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The other warrior grunted, casting a gaze northward. “Aye.” He then moved behind Darach and nudged him between the shoulder blades with the handle of his axe. “Move.”

Darach dug the shovel into the putrid waste spilling out of the barrow, picked up its iron handles, and heaved it up. Lurching forward, the wooden wheel squelched through sticky, tar-like mud.

The heavy iron shackles on his feet clanked as he walked in short, awkward strides. He coughed then—he often did these days, for the damp had burrowed deep into his lungs—before stumbling.

Gods, he hated how his body felt.

It worried him. If he got too weak, it was over.

The privy sheds sat on the third tier of the fort, just beneath the stone broch. And as he wheeled the barrow out, he cast a glance up at the imposing, windowless structure. It looked like a bald head made of tightly packed stacked stone, smoke drifting from slits in the domed roof.

Darach slowed his gait as he stared at it.

Ailsa was in there.

Three fucking moons, and he hadn’t yet caught a glimpse of her.

That was far too long. And every time he looked at that broch, it reminded him of his failure to protect her.

They never let Ailsa or Kayla out. Although his ears strained to catch snatches of conversation whenever he was near crowds, there was no talk of either woman. Yet, not long after taking up this role, he’d started to notice fresh tattoos on the exposed arms, shoulders, necks, and chests of some of the warriors.

Aye, Niall had put his other captives to work too.

Darach’s lip curled. Every time he thought about his brother, his gut burned.

“Faster,” the woman following him barked.

Ignoring her, he favored the broch with one last smoldering look. His fingers then flexed around the wheelbarrow’s handles, and he shoved forward once more. His back twinged, causing him to swallow a curse.

He trudged his way down through each level, past long, low-slung timbered barracks and smiths’ forges where fires glowed day and night. The clang of iron against iron rang through the fort, and as he passed one of the forges, he marked the wagon of weapons being loaded in front of it. Arrow tips, spear tips, and daggers.

His heart kicked.

Taking his revenge and freeing Ailsa weren’t the only reasons he needed to get free of these shackles.

War was coming.

He could smell it in the air. They’d stepped up their training in the market ground before the gates. The drills went on even after nightfall while the warriors trained under the ruddy glow of torchlight.

Winter marched by, and Niall had warned him that they’d be moving on once the weather warmed.

Darach clenched his jaw so hard that pain lanced through his ears.

Defeating or overthrowing his brother wasn’t enough. He wanted to watch the life drain from his eyes. How many nights of late had he lain awake in his freezing hut, listening to the roar of the wind, and imagining wrapping his hands around Niall’s throat again? But this time, he’d finish the job. It was the only thing that had warmed him.

Aye, he’d cut off the serpent’s head.

Niall wouldn’t be marching on Duncrag then.

Reaching the parade ground, he caught the ominous rumble of thunder in the distance. Those ugly purple clouds were nearly on them. Soon, the Gods would unleash their wrath.

Darach’s mouth twisted. A rainstorm was the closest he was ever going to get to a bath, even if the accompanying cold wind would freeze him to the marrow.

As he crossed the edge of the mucky market ground, his boots nearly sinking up to the ankle in some places, Darach cut a glance over at where a company of warriors trained. That fucking Gregor mac Hume was watching over them this afternoon, eyes sharp as he studied their movements. However, as always, Idra, Niall’s favored general, was commanding.

She was a big woman, as tall as most men, with long braided black hair and a harsh face. And as usual, she carried her long-handled bearded axe—a vicious weapon with a dark iron head and spiral carvings on the ash shaft.

Her snarled insults and orders whipped across the wide ground, carried by a biting wind. The Gales of Complaint had kicked up, heralding the coming storm.