Looking at her, through a daze, he attempted to call out. ‘What…what is your—’ But his words were slurred, making little sense. He tried to focus, staring into the shadows as she disappeared from view, her silence leaving its mark.
Staggering to his feet, Reece faced her two, loyal servants, completely defenceless against them—unaware of their intentions.
‘He is all yours…’ said Kara, stepping away, with a smirk on her face. ‘… for now.’
‘Where are you going?’ asked Wareeshta.
‘It is none of your concern,’ she replied, in her disdainful tone. Then, turning her attention to Reece, she deliberately leaned towards him.
He lifted his nose to the sickly, scent of lemon oil wafting from her hair; it was overpowering, and yet strangely appealing.
‘Mourn her now,’ she whispered to him. ‘For she will die, soon enough.’
Kara’s words had little time to resonate as Wareeshta descended on him, her swiftness taking him unawares. Inside, he felt the power of her gift as it took its final hold.
But before his eyes closed, he caught a fading glimpse of Kara, as she turned on her heel.
Had his eyes deceived him?
ORAN’S TRUNK
Chapter Fourteen
Balloch: Scotland 1627
‘They wish to see you!’
The boy stood, determined and patient, waiting for a reply. He refused to repeat his words. Once was sufficient.
Sparks continued to spit from the constant spin of the grinding stone, as its master held the blunt axe in his strong hands with firm precision. He had been wise to the boy’s discreet presence, for some time, speculating when he would finally present himself. He stopped what he was doing and waited for the stone-wheel to grind to a halt, irritating his uninvited visitor.
‘“Demand” is the more appropriate term I should imagine they used,’ came his sharp reply.
Oran looked down at the boy’s arrogant expression as he stared back at him, devoid of emotion. Barefoot, and dressed in a grubby shirt—hanging loosely over a pair of breeches—Oran surmised the child could easily pass as a village local.
‘Did you really think they would not find you?’
‘I had hoped,’ said Oran, toying with the axe in his hand, before placing it on his work bench.
The boy’s lifeless, grey eyes surveyed it. ‘Not quite the weapon of a Warlock,’ he sneered.
‘No—but that of a hunter,’ Oran returned.
‘A hunter, no less?’ replied the child, observing the swords and daggers waiting their turn for the grinding stone. ‘It seems you have traded your sword for—’
‘If I have… what of it?’
‘It would displease them.’
Oran leaned down towards the boy in a threatening manner. ‘Now that you have found me…’ he hissed in his ear, ‘I insist you tell me what they want.’
The boy sneered. ‘You covered your tracks with extreme care… Lord Oran—making it difficult to locate you.’
‘And here you are—years later. What took you so long?’
Ignoring his comment, the child stepped away into the warm sunlight, its intense rays highlighting the red strands in his dark locks. But the overbearing heat forced him back into the shade of the small workshop.
‘What do they want of me?’ Oran growled, frustrated by his very presence.
‘I think you know,’ the boy replied, scratching his delicate skin.
‘I think not,’ Oran retorted.
‘It would not be wise to deny them council,’ he reminded the Warlock.
Oran pondered over the statement. ‘Why now?’
‘There are unsettling signs coming from the Southern Realm of Ockram.’
Oran shrugged. ‘I have sensed nothing.’
‘Naturally… since you chose to sever yourself from your duties,’ the boy hit back. ‘And because of that, you have failed to notice the goings on in our world.’
‘I have made a life here—a normal one for myself. It occupies my time.’
‘A wife and siblings, I see,’ the boy remarked.
Oran bent his eyes with suspicion.
‘You have done well. However, if you ignore their summons—’
Enraged, Oran reached out towards the child, snatching him in his grasp, then, raising him above his head, kept him suspended.
‘If you dare threaten my family…’ he warned, glaring into his cold eyes.
The boy smirked down at him. ‘Not I, Oran of Urquille. The—’
‘Oran! Stop!’
Oran turned, meeting the glare of anger on his wife’s face, and sighed.
