Bannon shrugged off the two other delegates’ hold, and Louie towed him forward again.
Someone announced that they should all be seated, and then the shuttle started moving.
Blast. He hadn’t even realized the door had closed. Bannon let Louie lead him to a seat next to a porthole in the very back of the shuttle, away from where Regelence’s diplomats sat. They were all staring back at him of course, and Bannon had no doubt he’d be hearing from his father by the time he got to Englor, but so be it. He was already in trouble and an outcast, so what was one more incident? It wasn’t like he could get more banished. With a sigh, he stared out the window and watched the shuttle bay rush by, followed by the blackness of space.
Louie leaned over and kissed his cheek. “You should have just planted him a facer instead of threatening him.”
Bannon chuckled and relaxed into his seat. Taking her hand, he leaned sideways, jostling into her shoulder without looking away from the porthole. Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. He could get a better view of those clouds, and Prissy and the other men were getting off the shuttle. Too bad he hadn’t had time to grab a sketchscreen. Oh well. If Lieutenant Taylor was to be believed, they wouldn’t be long, and Bannon had an excellent memory. He rarely drew while studying his subject.
He was settling in to watch the planet approach, when Captain Kindros’s voice came over the intercom into the shuttle.
“Shuttle One, we have triumphed over our attackers.”
Yup, not long at all. Bannon smiled and finally took a deep breath to settle himself.
“But the Lady Elizabeth and her crew are under attack, and we have been called to the Hansark system to provide assistance. Please make yourselves at home on Skye, and we will return to retrieve you as soon as possible.”
Bloody hell! Bannon resisted the urge to bang his head on the seat in front of him. The Hansark system was one of the systems involved in the Aquarius War. Dust and imploding planets! It could take weeks for the Lady Anna to return!
§ § § §
Planet Skye
A cliff ridge was not the most comfortable place to lie. Yawning, Ciaran stretched his neck to the side, then rested his forehead on the ground in front of him for a moment. He had a crick in his neck, his shoulders ached, and he was pretty sure there was a rock under his left hip bone, but he couldn’t seem to tear his attention away from the spectacle below him. Caught between awe and apprehension, he lifted his spyglass again and stared down at the construction site.
He had helped build many cottages, and he’d even seen the new tower at Ellenwine, the Campbell keep, being erected when he’d been fostered with Patrick and the Campbells, but this was like nothing he’d ever imagined. He’d been here since a little after noon when he’d spotted the huge hole, easily the size of Lochwood Castle. Men had been placing metal rods in it to form a grid. It was approaching twilight, and now the men below were pouring some sort of mortar into the hole—though it wasn’t like any mortar he’d ever seen. This mortar was poured from huge metal barrels. The men were bringing the barrels in by horse-drawn wagons. The thick gray cement was poured into the hole as one after another the men brought barrels forward and tipped them off the ends of the carts. There were still more carts coming this way from the direction of the MacLean stronghold, Dris Abbey, all full of the metal barrels. It was mind-boggling. At this rate they’d have a whole building in a day or two. After three years, Ellenwine still wasn’t complete.
“This is verra disturbing. Do ye think this is why the attacks have stopped?” Angus whispered from beside him with dread clear in his voice. Reaching over, he plucked the spyglass right out of Ciaran’s hand.
On Angus’s other side, Greer stayed quiet and watchful, but then Greer never said much. He was the strong silent type. He came in real handy in a fight, but he wasn’t much of a conversationalist.
Up until a month and a half ago, they’d dealt with monthly battles from men in flying ships. It had started the night his father was killed and continued. Ciaran had lost many good men to their unknown enemy. They all had. The attacks were not exclusive. All the surrounding clans had been subjected to ambush. It had become such a problem that they now had nightly patrols.
Frowning at his captain, Ciaran turned back to the scene before him. “I dinna ken. It could be.” He knew he should be grateful—God knew they’d lost enough men—but he’d only felt a sense of dread. “I guess we will wait tae see what Patrick says.” They had yet to identify who was responsible for the attacks, the men always dressed in nondescript clothing and rode in unmarked ships.
