Chapter 8 – Bully Maguire

  I woke to an unfamiliar ceiling of rough-hewn stone and hanging moss.

  Thin shafts of sunlight slicing through from an entrance somewhere, painting golden stripes across the furs. For a moment I couldn’t remember where I was.

  Then the softness beside me shifted, and everything came rushing back.

  A woman was still asleep, naked and shameless, one arm thrown possessively across my chest and a leg hooked over mine.

  Ayla...was her name.

  Her dark hair spilled across my shoulder like spilled ink smelling of woodsmoke, mead, and the faint sweetness of herbs. Her breathing was slow and deep, completely at peace in a way I wasn’t.

  I lay there a second longer, staring at the ceiling, feeling the events from last night, before carefully peeling her arm off me.

  She made a small, grumpy sound in her sleep but didn’t wake.

  I slid out from under her leg, stood, and padded barefoot across the cool stone floor toward the entrance. The mountain air hit me the moment I stepped outside—clean, cold, carrying the sharp scent of pine and distant smoke.

  I closed my eyes and tilted my face to the sky. Bright. Blinding.

  Last night’s memories began to flicker behind my lids in jagged flashes: Erduin ripping the head free, blood spraying across laughing faces, spectral shadows tearing a soul apart, the taste of copper on my tongue, the ludicrous amounts of mead, the heat of a woman’s mouth on my—

  A soft splash of water to my right snapped me back.

  I opened my eyes.

  A woman stood at the entrance of the next alcove, clay pitcher in hand, watering the little herb garden that grew along the stone ledge.

  Or at least she was supposed to be.

  The water poured straight onto the ground, missing the plants entirely. Her gaze wasn’t on the soil.

  It was locked on me.

  Specifically, several inches below my waist.

  My stomach dropped.

  I was still completely naked—tool dangling in the open morning air for the entire mountain to see. Heat rushed to my face so fast I actually felt dizzy.

  I slapped both hands over myself like a startled animal.

  “Uh—morning,” I managed, voice cracking halfway through the single word.

  She didn’t look away.

  If anything, her mouth curved into a slow, amused smile. Water kept pouring uselessly onto the stone.

  I backed up so fast I nearly tripped over the threshold, ducking back into the dim safety of the alcove.

  Behind me, Ayla’s sleepy voice drifted from the furs.

  “Why are you hiding that thing?” Ayla propped herself up on one elbow, dark hair falling in wild tangles across her shoulder, eyes half-lidded and gleaming with lazy mischief. “I’ve already seen it. Tasted it. No need to be shy now.”

  I kept my hands clamped where they were, heat still crawling across my cheeks and down my neck. “There was a woman outside. Staring.”

  Ayla’s grin spread wider, slow and wicked. “What about it? Let her stare.”

  She stretched languidly, like a cat waking from a nap, the furs sliding off her bare skin in a slow whisper.

  The morning light caught the curve of her hip, the faint bruises I’d left on her thigh the night before. She rose to her knees on the bed, then stepped down and closed the distance between us in two unhurried strides.

  er arms slid around my neck, warm and sure, pressing her body flush against mine so I could feel every soft inch of her. Her breath brushed my ear.

  “You should let the whole peak know…” she murmured, voice dropping to a husky whisper, “…that you’re—”

  One hand darted down without warning, fingers wrapping around me with bold, familiar confidence.

  “—well equipped.”

  I sucked in a sharp breath as she gave a slow, deliberate stroke.

  The heat surged through me again, instant and insistent—morning hardness swelling under her grip, ready for another round in the sheets.

  She pulled back just enough to meet my eyes, then leaned in and bit my lower lip—light, teasing, coquettish.

  I groaned low in my throat, the sound vibrating between us.

  She laughed softly against my mouth, the sound warm and wicked.

  “How about it?” she whispered, lips brushing mine. “Shall I let her know how loud I can be?”

  Her fingers tightened fractionally, coaxing, daring.

  I swallowed hard.

  —

  I stepped out of the alcove for the second time that morning, tunic half-laced, hair still damp with sweat and Ayla’s scent clinging to me like viscous smoke.

  The main peak sprawled below — stone paths zigzagging between carved lodges, warriors sharpening spears, women hauling water, children chasing each other with sticks.

  Normal morning chaos.

  Except I didn’t feel normal.

  I felt good.

  Ridiculously, stupidly good.

  My third eye hummed behind my brow like it was purring.

  Ayla’s laugh still echoed in my ears, her nails still ghosted across my back.

  I’d walked out of that alcove with everything a man could want after a night of blood and glory — and I’d just had seconds. The mountain was mine today.

  So I walked.

  Not my usual careful stride, shoulders squared, eyes scanning for threats.

