by Cathy MacRae
“I will avenge ye,” he muttered, sucking in great breaths of outrage. “Colin Dubh’s blood will quench the land he has despoiled. I will slay him with my own hand. This I swear.”
Another gust of wind blew tiny particles of dust and stone into the air, swirling it with smoke and a subtle hint of rain. Storm clouds raced in from the sea and large rain drops splattered the ground, grieving for the dead.
“Laird!”
Jolted away from the sight of his men rapidly scooping soil atop the graves, Birk spun about. Dugan dug his heels into his mount’s flanks and raced to Birk’s side, tossing him his reins. Bran skidded to a halt.
“Look!”
Inland rose a plume of smoke, a shade darker than the clouds. Dread struck Birk’s heart. Colin Dubh’s signature of destruction hovered close to Dugan’s parents’ croft.
Birk bounded into the saddle. He set his heels to Bran’s ribs and signaled four soldiers to join them. “This will be the last night the bastard draws breath.”
* * *
A wary eye on her menacing adversary, Carys retrieved her javelins. Slipping quickly to one side, she assumed a fighting stance, left hand and foot forward, her javelin in both hands, and waited for the beast to attack. A freshening breeze swept inland from the coast, and the moon dimmed behind swiftly racing clouds.
The Highlander swung his massive sword, forcing her to skip backward to avoid his strike. Once the blade swung past, she lunged forward and struck with her spear, the small leaf-shaped blade cutting across the muscle of his forearm. As she withdrew, she dropped the tip to his thigh and pushed downward, dragging the edge along his lead leg, opening a long slice.
Blood darkened the ground. The man’s eyes sparked—rage, pain, surprise. But his steps did not falter.
While he was bigger and stronger, she was swifter. As her assailant recovered from his swing, he raised his sword high. The blackguard swung downward in a vicious attempt to cleave her in two. Carys slipped to one side before his blade arrived. Her short lance darted out and sunk into his flesh a few inches above his manhood, where the body stores water. Backing away, chest heaving, she awaited his next assault. A few more swings, and the huge man’s breathing labored. Whether from exertion or his wounds, she knew not. He bled from several cuts while she remained uninjured. She needed only to outlast the beast and blood loss would do its work.
The colossus bellowed a war cry then lunged for her anew. Stepping to the other side, she avoided his charge and stabbed him again, this time in his side. He raised his sword once more and she leaped farther left, using all her might to drive her point into the hollow of his arm below the shoulder as he held his deadly steel aloft. She skipped away and behind as his arm fell limp to his side. Taking advantage of his pause, she again drove her javelin deep, this time into his back above his left hip bone.
The beast roared then dropped to one knee. Carys withdrew her weapon and drove it in again above his hip on the other side. Blood gushed from both wounds as the hulking brute attempted to stand. With a booted foot, she pushed him over. He stumbled and twisted, landing on his back, eyes blinking.
“Finish it then, ye Satan’s spawn,” he growled.
Carys kicked his sword away, knowing the importance of a warrior dying sword in hand, denying him this last comfort. “I’d rather watch ye die knowing a woman bested ye.”
Standing over him, Carys held her weapon at the ready and watched the life leave his eyes. Once his eyes filled with the fog of death, she turned her attention to the living.
“Gorrie, Lorna, are ye well?” she asked.
“Aye, but they’ve killed my Fergal,” Lorna wailed, pulling her fist from her mouth. Her cries, stifled whilst Carys fought, rose in the night.
Carys strode to his side and felt his neck. “His heart still beats. Help me move him inside so we can tend his wounds.”
She and Gorrie lifted Fergal and carried him to the bed while Lorna fetched bandaging cloths. Gorrie then hurried to heat water. They cleaned and bound his wound, a jagged cut which appeared bad, but likely bled worse than it was. To her relief, she’d felt no changes in the shape of Fergal’s skull, nor observed any clear liquid that foretold death.
Once they had done as much as they could, Carys turned to Gorrie. “Come, let us see what we can do about the barn.”
He nodded and followed her outside. The structure’s roof was a loss, a few rafters jutting awkwardly from the stone building. The charred beams glowed with unspent flames, but at least the fire showed no sign of spreading. Carys removed the arrows from the dead and gathered her javelins.
