Now the memory of their coupling was bittersweet. How could he explain to one such as she that what they had shared, what he had taken from her body was considered a gift on his world? Such was not squandered for the sake of a moment's easing. What they had shared, at least for him, was more than just a night's pleasuring. He could never explain, for she would not understand, or care.
He had wanted more, so much more, the world had been bright with possibilities in one insane moment of love, forgetting that she was who she was. She was a product of her environment, when all was said and done. An alien, a member of the League. That organization valued nothing he did. And he had thought, for just a moment, she was different. That in bequeathing her greatest treasure to him, she had hinted the promise of a future together. Disappointment, pain, a hundred other regrets cut into his soul. How could he have been such a naive fool? Arran and the Seven Stars!
“Con?"
“I told you to go to sleep! If you are not tired, then keep silent for my sake. I need to rest."
She frowned up at him. Once again, he was the taciturn barbarian. Had she offended him by her wild reactions to his loving? Perhaps she should have been more circumspect. But she was an Asarian; how could she respond to him less ardently? He had seen her true nature and that being so, she must have shocked him.
Or, perhaps, had he taken her gift of love without understanding, or caring? She blinked back the tears. Had he only taken her to ease his own cold and pain? Or to ease hers, in the only way he knew? That and nothing more? Arran's Mercy!
Was it possible his only concern now was that he had bedded someone who might fall pregnant to his seed? And if there was a child he'd have to face the responsibility, and the probable condemnation by his people for his actions—for his one night of illicit pleasure with an alien witch!
That was why he was so angry! And now he knew she was safe, he free of obligations and recriminations, he turned from her in bitterness and loathing.
But he had called her his beloved. And then almost in the same breath he'd used another epithet for her: witch. She felt ill with the realization that they were all just words to him, interchangeable to suit his mood and the circumstances. His tender words spoken in that husky voice of his were meaningless, a part of his well rehearsed pillow talk, and nothing more. Liandra's eyes stung with tears.
How could she have been so wrong about a man?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
The storm is over, Liandra. We must go!"
She started upright from the bed, to find Connal standing beside her, already dressed.
“Your porridge is on the hearth. I have some wood to cut while you eat. Hurry! We must get back to the Castle.”
“If you're in so much of a hurry, why waste time cutting wood?"
“Because this is a journey station. Our law requires that I replace the wood we used last night. If the one who stayed at the cottage before us had not done so, we would have frozen to death. That is why."
Liandra frowned as he strode away. Taking up her bowl, she stood at the doorway, watching as he chopped wood into shards, using a great axe, which he swung with all his might. The harsh planes of his body radiated tension. He swung the axe furiously, splintering each log in one swift stroke. So different this morning, this man who had, the night before, been such a tender lover. Our night of folly, he had said. She swallowed the porridge though it settled like a lead weight in her stomach, choking her with every forced mouthful.
Confused, afraid, she returned inside the cottage and found the clothes laid out for her. A shirt and kilt, a pair of old shoes.
Outside she heard the splintering of more wood, followed by his cursing. Hastily dressing, she adjusted the belt around her waist, so that the kilt would not fall to her ankles. She tucked in the voluminous shirt and folded back the sleeves. The boots were a little large and clung heavily to her feet. Better than nothing, but only just.
Connal stalked into the cottage. Liandra turned to him, momentarily disorientated by the sight of him dressed only in his kilt. He used a scrap of towel to wipe perspiration from his body. Jealously, her eyes followed the path of that fabric. Not long ago it was she, her tongue, hands and body, which had traced over him.
He shrugged himself into his shirt. “Are you ready to leave?” He turned away.
“Wait. Connal?"
He paused mid-step, the rigidity of his back a silent affirmation that something was terribly wrong. Worse than last night. He was so tightly withdrawn from her that no emotion escaped him, though she tried a surface probing. Inside, she felt the first spirals of real fear. “What's wrong, Con?"
He shrugged off her hands as she touched his back. “Business, witch. I want no more of your diversions. We have many miles to cover before we reach home. If you are ready, let us away. Now!"
Liandra followed him, blinking back tears of anguish. Gone was her sweet, gentle lover. Now, a new Connal, a stranger more than ever, someone who frightened and hurt her with his brusque indifference. What had she done to drive him from her? The man she loved...
Well, in the cottage she had pierced his facade to discover the gentle man beneath the barbarian's mantle. Surely she could do so again? First, though, they must meet on neutral ground, to re-build their relationship from where it teetered, on the verge of extinction. Liandra swallowed against the thought and the fresh, scalding tears it brought.
“Connal will you tell me about the trans-mat?"
“What about it?"
“For decades, League science has been trying, unsuccessfully, to build a machine which transports living things. How did you manage it?"
He glanced back over his shoulder and then hastily returned his eyes to the path ahead. Damn the witch! Even in an oversized shirt and kilt she still provoked his blood.
“The machine was a gift,” he ground out.
“From whom?"
Connal sighed, waiting until she drew level with him. “Every twenty-five years each chieftain is gifted with something from the ancestors."
