur-lined cloaks—stood behind Lara, her lips compressing.
She’d have three rather than four attendants on this trip.
“Not this time, Mirren.” Lara moved closer then, taking hold of her hands and squeezing gently.
“I may not return for a moon or two … in the meantime, I need you to help run the broch.” She nodded to where a tall, lanky figure stood a few yards away.
The wind ruffled Torran’s dark-blond hair.
The enforcer was watching them, his grey eyes sharp.
“I have left Torran in charge of defending the fort … but you will be my steward.”
Mirren’s eyes snapped wide, her lips parting.
Lara squeezed her hands once more. “Don’t look so shocked,” she murmured. “You haven’t been an indentured servant here for a while now. Aye, you’re my handmaid … but you’re so much more as well. You’re as sharp as a whip and strong.” Her mouth quirked into a smile. “You will do me proud.”
Mirren made a strangled sound in the back of her throat, even as her eyes glistened.
Releasing her hands, Lara glanced back at Torran. “You’ll give my steward the guidance she needs?”
He nodded, although Lara caught the way his jaw tensed. “Of course, My Queen.”
Meanwhile, panic flared in Mirren’s eyes.
Gaze flicking between them both, Lara wondered if it was wise to throw these two together like this. Had they not spoken since her handfasting? Protecting and stewarding Duncrag together would bring them in much closer contact. However, they were the people she wished to leave in charge.
She didn’t know when she’d be back and needed a steward she could trust. Mirren would act in her best interests.
However, there was another reason the lass was staying behind.
Lara had no family now, and she couldn’t bid Bree to remain at Duncrag—her friend would have flatly refused anyway—but she could protect Mirren.
She’d left a strong garrison behind too—despite that those warriors would have been useful in the North.
A handful of enforcers, two sacrificers, and two bards were staying as well.
The fort was vulnerable these days, both from her overkings and the Slew. She couldn’t leave Duncrag exposed.
Her belly contracted then. What if I fail? Her father had set out from Duncrag, full of optimism and determination, but he’d never returned. She had the wulvers, but they didn’t make her invincible.
And what of her fire magic? At present, it was more of a liability than a gift. She wasn’t sure she’d ever learn to wield it properly—and even if she did, how would she keep it secret?
And what if the Slew returned again? They would have to be vigilant at dusk on the road north.
Her breathing grew shallow then, her chest tightening. There were many obstacles ahead, but she’d take each as it came.
Turning from Mirren and Torran, Lara’s gaze traveled down the steps to where Alar approached.
Like her, he was dressed for travel. Thick leathers encased his body, and a heavy black woolen cloak rippled from his shoulders.
He looked like an enforcer dressed all in black, but ever since they’d met, he’d worn no other color.
His leather breastplate, embossed with the Hearthkeeper’s Endless Flame, gleamed in the morning light.
The twin hilts of the blades he wore strapped to his back thrust up above each shoulder.
The Whistle screeched through the yard then, catching his long dark hair and whipping it around. Pushing it out of his face, Alar secured his hair at his nape with a thong as he approached.
The sight of him made her belly clench.
They’d barely spoken since their argument. Two tense days had followed. She’d thrown herself into preparing for their departure, doing her best to avoid her husband. Yet there was no escaping him this morning.
Meanwhile, she was aware of eyes upon them.
Bree and Cailean’s gazes were sharp. They’d noticed the frostiness between the High Queen and the prince consort over the past couple of days.
Bree had questioned Lara about it the evening before, but she’d brushed her off.
She didn’t want anyone to know about her lapse in judgment.
Alar halted before her, his expression inscrutable. “Your army awaits your command.”
The wind pushed Lara’s hood back and whipped strands of hair into her eyes. Sighing, she gave up trying to fight The Whistle. It had serenaded them all morning; its icy breath made her cheeks tingle.
She was relieved to be on her way though. Bracken’s step was lively. The mare was enjoying being on the road again. After leaving Duncrag, they now rode through a woodland of sycamore, ash, and oak.
The western edge of the Shiel Range rose up to her right, etched sharply against the blue sky. Once those mountains lay behind them, they’d leave The Wolds and enter the borderlands. However, this stretch of highway was relatively safe.
The Shee held no sway here, and the chieftain of Dulross had done an admirable job of protecting his territory farther north. The trouble would likely come once they entered The Goatfells.
Misgiving feathered down Lara’s spine. No word had ever come from her emissaries. The Circines wouldn’t be the allies she’d hoped for.
“You’re quiet this morning,” Bree noted then.