Rosalyn Shaw stood shocked at what she had witnessed, almost dropping the basket she held in her hands. She gasped when her husband released the boy, who dropped to the ground, gently finding his feet, again.
Unharmed, the child smiled at her, his wry grin making her feel uncomfortable. It was then, she noted something disturbing in his eyes: the lack of warmth and innocence of a normal child.
‘They expect you,’ he stated, turning to address Oran. ‘You know how to find it?’
Again, the boy waited his reply. Oran quickly glanced at his inquisitive wife, before returning his answer with a slight nod, fearing he had just signed away his quiet life.
‘Then it is agreed,’ the boy concluded. As he walked away, he hesitated and looked back at the Warlock. ‘Do not keep them waiting.’
Rosalyn felt a chill as he casually strolled by her, maintaining his sinister smile. She watched after him until he faded from view, then turned to her husband, catching him breathe a heavy sigh of relief.
‘Ah!’ he said, reaching for the basket of food draped on her arm. ‘I’m starved!’
‘No, you don’t, Oran Shaw!’ she argued, snatching it away from his opened hand. ‘Not until you tell me.’
‘To come between a man and his food is taking a great risk, Wife!’ he replied, mocking her, hoping she would succumb to his witty charm. But he sighed when she slowly tilted her head, and lifted her brow, fully aware of her expectations of him.
Her unusual eyes—one, deep-blue, the other, teal—examined him with an inkling. Beads of sweat clung to her dark-brow, after walking the distance from their home to the village. Her face was brown, where the summer sun had kissed it, as were her bare arms. Quite often she would alter her clothing to suit the seasons. The long, pale-green dress she wore had no sleeves, displaying her shapely arms. Her long, golden-brown hair was tied neatly in a single plait, away from her kind, round face. But at that moment, he could only see anger displayed across her features—the crease on her forehead fixed, like her stare, as she waited. He moved to embrace her. She stepped back, tilting her head to the other side. This, he knew, was one battle he could not win.
‘I must go!’ His admission was defined, and solemn.
Rosalyn drew back her head, her eyes widening. ‘Where? When?’ she answered, surprised by his prompt reply. ‘And that boy! Who is he?’
Oran opened his mouth to answer, then hesitated. ‘It doesn’t matter, who or…’ He paused again, unable to explain. ‘Soon… I must leave, soon.’
She moved to protest.
Sensing her agitation, he quickly stepped in. ‘We spoke of this, Rosalyn—when we made our commitment to one another—when I told you who I was. It was possible—probable, this day would come.’
‘And what of our children, Oran?’ she reminded him, her voice breaking as she felt the swell of tears in her eyes.
He reached out to wipe them away.
‘You cannot leave us!’ she blurted, recoiling from his touch. ‘What would I tell them?’
‘What we agreed,’ he said. ‘Do you remember?’
‘I have never forgotten,’ she replied, slightly vexed. ‘I am reminded each time I look at him, all the while, hoping they would leave us be.’
‘Something is afoot,’ he informed her, looking out into the openness of the busy village, expecting “it” to materialise. People
they had befriended, since their arrival in Balloch—almost thirteen years prior—passed his workshop, daily, engaging in conversation or merely exchanging a friendly wave, as they went about their business.
‘What is it?’ she asked, lowering her voice, with mounting concern.
‘Oh, something or—’
‘Is that axe of mine sharpened yet?’
Oran and Rosalyn jumped at the sound of Heckie Grant’s bellowing voice, his great head peering at them, somewhat amused at the reaction he had received. His large frame blocked the sunlight from their view. Rosalyn turned away, diverting her eyes from the kilt he so proudly wore—in the name of his family tartan—unable to bring herself to look at his thick, hairy legs.
‘Would that be some of your fine baking, lass?’ he asked, eyeing the basket. His cheeks roared flaming red from the heat, while the fine strands of hair, still left on his head, clung to his face. ‘Och! I can smell your cooking for miles.’
‘Aye, it is,’ she retorted, turning to face him, mindful of staying focused on his face. ‘And you know where you can purchase it, too.’
