Oath of a Warrior (Legends of the Fenian Warriors Book 2)

by Mary Morgan

  “Drink,” ordered Conn, pressing the mug against his palm and folding Rory’s fingers around the solid object. “It’s an herbal tonic.”

  Taking a hold with his other hand, Rory lifted the mug to his mouth and guzzled deeply. Healing and stimulating herbs were mixed with ginger and lemon water, and the cool liquid seeped into his weary body. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he dropped the mug to the ground. Soon, his body relaxed. Strength infused him with each inhale of breath, and he lifted his head to meet the anguished gazes of all gathered around him.

  “Erina MacIntyre was accused of witchcraft in the year 1605 and burned at the stake,” he stated gruffly. “I witnessed the event and was instrumental in her death. My instructions were to steer the course of another, yet, my focus shifted during my time with her.” Rory swallowed and stood. Leaning against the wall for strength, he continued, “Erina died because I failed to save her.”

  “Her thread on the loom of fate should not have made a difference. If it was her time, then there was nothing for you to do. Saving this woman was not an option,” Conn pointed out.

  Rory’s breathing became labored. “Her thread mattered. Her life mattered. I loved Erina!”

  Silence descended within the room. Rory pushed Conn aside and went to the opposite end of the chamber. Shoving aside the tapestry, he flooded the room with light from the window. He gazed out into Loran’s vast herb garden, a bountiful space reminding him of Erina’s. “To love a human is forbidden. We trained decades to seal off our emotions to them. But for reasons I cannot explain, I fell in love with the woman. It is a curse I shall carry with me until I cross over to Tir na Og.”

  “Did you recite the binding vows or link yourself by blood?” asked Conn softly.

  Rory grumbled a curse and glanced over his shoulder. “If I had done so, Erina would still be alive. I may have been foolish to love, but I was not irrational to destroy both our lives with vows and blood. The king would have seen to our deaths.”

  Conn frowned, but kept silent.

  Bracing his hands on the ledge, Rory could almost smell the combined scent of lavender and roses, mixed with cloves—one of her favorite mixtures. I loved her completely.

  Turning around, he folded his arms over his chest. “Do what you must—decree your sentence. I grow weary of this torment. Perhaps now that I have freed the words, the dreams will end.”

  “If only it were uncomplicated,” argued Conn. The prince stepped toward him. “The past remains undone. You cannot continue in this realm until you mend what has been torn from your soul. You are a Fenian Warrior, and you must complete what you have left unfinished.”

  “I have no unfinished business,” snapped Rory. He eyed the prince skeptically. “Should not Loran be questioning me?”

  “I am only present to oversee this conversation and proceedings,” offered Loran.

  Rory’s gaze never wavered from Conn’s. “Then why are you here, my prince?”

  Conn flinched, but quickly composed himself. “If you are to remain within the Brotherhood—”

  “If,” echoed Rory, moving away from the window and placing his hands on Loran’s desk. “I am a Fenian Warrior, always!” Again, Conn avoided his question, and Rory tried to calm the fury.

  “As I was saying, in order to continue within the Brotherhood, you must remove the past and bind the wound you have created. It has left you weak and vulnerable. In your current condition, you are perceived as a threat to both human and Fae.”

  “How dare ye!” Rory pushed away from the desk and approached Conn. His hands longed to rip out his tongue. “Who are ye to tell me what I am?”

  “I am your prince, and now leader of the Brotherhood,” replied Conn.

  “Leader,” he spat out. “I presume ye had naught to lose by stepping into another role, aye? How strange that I am here, yet, ye are now one of the highest ranking members of our people.”

  Conn’s eyes blazed in anger. “You are a fool, MacGregor. You know nothing. Even your language betrays you!”

  How could he expect Conn to understand his love for Erina? The man was devoid of emotions. Nevertheless, he was willing to try anything, so he could resume his life within the Brotherhood. Rubbing a hand over his brow, he asked, “And how do you propose I bind the wound?”

  Conn waved his hand outward, and a giant silver orb appeared inside the chamber. Lights shimmered around the globe, their brilliance dancing off the walls of the room. “There is only one way,” he uttered softly.