“We need to move these bodies. I don’t want yer mam to have to look upon these men again.”
“Aye. ’Tis good thinking,” he said, darting a glance at her then downward.
“What is this?” she asked, sensing Gorrie’s frustration.
He hung his head. “Ye killed all those men yerself and I dinnae help.”
Carys gave a sad smile and put an arm around his shoulder. “Aye, but ye did as I asked and protected yer mam so I could concentrate on the last devil and not worry about ye.”
“I should have been at yer side fighting. Instead, I was as scared as a bairn and couldnae move.”
Carys placed a finger under his chin and lifted his head until he met her gaze. “Aye. I was scared, too.”
“Ye were?” he asked, his brow wrinkled.
“Of course. The bards sing about the glory of battle, praising the victor as if he were a hero. I’ve been in many battles and I’ve yet to see any glory, only blood, fear, and the stench of death. Tonight, we both did what was needed to make certain ye and yer family survived. Ye and yer mam stand hale and whole. Ye were smart enough to bide yer time and obey my command. We’ll keep up with your training so ye can defend yer home against any who come around. Agreed?”
Gorrie stiffened his lip and nodded. “Aye.”
“Good. Help me move these bodies away from the croft.” They dragged the men in front of the barn, intending to burn them. She took a boot knife from the giant to add to her own collection of blades. As she did, Carys realized she had acquired most of her weapons from men she’d killed. Something to ponder another time. She removed one’s short sword and sheath, then handed it to Gorrie, his eyes widening as she did.
“We shall include sword play in our lessons, but ye must promise me not to draw it without permission.” She raised a brow and waited.
A grin split his face. “Aye, ye have my word. I’ll do as ye say.” His face grew solemn. “Ye saved us all,” he said with a small voice.
Carys opened her arms and he stepped into her hug. The boy almost lost his mam, da, and his own life. He’d witnessed more death than a lad his age should.
“Aye. ’Tis what friends do,” she whispered.
The sound of horses approaching interrupted them.
“Gorrie, go inside. I’ll guard ye from the shadows.”
The boy raced into the croft and shut the door while Carys grabbed her javelins, retrieved her bow, and melted into the darkness. She nocked an arrow and waited.
Six riders approached. She’d gotten lucky with the last four because they’d ruined their ability to see in the shadows and were over-confident, but taking on so many meant her death. One man jumped off his horse, drew his sword, then ran to the house.
“Da! Mam! Gorrie!”
Lorna and Gorrie met them at the door. Carys realized this was their older son they’d spoke of, the one in the service of the MacLean laird. A twinge of longing for family centered in her breast. Tears threatened to spill. She wiped her eyes.
“Tis only the fear of losing Gorrie and his family,” she whispered.
Liar.
Not wishing to be seen, Carys slipped deeper into the shadows and made her way toward the cave, hoping Tully had saved her some supper.
* * *
Birk, steel in hand, spotted the bodies lying on the ground. The barn’s roof had collapsed, and was mostly embers, the
ir heated eyes winking red and gold in the night. He motioned for the rest of his men to circle the croft in case other enemies were near. Three riderless horses milling about suggested otherwise, but he would rather not take any chances. Birk kneeled and inspected the dead, recognizing the dark hulking form as Colin Dubh at once.
His eyebrows shot skyward as he contemplated the giant’s wounds and wondered who he owed the bounty placed on the devil’s head. Anger rose that the man had attacked Dugan’s family—and Birk had not stopped him with his own hand.
Dugan joined him with Gorrie by his side, the youth telling some tall tale of a woman killing these men alone.
“Gorrie. Slow down lad and start over. Ye say a lass did all this?” Birk asked in disbelief.
Young Gorrie’s head bobbed. “Aye, m’laird. Carys is deadly with a bow and killed three afore they kenned what ’twas about. Then she killed ‘im.” He pointed to Colin Dubh.
Birk toed the dead men.
“Three?” Only two bore evidence of arrow wounds.
Gorrie frowned. “I . . . I thought she killed three others. One held me, another stood by laughing as a man tried to hurt Ma, and . . . there are only two here.”
Birk motioned two of his men to search the area, then gave his attention back to Gorrie.
