Dark Truth (The Time Bound Series Book 3)

by Lora Andrews

  Donald narrowed his eyes. His hands pumped into fists at his side. “Speak your mind, Ewen, and speak it quickly, for I’m of a mind to tear apart the first Cameron I see who isn’t related by blood to my wife”—he swung his fiery gaze to Ian—“or her brother.”

  Ewen released his brother’s arm. “This reeks of chicanery. I did no’ recognize a single face on that field. Did you, Ian?”

  Ian glanced to the field and frowned. “Nay.”

  “These men fought with the stink of desperation in their eyes. I would stake my life these are no’ Cameron’s men, nor did he thrust mercenaries upon us. Something else is afoot, but what, I canna tell you.”

  Oh no, Ewen. Don’t fall for it. Don’t second-guess the evidence.

  Caitlin ground her teeth. She had to set him straight.

  “Send their severed heads to Alan and tell him if it’s war he wants, it’s war he’ll get,” Donald bellowed.

  An ear-splitting roar silenced Ewen’s argument. Everyone spun in the direction of the sound. A flash of light lit across the forest floor. And when fire broke through the tree line, only to vanish at the edge of the field, Caitlin gripped her dagger.

  Ewen and his clansmen bolted in the direction of the light flashing between the trees.

  Before she could follow, someone grabbed her from behind.

  “Let me go.” She struggled against the iron grip on her body.

  “Stay still, woman,” the man growled.

  Caitlin didn’t know which of the brothers had his hands around her waist, but she stomped his foot with the heel of her own. When that didn’t work, she elbowed him in the gut with all she had and closed her grip around the hilt of the dagger. She didn’t want to have to stab the guy, but she knew what was in that forest, and she wasn’t about to let Ewen die a second death.

  The man oomphed. His grip loosened slightly, but not enough to allow her to twist out of his hold. She whipped her head back, replicating the same move she used two weeks ago in the warehouse to free herself from Gary, one of MacInnes’s henchmen.

  Her skull slammed into something hard.

  Ouch…

  The minute the man’s fingers relaxed, she dropped to the ground, sprang to her feet, and ran for the forest with a doozy of a headache knotting at the base of her neck. The head-butt had to have hurt him more than it had hurt her, but she had no time to feel sorry for Aengus or Torin or whoever the poor sap might be.

  She knew magic when she saw it.

  THREE

  EWEN SPED across the glen, crossing the tree line as another roar echoed from within the forest. The unnatural sound skated over his skin, making the hair on his arms stand on end. He pulled his sword from his scabbard.

  “It moves deeper into the woodlands,” Donald said, steering his large frame around tree branches and bushes with the agility of a man half his size.

  Urgency propelled Ewen through the thicket. The glen served as a channel between the manor and the crofters who’d settled along the river. If whatever had emitted that horrible yowl proved to be a predator, unsuspecting villagers would be at risk. Innocents like young Colin who had charged across the hill to warn him of demons in the woods.

  Gritting his teeth, Ewen glanced over his shoulder to Ian and Torin who kept pace behind him. Early morning light filtered in through the thick canopy, glinting against the damp foliage beneath their feet. The creature bellowed, a loud soulless cry that stripped all warmth from the air.

  “That is no wolf,” Ian muttered.

  Nor bear, both of which inhabited Ardgour’s dense forests. Ewen couldn’t shake the worry brewing in his gut. The attack. The lass. What was the connection? Were they distractions?

  God’s above, were they barreling into a clever ruse?

  He slashed at a tree limb in his path and glowered at his brother. The laird should no’ be running at his side. Donald had a lovely wife round with child, and as their chief, his brother’s duty was to protect his people. He was not expendable.

  By the blazes, Ewen had never met a more stubborn man in all his days. Sucking in a breath, he jumped over a boulder, landing softly on his feet. Aengus would have alerted the barracks by now. Torin’s twin had stayed behind to escort Rupert and the green-eyed lass to the keep. He would order a small patrol to the glen to aid them in this task, while the rest of Donald’s forces—men Ewen had personally trained—fortified the manor to protect all inside. Mari and the others would be safe. Now all Ewen had to do was keep his hard-headed brother alive.