  Uneasiness washed over Rory, and he took a step back. Glancing at the door, he noticed Taran and Ronan had fully blocked any attempt he might enact to flee. He shook his head and clenched his hands. “Do not ask this of me.”

  Sorrow reflected in Conn’s eyes. “You must return and seal the wound left open from the past.”

  Rory’s heart pounded. “Return? Nae,” he growled. “I will not watch her suffer again.”

  “There is no other choice, my brother.”

  The orb fractured, and images from another time reflected back toward Rory. The green hills of Lindane stood out in vivid colors. Every detail of his time spent there came back in a tide of flowing emotions. How could he face her again knowing how their lives would end? But what if he could alter the past? Prevent Erina’s death?

  As if reading his thoughts, Conn spoke, “The timeline cannot be changed. Events shall remain as they were, for the threads have already been woven in the future.”

  Rory snapped his gaze to Conn. “So I do this only for me.” Bitterness laced his words. “I have to endure watching her torment all over again?”

  “Either you mend, or you will surrender your soul to the shadows.”

  Conn’s words resonated in the far reaches of his mind. The shadows had been calling out to him ever since he was confined in prison. He could not continue on this deadly path, and a small part of him understood. Pieces of his soul were splintering away. Nonetheless, he regarded returning to Lindane the same. His soul would be crushed, once again.

  Drawing in a shaky breath, he exhaled it slowly and stepped forward. He longed to return to the Brotherhood and resume his life. The shadows of the past had to be eliminated. “I shall return to Lindane.”

  Conn nodded slowly. Waving his hand upward, Rory was magically dressed in clothes form the early 17th century, specifically the MacGregor tartan. His sword was belted at his side, along with a dirk and sgian dubh. “When you are ready, you may touch the images within the orb. Furthermore, once there, recall your training as a Fenian Warrior. Harness all your emotions. Any questions?”

  Rory placed his hand on the hilt of his blade. “None, but hear my words well, Conn MacRoich. When I return to this realm, our friendship shall be terminated. If you can allow me to stay within the Brotherhood on those terms, then I accept my position as a Fenian Warrior under your command.”

  Not waiting for a response from the man, Rory turned and touched the glittering sphere, vanishing in an array of colors.

  Loran approached Conn. “Why did you not relieve him of his powers?”

  Conn rubbed a hand vigorously over his face. “Because he must be the same warrior as the one in 1605. There can be no doubt in his mind when he walks this desolate path again. If I had stripped him of his powers, he would have wondered if he ought to have saved the woman. A predicament I did not want to place him in. He must draw upon his training. Contain the emotions this time. Seal the door for all time on this memory and progress forward. I cannot accept him as an elite warrior until he rids himself of this dark smudge on his soul.”

  Arching a brow, Loran asked, “And if he attempts to alter the timeline?”

  Conn’s shoulders slumped as he leaned against the desk. “Death shall follow swiftly.”

  ****

  “Ye might as well put your blade through my heart, since I will not let ye touch me!” shouted Erina.

  A sinister smile formed on his misshapen face. Stepping forward, her captor backhanded her acr
oss the face, sending her reeling into the arms of one of the men behind her.

  Tears smarted her eyes, but Erina was determined not to show him her fear. “Bastard,” she hissed out, pushing away from the other man.

  This time, he punched her in the stomach, and she dropped to the ground. Gasping for air, she fought the wave of hysteria. Please help me, Goddess.

  He grabbed a fistful of her hair, forcing her to stand. “’Tis a shame I have to bloody such a beautiful face.”

  Erina spit in his eyes and was rewarded with another blow to the face. Dizziness clouded her vision as the vile man shoved her back to the ground onto her stomach. Terror gripped Erina, and she tried to fight him. Placing his knee against her back, he lifted her gown to expose her bottom.

  “Nae! Help me!” But her efforts only inflamed his anger, and he pushed her head into the dirt. Her breathing labored and terror engulfed what little sanity she had left.

