WARRIORS

by Karen Michelle Nutt

  Today, they worked with rods, four feet in length. He was trying to deflect the blows but she was too quick. His forearms would be black and blue by the time they were ready to call it a day.

  “You aren’t trying,” she accused. “Concentrate.”

  “I am concentrating.” His response was curt and delivered with a bitter tone of resentment.

  She shook her head and came at him as a stalker goes after its prey.

  “This is bullshit!” he screamed at her, frustrated that he couldn’t defeat her.

  “Stop thinking of me as a woman, Trey. You must believe I am the enemy. I will destroy you. Do you hear me? I want your head on a stake, your entrails pulled from your gut, and your heart bleeding in my hands. See the enemy’s vile face, not mine standing before you. Take the bastard down.”

  His eyes narrowed with determination and this time he was ready. The rods slammed into each other with a whacking noise that vibrated throughout his entire body. He turned the battle around. He was no longer the prey but the one stalking, giving her what she’d been giving him all day long. Pounding away, making her retreat. Damn, it felt good. He brought the rod down and up, relieving her of her weapon. He pointed the rod at her throat. If it had been a real sword and this a genuine fight, she would be dead now.

  Her eyes widened in surprise. Then her lips curved into a smile. “Well done, warrior.”

  He lowered the rod and relaxed his stance. “Why is it that I’m out of breath and you haven’t even broken a sweat?”

  “I’m a goddess,” she said with indignation.

  He chuckled and gave her an elaborate bow. “So you are.”

  She joined him in laughter, but then fell serious again. “I will show you how to use the Gáe Bulg. You will do me proud, Trey Brennan.”

  Her gaze held him in high esteem and he said a silent prayer that he would not disappoint her.

  Chapter Seven

  Brutal practice, long soothing baths in the spring and making love to a goddess every night—a man could get used to this. However, all good things must come to an end.

  “It’s time,” Scáthach announced as she gazed out the window. The thin wrap draped around her fell low on her back, exposing the vibrant tattoo she bore of the mythical creature the dragon. The wings spread across her shoulder blades in shades of orange, red and yellow, the tail feathering down her back and disappearing below the garment. He bore a similar tattoo on his shoulder, one she burned into his skin with a touch of her hand.

  The legend of the mythical creature mesmerized him. The dragon was one of the fiercest creatures in the Celtic culture. The dragon represented the creation. Powerful in size, it had the capacity to go beyond the land and sky because it could fly. No one could stand against its fierceness.

  After they made love last night, Scáthach rested on her stomach, giving him full view of her backside. His fingers caressed the lines of the design with reverence. She told him his destiny paralleled the dragon’s fate. She bore the symbol, too in hopes of giving him strength. You will be triumphant. You are the dragon. Her words still echoed in his mind with renewed hope.

  “How do you know it’s time?” His curiosity won out. Was it in the clouds billowing across the blue of the sky? Had a bird whispered the news to her?

  She turned her gaze to him. “The wind has changed directions.”

  Aah of course. He hadn’t thought of that one. “Come back to bed.” He lifted the covers in invitation. He didn’t want to fight. He’d much rather make love to her, kissing her where he knew she liked.

  She smiled almost sadly. “No. Our time has come to an end. You will have to make your stand today.

  He gave her a brief smile with a shrug of his shoulders. “A man has to try doesn’t he?”

  “Oh aye. I would be disappointed if you did not.”

  * * * *

  The smell of heather and the sea air hit his nostrils as he strolled to meet his destiny. The mist that usually shrouded the island stood back, low to the ground and encircling them as if it were making room for the battle. The sun had risen high in the sky, but the clouds had thickened, threatening rain and the wind whipped around him like a tease of what the storm would entail.

  On the crest above them, the enemy stood dressed in black, large and threatening as a storm preparing to let loose.

  Sweat poured down Trey’s back and he felt the blood drain from his face. This was it, the final battle that would determine if he lived or died.

  There was one good thing about all this. It would be over. No more struggling to draw in each breath. No more worrying about Joey and his welfare. One way or the other, the fight would finally come to an end.

  Scáthach strode over to him with her hair tied back away from her face, giving her features a-don’t-mess-with-me-look. She stood tall and regal like the goddess that she was. She was so beautiful it took his breath away. “Are you ready?” she asked.

