Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Three - History Is Written By Those With Power

Torquil watched Deòthas slink out of the great hall, quietly closing its vast oak doors and hiding the rest of her retreat from view. She was fire. She was defiance. She was power of a type he’d never before witnessed. And he was thoroughly ashamed of himself. Repulsed by himself, actually. He’d bent to her will so easily. How could he prove himself to her if she could control him like that? She’d never respect him unless he could match her, and right now the very idea of being her equal seemed like an impossible fantasy.

“Shit,” he breathed, summing up his feelings on the matter of his new partner in one simple vulgarity.

“That just about covers it,” Tancred responded, clapping his shoulder with a large, calloused hand. “But don’t worry about Deòthas; she’ll come round once you’ve killed a few marionettes.  Just a shame she’s decided to go hungry again. She’s one of our best when her head’s on straight, unfortunately when she’s on her starvation diet she gets… well, you’ve seen how she gets. A hungry baobhan sith is a dangerous baobhan sith, as you’ll have realised. Thank the gods for the human genes that are in her. I suspect she’d be completely unmanageable without them.”

“Does she go hungry often?” Tor asked, not sure whether he wanted the answer because he needed to protect his neck from her fangs, or because he wanted to make sure they were somewhere Tancred couldn’t interrupt the next time she tried to get to his throat.

Where the hell had that thought come from? He’d become a warrior to fight, not to offer himself on a platter to the last baobhan sith this side of the veil. Her sorcery must have really gotten to him.  Could he put that down to it having been a really long, tiring night? Could he save face that way?

“She does it too often. Always has, as far as I’m aware, and I’ve known her for over six centuries, ever since she got stuck on this side of the veil. I’ve never gotten to the bottom of why she does it. I suspected it started as some form of ritual punishment, though I can only speculate as to why she would feel the need to torture herself through starvation.  I think it’s as much habit as anything now, though. She’s not used to feeding regularly so she doesn’t recognise signs of hunger early enough to avoid her control fraying. It’s a liability, and truthfully it’s one of the reasons she hasn’t progressed further through the ranks.”

“One of the reasons?” Tor queried.

Did his partner have more problems than ritualistic fasting as a form of atonement? Just how many skeletons did Deòthas have in her closet to make Tancred feel he couldn’t give her more responsibility despite her considerable age?

The chief smiled reassuringly. “That’s for me to worry about, not you. She’s a strong warrior and an experienced fighter. Deòthas is fast on her feet and her magic is a unique skill. She will make a good partner for you, even if first impressions aren’t what they should’ve been… Come on, I’ll get you another beer. Let’s try to put some life back into this party.”

“Will she come back, once she’s fed?” Tor asked.

Tancred’s forced smile fell at the question. “Not likely. She isn’t the party type. She hasn’t been to one of these things since she joined us, and she only sporadically attends funerals. She’s not one for attending functions of any sort.”

“She came to her own celebration though, surely?” asked Tor, but from the grim expression on the chief’s face he’d be mistaken in assuming as much.

“She didn’t join like the rest of us. She went through the trials, yes, but not because she’d been told she could. She snuck down to the proving grounds during the day, completed the trials without anyone knowing, and was left pinned to the ground by the sword she’d taken from a Taghadair during combat.