Chapter 8

CHAPTER EIGHT

L ucia stepped forward with no hesitation. Any sign of weakness would be as good as defeat in that situation. She couldn’t let Lachlan think for even a second that she was weak, though he was certainly thinking that.

In her years fighting men like Lachlan, Lucia had found out that it was better to show them from the very start that she was not a simple girl who had picked up a sword on a whim, but rather a warrior, much like themselves. That sudden realization always threw them off-balance, making them reconsider everything, from their initial choice to fight Lucia to the strategy they would follow.

There was nothing easier to defeat than an opponent without a plan. As long as Lachlan was panicking, Lucia could defeat him without even dropping any sweat.

As Lachlan stepped closer and closer, Lucia observed him—his light blonde hair and blue eyes, the scars on his face and arms. He, along with every other man in the camp, reminded her of her own people—of her brother. There was no face unmarred by at least one scar, no hands that were soft and unused to manual labor. It would almost feel like home, were it not for the fact that these were not friendly faces.

As always, Lucia allowed her opponent to attack first. She had quickly come to find out it was the best course of action, so she could gauge their abilities and work from there. Lachlan seemed so certain of his victory that he didn’t even try. For his first blow, he walked slowly towards Lucia, circling her. There was no hesitation in him, either, just like there was none in her, but Lucia could see under his stoic mask, because he wore the same one.

They were both eager for this fight. They both enjoyed it, seeking this rush that compared to nothing else Lucia had ever experienced.

Lachlan attacked, his attempt half-hearted, even if he had the certainty it would work. When Lucia promptly deflected the blow, he frowned in confusion and took a few steps back, assuming a fighting stance once more. Much like many of her opponents, Lachlan’s mistake was that he was not quick on his feet like she was. Lucia could duck and dodge; she could pull and push, fighting like she was dancing, but all those men who had fought her always planted their feet so firmly in the earth that it was difficult for them to catch her. It didn’t help Lachlan was twice her size. Lucia may have been unable to match him in raw strength, but she could slip under his attacks, frustrating him and wearing him out.

And once he was tired, she could defeat him for good.

Lachlan’s second attack was stronger, with more force behind it, but once again, Lucia dodged it, avoiding his blade. In that instant, she became painfully aware that this was no practice sword he held in his hand. Both of them were using their real, sharpened blades and one wrong move could mean that she could lose her head, but the same was true for Lachlan. There was something to be said, though, about the thrill that came with fighting like this—not just with fists, but with weapons, sharp and deadly. It sent a shiver down Lucia’s spine. She was almost enjoying herself too much, she thought, grinning as she counterattacked with a swing of her blade, one that Lachlan barely managed to deflect on time.

It was then that his eyes widened in recognition as he realized Lucia was not what she seemed to be. That, too, felt like a small victory—seeing the shock in his gaze as he stepped back, circling her once more while he undoubtedly tried to think of a better way to attack. Lucia didn’t give him any time to think, though, before she attacked him again, forcing him to take several steps back as he tried to deflect her blows and giving him no chance to counterattack.

Distantly, she realized the crowd around them had gone silent, all of them watching with bated breath. Alaric was among them, too, and this was the second time he was seeing her fight like this, cruel and vicious and hungry for blood. She wondered what he thought of this, if he was now more suspicious than ever of her—perhaps maybe even a little afraid, wondering what he had gotten himself into by agreeing to help her.

She knew one thing for certain, though: if she searched for his gaze in the crowd, she would find it glued on her.

Alaric watched; he had no other choice. Even if he had wanted to look away, it would have been impossible with the way Lucia moved, fast and deadly and graceful. There was no doubt in his mind anymore that she was enjoying this. She did not only fight for necessity, not only because she wanted to survive. She fought because she enjoyed it, taking pleasure in the struggle.

In her enthusiasm, she was reckless. Alaric could see it in the way she moved too fast, with complete abandon, relying more on the fact that her opponent was surprised than on her own skill. He knew she could fight better than this; he had seen her, unless she was only skilled with her fists and not a sword, which seemed unlikely. But it seemed to him she was enjoying it so much that she could hardly contain herself, each brutal strike spurring her on.

