Page 5

Now he had to get to the village and get these shackles off.

He limped up the path, cursing his clumsy limbs and aching muscles. Now that the clag-doo’s brief burst of strength had drained away, his body risked failing him. However, as he reached the top, just yards from the first of the squat roundhouses, his gut dropped.

He’d hoped the fight had gone unnoticed, but someone had clearly spied the skirmish by the middens from the walls.

A group of warriors—nearly a dozen, fanned out in a semicircle, weapons drawn—waited for him. And one of them was a tall, rawboned man with hatchet features and long dark braids.

Rain poured down Maol’s face as he watched Darach. “Nice try, princeling.” His tone was almost conversational, yet his eyes were flat and hard. “But you’ve just earned yourself a beating.”

They dragged Darach through the pounding rain and the mud to the wooden hut just outside the walls of the broch itself. His quarters.

Half unconscious, after being kicked and punched on the ground, Darach was just dimly aware of the bruising grips on his arms, the scrape of the ground against his skin.

“Stupid fucker,” a warrior growled at him, even as his fingernails dug into Darach’s arm. “Haven’t you learned yet?”

Darach mumbled a curse through bloodied lips. No, he’d never learn. He wasn’t leashed by magic like them. If they wanted him to stop fighting, they’d have to kill him.

The warriors hauled him the rest of the way into his hut, dumping him on the wooden pallet and chaining him to the wall.

Darach’s left eye had swollen shut, but with his right, he caught a glimpse of their contorted faces, the violence that still shimmered faintly silver in their eyes. They’d have kicked him to death on that muddy track if Maol hadn’t stepped in at the last moment. “The king wants his brother kept alive,” he’d told them. “Best we heed him.”

And so, reluctantly, they’d stepped back. Of course, he’d just injured and killed some of their own. Whatever sympathy they might have had for him was now gone. Maol had stared down at him then, a thin smile tugging at the corners of his lips.

Sprawled upon his pallet, Darach listened to the squelch of their boots in the mud as they departed.

Alone in his hut, the rasp of his breathing filled the confined space.

He swallowed blood. He’d bitten the inside of his cheek during the beating. Lifting a shaking hand, he gently prodded at his face. It was cut, swollen, and likely an ugly sight. But he hadn’t lost any teeth, and his jaw and nose weren’t broken.

Gingerly, he shifted his weight and rolled onto his back. Sharp, burning pain arrowed through his ribs as he did so.

Cods, that hurt. Had they cracked a couple of his ribs?

Breathing harshly, he glared up at the ceiling festooned with silvery spiderwebs.

Well, he’d fucked that up, hadn’t he?

His one chance, and he hadn’t even gotten inside the fort.

Heat ignited deep in his chest, his heart thumping hard even as the beast growled softly. It could just shut up. Even if the clag-doo kept him on his feet for a little longer, he couldn’t best half a dozen armed, magically enhanced warriors.

But the Gods damn him, he’d tried. He’d even managed to kill and maim a few before they brought him down. Unfortunately, in the aftermath, he was injured and had drawn everyone’s attention to him. They’d guard him even more closely now. They’d be even harsher with him.

Getting free again would be nearly impossible.

Darach closed his eyes. For several heartbeats, he didn’t even try to think of another plan. He hurt too much.

What was he supposed to do now?

He’d been so close. And now his brother would tighten the chains, make the next attempt harder, perhaps impossible. The thought of Niall’s satisfaction made something hot and vicious twist inside him.

“That was a stupid move, brother.”

Darach cracked open his good eye and inclined his head, his gaze going to the open doorway where gray, murky light filtered in. Outside, the rain still pounded down, thunder cracking the air.

A tall, broad-shouldered figure blocked out the light then. Stooping, Niall entered the shed. Looming over him, he cast a jaundiced eye over Darach. His lips then lifted at the corners. “They made a right mess of you.”

Darach glared up at him, remaining mutinously silent. His hands curled into fists. How he wanted to launch himself at his brother, to tear that smug expression from his face. But the chains stopped him—and in his current state, it would have hurt too much, anyway.