by Victoria Zak
THE JEWEL OF GRIM FORTRESS
MEDIEVAL VICE EPISODE 1
VICTORIA ZAK
CONTENTS
Untitled
Copyright
Newsletter Signup
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Newsletter Signup
About the Author
Books by Victoria Zak
The Jewel of Grim Fortress - Medieval Vice Episode 1
Victoria Zak
Copyright 2015 by Victoria Zak
All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the author and publisher.
All characters, events, and locations in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, dead or living, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Cover Design by JAB Designs
Editing by Julie Roberts
ISBN: 978-1-942516-14-9
Created with Vellum
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ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
This story is dedicated to my family, friends and amazing street team. For if it wasn’t for them, this wouldn’t have been possible.
1
M edieval Scotland
Isle of Mull
The clanging of steel on steel echoed throughout the stronghold as Clan Maclean warriors battled to defend their laird. Warriors of every caliber bit and punched their targes until their blood ran to the dirt floor. They growled and snarled like wild beasts, charging forward down the wide staircase with all their might. There was no denying it, these men were willing to die for their laird and today, unfortunately for them, most would.
Dodging a flying Maclean shield before slicing his cheek, Kincaid rolled his eyes and blew out a breath of frustration. “This shite is getting old, me brother.” Being a paranormal assassin, fighting the supernatural was a daunting, unpredictable occupation, but one he had to do.
“Och, man, where’s yer sense of adventure?” Cailean, his brother in arms, huffed as he sliced through a warrior’s gut. “Plus, ye need the coin for rent.”
Aye, a blacksmith’s son was in no matter born into riches or noble birth.
Yet, one small characteristic seemed to have been forgotten through the ages.
Not only could a smith forge steel into a fine sword fit for a king, but he possessed a special kind of magic. Magic strong enough to be passed down from generation to generation. Magic that could detect supernatural activity.
It was something special, secret. Yet Kincaid thought differently. Charmed yet cursed.
“Aye, I suppose ye’re right, brother.” Kincaid knocked heads with a weaponless warrior who had thought it a good idea to charge him. The man fell to the ground. Kincaid kicked the motionless body down the stairs, shaking his head in disgust while he caught his breath. Hunting the wayward paranormal was growing old on him. The visions of unnatural activity that always led him to his next quest had become stronger, wearing on him mentally. The unending string of missions was also taking a toll on his body.
Vampire bites, werewolf scratches, and conniving demons, he had scars from them all, but nothing came close to dealing with the Fae. Aye, every scar came with a price; his soul.
When a vision came, no matter how problematic, he had to accept the task. Try as he might, no amount of whiskey in Scotland could ward off the visions and erase the marks of his past. This was his reality, a life dedicated to the unexplained.
Annoyed and with the devil in his eyes, Kincaid reached behind his back with both hands and unsheathed twin blades that his father had created for him, and stalked a line of warriors descending the stairs toward him. “Bloody hell!” Kincaid blustered. The hindrance was just another reminder that he really hated his job. Only last week, he had banished a group of mischievous brownies from Clan MacKay’s keep before they could wreak havoc. A wee bit of bribery and a sack of oatcakes, and the troll’s attitudes were corrected.
The week before, with the help of Cailean, he had vanquished a werewolf from Clan Gunn’s land before the damned thing could lay waste to a herd of sheep that would have left the Gunns unable to go to market. It never failed, Kincaid always got his supernatural.
But now the stakes were different. He was in search of a relic, a jewel of sorts that possessed the laird Maclean. But where this jewel was hiding, he did not know. This was their mission: find the laird, find the jewel. Those words would haunt him until he found what he was looking for.
Brothers by bond and not by blood, the Highlanders fought off more than a hundred men… men who seemed to be under a trance, a spell to keep the brothers from completing their mission. Kincaid wanted peace, for a while at least. There would be no stopping him from fulfilling this quest.
Kincaid and Cailean fought like warriors and showed no mercy as they stood loyal, defending each other as the enemy masses tried to conquer and prevail. Although the strength and presence of the menace were intimidating,
Kincaid and Cailean had the upper hand. Bodies fell to the ground in pools of blood as they sliced, stabbed, and charged their way up the stairs and laid waste to the Maclean warriors keeping them from their mission. The laird had to be here somewhere.
“Have ye seen the new lass working in the kitchen wit’ Mistress Kirpatrick?” Cailean said as he pulled his sword from an unlucky fellow.
Barely missing a blade to the abdomen, Kincaid dodged the blow. “Aye, she’s quite bonny indeed.”
“Och, brother, she’s bonnier in more than one way, if ye fancy a wild one in bed.” Cailean smirked.
Letting out a frustrated breath Kincaid replied harshly, “Cailean do no’
tell me ye spoiled that young lass?”
“What concern is it of yer’s if I bed a lass? Ye want her for yer own? I have no claim to her. She’s for the taking.”
“Nay, I do no’ fancy her but it’s becoming harder and harder to find a lass that ye have no’ spoiled.”
There was a break in the fighting, perhaps the calm before the storm.