Oran threw his head back in laughter. ‘I fear she has you, Heckie.’
‘Aye, indeed,’ he responded, casting a sly wink. ‘Och! And ’tis worth every penny, at that.’
‘The axe will be done by the end of the day,’ Oran promised.
‘Grand. Sure, I’ll send the wee lad to fetch it, later.’
‘It will be waiting.’
Heckie beamed, and nodded his large head, before stomping away.
‘You see the life we have here, Oran,’ Rosalyn began. ‘These people have been good to us. I have no desire to leave it, or them, for that matter.’
‘Nor shall you,’ he assured her, staring into the empty space his neighbour had left behind.
She watched him, baffled by his wavering. He seemed distant. However, regardless of it, she knew she would have to speak out. ‘He is not going with you, Oran!’ she stated, folding her arms.
He promptly returned to her side, determined to please her.
‘Once I’ve left here, I believe you will all be safe, despite what’—he stopped himself— ‘I am the one they summoned, therefore, it is my duty to go. Gill stays here, with you.’
‘Do you think they will—’
‘No!’ he snapped. ‘They can’t take him from us. It is I who must give him up. No, Rosalyn, we are not ready to let him go—not yet. I will decide that, by making it my business to protect him—to protect you all.’
She shook her head, doubting him. ‘I fear time may have run out for us, Oran. The past always finds its way back. Perhaps… we should have given him up—when he was born—when—’
‘And deny him the normal life we have given him?’ he said. ‘No! Gill is our son, which is why I kept him hidden from them. It was vital he experienced a normal life, so he could understand what it was like to live as a—’
‘But it might have been easier… in the long run, if we had done so.’
‘It was never going to be easy… either way,’ he said, softening his voice. ‘I know you, Rosalyn Shaw. You could not have parted with him, then. You would not have allowed it.’
Rosalyn sighed. ‘When?’ How long?’ she asked, her eyes fixed on his.
‘A week… perhaps two,’ he lied, glancing at Heckie’s axe—anything to avoid her persistent stare.
‘In other words,’ she said, ‘you don’t know.’
He smiled in admiration of her perception and turned to her again. ‘You know me better than anyone, Rosalyn,’ he professed.
‘And you know better than to lie to me,’ she retorted.
‘Forgive me?’ he begged, pulling a solemn face.
She rolled her eyes. ‘As always.’
For several moments, they held each other’s gaze, contemplating one other’s thoughts, until she nodded, decisively.
‘Then I will ensure everything continues as normal,’ she said, ‘until you return.’
‘I will come home, Rosalyn,’ he promised. ‘Whatever their intentions, I will find a way to prevent this. Who knows, perhaps there is another who could take his place. But I will do everything I can… even if I have to deny my own son. You have my word,’ he added, placing a tender kiss on her brow, before moving down to her lips. She leaned closer, encouraging him more, when he pulled away, playfully. ‘Now, where is that food?’
Once more, Oran found himself alone in his small workshop, weighed down with the dread of having to say goodbye to his wife and two children. But there were things to tend to before his departure. Removing the leather apron, protecting his shirt and waistcoat, he cast it aside. Although, not his preferred garb, he wore a kilt of unknown plaid, to fit in with local tradition. Stroking the beard—he had purposely grown to make him feel part of the male community—he decided he would remove it before leaving, having never bonded with its presence. Rosalyn, however, had admired it, taunting him, on occasion, over the playful looks he had regularly attracted from the local women.
Concealed beneath a worn, thick red-woollen blanket, a plain oak coffer sat unnoticed. Simple in style, he had carried it with him throughout his travels, protecting the few items he held precious. Kept in the privacy of their home, for many years, he was eventually forced to remove it from the inquisitive eyes of his son and step-daughter.
Oran ran his hands over the smooth surface of the chest, before removing the little brass key from the pocket inside his waistcoat. He carefully inserted it, turning it to the right, four times, until he heard the familiar sound of it letting him in. He drew back the lid. It made no sound, considering the length of time he last looked upon it. But there had been no reason to… until now.