“Your ancestors?"
“Aye. They were an advanced race, before calamity struck them down. Only a few survived. So that their achievements were not lost, they bequeathed their technology to us, a little at a time when they considered we are ready to receive them."
“Some still live?"
Connal paused. “The ancestors died long ago, although their presence lingers on.” He shrugged. “I do not know how they deem when the time is right to give us their gifts, only that it has always been appropriate. My gift was the trans-mat, my grand-father's the MacArran star-ship."
“Do all clans have these gifts?"
“Star-ships, aye. The trans-mat is the gift only for MacArran. Would that it were otherwise."
“It's a marvelous thing. Why do you hate it?"
“Because, ’tis the root of all our problems. Garris entered it, when I would have, but for clan reasons, he took my place. He returned somewhat confused. Two days later, he left Caledonia. The rest you know."
“That first time, he didn't tell you what he saw, or felt?"
Connal shook his head.
“I always wondered how your people remained, socially, in such a primitive state, yet had the alternate technology of a civilized world. Why didn't you tell me the real reason?"
“I said it was Caledonian magic. So ‘tis, in a manner of speaking. Clans never reveal their secrets to strangers. And you be an off-worlder to boot."
“So your science was never learned, just attained through gifts?"
Connal laughed without humor. “We have paid a heavy price for such, I think."
“I..."
“No more. We have a long journey ahead of us. Save your energy for walking, not talking. Are you able to continue?"
“Yes."
“Let me know if you cannot. You nearly died of exposure before, I want no such burden around my neck again.”
Stung, Liandra stared at his retreating back. That knot in her stomach w
as now a slicing pain. He had rejected her, this time viciously. Though she tried to engage him further in conversation as they walked the long, lonely miles back to the Castle, Connal remained silent. She had found love, only to lose it within the space of a day. Why, she did not understand.
* * * *
“The Castle is under attack!” Connal shouted. Liandra staggered up the hill to join his side.
From their vantagepoint they could see Castle MacArran. An eerie, green glow emanated from foundation stones to top-most tower. The taint shimmered in and out of existence. Liandra could sense the alien contamination. It made her stomach clench. When she glanced at Connal he looked sickly.
“The aliens have not a firm hold yet. See how the light wavers? We must hurry,"she said.
Connal raced down the hill. Liandra tried to keep up as best she could, but the boots had chafed her feet throughout the long miles of their journey to the Castle and it took all her concentration to keep the pain at bay, so she could match Connal's speed.
Passing through the deserted courtyard, they arrived in the hallway. Liandra saw men standing in line, girt with sword, dagger and shield. An horrific screeching tore into her mind and tortured her ears. She reeled back in pain.
“My Lord!” A man called. As one the warriors turned.
“Arran's Mercy! You both are alive!” Dougall strode forward, hand out.
Connal waved aside his friend's embrace. “No time. What is happening?"
“This started late last night. We were monitoring the machine, trying to find you. Three creatures came. We could not stop them, so we shut down the trans-mat in case more tried to invade. Ever since, we have been fighting the aliens. With little success."
“They can't be fought like flesh and blood. They have no substance. I need my bed,” Liandra cried.
“I forbid it!” Connal shouted above the din in the hall.
“The time for forbidding is over, Con. You're being invaded by creatures that have no compunction about whom they hurt. We need League help, or we'll be taken over completely. Is that what you want? To become as they? They intend to merge with you, that much I found out in my time of imprisonment."
The faces of the men turned ashen.
“Merge?” Connal asked.
“They'll violate you as they did me, and you'll lose yourself in that union. I can't protect you all."
With Connal at her heels, she raced to his apartment and tore open the door. He grabbed her wrist and spun her about, dragging her close.
“Is there no other way? What about you? Is there danger?"
“No time to argue! Where are the crystals?"
Connal fitted them to her bed and Liandra drew on the cap. Lights distorted about her, a rainbow shot with green and black. She screamed, flinging off her cap.
“They're controlling my bed!” She snatched the pyramid crystal from its mounting. The gem seared her hand. Despite the pain, she forced herself to keep a firm grip on it. She would need it in the battle ahead.
Connal dragged her back. “Watch out!” A shaft of green light erupted from the bed. He ducked for cover, dragging Liandra behind him, protecting her with his own body.
The light scorched the floor, where they had been standing a second ago.
Connal hurled himself across the room. Drawing his sword from its sheath he hacked at the bed, breaking the crystal alignments with the claymore. Connal dropped his sword as blistering heat raced through the metal into his arm. The sword lay in a smoking, melted mess on the floor.
The crystal bed shattered with a terrible, high-pitched squeal. Liandra staggered back as her connection with it was severed painfully. Green smoke coiled upwards and spread across the ceiling.
“Seven Stars!” Connal shouted.
Hand in hand, they fled the chamber. Reaching the landing above the hall, they saw people running in retreat. Warriors formed a last line of defense against the shimmering light that shot all about, bouncing off the stone walls, sending sparks to the floor. Using anything to hand, people beat at the tiny flames.