Having dealt with supernaturals all his life, Kincaid knew that silence was to tease them, keep them on their toes until the next attack. Still in fighting stance, Kincaid took a step back and bumped right into Cailean’s back.
Thinking it was the enemy they swiftly turned and pointed their weapons at each other.
With no signs of any more bloodthirsty warriors, the men sheathed their weapons and walked up the remaining stairs toward a long corridor.
Cailean ran his fingers through his head of unruly chocolate-brown curls, making sure his appearance was acceptable. “I can no’ help it, ye know that.
Sex is the bane of my existence.”
“Aye.” He was right. For Cailean, sex was the only thing that soothed the demons he battled. Kincaid almost felt sorry for the lad. He couldn’t understand not being able to resist the likes of a woman. Being that he was his own man, playing by his own rules, he never surrendered, not even to a lass. And that was the difference between him and his brother; Kincaid was always in control. The lassies were too busy falling under Cailean’s spell to notice him. It could have something to do with Cailean’s rampant m
asculinity, good looks and haunting steel-gray eyes. Not that Kincaid was hard on the eyes, but he had a much more standoffish appearance that
normally terrified the common folk, mainly because of his mismatched eyes.
With one eye blue and the other brown, there was no way to hide from the folklore tales. One could say that Kincaid was cursed with both good and evil intentions. If only they really knew the truth. Aye, Cailean lived in the light, whereas he preferred the shadows.
They reached the top of the stairs and halted. “Where do we go from here, brother?” Cailean peered down the corridor.
“I dinnae know. All I know is I have to go alone,” Kincaid reassured him.
Cailean shook his head. “I do no’ like this, Kincaid. Do ye even know what ye’re looking for?”
The vision wasn’t clear, but the tingling sensation that rattled him to the marrow was clearer than the deepest blue loch on a flawless summer’s day.
“Aye.” Kincaid unsheathed one of his daggers and proceeded down the corridor. Find the laird, find the jewel.
2
“Y e have tried my patience for the last time, lass.” Laird Maclean stalked his prey across the solar. He reeked of wet earth and horse manure, and the dark circles under his eyes suggested he hadn’t slept well.
Dirt stains smudged his tunic, which was untucked from his plaid, and his shoulder-length blond hair was ruffled like a cat with its dander up.
Inwardly, Paisley Shaw laughed as she saw bits of hay sticking out from that mess of hair. Manipulating the laird’s mind had been too easy. Running out of excuses and hiding places long ago, she’d had to turn to her magic in order to keep her virtues true and remain a Shaw.
With a gleam of pure hatred twinkling in his eyes, the laird tossed aside the wooden table that stood between them. In all her tricks and schemes, Paisley had never seen the laird this irate. Then again, he had never been tricked like this before; waking up naked with a thundering headache next to the butcher’s unpolished daughter in a horse barn hadn’t tickled his fancy, nor was it proper. A man in his position could not risk tarnishing his reputation. Being the laird of Clan Maclean, he was respected, cherished, and he defended his clan with pride. But Paisley knew him differently.
Her home had once represented a prosperous and thriving druid culture where she’d lived happily, dabbling in herbs and spells. Now it was nothing more than a grim fortress where she was held prisoner until Laird Maclean could break her fighting spirit. There were times when the laird would lock her in her bedchamber. Days would pass without even a glimmer of sunlight.
It was only a matter of time before he would have his way and claim her.
Paisley picked up a chair and threw it at the fast-approaching laird. He ducked as it crashed into the wall behind him. Quickly he turned his head and watched the chair clatter to the ground. “No more games, Paisley! Ye will marry me or I shall see ye marry no one!” He unsheathed a jeweled dagger and palmed it in his right hand as he slowly drew nearer, taunting her with its pointy end.
“I’d rather marry a goat, than have to be yer wife.” She was provoking him, yet Paisley had no other choice if she was going to make it out of here alive. Well, she hoped she would still be alive. Multiple refusals and spells cast over the years had held fast, driving the laird’s mind away from her. But there were only so many spells she could conjure before her powers began to sour.
At the age of five-and-ten Paisley had watched in horror as this heathen of a man destroyed everything she held dear. Her clan was murdered to extinction including her mother and father, all in the name of land. It had been five summers since the Clan Maclean had taken over her land, sealing the deal for Laird Maclean to reside as one of the lords of the Isles. A title that held power and corrupted the laird further.
Paisley remembered that day like it was yesterday. It was a normal day in the life of a girl whose father was the high priest of a small group of druids living off the coast of Mull, worshiping the land. Still to this day she could smell the fresh sea breezes and taste the salt on her lips. She closed her eyes as flashes of the past flickered behind her eyes.
The wind blew through her long blonde hair as she stood looking over the cliff. The waves crashed against the rocky shore, spraying sea water up into the air. Billowing, graying clouds were blowing in from the east. Aye, a storm was coming.
“Paisley!” Gillian ran towards her. “There ye are.” Her older sister finally reached the edge of the cliff where Paisley stood staring at the sea in front of her. She stopped to catch her breath. “Da has been looking for ye. A storm is coming.” Being Paisley’s older sister, Gillian was always looking after her.
