38 FALSE HOPE
MIST WREATHED THROUGH the camp as Lara and Alar stepped out of their pavilion.
Immediately, her gaze went to where a small group of warriors and druids had gathered before her tent. Bree and Cailean were among them, their faces strained in the murky light.
“What’s wrong?” Lara asked, even as dread curled up. The heady pleasure and intimacy she’d enjoyed overnight with Alar sloughed away now, and she stepped back into her role as High Queen.
“This,” Roth said gruffly. He stepped aside then, revealing a large coarsely-woven sack, stained with dark patches. “Someone left it near the northern perimeter.”
Lara’s pulse quickened as she moved from Alar’s side and approached it.
The sweet stench of decay hit her then, and she clenched her jaw. The sack was open, and when she peered inside, she halted abruptly, her hands clenching at her sides.
She then whispered an oath.
The sack was full of severed heads, and the two at the top stared out at her with blank yet accusing eyes and gaping mouths.
Ilene and Dean.
They were the two counsellors they’d sent north to treat with the Circines.
Lara swallowed hard.
Over the past turn of the moon, as time stretched out, and no word came from The Goatfells, they’d all worried about the fate of the counselors, and the enforcers and warriors who’d escorted them.
But now they knew what had happened to them.
Beathan mac Glen, Chieftain of the Circines, had finally given her his answer: there would be no peace between the hill-tribes and Albia’s High Queen.
Lara glanced over at where Annis stood, a thick woolen cloak wrapped around her robed form. Her round face, covered in pink scabs from her recent burns, was set, yet her eyes guttered.
“At least we know where we stand with the Circines,” Cailean spoke up then, breaking the weighty silence. “There’s no point in having false hope.”
“Aye, they’re our enemies,” Roth answered, his voice flat and hard.
Lara averted her gaze from Ilene and Dean’s decomposing faces. “Do the hill-tribes hate me that much?”
“Not you, Lara,” Alar replied softly. With a jolt, she realized he was standing next to her now. “They hate what you stand for. Decades of oppression can’t be easily wiped away with a few promises.”
“He has a point,” Cailean growled. That was a first—the chief-enforcer openly agreeing with Alar. However, Lara was too upset by her early morning delivery to pay much attention. “You might one day win their loyalty … but it will take time.”
“I should travel with the advance guard today,” Alar announced. They’d just mounted their horses and were about to ride out. “We’ll reach Dulross around noon … but after this morning’s ‘gift’, there might be trouble from the hill-tribes on the road.”
Lara nodded, even as her belly tightened. “That makes sense.”
And it did, although his words reminded her that the valuable alliance they’d sought with the Circines had just gone up in smoke. Disappointment wreathed up too. She liked riding side by side with her husband. After the night they’d shared, she wished to remain close to him.
She’d not admit it though. Instead, she fussed with her reins so Alar wouldn’t see her expression.
“I’ll take more of my wulvers forward from the rear guard … just in case.”
Surprised, Lara looked up. Did he really expect trouble this close to Dulross?
“Surely four hundred is enough?” Roth called out before she could answer. Having just mounted his heavy-set stallion with feathered feet a few yards away, he’d overheard their exchange.
Alar turned to him, his gaze narrowing. “Not, if Beathan mac Glen is lying in wait. They fight alongside the faerie creatures now, remember?” He paused then. “The Shee might be with them.”
The two men stared at each other, tension rippling through the air until Lara cleared her throat, irritation flaring.
She was tired of her captain taking issue with everything Alar said; Roth needed to relax a bit.
“My husband knows The Uplands better than most of us,” she replied briskly.
“If he wants to strengthen the advance guard, he can.”
Roth’s strong jaw flexed at this, yet he held his tongue.
Lara glanced back at Alar. His expression was keen now, his gaze sharp—the tenderness he’d shown her inside their tent was nowhere to be seen.
He called out then, in the guttural tongue the wulvers used to communicate between themselves. Moments later, tall, lean figures began making their way forward toward their commander.
Lara watched the wulvers pass by. Lyall and Dolph were among them, barking instructions as they went.
Around her, the last of the tents were loaded onto wagons. Fog still snaked through the valley where they’d made camp, although the rain had stopped overnight and the bright halo of the sun was doing its best to break through. It was time to move.
Nonetheless, instead of urging his horse forward and joining his brothers and sisters who were already stalking north, the tips of the spears they gripped bristling like spindly pines in the drifting mist, Alar hesitated.
“There will be more enforcers and warriors flanking you all day,” he said, his gaze flicking to where Lara’s warder had just swung up onto her cob.
“And Bree will watch your back, as always.”
Bree harrumphed. “That goes without saying.” She then nudged her horse forward and drew up on Lara’s left flank. Her face was still looking a bit battered. The cuts she’d sustained the day before were scabbing now. Nonetheless, her eyes were steely.