  Leaning near her ear, he snarled, “When I am done, my friends will enjoy taking their fill of ye.”

  “If ye dinnae remove your hands from her, I will rip them from your shoulders with my blade,” ordered a voice all too familiar to Erina.

  The bastard took his time removing his bulk from her back. Erina immediately shoved her dress down and rolled away from the monster. Standing, she brushed away the dirt and leaves from her mouth.

  Thank you, Goddess! Help had finally arrived in a wondrous vision. Her half-brother, Graham, and his guards stood baring their swords at all four men.

  Graham motioned her forward, and Erina skirted around the loathsome other men to his side. “Are ye hurt?” His eyes barely held the fury within as he took in her appearance.

  Her lip trembled, but she replied, “Nae.”

  “Darren, please escort my sister to the horses and guard her well,” he ordered.

  The guard gave a curt nod. Placing a gentle hand on Erina’s elbow, he led her away from the others.

  “If I had ken she was your kin, I would not have bothered with the lass,” stated her attacker.

  “Even if she was not, I despise men like ye,” argued Graham and added, “Taking women forcibly and leaving them spoiled. Ye taint the air and foul the ground ye walk. I should not let ye leave this place alive.”

  Halting her steps, Erina turned around. As much as she wished them all dead, she could not let her brother have the blood of these men on his hands. Her troubles were not his, and any attempt to assist her might bring harm to his clan. She twisted her hands together, trying to think of a solution.

  Fear showed in the man’s eyes when Graham leveled the blade to his neck. “Mayhap, I shall remove the offensive part of your body that ye were trying to use against my sister.”

  The blood drained from the man’s face, and he visually swallowed.

  Graham inclined his head. “Ahh…I can see ’tis a part ye favor.”

  After leveling a blow to the man’s groin with his fist, her brother stepped back. He picked up her captor’s sword and tossed it to one of his men, ignoring the pitiful moans behind him.

  “What will ye do to us?” asked one of the other men.

  He lifted his sword, studying the glint of steel in the sunlight, and Erina held her breath. “I have determined it best to let ye live. I should not want to tarnish my blade with the blood of unworthy men who are so vile. Furthermore, ye shall make a pilgrimage to a shrine in the far north hills of Clardon near Thurso to reflect on your sins.”

  Erina let out a sigh of relief.

  Graham waved over one of his men. As the guard approached, he clamped a hand on his shoulder. “Remove all weapons and leave them only with their plaids. Secure their horses with ours as well.”

  “Ye cannot mean to have us wander the land with only our plaids?” complained her attacker, slowly attempting to stand.

  “I am leaving ye with your lives,” countered Graham. “Ye should be grateful, since the alternative would have been death!”

  The man clenched his fists, but he offered no retort.

  Erina waited while Graham issued several more orders before making his way to her. Sheathing his sword, his hands shook when he took her into his arms. “Sweet Mother Mary, it took all my control not to run my blade through his heart,” he murmured against her ear.

  She let the tears fall freely and reveled in his strength. After composing herself, she leaned back. Wiping the moisture from her cheeks, she spoke up, “I have nae wish to see ye take on my troubles, Graham. However, I am grateful ye came along when ye did.”

  He grasped her arms. “By the saints, ye are my kin! If ye were under my roof, ye would not have these burdens.” Releasing her, he raked a hand through his hair. “Ye refuse to take shelter within my castle, so ye only bring harm to yourself by living alone. Moreover, your troubles are mine, Erina MacIntyre. Ye live on my land!”

  She jabbed a finger into his chest. “Ye ken why I will not live in your home, Graham. Need I remind ye of your own father’s words? Did he not mention that any offspring of my mother—meaning me, would not be welcome?”

  “God’s blood! The man is dead! And he was your father, as well.”

  Erina fisted her hands on her hips. “He wrote it on parchment, and a priest witnessed his last dying request.”

  “I dinnae care if there were a hundred priests present, the man is no longer laird, and I demand ye gather your belongings and come home.”

  She lifted her head to the sky. How many times did they suffer the same argument? All she ever wanted was to live peacefully in her cottage—one where she grew up under the watchful guidance of her grandmother. Her gratitude turned to bitterness. Silence was the only response she had left to give to her brother.