Ciaran glanced up at the sky, trying to discern the time. Where was he? Ram had left to go get Patrick hours ago. Twilight was upon them, and a storm was brewing. A gust of wind buffeted them from the front, and the air was charged. The breeze was cold despite the warm spring day, attesting to the fact that it was going to be a bad storm. He wished they’d hurry up. Being on the top of a mountain in the middle of a thunderstorm was not high up on his to-do list.
Below, a couple of men began to light tall torches. They spread out around the site, sticking torches in the ground at varying distances.
“We need those all around the castle,” Angus said in awe. “Maybe then our cattle wouldnae have gotten stolen.”
“If our cattle hadn’t been raided, we wouldnae have found this.”
“Ye still think the MacLeans did it?” Angus handed the spyglass back to him. “The cattle, I mean.”
“I dinna ken.” The MacLeans were their nearest neighbors, and though the two clans had never been overly friendly, they hadn’t had problems with them in decades. But when one of the villagers mentioned seeing men herding cattle toward MacLean land the night before last, when their cattle was stolen… well, Ciaran had to check it out. Too bad the villager couldn’t identify the men or the cattle. That would have made things much easier. They needed to brand their cattle like the Campbells did theirs.
Ciaran took the glass and looked to the southwest, past the construction. The tops of Dris Abbey’s—the MacLean keep—northeast and northwest towers were barely visible. The Uaine Forest, which was just northeast of Dris Abbey, had been Ciaran’s destination when they’d spotted this odd construction. The forest was far enough away from the abbey that it was great for spying. If their cattle were there, they’d be on the land in front of the castle, where the MacLeans kept their livestock.
Angus spat off the cliff, then hissed. “I ne’er trusted the bastards. I told ye they were up tae nae guid when they wouldnae join us, the Campbells, and the Kincaids for nightly patrols. Do ye think they are in league with our enemy?”
Beside Angus, Greer nodded his agreement.
Ciaran watched as more men came out and began dragging something across the cement. “It is possible the MacLeans dinna ken this is happening on their land.” But not likely.
Angus snorted. “Would ye ken if this was on ye land?”
“This is on the border of my land and I dinna ken until this morning.” Only the Blae Mountain separated MacKay land from MacLean land.
“The MacLeans have a lot tae answer for.”
“We cannae accuse them without proof. Do ye want tae start a—”
“Bloody hell and damnation!” a voice hissed from above them.
Startled at the sudden intrusion, Ciaran rolled over as he pulled his dagger from his waistband.
Beside him Angus rolled several feet away and to his feet. His sword cleared the sheath as Patrick held up his hands.
“Slow down there, Angus.” Patrick stood over them, staring out at the construction. With the fierce look on his face and the wind whipping through his long blond hair, he brought to mind a warrior of old. He arched a brow at Ciaran. “You should not be here without someone watching your back. You didn’t even know when we arrived.” The censure was clear in his rough voice. With that, he looked back at the construction and lowered himself to the ground beside Ciaran.
Ciaran handed him the spygl
ass, then frowned at Ram, who stood back from the ledge with Robbie and Douglas Campbell. Robbie was Patrick’s new squire. Douglas was one of Patrick’s warriors. He was a grizzly older man, with a generous heart. He and his wife had ten children, all of them adopted.
The two Campbells took up places beside Patrick, staring out at the buildings, and Ram smiled. He was amused that Ciaran had gotten into trouble. Truth be told, Ciaran was embarrassed at being taken by surprise. It was a juvenile mistake. He’d assumed he’d hear someone coming up behind him. “What the hell took ye so long?”
“I’ve only been gone six hours. It wasnae my fault. I had tae go find Patrick. He was in the village, and Marcus insisted on going with me tae find him.” Ram shrugged. “So it took longer.”
Ciaran nodded in understanding. Marcus did not get around well with his leg injury. It had not been an emergency, and Ciaran would not have told Marcus he couldn’t go either.
Ciaran put his dagger in its sheath at his hip and rolled back onto his stomach.