“Tell me more.”
“The fourth man—the big one—was inside the house and came charging out when the third man . . ..” He paused and glanced about, then sighed. “Her arrow caught ’im in the chest, but not so deep. He shouted somethin’ fierce.”
Each of Colin Dubh’s henchmen had arrow wounds clear enough. Even with a man missing, Gorrie’s story rang true, albeit far-fetched for a lass’ doings.
“How did he die?” Birk asked a brow raised, pointing at their dead leader.
“She ran the monster through with her spear. He ne’er touched her with his big sword. She struck like a snake again and again, then danced away each time he swung,” Gorrie boasted.
Birk frowned and nodded to Dugan. They rolled Colin Dubh over and spotted two gashes in his lower back. Though he bore several wounds, it was likely the two holes puncturing his kidneys took the fiend’s life.
“Yer sayin’ one woman did all this?” Birk asked, still reluctant to believe the lad’s story.
“Aye, m’laird she did,” Gorrie said with a nod. “We made a bow together and she’s been teaching me to shoot. She gave me that one’s sword to train me,” he added, pointing to one of the dead villains, the other palm resting on the hilt of his new weapon. “One day, I’ll join ye and Dugan at the castle.”
Birk smiled and tousled the lad’s hair. “We’ll be proud to have ye. Run inside and help yer ma. Let her know we’ll send a healer and be leaving men here to guard the rest of the night.”
“Thank ye, m’laird,” the lad said then returned to the croft.
Birk turned to Dugan. “Yer da?”
Dugan rubbed his chin. “Tis a nasty head wound, and no mistake. He lost a good bit of blood. We’ve both seen worse. Let’s see what Auld Tess makes of him.” He glanced about. “T’would seem we missed the fight.”
Birk frowned and turned his attention back to the dead men, his anger simmering to disbelief. “Do ye believe Gorrie’s tale about a woman?”
“It appears Colin Dubh’s prediction was true. ’Twas no man who killed him,” Dugan quipped. At Birk’s glower, Dugan shrugged. “Da told me a sennight ago of a lass who lives in the forest. He says she killed a wolf that had been terrorizing the herd. Says she comes around with a simple lad and barters for supplies. They come for supper some.”
Birk’s frown deepened as he tried to make sense of this story. “Who is she? She’s nae a MacLean?”
Dugan shook his head. “Nae. Da says she and the lad shipwrecked a few months ago.”
Birk rubbed an ear, excitement rising. “Auld Murdoc Ferguson’s boat?”
Dugan tilted his head. “Mayhap. I can ask Ma and Gorrie to describe the lad. There’s nae mistaking Tully’s red hair. We thought none survived that wreck. Mayhap we were mistaken.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Ardnamurchan Peninsula, 2 weeks later
Dairborrodal Castle
Squeals of excitement lifted the castle rafters. Birk uneasily straddled the line between the glow of pleasure from giving his daughters their hearts’ desire and the grim knowledge of what lay ahead. Laird MacInnis stood beside him, arms crossed over his chest, beaming and nodding his head.
“I thought yer lasses might like the pup,” he said, nudging Birk with an elbow. “I’d a mind to keep her for breeding, but her ma is still young, and this one needs a pair o’ weans to play with.” He grew solemn and leaned closer, giving his next words to Birk alone.
“Ye have my sincere thanks for bringing that bastard to justice,” he murmured. “I left my portion of the bounty with yer man. The pup, her breeding notwithstanding, is only a shadow of my gratitude.”
Accepting the gift for the spirit in which it was given, and realizing he had no further recourse, Birk grinned and clapped MacInnis on the shoulder, startling the smaller man. “Let’s see how fast the wee beastie learns to piddle outside.”
“She’s the bestest puppy in the whole world!” Eislyn exclaimed, hugging the squirming ball of tan, black and white fur to her chest. Long pointed ears, a black button nose, and short stubby legs sprouted between Eislyn’s arms, and a pink tongue flashed as the pup licked Eislyn’s chin. More squeals.
“And what do ye say to Laird MacInnis?” Birk prompted.
Eislyn bounced up and down, hefting the pup higher on her hip. Her eyes shone. “Thank ye, Laird MacInnis!” she said, breathless with excitement. Abria gave a slight nod.