  From the corner of his eye, he caught the flicker of flame.

  “Down,” he yelled, dropping his sword. He dove and wrapped his arms around Donald’s waist, crashing them both to the ground. The ball of fire sailed over Ewen, close enough to singe his hair if he lifted his head.

  Torin came to a crouch beside them and watched the flame fade into the damp leaves. “What the bluidy hell was that?”

  Ewen rolled off Donald and jumped to his feet. He grabbed his sword, then pivoted to offer his brother aid.

  Growling, Donald stood and ignored Ewen’s outstretched hand. He sheathed his blade. “What were you thinking? You’re damn lucky I didn’t impale you.”

  Ian cleared his throat. Ahead, the outline of a large man—no not a man, the thing was gargantuan, mayhap ten feet tall—wove from tree to tree as if giving chase to an unseen foe.

  Ewen’s nape burned, and every nerve in his body tensed. He’d learned a long time ago to pay attention to that premonitory sensation. He snapped out his arm, his fingers curled into a tight fist. The men acknowledged the silent command and closed ranks behind their laird.

  The two-legged creature reappeared, about twenty feet from where Ewen and his clansman watched from behind the trunks of two gnarly oak woods, each about five feet wide and over one hundred fifty feet tall. Lichen spread across the tree’s bark and spiraled up the massive trunk.

  Up close, the monster was impressive, male by the sinewy muscles rippling across its back. Clad in a torn tunic over trews, it stood upright, long legs bent at the knees in a defensive position while its massive arms slashed at something Ewen couldn’t see. A misshapen bulge extended from the center of its back, like someone had stuffed a sack of grain beneath its clothing. What looked like boils ran up the side of its neck and across the back of its bald head and probably curved around its face, although from his position, Ewen couldn’t see the creature’s features to verify.

  “Dö, bradwr del kuningas brenin.” The giant’s gravelly voice cut through the silence of the forest. It swung its bulky arm out to the cluster of trees facing him. “Tha do amser har kommit.”

  Who was it talking to?

  Ewen peered at the woods beyond the creature. The thing turned its head. Ewen jerked his body flat against the tree, his sword at the ready. Carefully, he maneuvered around the trunk as the—man?—turned its attention back to the invisible shadows facing it in the woods.

  Man? Could it be?

  By the look on his brother’s face, Donald was wondering the same.

  No man grew to be ten, mayhap twelve, feet tall. The thing had the looks of a creature from stories of old, from a time when gods and giants walked the Caledonia lands, long, long ago.

  Ewen tightened his grip around the hilt. He might not know what stood twenty feet before him, and he might not understand a single word the monster uttered, but where there was language, there was intelligence, and only a fool would underestimate a giant talking sentient being.

  He signaled for Donald to retreat to the manor until the reinforcements arrived. “Take Ian with you,” he mouthed. In the meantime, he and Torin would track the creature. Hopefully unnoticed.

  Disregarding Ewen’s command, Donald motioned for the team to widen into a larger arc. He would have them watch and observe for signs of weakness before attempting to ferret the beast out into the open for attack.

  The man-thing looked like it could squash each one of them with the heel of its fist. Ewen shook his head an
d waved them back in the direction of the glen.

  Donald ignored him.

  No one moved.

  For the love of all that is holy, why have a constable if you chose not to listen to your advisor’s directives?

  Biting his tongue, Ewen moved into position, wishing to God he’d retained the bluidy ax.

  The sound of pounding footsteps shattered the creature’s fascination with the shadowy hub holding its attention. The green-eyed lass raced toward Ewen, Aengus and Rupert giving chase behind her. She skidded to a halt, her eyes wide, the jeweled dagger gripped in her trembling hand.

  The man-thing’s monstrous features were now visible. Bulging black eyes, a mangled nose, boils covering half its face, and pointed teeth that didna belong in a creature that size.

  The woman’s gaze darted about, briefly landing on Donald and Ian before rounding back to Ewen and the creature. “Oh, shit.”

  “Back away. Slowly, lass.” Ewen eased away from his position behind the tree. His eyes never left the monster who slowly turned his hulking body to face her. A frown creased it’s ugly brow.