Startled, Paisley turned around. “Och, Gillie, ye startled me.”
“Sorry. Da was worried aboot ye when ye missed breakfast. Then when he saw the clouds he began to panic. Ye know how Da can be.” Gillian smiled.
“Aye.” Impassively Paisley turned back to face the sea.
Gillian did the same, yet she was concerned. “Yer mind is heavy. What troubles ye, sister? Mayhap a lad?”
It was just like her sister to think a boy would be plaguing her thoughts.
They were both beautiful in their own ways, although men seemed to be drawn to Gillian more. Mayhap it was her black as midnight long wavy hair or her sea green eyes or because she was the oldest and of marrying age.
Paisley rolled her eyes and crossed her arms over her chest as if Gillian had invaded her privacy. “For God’s sake, Gillie, I’m only five-and-ten. I have no use for a lad. And even if a lad came calling for me Da would shoot him with an arrow.” She glared crossly at her sister.
“Aye.” Gillian chuckled. “Remember when Da hired the new blacksmith over a summer ago?”
“Och Gillie!” Paisley began to walk away, knowing the past was going to be brought up. Her sister was relentless and followed closely behind her, taunting.
“And his son, what was his name again? Does no’ matter. All that matters was the look on his face when Da caught ye two oot by the jetty.”
“We were only fishing,” Paisley said over her shoulder.
“That’s no’ what I heard,” Gillian taunted, singing the last two words.
Abruptly Paisley stopped and whirled around. “A wave knocked us off a rock and I fell on top of him. End of story!”
Gillian laughed at how upset Paisley had become in a short matter of time. Before long Paisley joined her. They laughed hysterically.
Gillian caught her breath. “I wonder what happened to him. He was awfully cute.”
“I do no’ care. For all I know he could have fallen off the face of the Earth and I still wouldn’t care.” Paisley stood with her hands on her hips as a gust of wind howled. The laughter stopped and the girls became serious.
They stood in silence for a while as the mist rolled in from the sea; thick and heavy. Their white silken dresses clung to their bodies as the wind quickened and soured.
Paisley walked back to the cliff’s edge and squinted through the mist. The gray clouds now rolled in faster and faster.
“Paisley,” Gillian yelled through the gusting winds. “We must get to the keep before the storm sweeps us away!”
Paisley stiffened and her eyes widened. “Gillian! Run and get Da!”
“I dinnae understand! What is it?”
“Look!” Paisley pointed towards the mist. “Sails!”
“Sails? Are ye sure?”
“Gillian, ye are right, there’s a storm coming and I do no’ mean rain.”
Paisley took off running toward the keep with her sister close behind her.
This wasn’t good, not good at all.
Gillian… Paisley sighed. By the Gods, she missed her sister. She felt as though a piece of herself died the day Gillie jumped from the cliff.
With fire in her eyes, Paisley stared at the laird and cursed him for taking her and her sister as prisoners that day. Knowing the powers that they possessed, he wanted it all for himself,
yet there was a price. He had to wed one of the sisters in order to control the magic and it had to be of their own will. He could not force their hand in marriage.
Their magic was powerful and he needed it to ensure his position in the clan and ward off their enemies.
“I will no’ let ye do to me what ye did to me sister.” Paisley seethed.
“Aye, sweet Gillian. She tried to be a good wife but couldn’t handle it.
She ended her own life when she chose to jump from the cliff.”
Trying to hold back the tears, Paisley screamed, “Nay, ye drove her to her death! She killed herself because of ye!”
The laird grabbed Paisley’s face and squeezed her cheeks until his nails bit into her skin. “Ye should learn from Gillian’s misfortunes. I’ll only tell ye one more time, marry me.”
She wrinkled up her nose from the smell of dung that permeated his clothes and of last night’s meal on his breath. It took all her might not to vomit. She swallowed back the bile and lifted her chin. “Nay!”
Hastily the laird slapped Paisley across the face, splitting her lip. The force of the blow sent her to her knees. She hung her head down and spat out the blood collecting in her mouth while the laird started to pace the small area by the window.
“Paisley, it does no’ have to be like this. Ye’re a verra bonny lass, bonnier than yer sister. She would never hold the beauty ye possess. I’ve waited a long time to have ye and I won’t wait any longer.” The laird stalked over to Paisley and lifted her up by her hair. He bent his head down and rubbed his sweaty, unshaven cheek across hers. “Now be a good lass and do no’ fight
this.”
Angry, hot tears streamed down her face as she broke free from the laird’s clutch. The fire in the hearth fizzled out as cold air circled the room.
Her eyes, once vibrant blue, shifted to darkness as she glared at the laird, who now took a step back. “I curse ye threefold, Laird Maclean.” The laird’s eyes widened and he shook his head back and forth. “I curse ye in the name of my people and I curse ye in the name of Gillian.” Paisley stalked the laird as he scrambled to stay out of her reach. “May ye strangle on my curse and choke on my poisonous words.” Coughing and grabbing at his throat, the laird fell to his knees, gasping for air. “May my curse wound ye like a dagger through yer heart. I, Paisley Shaw, curse ye threefold.”