Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Another round, me jarl?”
Erik waved Torsten off without looking, his mind elsewhere.
Around them, the feast roared on—Sigurd trying to convince a serving girl he’d once fought off three men with nothing but a fishing gaff, Rorik laughing so hard at someone’s joke he’d nearly fallen off his bench, the musicians playing a reel that had half the hall dancing despite how deep they were in their cups.
“Somethin’s nae right,” Torsten said, louder now. “Ye ken ‘tis the fourth time taenight our jarl’s waved away perfectly good ale.”
“So?”
“So, when we took that keep in Uist two summers back, ye drank till dawn and still made it tae trainin’ before the rest of us crawled out of bed.” Torsten squinted at him. “Are ye ill? Should we fetch the healer fer ye?”
One of the younger warriors—Sten, who’d only seen sixteen winters and thought himself invincible—leaned across the table with a grin. “Maybe he’s waitin’ fer his lady tae come back and give permission before he starts celebratin’ proper like.”
The older men within earshot laughed, not mockingly, but with the easy warmth of warriors who’d decided they liked their jarl’s choice of wife.
“Or maybe,” Rorik called out, “he’s worried she’ll catch him drunk and make him sleep in the stables!”
More laughter. Erik should have shut it down, should have reminded them he was still the Wolf of Skye and could make them regret their loose tongues. Instead, he found himself scanning the hall entrance again.
How long has she been gone?
“See?” Sten said triumphantly. “He didnae even threaten tae gut me. The old Erik would’ve had me head fer that.”
“The old Erik didnae have a wife,” Sigurd added, his scarred face surprisingly gentle. “Leave the man be. Some of us think it’s good tae see him happy fer once.”
Aksel materialized at his elbow, cup in hand but eyes sharp as always. “They mean well, ye ken.”
“They’re drunk.”
“Ay—”
“But they’re nae wrong.” Erik’s voice dropped lower. “And tae be honest, she’s been gone longer than I’d like.”
That got Aksel’s attention. “How long?”
“Long enough that I noticed.” Erik’s jaw tightened. “Finnian had a strange look about him when he asked her tae take a walk. I didnae like it then, and I like it less now.”
“Strange how?”
“Like a man who’d made a choice and hated himself fer it already.” Erik hand drifted toward his sword hilt.
“Could be naethin’. Could be a faither realizin’ he’s truly lost his daughter tae another man. But…” Aksel said.
“But?” Erik was already standing, every warrior instinct suddenly screaming.
“But we both ken what men look like when they’re about tae betray someone.”
The words hit Erik like a fist to the gut. The feast noise suddenly felt too loud, too wrong.
“I’m goin’ tae find her. Now.”
“I’ll come with ye. Should I bring—”
“Nay. Keep them celebratin’. If I’m wrong, I dinnae want tae ruin the night over a faither havin’ a difficult conversation with his daughter.”
But Erik didn’t think he was wrong. And from the look on Aksel’s face, neither did he.
Suddenly, Liv burst through the hall entrance, her face white as bleached linen. She pushed through the celebrating crowd with uncharacteristic haste, her eyes locked on Erik with an intensity that turned his blood to ice.
“Erik.” She reached him, breathing hard. “I went tae check on Claricia—thought she might want company after whatever row she was havin’ with her faither… but I cannae find her. I’ve looked everywhere. The solar, yer chamber, the kitchens, the battlements—”
The hall seemed to tilt. “Where’s Finnian?”
“I dinnae ken. He’s nae in the hall either, and… Erik, the guard at the garden gate—young Leif—he’s unconscious.”
The world went very still. Very quiet. Even the feast noise faded to nothing as Erik’s mind crystallized around a single, terrible certainty.
Me wife’s been taken.
Erik was already moving, taking corridors at a run, Aksel and twenty warriors falling in behind him like an avalanche. The garden. That’s where Finnian had taken her. To the gods-damned garden with its hidden gates and—
The eastern gate stood wide open.
Young Leif lay slumped against the wall, blood matting his hair, his chest rising and falling in shallow, uneven breaths.
Alive. But unconscious, and from the look of the wound, he’d been struck from behind without warning.
Erik knelt beside the boy, checking the injury with practiced efficiency.
Then he stepped through the gate into the garden, and fury roared through his veins like wildfire.
There were scuff marks in the dirt near the eastern wall—signs of a struggle. A piece of torn green fabric caught on a low branch, the same shade as the dress Claricia was wearing. Still warm when he touched it. Fresh.
