Page 89
Two days had gone by since they arrived at Duncrag. It was mid-afternoon. Time was passing in a blur.
Preparations had reached a frenzy now. The hammering of iron rang night and day, warriors trained in the yards before and behind the broch, and servants scurried about, filling supply wagons with provisions. The army was on the brink of mobilizing.
From her vantage point this high up, Ailsa had a bird’s-eye view of the land around Duncrag: The Wolds rolling away to the south, the curtain of granite that was the Shiel Range to the north, and the glittering waters of the Firth of Fallow to the east.
The fort itself tumbled down the hill beneath her, a bristling coil of palisades, turf roofs, and storehouses, and beyond a dark carpet of tents surrounded Duncrag.
The High Queen’s army.
Ailsa had to admit Duncrag was magnificent. Even so, she couldn’t live in a place like this, trapped behind stone.
How often did the queen venture out onto the walls and look out over her domain? And how many times of late had Queen Lara gazed south, grinding her teeth over her treacherous overkings and the lands that should have been hers?
Ailsa stepped onto the eastern ramparts and continued her slow circuit.
If this battle went Lara’s way, Braewall would come under her control again.
What would that mean for Darach?
As far as Ailsa was aware, he and the High Queen hadn’t discussed the future. Lara knew who he was and that he’d fight for her, but she still appeared wary of him. Perhaps once victory was assured, they’d broach the subject then.
Ailsa didn’t blame Lara for watching Darach, especially after what his brother had done. She’d learned the hard way that trust was earned.
She can trust Darach, she thought. The man’s word is good.
Warmth suffused her chest then. Aye, it was. He’d proved himself—to her, at least.
Stopping, she looked down at the wide yard beneath her. She stood upon the northern walls now, with an unobstructed view of the training yard below.
Enforcers fought in hand-to-hand combat this morning, fists bound with cloth to soften the blows. They were mostly male, with a couple of female warriors amongst them.
One of the women was currently sparring with Darach.
She was big and muscular, dark braids flying around her as she came at him.
Stripped to the waist, Darach dodged a right hook and countered with a jab, catching her in the ribs.
Cursing, she jumped back.
“You’re getting slow, Garia!” a male enforcer shouted from the sidelines, only to earn a smoldering look. “You’re not going to let this princeling best you, are you?”
Garia snarled at the man in question and spat on the ground between them.
Ailsa tensed. Even from a distance, she could feel the woman’s bristling aggression.
Darach caught sight of Ailsa on the wall then, barely managing a nod of acknowledgement—before Garia came at him again.
Ailsa watched the fight, tracking every move.
The rhythm of it, the feints, and the way Garia constantly tried to anticipate Darach’s moves. He’d been teaching Ailsa how to do that too. But watching Darach’s actual footwork, the discipline of it, she realized she still had a lot to learn. Going feral and slashing throats with her fingernails was one thing; real fighting skills were something else. She wanted both.
She continued to watch Darach spar.
They’d barely seen each other over the past couple of days. He stayed up late each night, discussing battle plans with Lara and her council, and rose early every morning to train. Ailsa only ever saw him at mealtimes.
Even now, sparring, there was something driven in him she hadn’t seen on the road. He was completely focused, a man working through one task before the next one found him. She wondered if he’d slept at all since their arrival.
She didn’t want to distract him, and so she hadn’t sought out his alcove at night. Nonetheless, she found herself missing the closeness they’d shared before they arrived at Duncrag.
