Warrior Reborn

by Melissa Mayhue

  Chase grinned at the old man. “That would be a shame, missing out on Miss Fern’s cooking.”

  Whitey returned the grin, displaying a gap where his front top teeth should have been. “Damn straight. It’s roast chicken tonight and she’s made corn bread and chili beans, too.”

  Though the main dish varied from day to day, the old cook made corn bread and chili beans so often, it had Chase missing the MREs he’d carried in his army pack. Not that he’d ever give voice to that thought. Everyone on the Lazy J knew how Whitey felt about Miss Fern. The two of them had been an item for the last forty years.

  A twinge of envy flickered through Chase. He couldn’t think of too many things he wanted more from life than to find his own Fern.

  Chase headed out of the barn and into the cold night to do exactly as Whitey had suggested.

  The familiar smells of the dining hall filled his nostrils as he opened the door, assuring him he wouldn’t go hungry after all.

  No thanks to the wild horses he’d hunted since early morning. They’d made sure he’d earned his pay this particularly cold and blustery winter day. Still, he felt good about bringing them in. They were destined for a new home in Colorado with a fellow who’d made himself a name for his excellent care and breeding of horses.

  These ponies that would end up at the Seun Fardach Ranch were some of the lucky few. Chase just wished some of their luck would rub off on him.

  Inside the door he remembered the hat he wore, pulling it off his head to stuff under his arm.

  “You’re sure pullin’ a late one tonight, Chase,” Miss Fern called from behind the serving table. She looked up as he neared. “What the hell happened to you?”

  His hand flew to his forehead. He’d almost forgotten the incident.

  “Paying more attention to one of those ponies I was chasing than to the land I chased him through. Low-hanging branch got me.” Chase shrugged, feeling foolish.

  “Don’t look all that bad up close, I guess.” She peered over the top of her thick reading glasses. “Grab yourself a plate and fill ’er up, boy. I was just getting ready to put stuff away for the night.”

  Chase hurried along the table. “Thank you, ma’am. Smells wonderful, as always.”

  Miss Fern beamed and plopped an extra-large helping of chili beans on his plate. He might be grateful for the job, the two square meals a day, and the honest, friendly people, but he’d be a seriously happy man if he never saw another chili bean again.

  Chase took a seat across the room, his back to the wall as usual.

  The opportunity to work here had fallen in his lap just when he’d needed it most. Two months working in construction outside Seattle had convinced him he needed a more solitary occupation. He hadn’t minded the hard work; far from it. That had been the only part of the job that had kept him sane. What he’d hated was the congestion of the city, the cars, the noise. It wasn’t where he belonged.

  Then Jay Jones had entered his life, recruiting cowboys. Jay had hired him in spite of his lack of experience, and he was determined not to disappoint the Lazy J or its owner.

  Ranching wasn’t where he belonged, any more than construction or the army had been, but it was as good a place to be as any while he waited for his destiny to find him.

  After he finished eating, he stacked his dish with all the others, nodded to Miss Fern, and made his way back out into the night, more blustery now than it had been half an hour earlier. The damp, biting promise of snow was definitely in the air.

  As he stepped onto the porch leading to his room, he glanced up just in time to see a shooting star pierce the inky black of the opening between banks of clouds.

  “Good sign,” he murmured to himself as he mounted the two steps and entered his room.

  Soon, the breeze whispered back.

  His imagination was playing tricks again, likely because his father had always claimed shooting stars were signs of a Faerie promise kept. He shook his head at his flight of fancy as he tossed off his rain slicker and then went into the bathroom for a nice, hot shower.

  If the Faeries intended to set him on the path to his destiny, they’d better get a move on. After all these years, all his searching, he was close to losing faith it would ever happen. Had his father really promised him his life would be changing soon that day at the Fairy Falls? Or was it only his imagination promising what he wanted to hear?