And then, just as Lachlan feinted to the left, Lucia’s sword caught him on the arm, drawing first blood. Crimson fountained over Lachlan’s sleeve and for a moment, he didn’t seem to notice the injury, as he continued to advance towards Lucia for another attack. It was only when Callum stepped forward and between them that Lachlan came to a sudden halt, lowering his head.

“First blood tae the lassie,” said Callum. As he spoke, he looked at Lucia, and Alaric didn’t like that gaze he gave her at all. There was reluctant respect there, surely, and an acknowledgement of her skill, but Lucia had piqued his curiosity, Alaric could tell. Callum was scrutinizing her from head to toe, much like Alaric himself had done when they had first met, trying to figure out everything she wouldn’t tell him.

“Me name’s Lucia,” Lucia said through gritted teeth. Around them, the men mumbled and whispered among themselves, and though Alaric couldn’t quite tell what they were saying, he knew it couldn’t possibly be good.

Even if they had no choice but to accept her into their ranks now, they would surely make their stay with the Ravencloaks difficult for them both. They still didn’t think she had any right to be there, even if she had proven her skill to them.

“Well, Lucia, we’ll see what becomes o’ ye yet,” said Callum. “Fer now, the two o’ ye can set up camp over there.”

As he spoke, Callum pointed to the other end of the clearing, away from the fire and, most importantly, away from the other tents. Naturally, he didn’t trust them and it didn’t surprise Alaric that he wanted them as far away from him and his men as he could.

“It’s late,” Callum added, addressing his men, as he made his way back to his tent. “We will say more on the matter on the morrow.”

As he walked, Callum came to a stop next to the three bound men, looking down at them with disdain. “An’ someone deal with this.”

With that last order, he was gone, and the rest of the Ravencloaks quickly dispersed. Alaric joined Lucia, tongue-tied, his heart still racing. There was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he wanted to ask, but didn’t know how. Before he could utter a single word, though, another man walked up to them. He, too, looked like the brigand he was; large and imposing, scarred from head to toe, his dark hair tied back at the nape.

Alaric subtly reached for his sword, but the man swiftly followed the movement with his gaze and chuckled, shaking his head.

“I’m nae here tae challenge ye,” he said. “Me name is Tiernan. I only wished tae ask if ye are hungry.”

Alaric exchanged a quick glance with Lucia and the understanding between them was instant. She, too, was just as wary of this man as Alaric was. Any show of kindness could be nothing more than a trap, and they were both well aware of that fact.

When neither of them spoke, Tiernan gave them a small shrug. “Well,. there is cured meat an’ some fruit an’ cheese,” he said. “Ale, too, if ye are thirsty.”

Alaric knew Lucia had to be just as hungry as he was, since they had hardly eaten anything at all that day and so, even though he was a little reluctant to try anything those men gave them, he asked, “Where?”

Tiernan chuckled again at the sudden question, nodding his head closer to the fire. “Come,” he said. “I’ll give ye some.”

After one last glance exchanged between Alaric and Lucia, the two of them followed him to the fire that had now died down to nothing. As Tiernan tried in vain to revive at least a few of its flames, Alaric remained close to Lucia, once again putting himself between her and this new man he didn’t trust.

Even as Alaric watched him carefully, though, Tiernan showed no signs of deceit. He even took a bite of each food he offered them without any comment, just to show them nothing had been tampered with, and slowly, Alaric managed to relax around him just a little.

“Everyone else is avoidin’ us,” said Lucia, not one to ever care about what was proper and what wasn’t. “Why are ye helpin’?”

For a few moments, Tiernan said nothing, staring instead into the distance, at the deep shadows of the trees. “I am curious,” he said eventually, which was probably sincere enough. “The two o’ ye come here seemingly from the ether an’ ye incapacitate three o’ our men, steal our supplies, an’ then demand to join our ranks. An’ ye’re a lass who fights like a man. An’ ye also claim tae be married.”