And there, barely visible in the moonlight, boot prints leading away from the hidden gate Erik had shown her weeks ago. Multiple sets. Heavy. Men wearing mail.
The rage that flooded through him was clean and cold and absolutely perfect. No panic. No fear. Those were luxuries he couldn’t afford. There was only purpose. Only the hunt. Only the absolute certainty that whoever had taken his wife would die screaming before dawn broke.
“Aksel.” His voice came out perfectly calm, which was more terrifying than any shout. “I want fifty warriors ready tae ride in five minutes. Full battle gear. Trackin’ torches. Weapons sharp.”
“Aye, me jarl.” Aksel disappeared back through the gate, already bellowing orders.
“And find Finnian MacKenzie!” Erik continued, his eyes still on those boot prints. “I want tae ken if he’s missin’ along with me wife, or if he’s bleedin’ somewhere because he tried tae stop this.”
Though Erik already knew. The desperate look on Finnian’s face when he’d asked Claricia to walk with him. The guilt. The resignation.
The fury threatened to consume him, but Erik forced it down, channeled it into cold calculation. Rage was useful. Rage kept him moving. But rage unchecked got people killed, and he needed everyone alive and functional if he was going to get Claricia back.
Liv appeared beside him, her face grim. “The secret gate,” she said quietly.
“They’ll have had boats waitin’.” Erik’s jaw clenched hard enough to crack teeth. “Duncan’s been plannin’ this. Probably since the moment Finnian arrived. Used the old fool’s love fer his daughter tae get inside me defenses.”
“Then ride fer the shore.” Liv’s hand found his arm, squeezed once. “Track them. Bring her home.”
“Aye.” Erik turned toward the keep where his warriors were arming themselves with grim efficiency. “And I’ll paint this entire bloody island red with the blood of every bastard who thought they could take what’s mine.”
Within minutes, fifty mounted warriors thundered through the castle gates, torches blazing against the night. Erik rode at their head on his war stallion, his mind coldly calculating distances and possibilities.
He had to find her.
Because a world without Claricia in it was not a world the Wolf could inhabit.
The thunder of hooves carried across sleeping Skye like war drums. Behind them, the castle blazed with light as every torch was lit, every guard roused, every soul woken to the crisis.
They crested a low rise, and Erik’s sharp eyes caught movement below—figures near the water’s edge, torches bobbing like fireflies in the darkness. A camp. Hidden in a cove he knew well from his youth, one with a natural harbor perfect for concealing boats.
There.
Erik raised his fist, and his warriors slowed, forming up behind him in practiced silence. Fifty men against however many waited below. The odds didn’t matter. Nothing mattered except getting to Claricia.
He drew his sword—the familiar weight settling in his palm like an old friend.
Around him, steel sang free of leather sheaths, the sound his warriors had made a thousand times before battle.
War horses shifted beneath their riders, ears flat, nostrils flaring at the scent of violence about to erupt.
Aksel moved his mount alongside Erik’s, close enough that their stirrups nearly touched. “Like old times, braither.”
“Aye.” Erik’s eyes never left the camp below. “Except this time, ‘tis personal.”
“Fer all of us.” Aksel’s voice carried the weight of loyalty fifteen years deep. “She’s our lady now. And nay bastard takes what’s ours.”
Around them, Erik’s warriors sat silent and deadly—men who’d followed him through raids and battles, who’d sworn oaths in blood and iron. These weren’t just soldiers. They were his pack.
His family, now her family too.
Erik looked at each face—hard men made harder by war, but loyal to their bones. “Ye ken what we’re ridin’ intae.”
“Aye, me jarl.” Torsten’s grin was all teeth and violence. “‘Tis a splendid night fer killin’.”
“Duncan’s mine,” Erik said, quiet and absolute. “Anyone who gets between me and him answers tae me after. Understood?”
A chorus of agreement rippled through the warriors.
Erik raised his sword in signal. Moonlight caught the blade, turning it silver-bright against the darkness. His voice, when it came, was pitched low enough to carry only to his men. “Fer Skye. Fer our lady.”
Then, Erik threw his head back and let the howl tear from his throat—long and terrible and absolutely furious—transforming mid-cry into words that carried across the hills like judgment itself: “úLFR TIL VALH?LL!”
The Wolf sends ye tae Valhalla.
His warriors took up the cry with savage joy, voices rolling across the darkness in a wave of promised violence.
“úLFR TIL VALH?LL!”
“úLFR TIL VALH?LL!”
Erik kicked his stallion forward, and fifty mounted warriors exploded down the hillside like an avalanche with teeth.