  The things he sought were no more than any man would want: a home where he belonged and a woman to share it with him. Not just any woman, but his own SoulMate. It was what his father had promised awaited him. And if those promises ended up being nothing but a dream, then it would be up to him to make that dream come true.

  He got into the shower, allowing the hot water to wash away the long hours spent in a saddle. The bump on his head stung as the water hit it, but not bad enough to worry him. His mind was still filled with thoughts of what he should do next in life. The world was a big place and he wasn’t getting any younger. Sooner or later he’d need to let go of the dreams his father had given him and pick a course on which to steer his ship.

  That was perhaps the biggest drawback to his solitary occupation: too much time spent inside his own head.

  “Not a tidy place to be at all,” he mused, tipping his head back and scrubbing his fingers through his hair.

  When he was done, he dried off and then wiped the steam from the mirror. One glance confirmed the limb had left him quite a colorful reminder of their meeting. And that he needed a shave and a haircut.

  He ran his fingers over the bump, knowing he’d get a shitload of ribbing from the other ranch hands over how he’d managed to miss seeing a whole tree out in the pastureland. That was okay. He could handle their good-natured teasing.

  The shave he’d deal with in the morning, and as for the haircut, well, that would have to wait until his next trip into town. After the years he’d spent in the military, he couldn’t remember the last time his hair had been long enough to cover his collar. Might look a little scruffy, but it felt kind of nice. If he let it grow a little more, it might help to keep his ears warm this winter.

  For now, all he needed was eight hours of uninterrupted rack time and he’d be good as new.

  He could hear the wind picking up outside as he climbed into his bunk, but his little room was warm enough that he needed nothing more than a pair of boxers and a thin blanket. The Lazy J bunkhouse was nicer than most of the motels he’d stayed in over the years.

  IT FELT AS if he’d just laid his head on the pillow when Chase awoke to a gentle breeze brushing over his chest. His groggy confusion told him he’d been sleeping deeply, but it did nothing to help him identify the source of the insistent green light flashing in the room.

  He sat up and scrubbed his hands over his face, scanning the room for evidence of entry.

  His door was closed and he certainly hadn’t left any windows open. It made no sense at all, a breeze blowing in his room like this. No more sense than the brilliant shots of light sparkling around him.

  Tossing his covers back, he climbed from his bunk and struggled to stand as the floor heaved under his feet.

  “What the hell?” he muttered, completely awake now.

  Arms outstretched for balance, he attempted to cross to the door as the floor rolled like an angry sea beneath him. Earthquake? They had them up here, but he’d never experienced anything like this.

  He’d barely made it two feet before a gust of wind whipped past him, battering at his bare skin. The lights changed to a brilliant green splattered with a million colored twinkles, sparkling and dancing, shooting around the room like angry shards of rainbow.

  A second heavy gust toppled his chair and knocked him from his feet, battering his ears as if with words shouted from afar. He held up his arms to cushion his landing as he fell, but the floor he expected to hit had disappeared.

  Instead, he felt himself tossed into the air and slammed forward into an endless void, the incessant chant of “Now
, now, now!” ringing in his ears as his mind faded to black.

  Four

  NORTHERN HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

  1294

  COLD GNAWED AT his skin like a starving animal, and voices buzzed angrily in his ears. Chase struggled to open his eyes but it felt as if his eyelids had been glued shut.

  “Best you keep to your saddles, lads, if you value your heads upon your shoulders, that is,” a deep voice said.

  The words made no sense. From what Chase remembered before he’d blacked out, he must have been right at the epicenter of the biggest earthquake in Montana’s history. Had rescuers arrived? That had to be it! He needed to let them know he was here.

  He struggled to call out to them, but all he could manage was a grunt.

  “What’s happened to that one?” another voice asked.

  “Set upon by thieves, I’d say. His mount, his weapon, even his clothes are gone. They left him with naught but a nasty bump on his head.” It was the first voice again, filled with authority and tinged with an odd accent. “Could even have been the two of you, for all I know.”