  Gazing back at him, she noted the deep lines of worry etched across his forehead and relented. Walking to him, she placed a kiss on his cheek. “Thank ye, truly.” Turning around, she went in search of her horse.

  “I shall send a guard with ye to collect your possessions!” he shouted.

  “Dinnae require one,” she muttered and kicked a stone out of her path.

  Darren approached, falling in step beside her. “My lady.”

  Erina almost snorted. “Thank ye, but I shall not require your services, Darren.”

  The man ignored her and added, “Ye will gather only the important items from your cottage. We will return in a few days with a cart and two other men and remove the remainder.”

  Weary and frustrated, Erina halted. “Did ye not hear my words, Darren? Have ye lost your hearing?”

  His mouth twitched in humor. “My hearing is fine, my lady. Nevertheless, my orders are clear. I have retrieved your sgian dubh.” Handing the blade to her, he added, “Wait here and I’ll go fetch the horses.”

  The guard gave a small nod and left her standing among the trees. Gritting her teeth, she was going to spout that it was her orders he should be listening to, when movement to her left interrupted her thoughts.

  She blinked and shielded her eyes as sunlight pierced the thick canopy of trees, illuminating the giant Highlander within. Erina was about to yell for aid when the air warmed around her, and she fought to breathe. The stranger took a hesitant step forward, and her eyes widened in disbelief.

  He was the most magnificent man she had ever laid eyes upon. Dark hair curled around his face—one surely chiseled by the Gods. Detailed perfection, even in his stance, and she pondered if he was a vision. Yet, when their gazes locked, his eyes flashed with the radiance of a thousand stars. Erina gasped, but not from fear. Nae, she yearned to learn more.

  “Do we ken each other?” A flicker of familiarity wove a thread inside her thoughts.

  Beauty and sorrow reflected back at her within his eyes, and she frowned in confusion. Why did she sense his pain—his torment? A shadow of a smile came forth from his lips, and she ached to run her finger across them. Slowly, she moved toward him.

  Too late to stop him, Erina watched in stunned horror as Darren slipped silently behind her Highland
er and bashed him over the head with the hilt of his sword.

  Chapter Six

  “The song of the Ancients can be heard in the whisper of a snowflake.”

  ~Chronicles of the Fae

  “For the love of Brigid! Did ye have to hit him so hard?” Crouching down next to the giant, Erina inspected the wound on the back of the man’s head.

  “I thought him to be with the others who attacked ye,” argued Darren.

  She glared at the guard. “Take a good look at his plaid. ’Tis a MacGregor, not Ferguson like the others”

  Darren shrugged and nudged the man’s leg with his boot. “For now, I dinnae trust any stranger in these parts.”

  Erina could not find fault with the guard’s words. There were many strangers passing through who were known to thieving. Even the current Campbell laird found it difficult to maintain control over the wandering travelers, since he had issues with reivers on his own lands to the north of theirs. He considered it wiser to let the other nobles handle the situation. Those who argued for support from him then became frustrated with his lack of justice. She had often heard many a villager seek counsel from her brother. Though his lands were small, he ruled with an iron fist and did not tolerate injustice.

  “Is there another threat?” demanded Graham, unsheathing his sword as he strode forth, along with the rest of his men.

  Erina let out a sigh. “Nae, Brother. ’Tis only an injured man.”

  Darren leveled his blade against the giant’s head. “’Tis a man traveling alone, and that be nae good in this part of the Highlands.”

  Pulling out her sgian dubh, Erina lifted her gown and slashed a portion of her chemise to bind the man’s head. “Do ye have any fresh water in your flasks?” She lifted her gaze to find her brother glowering at her.

  “Only ale and I will not let ye waste one drop on him.”

  “A wise decision,” agreed Darren.

  “Stubborn men,” she muttered, and did her best to bandage the giant’s head. After finishing the task, she stood. Erina pointed to Darren and another guard who had stepped into view. “Can ye place him over my horse?”