Page 18 of Ashes of Betrayal

An agonized wheeze followed, but now wasn’t the time to play fair. He was dealing with a killer, and he had to disable him if he was ever going to get what he needed.

Nonetheless, even with a broken nose and injured bollocks, the mercenary wasn’t going down easily. Twisting out of Cailean’s hold, he tried an eye gouge. In response, Cailean grabbed his wrists once more and gave him another, brutal, headbutt.

The two men toppled sideways onto one of the tables, sending earthen cups and trenchers flying.

The mercenary writhed and twisted under Cailean, harder to keep hold of than quicksilver. The Warrior’s balls, it was like fighting an eel. Once again, earth magic surged in his veins. He could have called upon it, yet he was wary of doing so. Ever since leaving The Hallow Woods, he was aware that sacrificers were few and far between in The Uplands. There would be some in Cannich, but elsewhere, should he drain himself of TheWarrior’s strength, he likely wouldn’t be able to replenish it through a blood-letting ceremony.

But, as the fight continued, and Cailean became dimly aware of the rough shouting outside the ale-hall that was gradually getting louder, his already stretched patience grew thinner still. Aye, given more time, he could best the mercenary—but time wasn’t on his side. Soon, the local chieftain’s warriors would interrupt them, and he’d never find out if Eilig had been in Rothie.

Heat and strength surged through his muscles, and suddenly, the man he fought was snarling curses at him, pinned hard to the tabletop.

His temper simmering, Cailean pushed his forearm, where the woad tattoos inked upon his skin now glowed silver, against the mercenary’s windpipe. The man’s dark eyes bulged, his fingers biting uselessly into Cailean’s arm.

“The fight master,” Cailean said between gritted teeth, out of patience. “Give me his description.”

The mercenary struggled a little longer, but as his face started to turn purple, and his mouth gasped soundlessly, Cailean spied the fear in his eyes.

Lessening the pressure on his throat, Cailean allowed him to rasp his answer.

“Big. Short silver hair. Grey eyes. Walks with a bad limp.”

A limp. Eilig hadn’t been lame the last time he’d seen him. However, it had been a long time ago.

“Did he bear a scar?”

His opponent wheezed a curse, and Cailean applied pressure once more. Moments later, when he eased his arm off the mercenary’s windpipe, the man’s face had gone the color of liver.

“Aye,” he choked. “A thin one … upon his left cheek.”

Cailean’s mouth tugged into a victory smile. Eilig was still alive, still traveling The Uplands with his band of slaves. Andjust a few days ago, he’d been here—which meant he’d catch up with him soon. Cailean’s pulse quickened in anticipation.

Finally.

“One more question,” he said, keeping a warning pressure on the mercenary’s neck. The shouts and thunder of feet were louder now. At any moment, warriors would throw open the wattle door behind him and surge into the ale-hall. “Where did they go?”

“Go fuck your mother,” the man croaked, his dark eyes glittering.

“Cease!” A deep, angry voice sliced through the ale-hall, and then an instant later, rough hands gripped hold of Cailean and yanked him off the mercenary.

Warriors clad in leather and fur, their faces grim, surrounded Cailean and his opponent.

Shrugging them off, Cailean raised his hands, palms exposed, in surrender. Then, meeting the eye of one of them—a massive brute with a shaven head—he nodded to where the mercenary rolled off the table and straightened up. The man’s chest was heaving, yet his expression was murderous.

“He’s the one you want,” Cailean said calmly. “He sliced the ale-hall keeper across the throat without provocation.”

The bald warrior eyed him, a blend of respect and suspicion in his eyes—a reaction Cailean was used to, for enforcers garnered a mix of responses from people. His gaze cut to where the dead man lay, face down upon the reed-strewn floor, and his mouth thinned. “So you say.”

“It’s true!” A man wearing an oilskin cape, one of the fisherfolk who lived outside the walls of the fort, stepped forward. He then pointed to Cailean’s opponent. “He killed Iain. We all saw it.”

The warriors converged on the mercenary then and dragged him from the hall.

Not without a fight though. The man’s hoarse shouts of rage took a while to fade as the warriors hauled him up to the broch to face the chieftain’s justice.

Glancing around, marking the mess he and the mercenary had made, Cailean’s gaze then settled upon the dead ale-hall keeper.

His elation at getting the details he needed, and the hunger for reckoning that beat like a drum in his chest, faded. The strength that had pulsed through his veins drained away, weariness replacing it. A chill then settled into his bones.

Shit. That was unfortunate.

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