“Stay here, Liandra!” Connal ordered and bounded down the stairs. “Kinsmen, form a barrier!” Shield beside shield, one slow step at a time, the warriors pushed forward, while the alien light crashed against the metal and then retreated.
Liandra crouched in a corner and focused on her crystal. She might be able to weave a psychic barricade to protect the men. It wasn't much, but it might help.
The pain of her forceful sending seared her brain. She wrestled for control of the hall and almost had it, when she was torn out of her trance.
Something collided with her head and she was lifted to her feet. The crystal fell from her hands and broke into a thousand shards as it hit the floor. Still linked to it, she screamed as she felt its death.
When she came to her senses she saw Fraser MacLeod. His hands were around her throat, squeezing the life from her. She fought him furiously. Looking into his eyes she saw the green taint, the alien hue exuded from every pore of his skin.
“Look upon your last of this, our new world.” His voice, like his features, was distorted by the alien possession.
“No!” Liandra clawed at his face. His fingers dug into her throat, stifling her cries of pain and fear. She twisted about in his grasp, lashed out with her feet, but Fraser's hold was inexorable. Little by little her vision clouded as his throttling took effect.
Connal! She sent the thought clear and fast to him, hoping that from their recent intimacy, a lingering rapport still remained. Just enough for him to hear her, as he had done before. Connal, help me!
“Let her go, damn you!"
Connal's fist connected with Fraser's jaw and sent him reeling back. Liandra dropped to the floor, gasping for breath.
“I banished you from the Castle, MacLeod!"
“I must kill you and your bitch!"
MacLeod grasped one of the swords from the wall adornment and lunged forward. Unarmed, Connal had no choice other than to retreat down the corridor as Fraser advanced confidently.
Liandra staggered to her feet. Dodging past Fraser, she tore a sword free from its decorative mounting. “Con, here!” With all her strength, she hurled the claymore. Connal caught it, and in one fluid movement, he met the slash of Fraser's sword with his own steel. Sparks flew.
Warily, they circled one another.
“Come on, Connal! See...” Fraser held his arms apart. “Kill me if you can, you witch's lap dog!"
With a snarl Fraser charged. His sword sliced through the air, missing Connal's stomach by a hair's breadth.
Liandra cried out and stifled another, seeing that the sound of her alarm distracted Connal, made him glance at her, instead of focusing on his enemy.
The two men clashed again and again, swords ringing, air swishing as steel sliced, arced, parried. Liandra focused on Connal, sending him strength. Willing him to victory.
Connal brought all his strength to bear on Fraser's sword and the man staggered backwards. Over and over, he attacked mercilessly and each time, against his attack, Fraser's sword was feebly raised in defense. Fraser staggered to his knees as Connal's claymore crashed down. With a movement too fast to follow, Connal flung aside Fraser's sword and raised his claymore to deliver the deathblow.
“It ends here and now!” Connal hissed.
Liandra raced forward, interposing her body to protect Fraser. “Stop! He's been possessed by the aliens. You can't kill him."
Connal tried to push her out of the way. “He be a coward and a traitor!” He glanced down at Fraser who was curled in a ball, moaning pitifully.
“You can't, Con. You mustn't. Please.” She gripped his sword arm. Finally, she saw the madness leave his eyes and reason return.
He ran a hand over his face, smiling grimly. “He meant to kill you, beloved.”
“I know. Oh...” Liandra spun around, eyes wide.
“What is it?” Connal gripped her shoulder.
“They're here!” She turned and ran
down the corridor. Connal caught up with her at the top of the stairs.
“Who is here? Oh—by Arran!” Connal stood frozen in shock as he stared down at his hall.
It was full of aliens. Asarians and—monsters! Huge reptilian monsters, eight feet tall, walking erect.
And Garris, leading them all.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
Deathly silence descended on the hall, but only for a moment. Quickly the warriors realigned themselves, brandishing their weapons, ready to face the new invader.
Liandra bounded down the stairs. “Wait! These are my people!"
Recovering from his shock, Connal was only moments behind Liandra as she raced across the hall.
Sobbing and laughing, she flung herself into the arms of one Asarian. Connal was close enough to see the surprise on the older man's face.
“No time for this now,” the Asarian whispered, his gaze resting on Connal. “Show me the machine. Quickly!"
Connal stepped forward, appalled. The off-worlder spoke Caledonian, like a native!
He did not have time to think more of it, for a green light crept up the wall and over one window. It rattled the glass before sweeping over the hall. People dove for cover as the taint swept around them. Immediately, three Asarians, with Garris at the fore, aimed rod-like devices at the alien presence. Colored light, emanating from the rods, battled against green-black. People stood transfixed as the confrontation ensued.
With their rod-devices focused on the green haze, Garris and the Asarians drove the alien into a corner. It flared once before it was drawn into the cylinder Garris held.
“Quickly, before they can escape, we must reach the trans-mat.” The older Asarian gripped Connal's arm.
“Dougall take charge here!” Connal called over his shoulder. Signaling to some of his men, he ran from the chamber, leading them swiftly to the dungeon.
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