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1: THE TURD SHOVELER
Craeg Aonaranach, The Uplands
The Realm of Albia
HE NEVER THOUGHT he’d get used to the reek of shit, but he had.
Three turns of the moon, he’d labored here under leaden skies, assailed by biting winds and heavy frosts—but the one constant had been the dung heap under the privy sheds. In a fort this size, clearing it was a never-ending job. And as the king’s favorite slave, wheeling the shit out of the fort was his task.
In truth, it was a job for more than one. Yet, since he was ‘special’, since his brother favored him so greatly, the chore was his alone.
Shoveling a particularly foul spadeful onto the barrow that buzzed with fat blue flies, he straightened up.
They were marching through the bitter season now; the cold weather had stretched on so long that he’d forgotten what it was like to feel warm, for the sun to leech into his muscles and bones. Lifting his gaze, he marked the glowering skies to the north. Not snow—they’d had plenty of that this winter—but a vicious winter storm, he’d guess from the purple hue of those clouds. And when it hit Craeg Aonaranach, the inhabitants of this fort would take shelter in the towering broch that shadowed the terraces, or in one of the timbered barracks or watchtowers on the walls.
But not him.
The turd shoveller was expected to work through it—and he had, although the past turns of the moon had taken their toll on him physically. The flesh had melted from his bones, and his muscles didn’t feel as strong as they’d once been. His brother worked him like a dog, and his meals consisted of a thin, watery porridge and nothing else.
Rubbing a permanently seized muscle in his lower back, Darach glanced at the guards standing nearby; a man and a woman today, thick fur cloaks covering their broad shoulders. Unlike them, he was lightly dressed in nothing but filthy leather breeches and muck-encrusted boots. His chest, shoulders, and arms were bare, his skin coated with sweat and grime.
Even wearing an iron collar and ankle shackles—connected by jangling chains—Darach wasn’t allowed to work unobserved, ever. Niall had made it clear. The guards changed every day; his brother didn’t want him making friends.
Darach’s gaze lingered on the warriors. Occasionally, some of Niall’s personal guard from Braewall watched over him. Those men and women tracked his every move with gimlet stares—but most of his watchdogs were like these two. Conflicted. Their strained faces, shadowed gazes, and locked jaws told quite a story.
They were Circines tribespeople, like most of the warriors in this fort—proud and independent—and they resisted what had been done to them, yet it was useless.
On the day of his arrival at Craeg Aonaranach, Darach had marked how their chieftain glared at Niall, yet he obeyed him, all the same. He’d also seen the tattoo that Niall bore so proudly on his right arm—the one that leashed the Circines to his will.
Initially, when they’d dragged Darach from the pit and put him to work, he’d thought he might be able to get through to one of them, find a warrior who’d free him. But he’d quickly discovered that, as much as many of them appeared to hate Niall and the loyal warriors he’d brought north with him, trying to get any Circines onside was futile. Every time he’d tried to engage one, he met a stone wall.
No, none of them would help him.
Darach’s gut clenched.
They were prisoners as much as he was, yet he resented them nonetheless. He couldn’t help it.
His gaze swept his surroundings, hunting for a way out. He was on edge today; all he could think about was getting free. It had been his first thought upon awaking, and it hadn’t given him peace since.
Enough waiting for the right moment. It would never come. Vengeance had to be claimed.
Niall had to die—and he was going to be the one to end him.
To do that, he had to get free.
In the first days after his capture, in early winter, before the cold had gnawed into his bones and daily exhaustion had set in, he’d plotted his escape while hauling shit. He’d studied the fort, the guards, and the gates, looking for any possible weakness. Unfortunately, so far, he’d found nothing he could exploit.
And with this iron collar around his neck, he couldn’t shift into the clag-doo.
However, even as the days wore him down, he’d remained watchful, looking for his chance.
Niall, of course, knew his younger brother could fight. And that was why he kept him under heavy guard. His ankles were always kept shackled, and his overseers were always careful to keep just out of reach, lest he tried anything.
They’d been warned he was fast.
He was, but that wasn’t enough, and he’d long run out of patience.
“The storm’s moving in.” The female guard spoke then. She had a low, flat voice and eyes to match.