It was an odd way of phrasing it, Alaric thought, as if Tiernan didn’t quite believe it. Was there something obvious about them, Alaric wondered, which gave away the fact that they were not married? Was there anything they could do about it before it was too late, before everyone else noticed, too?

Maybe I am bein’ paranoid, maybe he doesnae ken.

“What is so strange about any o’ that?” Lucia asked casually. Whether she had the same thoughts as Alaric, he didn’t know, but none of it showed in her expression or her tone. She was perfectly calm, her voice curious, but level.

“Mainly the fact that ye wish tae join the Ravencloaks,” said Tiernan. “May I ask why?”

“Because it is difficult tae survive on our own,” said Lucia. “Me husband has been doin’ his best an’ I help as much as I can, but ‘tis nae life. We have naething. We are poor. We have naewhere tae stay, naewhere tae go. Some nights, we dinnae even have food.”

It was remarkable, seeing the difference between the Lucia he knew and the Lucia who sat next to him now, spinning this story for her audience. She played the role of the poor common girl who had known nothing but hardship and hunger too well, the lies coming to her with ease. Whether she had rehearsed them or not, Alaric didn’t know. He also didn’t know what would be worse—if she had rehearsed them in advance, this story along with countless others so she could use whoever one suited her best, or if it was all improvised, made up on the spot by her clever, cunning mind. Both options seemed equally bad to him. It was difficult to know what he should believe, if anything she said, when it was so obvious she was a masterful liar.

“At least here, we can have some security,” she said, a sob catching in her throat. “It’s more than we had afore.”

Tiernan listened to Lucia’s story in silence, glancing between her and Alaric. He was a closed book as much as Lucia was, revealing nothing to Alaric about what he could be thinking.

This was not the kind of situation in which Alaric ever wished to find himself. From one moment to the next, he had been caught in a web of lies and thrust into an uncertain, dangerous future. There were too many unknowns, too many variables—two of them sitting right next to him and conversing through the veil of deception that only served to unsettle him even more.

“It willnae be easy,” Tiernan said after a short pause. “I’m sure ye ken that. The men may have accepted yer victory, but they willnae stop challengin’ ye an’ they can be… inventive.”

“Let them try,” said Lucia simply. “Ye saw what I can dae.”

“Aye,” said Tiernan. “I did.”

He and Lucia stared at each other; Lucia narrow-eyed, a muscle in her jaw ticking as she bit down hard, and Tiernan with an open, obvious curiosity.

This is a disaster.

“I think it is time fer us tae retire,” Alaric said in that polite, detached tone he only used back home in the castle, whenever there were guests who overstayed their welcome. “It has been a long night an’ an even longer day fer us. Thank ye, Tiernan.”

Tiernan dragged his gaze from Lucia to Alaric, smiling. “O’ course,” he said. “If there is anythin’ else ye need, ye can ask me.”

With that, he took his leave, disappearing into one of the tents. Suddenly, they were plunged in silence, nothing around them but the sound of the wind and the critters that roamed the forest at night. Above them, the sky was beginning to clear, the threat of the storm dissipating, but Alaric still fell ill at ease.

“How long dae ye expect us tae stay here?” he whispered to Lucia as she tore into a strip of cured meat. “This is far too dangerous, even fer ye.”

“Ye dinnae ken what is dangerous fer me,” Lucia pointed out and rightfully so. How could Alaric claim to know anything about her? “We will stay fer as long as we need tae stay.”

A cryptic answer, as always, and one that didn’t satisfy Alaric’s curiosity, but Lucia stood before he could ask her anything else. He watched her as she walked to the designated space for them, where there was no shelter save for the thick branches of an old oak, and settled in for the night, curling up on the ground and pulling the cloak tightly around her shoulders.

Alaric considered staying by the fire, even if its dying coals provided barely any warmth. He and Lucia were supposed to be married, though, he reminded himself and even as the thought left a bitter taste at the back of his mouth, he stood and joined her, throwing his cloak over them both.