Lara nodded to her before glancing over at Alar once more. “Go on,” she murmured. “I shall see you when we reach Dulross.”
He inclined his head to her, their gazes holding for a few moments.
And then the fine hair on the back of her forearms prickled.
Lara tensed. Everything about this morning felt … off. It wasn’t surprising though, after receiving a sack of severed heads first thing. Nonetheless, she couldn’t shake the uneasy sensation that something was wrong.
Without another word, Alar reined his horse around and urged it forward, following his wulvers north.
Lara watched him go until the mist swallowed him.
“We made a mistake … sending that peace envoy.”
Bree didn’t reply, and Lara cast her a sharp look.
Her warder’s gaze wasn’t on her though. Instead, she surveyed their surroundings keenly, one hand resting lightly on the pommel of her longsword.
After the day before, she was even more alert than usual.
Enforcers and warriors flanked them on both sides.
Her warder was determined not to let her concentration waver this morning.
Mist wreathed around them, making visibility difficult.
“Alar warned me that the Circines wouldn’t treat with us,” Lara admitted then, warmth washing over her.
Bree did glance her way then, her gaze narrowing. “He didn’t bring that up in any of our councils.”
“No … I told him about it before our handfasting … when we were alone.” Lara looked away. “By the Gods,” she muttered. “We can’t afford to lose warriors … or druids for that matter.”
“It’s a blow … to be sure,” Bree answered after a pause. “I don’t want to remind you of this … but many more will die before the end. You need to be ready.”
Lara’s breathing grew shallow. They were brutal words, but they were true.
She was leading an army into battle—a war that wouldn’t be easily won. The death of her emissaries was only the beginning of the blood that would be spilled in her name.
Swallowing, she nodded. “You’re right,” she said huskily.
“Sorry … that was harsh.”
Lara looked up to find Bree watching her, her gaze shadowed.
“It’s all right,” she murmured, managing a tight smile. “You know I appreciate your honesty.”
The two women fell silent then. The dull, rhythmic squelch of their horses’ hooves on the road replaced their conversation.
The morning was slowly passing. It wouldn’t be long before they’d reach the sheltering gates of Dulross.
The fort’s chieftain, Og mac Alpin, was expecting her.
There would be a fine meal and comfortable accommodation awaiting the High Queen.
They wouldn’t be able to linger in Dulross long, but it was the last friendly port before they set sail onto rough seas.
“You’re getting along better again these days, I see.”
Bree’s softly spoken comment roused Lara from her thoughts. She cut her a sidelong glance. “Sorry?”
“You and Alar.”
Warmth rose to her cheeks. “Aye … a little.”
Bree’s expression tightened.
An awkward silence followed, and Lara frowned. “So, you haven’t revised your opinion of him?”
“No. I still think he’s a sly bastard.”
“Really?” Anger quickened in her belly. Sometimes, Bree took her bluntness too far. “Even now?”
“Sure, he’s useful in a fight … but I still wouldn’t trust him.”
“And why not?” she asked, her voice suddenly brittle. She knew Alar was flawed. Dangerous. But she still wanted to believe in him.
“Because trust is earned … and he’s yet to win mine.”
“Queen Lara!”
A woman’s shout carried through the misty air, slicing through their conversation.
A moment later, a leather-clad figure bent low over the neck of a lathered horse galloped toward them, down the column of warriors on horseback and on foot. The woman had fiery red hair, streaming behind her, and sweat gleamed on her flushed face.
Immediately, Bree was at the ready. Drawing her longsword, she urged her horse forward to protect Lara. Likewise, the surrounding warriors closed ranks around them, hemming the High Queen in.
Cailean rode forward to meet the woman, barring her way. “State your business.”
Lara stood up on her stirrups, straining to see over the heads of those protecting her.
The rider hauled her horse to a halt. The poor beast stood there, sides heaving, as the woman faced down the chief-enforcer. “I must speak to the High Queen!”
“I’m here,” Lara called back. “What’s wrong?”
The woman’s gaze snapped her way. Even from this distance, Lara could see that her eyes were wild. “Doure has been taken, My Queen!”
Dizziness swept over Lara. What?
“The Shee?” Cailean demanded.
“No,” the woman gasped. “The wulvers turned on us. They butchered the Marav garrison and drove the rest of us out.”
An invisible fist slammed into Lara’s stomach.
“When did this happen?” Cailean demanded.
“Two days ago … I’ve ridden hard to reach you.” She paused then, still breathing hard as she pushed tangled red hair off her face. “Word arrived from Duncrag that you were marching on Strath … and then a day later, the wulvers took the fort.”
Lara’s mind was wheeling, but somehow, she managed to grasp the words. “I never sent word to Doure,” she replied.
The woman’s face twisted. “Aye, well … someone did.”