  No.

  I sauntered.

  Head high, chin up, one hand casually adjusting the collar of my tunic like it was the finest silk instead of patched leather.

  I rolled my shoulders once, twice, letting the motion ripple down my arms. My boots hit the stone with deliberate weight — not loud, but rhythmic.

  Confident.

  A pair of young spearmen sharpening blades looked up as I passed. I pointed at them with both hands — finger guns — and gave a slow, lazy grin.

  They blinked.

  I spun once on my heel — full 360 — tunic flaring dramatically even though it wasn’t long enough to flare.

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  A woman carrying a basket of herbs nearly dropped it. I winked at her. She blushed and looked away.

  I kept going.

  Down the switchback path, past the lower forges where smoke poured from vents like dragon breath. A grizzled smith paused mid-hammer and stared.

  I shot him a double point — bang-bang — then tugged my collar again like I’d just invented swagger.

  A group of children stopped chasing each other to watch me. One boy mimicked the spin. I gave him a nod of approval — you’re learning, kid — and kept strolling.

  Every step felt like music only I could hear.

  Upbeat hymns in my head. Or maybe it was the drums from last night still echoing. Didn’t matter.

  I felt untouchable.

  I passed another random woman near the water cistern.

  She was filling a jug, eyes down, shoulders tense from the men who’d claimed her brother’s lodge. I slowed just enough to catch her eye.

  She looked up.

  I gave her the full Bully Maguire point — slow, deliberate, accompanied by the tiniest head tilt and a smirk that said,

  I could have you if I wanted, but I already had better this morning.

  Her mouth opened slightly. Then closed. Then she turned away fast, cheeks burning.

  I laughed under my breath and kept walking.

  Past a row of lodges. An old man sat outside on his stone bench, sharpening an axe older than my bloodline. He glanced up as I strutted by.

  I pointed at him — finger guns again — then spun, tugged the collar, and kept moving without breaking stride.

  His scarred face didn’t change.

  But I swear one corner of his mouth twitched.

  I reached the overlook at the edge of the main path — the spot where the whole valley dropped away and the carved peak loomed above like a judging god.

  I stopped, planted my feet wide, hands on hips, and stared out over the highlands like I owned every inch of the land.

  Sunlight hit my face. Wind tugged at my hair.

  I now felt invincible.

  Ridiculous.

  Unstoppable.

  Somewhere behind me a child whispered to another:

  “Who is that guy?”

  I didn’t turn around.

  I just smirked wider, tugged my collar one last time, and kept walking.

  The mountain could keep its blood and its ancestors.

  Right now?

  This peak belonged to me.

  I rounded the next switchback, still rolling my shoulders like I owned every carved inch of this peak, when Efran came strutting up the opposite path.

  He looked like he’d just crawled out of a barrel of mead and victory.

  Grease still shone on his beard, tunic half-unlaced, belly proudly on display, and a fresh horn of something dark sloshing in his fist. His cheeks were flushed, eyes bright with that post-feast, post-claim glow.

  He spotted me from ten paces away and his whole face lit up like a forge fire.

  “Brother!” he boomed, throwing both arms wide as if we hadn’t seen each other in years instead of a night.

  I matched his energy without missing a beat.

  “Brother!” I called back, voice deeper than it needed to be, arms spreading in mirror image.

  We closed the gap like two conquering idiots in a bad bard song.

  Our forearms slammed together in a meaty collision—hard enough to sting, solid enough to echo. Palms met, fingers locked briefly, then released with a theatrical flourish.

  Efran’s brows shot up twice in rapid succession, that classic double-raise that said I know exactly what you’ve been doing, you magnificent bastard.

  I felt the same gleam mirrored in my own eyes.

  He leaned in close, grin splitting his face ear to ear.

  “You son of a bitch,” he stage-whispered, loud enough for the nearest water-carriers to overhear and smirk. “I smell a woman’s scent all over you. Good. Very good.”

  I tugged my collar—slow, deliberate, pure Maguire—and gave him the double finger-gun point.

  “She sings louder than the drums,” I said, voice low and smug. “Mountain heard every note.”

  Efran barked a laugh that bounced off the stone walls.

  “That’s my boy!” He clapped me on both shoulders so hard my teeth clicked. “Look at you—strutting like you were born wearing the symbiote. I’m proud. I’m proud.”

  He spun once—full 360, tunic flaring dramatically—then fell into step beside me without missing a beat. We turned as one and continued down the path, matching stride for stride, heads high, and shoulders rolling.

  Zero fucks given.

  Every few paces one of us would throw in a little extra:

  Efran pointed at a passing tribesman with both hands—bang-bang—then tugged his own collar like he’d invented the gesture.