“Och, but they have done a lot since I left. How is this possible?” Staring out at the construction, Ram got to his knees on Ciaran’s other side.
“What is it?” Robbie asked.
Angus put away his sword and lay next to Ram.
“We dinna ken. A building of some sort. Maybe a castle?” The structure certainly seemed large enough to be a castle. Ciaran looked at his mentor as lightning flashed and thunder rumbled. The wind picked up again, pushing against them with force and whipping their hair around their faces.
Patrick held the spyglass to his eye, and his jaw was tense. He had the same assessing expression he always had when they fought their unknown enemy. After every battle, he scoured the scene, studying the clothing of the dead, looking for something he never seemed to find. Whenever Ciaran asked what he was searching for, Patrick would just shake his head.
Patrick’s brows furrowed, but he did not lower the glass when he said, “They aren’t wearing plaid.”
“Nae,” Ciaran answered. The men had on trews, which was unusual for this part of Skye. Everyone wore plaid that marked their clan. “We were discussing that when ye arrived. We think the MacLeans may be in on this, but we dinna think this is just the MacLeans. The building is progressing tae quickly.”
A loud crack of thunder shook the ground. It didn’t sound as close as it had before.
“This is not Skye technology,” Patrick answered, his voice even more clipped.
Patrick’s words echoed Ciaran’s thought. Nothing seemed overly foreign, but… well… call it a gut feeling. He was certain this had to do with the outsiders who’d been attacking them. Hearing Patrick voice the same opinion gave him goose bumps. What did that mean? Did they have another foe with more advanced technology or was it the same one? The thought was more than a little nerve-wracking. Ciaran was sick and tired of burying good men. He didn’t even know what they were fighting for. The skirmishes thus far had been unprovoked. “Who are these men?”
“I don’t know,” Patrick said with an exasperated sigh. Finally looking at them, he shook his head, then met Ciaran’s gaze. “I wish I did.” His attention drifted off behind Ciaran. “It seems too coincidental for them not to be connected to the attacks.”
“Aye, and the MacLeans refusing tae join us makes more sense now.” Angus bobbed his head as if to say I told you so.
Someone, Douglas it sounded like, grunted in agreement.
Sighing, Ciaran shook his head. “We dinna ken if the MacL—”
“What is that?” Patrick’s brow furrowed, and he lifted the spyglass, but he was turned the wrong way, looking past Ciaran to the right rather than down and in front of them.
A cloud of black smoke rose up over the mountain. It appeared in the distance, among the foothills of Blae Mountain in the area they called the Pass, or possibly farther in the valley between the highest peaks.
Ciaran frowned. Had lightning struck something? But what? There was nothing but grass, rocks, and heather over there. In order to see, they would have to backtrack toward home and skirt past Grom Peak.
A drop of water landed on Ciaran’s arm. He glanced up and was hit by another on the cheek. Skirting past Grom Peak was beginning to seem like a good idea. It would keep them at a lower altitude.
The workers grabbed their equipment and took shelter in a small cottage nearby.
“They are leaving,” Ram said.
Lightning flashed, jarring them from their observation. Everyone moved at once, heading for their horses, which waited in a grassy patch, several yards below and behind them. Once they got to their horses, they all stopped.
“What now?” Ciaran asked over the wind. “We need someone tae watch them at all times.”
“Agreed.” Patrick nodded.
“Come back tae Lochwood with us. It’s closer.” Ciaran swung up into the saddle.
Around him, Ram’s and Angus’s horses danced around as Ram and Angus mounted.
Patrick shook his head. “We need to get back and tell the laird about this, and I promised Marcus that I wouldn’t be long.” His eyes had the same haunted look he got whenever anyone asked about his past. Patrick never spoke of his former life, but from the few hints he’d dropped when Ciaran lived with him, Ciaran knew it wasn’t good. He was going home to discuss what he’d seen here with Marcus. “I’m going back to the keep to dispatch men for surveillance. Meet me here tomorrow at noon.”