Strewn across the surface, lay an assortment of daggers and swords—weapons he had used in the past—which were of no significance to him now. Beneath the old weapons lay the attire he had not worn in decades. He looked down at the kilt he now wore.
This will not do! he told himself, reaching for his preferred clothing—black buckskin trousers, matched with a long, dark-tanned leather waistcoat. A wide leather sword-belt was folded neatly inside. But these were the decoy—the alibi to what truly lay beneath the covering of fine, black silk, concealing its invaluable contents.
Oran drew back the luxurious fabric, where the Albrecht sword waited for its Master’s hand, to retrieve it once more.
Inlaid in fine, yellow gold, on the pommel, was his nomen—his name—engraved in sunken reliefs, displaying ownership. The black, shagreen-covered grip, still bore the indentation of his right hand from centuries of battles they had fought together. He raised it high, still in admiration of the impeccable workmanship, created especially for him. Each Warlock held their own, forged to their uniqueness.
Oran slowly removed the scabbard, protecting the blade; it drew smoothly, and silently. The steel blade was still sharp, as though he had forged it himself the day before. And yet, he knew, no matter how advanced his experience, he could never create something as magnificent as the weapon he held in his hand. In the history of his ownership of it, it had never required sharpening—nor would it. Its steel hailed from an unknown source, stemming back to the reign of the first known Magus. The blade gleamed, reflecting his image on the polished metal. Tiny, gold inlays of hieroglyphics adorned the surface, marking their long and glorious history. For an instant, Oran thought of its other, wondering where it lay, or in what battles it had participated. He hoped it had not been the latter. Musing over his own, he had hoped to never use the Albrecht again. But those hopes, he knew, were now slowly diminishing.
Oran returned to the coffer, his mind preoccupied as he subconsciously continued to rummage through his past. He then winced, feeling the stab of something sharp. He drew his hand out, and seeing beads of blood trickling from his finger, quickly licked it clean. He then hesitated, his furrowed brow curious, and reached back in, carefully removing the cause of his “injury”.
‘Now how could I have forgotten
you?’ he muttered, turning the item over, then re-placing the pin in its clasp. A little tarnished, he rubbed it gently on his shirt, before looking it over. It weighed heavily in his hand—the piece made of solid silver, derived from the Romans whose hacksilver was once used to bribe troublesome Clans and tribes, centuries before. The pieces were then reused to make pins, chains and finger rings. And, because of its value, many of the Clans had broaches made, to symbolise their status and pride. Therefore, he had one fashoined, to mark his own lineage, to give him a sense of “belonging”. The Clan crest, he now held in his hand, was a representation of who he was, who his family were—the name Shaw, allegedly connecting them to the ancient Picts of the Highlands.
‘Fide et Fortitudine,’ he whispered, reciting the motto engraved across the front: though worn with age, and barely illegible now, he knew it by heart: By Fidelity and Fortitude. It was everything he, like his forebears, had stood for. And seeing the dagger—clenched in a fist, in its centre—it reminded him of the strength and pride, he, too, held in his ancestry. ‘You belong to Gill now,’ he told it, his intention, to give it to his son before his departure. But he quickly changed his mind; the last thing he wanted was to worry Gill; the boy would think he was never coming back. ‘No!’ he then decided. ‘When I get back.’ Determination set in stone, he vowed to return to his family, before his son’s coming of age… Before Gill… He sighed; there was a possibility, however, his son may never be a father, himself. Regardless of it, he would make sure Gill would never forget his name.
Returning the broach to the coffer, he then glimpsed the corner, where he had last left it: the small, long ebony box, inlaid with mother of pearl. He reached out to touch it, letting his fingers and thoughts linger over the sentiment of the item. Although the temptation to look into his past was enticing, his willpower was stronger.
‘No time to dwell on you,’ he told it. What’s past… is past! he thought, parting from it.
No, it was the most prized object, resting alone in a small, black-leather pouch, tied with a simple burgundy cord, that he required. He had sensed its energy when the key was inserted, uncertain what to expect.
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