  I answered by my flipping hair back, whipping around, then pointing right back at him.

  A group of children stopped dead to watch.

  One small boy tried to copy the spin and nearly fell over.

  We didn’t break stride.

  Efran leaned sideways without slowing.

  “Today is a blessed day.”

  I smirked, eyes forward, collar tug number three.

  “Damn right brother.”

  He cackled, threw an arm around my shoulders, and pulled me into a half-hug that was mostly shoulders-slamming.

  “What a day to be alive.”

  We kept strutting—two gloriously overconfident idiots owning the morning path—while the mountain watched with what I swear was faint amusement carved into every stone face above us.

  The path curved down into a small clearing tucked against the mountain’s flank — a flat shelf of stone ringed by wind-bent pines and a single clear spring bubbling from a crack in the rock. Sunlight poured in here like liquid gold, catching on the mist rising from the water and turning everything soft and bright.

  Dagon was alone in the center.

  No shirt. Sweat gleaming across the lean, scarred planes of his back and chest. His blade — the same plain, heavy thing he always carried — moved through the air in slow, perfect arcs. Each cut was precise, deliberate, almost meditative. The steel sang faintly with every pass. His breathing was even, eyes half-closed, face calm in a way I’d rarely seen. He looked like a man who’d found some small piece of peace in a world that rarely offered it.

  Efran and I burst into the clearing like two drunk oxen.

  We were still strutting — shoulders rolling, chins high, arms swinging with exaggerated swagger. Efran threw in an extra spin for good measure, tunic flaring, while I punctuated it with a double finger-gun point toward the spring as if blessing the water itself.

  Dagon’s blade paused mid-arc.

  He lowered it slowly, turning to face us.

  For a long second he just stared — first at Efran, then at me, then back again — expression flat, brows slightly raised in the universal look of a man who’d just walked past two escaped lunatics on the street.

  The silence stretched.

  Efran broke first, throwing both arms wide.

  “Brother!” he bellowed, voice echoing off the pines.

  Dagon didn’t move. Didn’t smile. Just blinked once.

  “What… the hell is wrong with you two?”

  Efran laughed — loud, theatrical, the sound bouncing around the clearing like a thrown rock.

  “Wouldn’t you like to know, weather boy?”

  Dagon’s left eye twitched — the tiniest flicker of irritation — but he kept his face stone-still.

  “You look like a pair of peacocks who just discovered mirrors,” he said flatly. “And you’re interrupting my forms.”

  I couldn’t help it. A low chuckle slipped out, casual and smug. I gave Dagon a slow, thankful nod, letting the morning sun catch the fresh confidence in my eyes.

  “Morning, brother,” I said, voice smooth and easy. “Beautiful day to swing steel, isn’t it?”

  He stared at my face like I’d sprouted a second head.

  “You’re both idiots,” he said, the words flat and almost disappointed, like he was watching two children play with fire. “And you’re both going to die stupid if you keep walking around like drunk monkeys.”

  Efran slung an arm around my shoulders, yanking me in so hard my ribs creaked. His grin split wide enough to show every crooked tooth.

  “Don’t be jealous, brother,” he said to Dagon, voice dripping with mock pity. “Some of us woke up in a warm bed with an even warmer woman. Others woke up with… what? A cold spring and a lonely blade?”

  Dagon exhaled through his nose — the slow, deliberate sound of a man counting to ten in his head.

  “I woke up normal,” he said quietly. “That’s more than most get. You two look like you’re auditioning for court jesters.”

  I crossed my arms, tilting my head and giving him an edged, playful look.

  “Come on, brother,” I said. “Join us. Strut a little. Thanks to you, I’ve become a lot more used to life on the main peak.”

  He looked at me like I’d just suggested he swallow his own sword.

  “I’d rather jump off the peak.”

  Efran cackled, releasing me so he could rub his belly in wide, satisfied circles. He dropped down onto a flat rock, lounging like a king on a throne of stone, legs spread wide.

  “Relax, weather boy,” he said, still grinning. “We’re just celebrating life. You should try it sometime. Might loosen that stick up your—”

  Dagon cut him off with a look cold enough to freeze the spring mid-flow.

  Efran laughed again — loud, unrepentant, throwing his head back.

  “Chill, brother. It’s all jokes. That’s all.”

  Dagon shook his head once, slow and final. Then he stepped forward, boots scraping stone, and leveled his gaze at Efran.

  “Get up, fatass,” he said, voice calm but edged with steel. “Let me show you some brotherly love.”

  His eyes shifted to me — dark, unreadable, but with a glint of challenge.

  “And you,” he added, nodding once. “You’re next after him.”