Ciaran nodded and raised his voice to be heard over the weather. “I’m going tae see where that smoke is coming from.”
The rain came down, soaking into his bones and drenching him within a matter of seconds.
A particularly loud clap of thunder sounded and rumbled through the mountain, and Angus’s horse bucked his front feet off the ground about a foot. Angus patted his neck, but the horse continued to prance around and make snorting noises.
“Ciaran, we need tae get tae lower ground,” Angus shouted.
“Go! I’ll catch up.” Ciaran waved Angus, Greer, and Ram away, then looked back at Patrick, who was just getting on his horse. “What arenae ye telling me?”
Patrick shook his head like he always did when Ciaran asked about their technologically advanced enemy. Totally dismissing the question, he dug into his saddlebag, pulled out a leather pouch, and tossed it at Ciaran. “You need to come by the cottage sometime. Marcus misses you.”
“What is this?”
A stray lock of blond hair blew across Patrick’s face, and he batted it away. He smiled, but still the weariness around his eyes did not dissipate. “Shortbread.”
Ciaran grinned and stuck the pouch into his own saddlebag. Marcus and his sweet tooth. Marcus couldn’t cook to save his life, but he was quite skilled at sweet-talking the Campbells’ healer into baking for him. He had always had biscuits waiting for Ciaran and Ram after they spent the day in the lists. Ciaran missed him. “I’m surprised it made it all the way here.” Marcus usually hid the sweets from Patrick, claiming Patrick had a sweet tooth worse than he did and that there’d be none left—which was usually true.
With a chuckle, Patrick shook his head. “You don’t know how much there was when he packed it. Get out of here.” He turned his horse, ready to leave.
Douglas and Robbie waved and started toward the Campbell stronghold.
Ciaran lifted a hand in farewell, but then called out, “Patrick, wait.”
Patrick wheeled his horse back around.
“Does all of this have tae do with ye past?”
For a moment, Ciaran was certain he wouldn’t answer, but then Patrick shrugged. “I can’t find any evidence that it does.”
“But ye think so.”
“Yes.” His voice was low, but Ciaran heard it over the storm, and it was more haunting than the whistling wind.
As Ciaran watched his mentor ride away to meet his clansmen, he couldn’t help but think that this situation was about to get so much worse. They were already fighting for their lives, but something to
ld him they might also be fighting for their freedom.
CHAPTER TWO
“Blankets should never be worn as clothing.”
—Timothy on fashion.
If this planet had buzzards, they would’ve already started circling by now. Bannon looked back at the billowing black smoke over the gloomy gray horizon. It was like a death knell, announcing they were going to perish just as surely as the pilot and the delegates had. Skye had a harsh beauty best viewed from a painting, and the fact that he didn’t want to be the one to capture the scene in paint was a testimony to his pain and fear. Timothy, his muse, was suspiciously quiet at a time Bannon could use him most. He needed something to take his mind off the harsh reality of their situation and the impending doom they faced, even if it was just his own fanciful thoughts.
Louie tugged on his arm. “Come on, Bannon, w-w-we have to keep moving.”
Did they? This place was desolate, and everything looked the same. Maybe they should’ve stayed by the wreckage. At least the burning ship would’ve offered warmth if they could stomach the stench of charred flesh and the fumes from the fuel didn’t suffocate them. Walking wasn’t getting them anywhere, because the waist-high grass and thistle made progress slow, and the craggy ground made it painful. The high-peaked mountain looming like an angry giant in the not so far distance presented a whole other challenge, assuming they actually made it that far. No buildings, no bridges, not even a large tree for protection against the wind.
A drop of something landed on his cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was cold—his face was already half-frozen from the brisk wind. Come to think on it, he couldn’t feel his feet anymore either, but in all fairness, that could be due to pain rather than cold. It was a contest to what he did more, shiver or sniffle. Blood oozed from a cut stretching from shoulder to elbow on his left arm, and his knee hurt something awful, having been wrenched the wrong way in the wreck. He tried hard not to limp and scare Louie, but it got more and more difficult the longer they walked.
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 3