  “That thing is a Fomorian.” She jumped when Rupert and Aengus flanked her. “You can’t kill it. I think it’s immortal.”

  Before Ewen could process what she’d said, the Fomorian sniffed the air. The nostrils of its mangled nose flared. Cocking its head, it locked its eyes on hers, then it looked over a broad shoulder to the area they’d found the creature watching when they’d first encountered the man-thing.

  “Els vanhat dduwiau rynkade sobre tha thu, bradwr,” it said with a laugh. When it turned around to face them anew, its black eyes were focused and determined.

  God’s teeth. This can’t be good.

  Ewen braced himself for the giant’s charge. To his left, Donald, Torin, and Ian formed a defensive line the creature would have to break through to reach the woman.

  The giant took a wide, taunting step and stopped. What Ewen could only describe as a smile lit its face.

  “Quia í dag svo lika ska do.”

  The woman’s mouth pulled into a tight line, her skin paling to a grayer shade than before.

  Had she understood the giant’s words?

  Keeping the Fomorian in sight, Ewen took large backward steps until he reached her side. The closer he got, the more something tugged at his chest.

  An urge to shield her with his body.

  To protect her.

  He squashed the impulse. His duty was to his laird, not a woman of questionable origins.

  “What does it want?” he asked her, the words ripping from his tongue with more force than he’d intended.

  “He said it would make her precious mortals bleed, but I don’t know who he’s talking about.”

  Her honesty surprised him. He’d expected her to feign innocence or, at a minimum, attempt to hide her knowledge of the strange language.

  “I think there’s someone with it.” Squinting, she scanned the trees beyond the giant. Her body stiffened. She took a half step forward then her lips parted to form a small O.

  Ewen followed her gaze. Something—or someone—shifted in the very spot the giant had watched like a hawk.

  The Fomorian charged them.

  A shadowy figure emerged from the tree cover, a lithe form dressed in a hooded cloak holding a ball of fire between his or her hands. The orbit sailed through the air, striking the giant’s back with a hiss.

  Wild, the creature bellowed.

  Donald, Ian, and Torin dove for cover. The woman fell to her knees, her hands clapped over her ears as the Fomorian’s cries pierced their eardrums.

  Like a massive cloud of smoke sucked in through the nose, the unnatural fire soaked into the Fomorian’s flesh. Eyes bulging, the creature’s arms shot out. His back arched. Clawed fingers dug into its palms as it stumbled and twisted its massive torso. The thing fell to its knees with a shuddering thud. And then, without warning, every inch of the giant’s skin exploded with red-orange flames. The wails ceased abruptly, and a heartbeat later, all that remained was a pile of gray ash.

  Ewen blinked, his grip tightening around the hilt of his sword until the weapon shook in his hand.

  Standing quietly beside him, Rupert made the sign of the cross.

  Ian opened his mouth, then closed it, then opened it again. “What in the name of all that is holy was that?”

  “Where did the other one go?” Aengus asked.

  All heads snapped in the direction of where the cloaked figure had stood when he or she had hurled a ball of flame at the Fomorian.

  “Shite,” Torin grumbled.

  “Don’t let her get away.” The woman’s hoarse voice croaked. “She’s my ticket home.”

  She?

  The lass met his stare, her eyes pleading.

  A physical weight pressed against his soul. Protect her.

  Ewen froze. The devils take him. He’d been ensorcelled. What else could explain the strange urgency to throw down his life for a woman he’d just met? Aye, he was an honorable man, but this—this compulsion was insanity.

  The woman in question rose to her feet unsteadily. A stream of blood dripped from her left ear, darkening the trail of older, crusted blood on the side of her jaw and neck. When she rounded the giant’s ashes, her gait quickened, the wool cloak billowing in the breeze, revealing a flash of pale skin as her footsteps morphed from a fast walk to a run through the trees after the magical being that had disappeared.

  “God’s wounds. Is she daft?” Ian cursed.

  Ewen took off after her.

  She didn’t get far. Ten feet ahead, she jerked to a stop and flung her face away. “Oh, god.”

