Though not a tall man, he had a muscular build that impressed most people. Of course, with his armor engraved with the holy cross on the chest and wings etched into the back, he looked ready to save any soul from the deepest depths of hell. If his armor or his good looks didn’t impress people, then his skill at finding and hanging witches always would.
Tired of getting nowhere and ready for them to start talking, Fordun ripped the gag away from the blonde woman’s mouth, making her cry out and coil away from him.
“I won’t ask you again, child,” he promised, his tone harsh now. “Morgana the witch and her demon wolf. Where did they run off to, hmm?”
“I swear,” the woman pleaded, her words coming out rushed. “We arrived in the morning like we always did and she just wasn’t there. None of her belongings were missing except for her dog and bow, my lord, I swear it!”
The young blonde threw herself down at his feet and sobbed for his forgiveness, utterly terrified for what Fordun might do to her. She swore to him over and over again that she wasn’t lying, but he refused to believe her.
“I beg you believe me, Sir,” she pleaded, sobbing. “We know nothin’! We thought she was a good, kind woman. She never hurt a soul. She helped everyone!”
“Stupid chit!” Fordun growled, pushing the woman savagely backwards. “You have no idea what she is.”
With her hands tied she lost her balance and fell back hard, hitting her head and causing her to cry out. Seeing their friend in so much pain, the other two women’s sobs also rose, and soon the room was filled with terror-filled whimpers.
Annoyed at the lack of progress, Fordun pressed his hands to his ears tightly and demanded them to be silent. Their cries stopped immediately, and they looked at him in pure horror. Losing his patience, he strode over to the girl that had fallen and yanked her back up to her knees harshly.
Twelve years. Twelve years he had been chasing the little witch. He should have been more careful with her after burning her parents. It had been the mistake of his life to let her live long enough to watch them die. He had gotten too cocky, too full of himself to think the little one was too young to work her magics.
He had taken his time to watch Samuel and his wife Victoria burn, taking pleasure in seeing them turn to ash. In fact, he had been so wrapped in the joy of catching his long-time target that he had brushed off his little girl as if she were no more than an annoying bird that kept chirping.
So wrapped up in watching the flames were he that he hadn’t even noticed that the chirping had stopped. When he had gone to her cage to bring her to the pyre, he had found naught but an empty cage with a broken lock. Somehow, she had vanished into the wood as if she were Fay, and he had never been able to catch her again.
Through the years he had been close time and time again to finally recapturing her, but his continued failure was as reliable as the change of seasons. It angered him deeply, and to sate his hunger for violence he had set the English countryside on fire executing witches. Some had been real, nearly as powerful as he was. Others didn’t have a drop of magic in them at all, but were simply too close in appearance to Morgana to not be tried for her sins.
Sometimes, in the earliest of mornings when sleep would elude him, he would weigh his life count, and feel a shred of guilt for the possible innocent blood he had spilt. But then not long after he would remember that God would sort them out and send them to their rightful place. Or at least that’s what he told his men if any questioned him.
Fordun looked over at the girls, tired and disgusted with them. He could torture them some more if he wanted to, really push them until they gave him something, but he knew he didn’t have to. They were telling the truth, even if he wished they weren’t.
Still, they did aid a witch, which was, to his pleasure, a criminal offense. And after all, he did so love to punish the guilty. He turned back to the young women once more, a twisted smile on his face. Their eyes widened as he moved toward them, and he drank in their fear like the finest wine.
Hours later, Fordun stared down at the mess he had made. As he had predicted, he’d gotten no new information, and after the second hour or so he had gotten tired of playing with them. At first it had filled him with the usual pleasure. But now, as it had been with every prisoner lately, he had no drive left in him.
Blood was splattered all across the dirt floor from the symbols he had carved between their thighs, but it brought him no joy. Neither had any of the other little cruelties that he had pressed upon them. Even when their light had faded from his eyes and he had absorbed their essence, he had felt nothing.
How could he?
They weren’t Morgana. None of them were, not even the ones that looked like her. Getting up from his chair, Fordun walked back over to the bodies and began his ritual. That was the trick about staying the most powerful warlock in the land. You had to make sure that there was no one to take your place.
Years ago when he was just a boy, Fordun had discovered that there was something different about him. God had gifted him with abilities very few had known; the ability to manipulate and hurt living things to derive peace. For years he had disguised his talent from everyone, acting as kind and willing to help as possible.
But then, one day, he met Althea. She had been a beautiful young woman who lived alone with her two aunts. He had been dissecting a crow, taking the organs out and studying them when she had discovered him near their cottage. The silly woman had thought he was a poor lost boy killing a bird for food.
She had been his first kill. As she died, something very odd happened to him. His entire body warmed up, his fingers tingled, and every single one of his senses sang with sensitivity. It was as if her life force had absorbed into him, making him stronger. He had realized then that that was what he was made for.
For a while, after that he had killed at random and oftentimes sloppily. He had done it so indiscreetly that it wasn’t long before he had gotten caught. Fordun had always thought that if caught he would lose his life for his dirty secret, but the man who had found him had celebrated him as if he’d just completed a work of art.
