Warrior, Opposed: Book One Of The Comhairle Chronicles

Chapter Five - Rules Are Made For Breaking

Deòthas was pissed off, that much was clear to Tor even before he entered the great hall and noted her unwillingness to meet his eye. Hell, whenever he’d tried to approach her through the gathered warriors, she somehow managed to evade him. She could sneak through a crowd like a ghost passed through walls. One moment she was on one side of the milling herd, the next she was on the other.  Even as people began claiming seats, she still remained impossible to close in on.

He supposed the evasion could be put down to embarrassment over the previous night. Except Tor was pretty sure his new partner was simply furious at him. He’d come to that conclusion upon reading the note which Aifric sheepishly handed over when she woke him at sunset... After she woke him because he’d fallen asleep in the library.

Face down.

In one of the Histories.

Where Deòthas had clearly seen him.

Crap.

As if collapsing amongst the Histories wasn’t bad enough, now not only did Deòthas think he was a weak incompetent, but she also thought he’d been looking up her past to find ammunition he could use to get away from her.  His plan to find something which would help him understand her, and possibly help her, had back fired and back fired spectacularly. It was almost enough to make him wish he’d just phoned his parents and shared the news that he’d gone against their wishes and taken the trials. After all, while his parents’ disappointment would be an inconvenience to deal with, he’d stopped being afraid of it years ago. He would’ve liked to avoid more of Deòthas’s, though.

Not that there was much he could do about it at that moment. There were bigger problems afoot, if the scowls on the faces of his colleagues were anything to go by. Tor supposed that being unexpectedly gathered together never boded well for the Comhairle warriors. Something had happened. It was something big if they’d all been summoned, even those who were off duty.

The captains had already been present when he arrived downstairs, all except Caitrìona. He vaguely remembered someone saying her team was on patrol, which explained her absence and the absence of several others he’d met at the party. Aodh, Seren, Corvinus, and Edward sat with their primary teams, though, amongst the haphazard rows of seating. The chairs had been hastily laid out, arranged in a loose formation. Four rows of six, an aisle, then another four rows of six. Enough chairs for forty-eight warriors in teams of twelve.  

As if it had been an afterthought, an additional pair of seats had been added at the back of the arrangement, and Tor suspected those two final chairs were meant for Deòthas and himself. However, as Deòthas had taken up a standing position beside a window, he ended up sat alone.

As far as he knew, Deòthas didn't belong to any teams, and he wasn’t sure what that meant for him. Would he be captain-less, like her? Or would Tancred put him into a team and force Deòthas to take her place too? Who would he serve under? Would he work under Deòthas herself, as she was the senior member of their partnership, or would he be placed under the guidance of one of the captains?

Tor debated the pros and cons of each scenario until Tancred stalked into the room. Tension radiated from the chief and his gait seemed even more predatory than usual. Something was definitely going on. And considering the Comhairle’s primary function, to protect the supernatural community of the world, Tor couldn’t help but hope he was about to get his first taste of being out in the field.

A thrill ran through his body at the thought of going out to defend his race, as well as the other races who lived alongside humankind. He would do what he’d always wanted to do. Finally.

The room fell silent as Tancred reached the front of the great hall and he didn’t need to call for attention as he took his place. Trusting that his disciplined forces were all present, the chief launched straight into his briefing.