  A man was on the ground, one arm caught beneath his gut and the other twisted unnaturally at his side. His muscled upper body was bare, a massive chunk of his back missing. It looked as if someone had taken a large mace and gouged the flesh from his shoulder to his waist.

  When Donald and the others arrived, no one said a word.

  The green-eyed lass clutched the dagger’s hilt, the skin around her knuckles bleaching white. Fear and adrenaline would soon leave its mark. If she didn’t release her grip, she’d cramp, and badly by the looks of it.

  Ewen dragged his eyes from the woman and planted his gaze on the dead man’s corpse. His mind should be on the scene—the body before him, the possible dangers concealed beyond the perimeter—and not spent worrying about a woman’s bluidy hands.

  Where the hell was his head?

  “Torin, Aengus, fan out into the woods. Make sure none lurk in the shadows unseen,” Ewen barked.

  Donald crouched near the corpse. “The flesh was torn by something with an incredible amount of strength. See?” He pointed to the ragged edges of the wound as Ewen squatted to get a better look.

  The woman stood gaping at his back.

  “Muscle, skin, and ligament appear to have been ripped from his body, but the bones were left intact. A bite did not cause this injury. Nor one of our weapons.”

  Donald shoved the body over with his foot. Angry red claw marks riddled the front of the man’s chest, but none were deep enough to kill.

  Ewen stood. The Fomorian could have easily torn the poor sap’s head from his body, but what purpose would he have in pinching flesh from the man’s back? He searched the ground. A wet trail of a dark substance led away from the corpse. Bending down, he pressed his forefinger into one of the larger drops and then rubbed the substance against the pad of his thumb. The fluid was thick and viscous, similar to—

  “Blood.” He smelled the tip of his finger to confirm his suspicion.

  The blood trail ended where Rupert stood puzzling over a large object on the ground.

  “I can’t fathom its purpose,” the monk said. Veiny cartilage ran across the black surface of what appeared to be a very large wing. “The feel of it reminds me of a fine hide, but I’ve never seen animal skin tanned to this thinness.”

  “It’s not hide,” Ewen said.

  Donald, Ian, and
the woman filtered in behind him.

  “More like a membrane, similar to the skin of a bat’s wing.” Pulled taunt over the cartilage, bits of the thin layers flapped in the wind. Ewen ran a hand across his jaw. If a madman, or a Fomorian from the old legends, lashed his savage claws against the black skin in a violent frenzy then tore the wing off completely, the result would be exactly what lay before them.

  Christ. A Fomorian, a sorcerer wielding balls of flame, and now a winged creature of mammoth proportions. All in the same day.

  Ian tapped a fist against his chin, his eyes focused on the black wing. “It canna be, Ewen. The bluidy thing has got to be at least ten to twelve feet long. ’Tis no’ possible to be a wing.”

  “No, he’s right.” The woman swallowed hard. A light coat of perspiration dotted her pale skin. “I’ve seen…”

  She looked at Ewen then cast a glance to the body on the ground. Her hand sprang to her mouth. She stumbled back and hurried to a nearby bush.

  Ian and Rupert exchanged sympathetic looks. Ewen forced his attention to the wing.

  “The blood is fresh,” Donald mused out loud. “If that truly is a wing, then a creature that large would not have gotten far, injured as it is.”

  His brother was right. Ewen spun toward the woods and reached for the hilt of his sword just as Torin and Aengus emerged through the tree line.

  “Whoa,” Torin gasped, hands up in the air.

  Ewen breathed a sigh of relief. Lowering his weapon, he gave his friend an apologetic shrug.

  “Any sign of the other party?” Donald asked.

  “Nay, we found naught. He’s long gone,” Aengus answered.

  Donald scratched his chin. “Pity.”

  “Well, whoever he is, he’s light-footed and familiar with the territory, I’ll give ye that. We tracked him out, oh, about half a furlong, eh, Aengus?” Torin asked.

  “Aye, about half.” Aengus looked to Donald. “The tracks are fresh. Now is the time to pursue.”

  Donald shifted his eyes away from the corpse and shook his head. “We’ve risked enough for one day. ’Tis best we return now. Don’t you agree, brother?”