Page 49 of Ashes of Betrayal

However, even from this distance, he marked the pikes thrusting up like hedgehog spines against the darkening sky. The Whistle, which blew in from the northwest on this late afternoon, carried with it the scent of woodsmoke blended with the tang of iron.

The capital of The Uplands was preparing itself for war.

Cailean’s mouth compressed as he considered what lay ahead for Albia. There had been no great battle in his lifetime, but that was about to change. In the turns of the moon ahead, many Marav would likely die for their High King. And to what end? So that Talorc mac Brude could say the score had been settled.

Would the man ever find the vindication he craved?

Wouldhe? Cailean pulled himself up sharply then, uneasiness stirring in his gut. That was the first time he’d ever compared himself to the High King—a man so driven by his need for vengeance it had become a sickness. No, he wasn’t like him.

Once he took Eilig’s life, he’d leave the past behind him.

Weariness pressed down upon him then, heavy hands upon his shoulders. Aye, he needed the blood-letting. His body ached this afternoon, and he felt overly warm—a sign he needed earth magic.

“You’d better make yourself scarce, lass.” He glanced down at where Skaal loped beside his stallion. It felt odd, knowing she understood him, and he didn’t like leaving the fae hound behind every time he entered a fort. However, she drew far too much attention. “This shouldn’t take longer than a couple of days.”

Skaal cast him a glance, her golden eyes glinting in the lowering sun, before she shifted her attention to Bree. It was clear they’d just touched minds. The fae hound then veered off the road and disappeared into the trees.

“What did she say?” he asked.

“She told me to look out for you.”

He gave a soft snort. “Overprotective beast.”

They approached Cannich on the East Road, one of the three highways that cut through a carpet of ancient woodland; twisted oak, elm, and pine covered the rolling valley beneath the fort. Ahead, a high wall circled the base of the massive chunk of rock, where ten-foot-tall iron gates blocked the way through.

“You can tell it’s Gateway,” Bree noted then. “There’s a watchfulness in the air.”

Cailean frowned. Indeed, the darkening sky already held an ominous look. “Aye, The Slew are waking up.”

A shiver rippled down his spine then. There was a fate worse than being sent to the Underworld after death, and that was tojoin the ranks of the ‘unforgiven’. The spirits of the damned were caught between the Otherworld and the Underworld and left in Albia to feast on the spirits of mortals.

Ahead, the guards were starting to draw the gates closed. Cailean urged his stallion into a fast canter, calling out to the men to wait.

They did, their gazes tracking him as he approached.

“You’re shutting up early?” Cailean greeted the warriors.

“Aye, we always do at Gateway.” One of the guards, a lanky man with an eyepatch, flashed him a smile. “It’s been a while, mac Brochan.”

Cailean grunted, even as his lips lifted at the corners. Aye, he’d have preferred not to be recognized, but this man’s robust welcome made him feel as if he’d just stepped back into his old life for a moment. He’d always enjoyed the camaraderie, the banter, he shared with the warriors here. Uplanders were tough and more plain-spoken than Southerners, yet he’d always admired their grit. “I’ve been busy,” he replied.

“Where’s your hound?” The second guard asked, even as his gaze flicked to where Bree sat silently behind Cailean. His eyes were bright with curiosity.

“Hunting, most likely.”

“Shall we send word ahead, to let King Ailean know you’re here?” the warrior with the eyepatch asked.

“No need … my wife and I will find lodgings elsewhere tonight,” Cailean replied firmly. “I’ll see him in the morning.”

The guards nodded, heeding him.

“Aye, well … make sure you’re indoors by nightfall,” the one-eyed warrior warned, stepping back to let them pass.

Cailean offered the man a grunt of thanks and urged Feannag through the gap.

In the lower ward beyond, they rode along a path, past a row of barracks, where warriors clad in leather and fur cooked theirsuppers over hearths outdoors. It looked as if the entire lower ward—the narrow space between the walls and the base of the rock—was crammed with Cannich’s garrison.

Bree’s arms, which looped around his waist, tightened then, warning him that the proximity of iron—for steam billowed from the entrance to a forge they now passed—was bothering her.

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