Damien had introduced himself as a powerful practitioner of black magic, and told Fordun of his true potential. Under his wing, he had mastered the dark arts, as well as learned how to better hide his habits in the broad light of day.
Human kills were delicious at first, but it wasn’t until he claimed his first witch under Damien’s tutelage that he understood his true cravings. Taking a human life was far easier, but witches quenched his thirst longer.
Because he fed off other witches and had been under the guise of an innocent boy, it had been too easy for him to convince the church that he was of Godly ways. With the protection of the cross, he was given a full pass to hunt and feed as often as he wanted, and he had relished in that power.
Until he had met Samuel, Morgana’s father. The Celtic warlock had a white light inside of him unlike any he’d ever seen. Whatever Fordun destroyed, Samuel repaired. Whatever life he tried to take, Samuel was there to save.
For years he had chased after the man, but like Morgana he was very good at disappearing. He would show just in time to free Fordun’s victims, and then vanish as if he hadn’t been there at all. It made him almost impossible to track down. Almost.
The sound of his guards approaching brought Fordun out of his reverie. Standing up, he walked over to the washstand and began to clean himself up as the guards came in.
“Clean it up,” he ordered, not even bothering to look at them.
Behind him two of the guards went quietly to the morbid work, while another asked if any information had been acquired. Not in the mood for questions, Fordun drew out his dagger. As he turned back around, he slid the blade into the man’s gut as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
He watched, unsatisfied, as the man’s dying eyes grew wide with shock before the light fled from them. When the body dropped to the ground, the two other guards didn’t loo
k up from what they were doing at all, but kept to their work. For the first time that day, satisfaction filled Fordun.
It was good to be a god.
Chapter 4
Four Weeks Later, Henwen
Since meeting Morgana at the edge of Tily’s property, Gregor found himself to be in an odd mood. He found his mind wandering back to the beautiful new woman constantly, taking up the space that he had made for Isabel and Ian. Though he wasn’t sure why, it had made him feel guilty and rather irritable to those around him.
Wanting to cling to the memory of his beloved wife and son, he found himself spending longer hours at their graves than usual. When he was there, he often found his eyes straying toward the direction of Tily’s property. Part of him wanted to see Morgana again, but he always went straight back to the castle when he had to return to his duties.
Gregor threw himself into the village’s matters, hoping the distraction would help his mind find some peace. Instead, it was the exact opposite. His village was having a tough time rebuilding after the war. Though fields were being cleaned and shops were being reopened, there was still plenty the village was doing without. One thing in particular was a medicine maker or healer of any kind.
The last one had been killed while tending to warriors, and he had left no apprentice. If villagers needed something outside the treatment of the common cold or cut, they had to travel for hours over the grasslands to the nearest village. Due to last year’s intense winter that had most in Henwen sick, many people attempted the passage, but not all were able to make the return trip.
The growing need for such a person kept Morgana at the forefront of Gregor’s mind, and it made him feel on edge for reasons he couldn’t quite understand. Although she hadn’t been the warmest person in the world, she certainly wasn’t going to cause any harm. In fact, he found her wit and strength refreshing.
It had been easy to see after just a few moments that although she was defensive, she wasn’t a danger. That beast of hers, Zeus, could have potentially been a problem if he wasn’t so well trained, but the thing never left her side. The creature was obviously very dedicated to his mistress, and followed her orders well.
Although it was true that she technically drew a weapon on him, which was an offense punishable by death, she hadn’t known who he was at the time. To her, he had just been a strange man watching her, and he couldn’t blame her for defending herself.
As a mature, level-headed ruler of his village, he could find no reason whatsoever to be bothered by the woman’s presence. And yet here he was, thinking of her and developing a foul mood despite how strongly his body was reacting to her.
To try to stave off the hauntingly beautiful of image of her that had seemed burned into his brain, he kept Isabel’s memory shoved at the forefront of his mind. Her touch, her smell, her voice had been everything to him once, and he had been everything to her. She had told him daily with her smile, her kiss.
When he had been told her father would allow them to marry, he had thought his heart would never be so full. The entire village of Henwen and Isabel’s clan had joined in on the celebration, and it had seemed like everyone had been happy for the young couple.
But then, his heart had nearly burst when he received a letter on the battlefield that she was expecting their first child. In the letter she had told him that she was sure it was a boy, and that he would be due that December. Despite duty, Gregor had abandoned the wars, he and Hermes truly bonding then as man and animal as the steed carried him faster than any Scottish horse could back to his beloved wife.
The last four months of Isabel’s life had been filled with so much joy for the both of them, despite the wars and scarcity of food. He had made sure she had eaten the best of what they had, he and his men going out each day to make sure fresh meat and winter roots and tubers were gathered for her plate. She had been the picture of radiant health and beauty in her pregnancy, overflowing with love and excitement.
Everyone in the castle had been waiting in joyous anticipation for the day that their son would arrive. When her waters broke, the castle had been abuzz with pre-celebrations. The midwife was called from her quarters and servants, in their readiness for the blessing of new life, were already opening the bottles of heather mead from the reserves.