  A bump on his head. They were talking about him! They thought him a robbery victim? What was wrong with these guys? There had been an earthquake and—

  “Here, now, we’ll be hearing none of that from the likes of you. We’re about our good laird’s business, seeking men to his employ. We’ve no a need to be robbing strangers along the road.”

  Chase struggled to move, but couldn’t, and realized that he was bound by some rough cloth as if he were a mummy. Bandages, perhaps?

  “And who might this great laird of yours be, this man who seeks to hire strangers to his cause?”

  “Torquil of Katanes,” one man said, his voice hushed. “Laird of the MacDowylt.”

  At last Chase’s eyes cooperated with his brain’s commands and opened. Not bandages but a woolen blanket covered him, wrapped around and under him. With a superhuman effort, he rolled himself from his stomach to his back, lying still when he finished, unable to do more than breathe through the weakness gripping his body.

  “Yer lad over there is moving around.”

  “So he is,” the original voice agreed. “Am I correct in assuming we’d be well paid if we were to choose to throw our lot in with this Katanes of yours?”

  “For yer service, he offers a full belly and a roof over yer head. He offers a home at Tordenet Castle.”

  The original speaker chuckled. “I’m quite capable of finding my own food and shelter, lads. That’s precious little incentive to raise my weapon in battle on your great laird’s behalf.”

  “He also offers silver,” a third voice added. “The amount of which will be dependent upon yer usefulness with that weapon you brandish about.”

  “Done, then,” the first man boomed. “How do we find our way to this Tordenet Castle of yours?”

  “You follow this trail. Two days’ ride to the northeast and you’ll come upon her. You canna miss her, for she gleams in the sunlight like a white jewel in the distance. Tell the guards that Artur, right hand to Ulfr, sent you.”

  “That I will, Artur, right hand to Ulfr. Go in peace.”

  Chase’s heart pounded as he lay there, his eyes blinking against the light. This was insane. Everything he’d heard was utter gibberish. He needed help, not some bad reenactment of Shakespeare.

  “So, you’re back from Hela’s clutches at last. Strong enough to sit up, are you?”

  The hand that grabbed Chase’s was massive, fitting for the massive man it belonged to.

  “Don’t try to stand yet, lad. Get your wits about you first. You’ve been out for quite some time. How is it you come to be here?”

  Excellent question.

  “Depends on where ‘here’ is,” Chase managed, his voice cracking as he looked around the clearing.

  Because wherever “here” was, it sure as hell wasn’t the least bit familiar.

  The big man poked at the campfire with a long stick before he sat down next to it. “ ‘Here’ is an easy day’s ride from the coast. Does that help?”

  The coast. How was that even possible?

  “Washington?” Chase croaked, reaching out to accept the flask the big man offered. Couldn’t be. That was over eight hundred miles from the Lazy J.

  He started to say as much but the drink burned down his throat in a cold rush, shutting off his breath for a moment, leaving him to suck air in between his teeth.

  “Not as I’ve heard it called, lad. Pictland it is. Or was, I suppose. Scotland, they call themselves now.”

  Scotland? A second drink hung in the back of his throat and he choked, coughing as the big man laughed and reached over to pound on his back.

  “Easy, lad. The mead is bit strong, but always good for what ails you.”

  He must be dreaming. None of this was possible, no matter how real it felt. The last thing he remembered was standing in his room, in the middle of an earthquake, his skin glowing with that crazy green light like some kind of . . .

  Chase’s mind froze as if he’d taken a slap to the face, an old memory shoving its way to the front of his thoughts.

  Green light exactly like his father had always described accompanying a burst of Faerie magic.

  Another memory followed on the heels of the first. The pounding chant of “Now, now, now!” in those last moments before he’d blacked out.

  A thrill of excitement tightened his chest. That shooting star had been a message sent for him, his father’s promise to him fulfilled. He just hadn’t been smart enough to realize it.