Rousing herself from her thoughts, Lara glanced over at her. “Just readying myself for what’s to come.”
Bree nodded, even as her brow furrowed. “Any concerns?”
Lara snorted. “Plenty.”
“Is your husband among them?”
Lara stiffened, her gaze shifting to where Alar rode up ahead. He was out of earshot, and the whine of the wind made it difficult for even those nearby to overhear them. All the same, she responded cautiously. “Always.”
Bree’s gaze glinted. “He’s done something to offend you, hasn’t he?”
Lara huffed a sigh. She’d hoped Bree wouldn’t bring this up again. “No,” she lied. “I’m just aware that a woman in power has to be careful.”
“Aye … I’m sure Mor would agree with you.”
Lara’s lips thinned. She didn’t like being compared to the Raven Queen. Nonetheless, Bree had a point. Mor was ruthless. She’d even had Bree assassinate her brother when she discovered he was plotting against her.
“Mor has never co-ruled, has she?” she asked after a pause.
“No.” Bree’s tone turned rueful. “She would never share power … besides, no male has the spine to equal her.”
Lara’s breathing grew shallow, fire igniting under her ribs. One day, she wanted people to say the same thing about her.
Toward the end of the first day of travel, they reached the village of Ardroth. It was tiny, little more than a scattering of squat roundhouses gathered around a dirt square. But as Lara rode in, she marked the damage to the sod roofs.
Gaunt-faced villagers emerged from their homes to catch a glimpse of the High Queen. However, many of them shrank back, their expressions slackening in shock when they spied the wulvers marching behind her.
“All is well,” she called out. “The wulvers are our friends!”
Murmurs and oaths rippled through the crowd.
As Lara passed through the market ground at the village’s heart, a woman approached her. Barefoot, her dark hair matted, she was wild-eyed. A small infant wailed in her arms.
Raising her hand to signal to the others to halt, she drew up her mare. A rumble of voices rippled out behind her, as her warriors called to those following to stop. “Is your bairn ill?”
The woman swallowed. “He hasn’t been right since a boggart tried to smother him two nights ago. He just cries and cries.”
Lara’s pulse leaped. Boggarts? She’d heard plenty of tales about them, none of them pleasant. They were broonies—a household spirit—who’d turned vengeful, usually because of ill-treatment. Observing the young woman’s drawn face, Lara couldn’t imagine what she’d done to offend one.
“Boggarts have plagued us ever since Gateway,” an old man, likely a village elder, spoke up then.
Frail and bent, he leaned heavily on his cane.
He kept stealing nervous glances at the wulvers.
“I woke up last night with one sitting on my chest, its clammy fingers pinching my nose. When I pushed it off me, the boggart screamed insults in my face.”
A chill skated down Lara’s spine. Things were bad enough in Duncrag.
Outside the capital’s walls, things were wilder than she’d thought.
And The Unforgiven weren’t the only restless spirits out after dark these days.
She glanced back at the woman with the bairn.
“I have healers with me. They can take a look at your son … and make sure nothing is ailing him.”
The woman dipped her head, clutching the howling infant to her breast. “Thank you, My Queen.”
Lara nodded back, even as her belly hardened. It was but a small gesture. Not enough.
“The Weeper wails outside after dusk,” another woman called out from the crowd that now gathered. “Are we all doomed?”
“No,” Lara replied firmly, her pulse skittering.
Like the Ben Neeya, the Weeper was a harbinger of death.
Usually, her appearance—although unwelcome—was rare.
“These are troubling times, but they will pass.” She paused then, before announcing, “I am traveling north … to take back our lands from the Shee.”
Murmurs of approval rippled through the crowd of villagers. Their brows smoothed, and their gazes brightened. It warmed her to see hope spark in their eyes.
“It isn’t just the Shee we fear, My Queen,” the elderly man said then, his eyes, milky with cataracts, fixing upon her. “What if the Slew attack us again?”
“Or the botach starts stealing away our children?” The woman holding the bairn clasped him closer to her breast.
Lara’s breathing grew shallow. She glanced then to where her husband had drawn up his horse a few yards ahead. Alar had twisted in the saddle to observe her exchange with the villagers. Her pulse quickened when she noted the tension on his face.
Few things rattled the Half-blood. But if he looked worried, then she should be as well.
She shifted her attention back to the waiting crowd.
They were looking to her for answers, and she had to allay their fears.
“Once we drive back the Shee, balance may be restored,” she replied, wishing she knew that for sure.
“But even if it isn’t, I swear, I will do everything I can to ensure your safety. ”