Birk sighed and summoned a benevolent smile. “What will ye name her?” he asked. “She’s come from a long line of corgis in Wales. She deserves a Welsh name, dinnae ye agree?”
Eislyn’s eyes rounded and her lower lip trembled. “I dinnae know Welsh,” she confessed.
“Och, dinnae fash, a leannan,” Birk said, dismayed by her response. “We’ll come up with a grand name for yer pup. Laird MacInnis here may have a better command of the language than I do.”
“I believe ye will come up with a name between the two of ye,” MacInnis reassured her.
Eislyn’s dark eyes sparkled with unshed tears. “I shall call her Wee Lass for now.” She sniffed. Abria clutched one of the puppy’s chubby feet and nodded solemnly.
“What would ye call the pup, a nighean?” Birk asked Abria gently, squatting before her.
Abria regarded him solemnly for a moment then dropped her gaze.
Holding his sigh behind his teeth to hide his disappointment, and, fighting to keep a slight smile on his face, Birk lightly touched his youngest daughter’s cheek then rose to his feet. Eislyn set the puppy on the floor and, grabbing Abria’s hand, pelted down the hall, puppy bounding at their heels.
Ian MacInnis sent Birk a sidelong glance. “She doesnae speak?” he asked, his voice low and sympathetic.
Birk tensed, bracing as if he expected a blow from the Almighty for what he saw as his inadequacy as a father. “Nae. Not since her ma died,” he answered. “She was ill about that time, and we dinnae know if the fever took her voice, or if ’tis related to her ma’s death. Mayhap the pup will put a smile back on her face.”
“If so, ’twill make the gift all the more dear.”
Birk took a deep breath. “More than ye could know.”
* * *
“I am glad to hear yer da is doing better,” Carys said, ruffling Gorrie’s hair. She lay a brace of hares on a stump near the small cottage. “I know ye dinnae have much time to hunt now ye have all the chores, so I brought these. I’ll dress them for ye and take them to yer ma.”
“I’d appreciate that mightily,” Gorrie sighed. “I dinnae understand how hard da worked to keep us all fed and the land cleared.” He tilted his head, a wry smile on his lips. “I willnae complain about me chores again.”
“I’m sorry yer da was injured. But he’ll be back on his feet soon—in fact, I’m surprised yer mam has kept him abed this long.”
“He helps me a bit, but gets dizzy and must sit a spell,” Gorrie confessed. “But he’s better every day.”
“Good. Tully and Dewr are here to help ye and I will check on yer mam.” Carys skinned the first rabbit, careful to keep the soft pelt intact, while Tully set off for the barn, hay fork over one shoulder. Dewr ambled at his heels.
Carys finished dressing the hares, then carefully measured her next words. “I am considering a trip to Morvern in a sennight or two. If yer da and mam can spare ye for a few days, mayhap ye can come along.”
Gorrie perked up. “Och, aye! ’Tis where me brother Dugan lives! I told him ye’d kilt Colin Dubh all by yerself, and that ye were training me to be a warrior. Laird MacLean said he’d be proud to have me as a soldier when I’m older.” Gorrie’s voice cracked in his excitement, but Carys didn’t stop to tease him about it.
“That was Colin Dubh? The one they call Colin Mor?” she asked uneasily, reflecting on the man’s size and coloring. “I should have known. It happened so fast, and I only wanted to protect ye and yer family.”
A shudder ran through her. She would never have chosen to challenge the man who had terrorized the area for so long. His viciousness was known far and wide and she was acutely aware how narrowly she’d escaped death. Inhaling a deep breath and releasing it with a sigh, she squared her shoulders. “Well, he shall not trouble us again, aye?”
Gorrie’s eyes shone. “Nae. Not after ye kilt him.”
Carys sent him a level look. “’Twas not easy, and ’twas not my first choice. Killing never is. I pray ye never find yerself in a place where taking a human life is easy, Gorrie.”
Chastened, Gorrie dropped his gaze. “I want to protect people, not harm them.”
Carys stuck the point of her knife into the stump and gathered the dressed hares. “Ye have a good heart, Gorrie. Ye do us all proud.”