  “Not an earthquake,” he muttered, lifting the flask to his lips again. He was prepared for the burn this time, and the heady liquid flowed much more smoothly down his throat, warming his chest and belly. “But perhaps, at long last, where I’m supposed to be.”

  His companion took the flask from his hand and tossed back a swallow of his own. “Where you’re supposed to be, I cannot say, only that here is where you are. What are you called, lad?”

  “Chase. Chase Noble.” He stuck out his hand to shake. “And you?”

  “Halldor O’Donar, at your service.” Halldor rose to his feet, a wide grin lifting his features. “Ah, yes. Noble, it is. By fidelity and fortitude, eh?”

  Chase shrugged, having no idea what the big man meant. “It’s just a name.” Though the “fidelity and fortitude” line did appeal to him, sounding very much like something his father might have claimed.

  “That’s an interesting mark you wear upon your arm.” Halldor ran his fingers down his beard, scratching idly like a man who had something more to say. “I’ve not seen its match worn so before.”

  Chase had never seen one like it before wandering into that little dive of a tattoo parlor on a whim and letting himself get talked into getting inked.

  “Yeah. It was supposed to be something else entirely. But I kind of like it now.”

  “I carry naught but this one spare tunic,” the big man said, digging in a large leather bag and pulling out a roll of cloth, which he dropped in Chase’s lap. “It’ll no doubt be a bit large on you, but it’ll do until we make our way to our new laird’s castle, eh? You can use the plaid there, too. Neither of them so new or fancy, but a sight better than traipsing around in those strange little trews of yours.”

  Strange little trews? Chase looked down. His boxers. How perfect was this? Absolutely perfect if you thought like a Fae, with their inherently warped sense of humor. Strand someone halfway across the world in nothing but their underwear. There must be a whole roomful of Faeries laughing their asses off about this one.

  Wait. His mind raced in a whole new direction, one that didn’t offer the least bit of comfort. Trews? Laird? Castle?

  No, no, no. That would be way too wild, even for Faeries. But it was Faeries, after all, so he couldn’t discount the suspicion.

  “Can you tell me the date?”

  Halldor paused, the flask halfway to his lips, and stared thoughtfully into the sky. “Let me think.
Winternights has passed but it’s not yet Jul. I’d say we’re in early December, though I’ve lost track of the exact day.”

  “Not the day. The year. I need to know the year.” Chase could barely push the words past his lips.

  His father had told him of the ancient Fae’s power to manipulate time. But surely those were nothing more than stories of days long gone.

  Just like Faeries were supposed to be stories?

  Surely they couldn’t. They wouldn’t. Not after he’d faithfully waited for so long.

  “Twelve ninety-four,” Halldor answered, his brow wrinkling in concern. “That blow to your head must have been harder than I thought. Best we find ourselves a healer in the next village we pass and get some herbs to put on that swelling.”

  “Twelve ninety-four,” Chase muttered. “Twelve freakin’ ninety-four.”

  They could, they would, and they had.

  Damned unbelievable Faeries. His father had been right. Even when they gave you what you wanted, they always had to add their own screwed-up twist to it.

  Five

  CASTLE MACGAHAN, SCOTLAND

  1294

  TROUBLE HOVERED AROUND her like a swarm of midges on a summer’s eve.

  Syrie knew she should never have done something like this. Then again, how could she not? She had given her solemn promise.

  She rolled her shoulders in a vain attempt to relieve the apprehension weighing her down and strode to the big door, stopping with her hand poised above the wood.

  The MacGahan laird on the other side of this door would be, in all likelihood, quite upset with her news. The fact that she could already hear the murmur of angry voices coming from the chamber behind the door didn’t lend any comfort. It would have been her preference to find him alone and in a good mood.

  Her hand dropped to her waist, where her fingers locked together with those of her other hand.

  “By the goddess,” she muttered, remembering only as the words left her mouth that the goddess was perhaps the last being she should call upon.