Chapter 13 #2
Thunder rumbled over Ardlussa Bay. Calum’s pulse surged, a tingling thrumming through his veins. The Hound of War woke from his slumber, stretching, growing in size.
“Look at him!” Grufa crowed. “Observe his doubt. Prove you are the tànaiste we should submit to.”
Da stepped forward, voice cutting through the noise. “Then let it be tested. If Calum wins, you will apologize and train without further dissent—you, Ragnall, and young Balder. And you will respect his faith, no more talk of it.”
From the center of the practice yard, Balder lifted his head, meeting his father’s gaze. “A son of Odin will not be beaten. Agree to it, MacLean.”
Calum crouched, extending one hand. “Aye, I agree.”
War gathered in his senses as Grufa’s fingers clamped his forearm, the handsál signaling the beginning the fight. The Viking lunged, size and weight driving forward, but Calum dug in, heels set, arms locked around his neck.
Grufa wrenched free and charged again. Calum caught his arms, striking his side, searching for leverage. With a growl he heaved Grufa onto his back, aiming for a throw, but rain and woad made the man slick as a sturgeon, thrashing out of water
Heavy yet nimble, Grufa stuck, unseating Calum’s footing, and together they crashed to the ground. Thinking fast, Calum slipped from his grip, clamped around his midsection, and both shoved upward, forcing themselves back to their feet.
Chest heaving, Grufa barreled forward once more. This time Calum met him square, reading his weight and weakness. Power surged as he dragged the man’s neck down and drove forward, carrying him across the field before flinging him hard into the dirt.
A roar broke out. Men struck their chests in thunderous applause. Calum circled, arm outstretched for the handsál. “You wanted this settled. Now it is. Behold your tànaiste.”
Like a charging bull, something slammed into Calum from behind, driving him across the field. He locked onto the mass of man and twisted as they hit the ground—Ragnall above him, shaking him like prey.
Da’s voice thundered. “Ragnall, stop this at once!”
“Spoil my daughter and this clan, will you?”
In three swift moves Calum wrenched him off, but Ragnall clung to his neck, dragging them both down the slope toward the river.
They skidded to a halt. Ragnall tore at his boot, steel flashing as he yanked free a dirk. Calum caught the glint, rolled, and the blade sank into dirt where his chest had been.
“Are you mad?!”
“I will settle this!”
The knife slashed again. Calum shoved the arm wide, flipped Ragnall over his head with his legs, and scrambled upright.
“I dinnae wish to fight you. Think of Freya—”
Ragnall’s eyes bulged, his face twisted in a spitting snarl. “You’ve taken her and spoiled her. Stolen her from her papa for your pleasure. You soiled her at sixteen, and now you’ve returned tup her again. Freya’s nothing but your harlot.”
Rage detonated in Calum. Thought vanished.
The hound he held within sprang free, a savage aggressor loosed by the sound of Freya’s name.
With an animal roar he charged, crushed Ragnall’s weapon arm to the earth, and drove a knee into his belly.
He smashed the man’s fist against the ground until the knife flew free.
Ragnall spat, and Calum drove his fist square into his face. “Do you ken who you’re speaking of?”
“Aye—my daughter. The curse I’ve borne for twenty six years.”
The words split something inside him. Ten years of anger swelled into a black tempest. A howl ripped from his gut as he pummeled Ragnall’s cheek until his knuckles bled. Fury for Freya’s torment, fury for her shame, poured into every blow.
Feral, seething, he shook the man like a rag. It felt good—too good—to hurt him. To make him suffer. He squeezed until Ragnall’s eyes bulged, blood vessels bursting. “You nearly killed her,” he snarled, voice reduced to a harsh growl. “You nearly killed her.”
Realizing he was losing himself, he pinned Ragnall, crushing his face into the dirt. Bowing low, his voice rumbled beside the man’s ear.
“That woman is my wife—mine, not yours. And you nearly killed her. Hear me now: I’ve never touched her.
She is innocent—and more loyal to you than you ever knew, you bloody fool.
But her worth lies not in purity, nor in blood, nor in beauty, but in her heart and soul, placed there by God himself.
If you, or anyone, call her curse again—if you so much as look at her with contempt—I will gut you like the cowardly animal you are. ”
Lightning split the sky, striking earth beside them and showering dirt across Ragnall’s face. He stopped struggling. A strange satisfaction lit his features, as if he had turned from midnight to midday in an instant. Calum froze, baffled—until barking reached his ears.
On the shore, beside Murdoch and Da, stood Freya with her hand twined in Bog’s scruff. Her chin quivered; she pressed her lips tight, blinking fast. She exhaled, eyes glassy, though no tears fell. “I tried to tell you, Papa—the night ye burned me and cast me out.”
Calum’s gut twisted. She had heard his rage. She had seen him beat her father bloody. Heard him promise to kill the man. “Freya—”
Da touched her elbow. “Come, lass. Let’s visit Mariota.”
She wiped raindrops from her face and shook her head. “I came for Bog. I should’ve stayed at the bothy. But now Papa knows the truth.” Her gaze swept the crowd. “And everyone else, I suppose.”
Ragnall, blood streaking his face, rasped, “Do you see what this dog you wed has done to your papa?”
Freya stepped closer, her voice steady. “Aye, I see it clear enough. You’ve heard it from us both—our marriage is friendship, just as it was ten years ago when I helped him into the bay.
There’s nothing improper between us. He took me to a healer and did right by me because he was honor-bound.
He is a good man, Papa. He is the tànaiste. Leave him be.”
Murmurs of agreement rippled through the men.
Shame burning in him, Calum climbed off Ragnall. “Let me walk you home.”
Her eyes shone brighter, her composure taut as glass. “No. Stay and finish your training. I’ll take the dog home and see you tonight.” She turned swiftly, whistling to Bog, and hurried up the bank.
Ragnall staggered upright. “MacSorleys, observe the change in my daughter. Do as you will, but I’ll bow no more to these MacLean pretenders.” A third of the MacSorleys followed him toward his longhouse, but Balder lingered, drifting back into formation with his peers.
Da stooped, lifting Ragnall’s dirk. He held it high. “The matter is settled twice over. Cù Cogaidh is my tànaiste, your leader. Do you understand?”
The men straightened, heels together, chins high. “Aye, Cù Ceartas!”
Calum’s eyes followed Freya’s path, torn between her and his duty. Heart heavy, he turned back to his men. “Ten laps around the field. We begin now. Move!”