No one, not even he, would have expected them to slip from his life that day so quickly. The babe had barely taken a breath of life before he had stilled and turned blue, and Isabel… his poor Isabel. He had seen blood on the battlefield, had thought his entire life that he would have never been the man that would shy away from the sight of it. But no bloody survival on the plains had prepared him for what he saw that day with Isabel.
A severe rupture, the midwife had called it. The bleeding just couldn’t be stopped, but Gregor had watched her try everything she could to save his wife as he had held her slowly-weakening hand. Even still in his dreams, he could feel the warmth slipping from between his fingertips. It filled his heart with a horrendous ache. Months of mourning had turned into years without him realizing it, and he had become content somehow in clinging to the idea of what his family almost was.
Yet now, his mind was slowly straying from those thoughts, and toward wild, fiery curls, a mysterious personality, and the stir of new feelings that pulled at his belly and much lower regions of his body.
After three or four weeks of trying to get her off his mind and not being able to, Gregor found himself on edge, lost in thought, and beyond irritable, even to the servants. Then, when he had exploded on a chamber maid for attempting to clean his rooms, word had gotten to his uncle, Jamie Reid.
Jamie was twenty-five years older than Gregor and the younger brother to Donald Reid, Gregor’s Father. Since before Donald’s death Jamie had been a pillar of strength and a fountain of wisdom in Gregor’s life. That was why he was not surprised when at the end of one meeting, he looked up to see his uncle standing before him, patiently waiting for a clean room.
Much like Gregor and his father, Jamie shared the deep forest green eyes, broad shoulders, and curly black hair. Unlike his nephew, who wore his hair below his shoulders or tied back with a piece of leather, Jamie kept his short and smoothed back with grease. Even though his was streaked with white, many found him to look more like Gregor’s brother than uncle, thanks to his youthful looks and more outgoing personality.
“Let’s put this to bed now, aye?” Gregor announced, rolling up the plans the builders had brought him. They were designs for the village’s new food storage, and with spring already bursting into summer, they needed to get started as soon as possible. “These will be jes’ fine, Artur, thank ye. Tell yer men to start digging tomorrow.”
“Aye, me Laird,” Artur replied obediently, bowing at the waist.
They waited while Artur and the others gathered their effects and the room was empty before Gregor picked up the pitcher of ale and poured his uncle a mug.
“Kent ye were going to stay out of the politics of ruling,” he murmured offhandedly. Jamie took the mug with a snicker, and downed half its contents in one swig.
“Aye, it was always yer Da’s gambit, nae mine,” he replied. Although he still had that muscular Reid build and etched out of stone face that made them all look intimidating, Gregor looked distressed.
There were dark circles under his eyes, and a large red mark on his left hand; a tell-tale sign that Gregor had been constantly kneading at it. His hair, although usually wild, was even more so, making him appear more beastlike than man. It was clear he needed to get something off of his chest.
“I’m not here for clan matters, I’m here for ye, balach” Jamie told him in a low voice.
Not looking at his uncle, Gregor drained his mug and filled it again.
“I’m fine,” he replied offhandedly.
“Och,” Jamie scoffed, kicking at Gregor’s chair. “Get over yerself balach!”
Gregor’s eyes darkened under his thick brow, his body tensing up.
“What ye
say?” he asked, his voice low as his eyebrow went high.
“Ye heard me. Something has been bitin’ at yer arse for the last month and tis high time ye get it out a ye. Now open ye mouth tell me what’s wrong.”
“I daenae ken what ye talkin’ bout, Uncle.” Gregor replied, agitated.
“Oh ye don’t, eh?” Jamie asked, standing up. “Ye sure?”
Gregor, seeing a glint of mischief in his uncle’s eye, nodded carefully. “Aye.”
Quick as a flash Jamie’s hand was up and across his nephew’s cheek in a ringing slap. Gregor was on his feet in an instant, rage seething through his eyes.
“What was that for, old man?” Gregor roared.
“Ye want to act like a wee bairn, ye going to treated like the one,” Jamie growled back, leaning closer. “Now if ye don’t wan’ a be boxed again, be a man and tell me what’s wrong!”
The two stood poised to fight for a few tension-filled moments, and then quite suddenly, uncle and nephew burst into laughter. Gregor poured them both another ale and they sat down.
“Just like yer faither,” Jamie joked, kicking his feet up onto the desk between them. “Sometimes he had to be knocked around a bit before ye could get him to talk. Now tell me, lad, what’s been goin’ on?”
After several seconds of staring into his mug Gregor finally began to tell his uncle about the woman that had moved onto Tily’s property. When he was finished, he looked up and noticed his uncle had a silly grin on his face.
“Why ye lookin’ at me like that, Uncle?” Gregor asked, his eyebrow raised. “What’s so funny?”
“I think ye like this lass,” Jamie replied honestly, shrugging nonchalantly. Gregor guffawed and turned his eyes down to the maps sprawled across the desk. When he didn’t reply, Jamie pushed him.
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