  He supposed he was as ready as he would ever be. “Yes.”

  She gave him a curt nod. “You will win this.”

  He was glad someone thought he could. He glanced at the foreboding figure on the hill; waiting to cut his head off by the way he gripped his broad sword with glee. He gulped back the fear that threatened to break loose and pulled back his shoulders, standing tall. Then he went out to meet the enemy, his weapon in his hand.

  As he drew closer, he saw the enemy wore a tattoo on his scalp in place of hair. If he remembered his Celtic symbols, the twin spirals at the crown signified something similar to the yin and yang in the Chinese culture. At the base there was the awen aka, the three rays representing the light seen at the point of death. The right ray would symbolize the masculine and the left the feminine. The central was the mediator, the balance—again the ying and yang. There always had to be balance—good and evil as well as life and death. If he survived this battle, he’d live and if he lost—death. Was the enemy the disease that threatened to take over his body? A part of him believed it to be true.

  Standing in front of the enemy now, the hideous face spread into a wide smile as if reading his mind. Darkened stubs of what were once teeth filled the foul mouth. His garments were dark and fur laden as seemed to be the trend in this world. One scar was evident down the length of his face, starting at his eye and ending at the point of his chin. His eyes were dark, an endless pool of inky blackness.

  Trey touched the hilt of his sword and felt comfort in having the cold steel at his side.

  The enemy took his stance with his sword held out in front of him with the point aimed at Trey’s eyes.

  Trey responded in kind. He gripped the sword with one hand above the cross-like T of the sword. With his other hand, he gripped near the pommel so to be able to grasp the blade if he needed to defend himself from heavy blows. He lifted the sword high, with the point aimed at the enemy’s eyes. Fair was fair, if the enemy planned on impaling his brain, he had no problem returning the favor.

  Each had their gaze locked on the other’s moves as they circled one another. Trey knew he had to find a weakness to win. He would then call upon the Gáe Bulg, the barbed spear and drive it into the enemy’s heart.

  Trey couldn’t stand the suspense. He made the first move, going for the enemy’s left leg right above the knee, swinging the sword around and down with the intent of immobilizing him. The enemy side stepped to the right, blocking the blow with his sword. His guttural chuckle of amusement rang through the air as he took his sword and swung it clockwise, making a cut on Trey’s leg right above the knee before he had a chance to side step. The slice stung like the devil, but it wasn’t a deep enough cut to cause any permanent damage.

  They backed off and circled again. Sweat glistened on Trey’s brow and he felt the droplets trickle down his face. “Focus, Brennan,” he coaxed under his breath. He could ill afford making another rash mistake if he wanted to succeed in taking the bastard down.

  “I thought you’d be a challenge,” the enemy said, his voice gra
velly and deep but spoken with a precise manner of politeness, which seemed a contradiction to the severity of their swordplay.

  Trey didn’t acknowledge his comment but attacked again, swinging the sword toward the enemy’s head, passing to his left and around as he did so. The cold steel sliced through the air, but before making contact, the enemy sensed his move and side stepped to the right, making a sloping parry by angling his sword across and downwards protecting his head. The enemy swung his sword to the left, forcing Trey to bring his blade up to defend the blow.

  Trey backed up. He lowered the sword, saving his energy while he waited for the enemy to make his move. His breath was labored and his leg hurt, throbbing in time with the beat of his heart.

  “You will not survive,” the enemy predicted. “You should bow down now and let me end your misery. I shall make it fast. One slice to the neck.” He slid his forefinger across his neck in imitation of his intent.

  “Never.” Screw waiting for the enemy to make a move. At this rate he would talk him to death. Trey lifted his sword and went after him with vengeance, but the enemy blocked him at every turn as if he mirrored his moves. Metal against metal sparked like lightning as the swords connected. Trey began to weaken. The enemy’s blows vibrated down his arm until he thought he’d lose the sword all together. The weapon felt like lead in his hands and his limbs moved as if trudging through mud.

  The evil smile seemed frozen on the enemy’s face. “You are no threat to me, Trey Brennan. You cannot win this fight. Give up.”

  “No.” Trey had lowered his sword and barely missed being sliced in two as the blade whipped across his stomach, leaving a nice thin cut like a brand. It was only a flesh wound, but deep enough to remind him of his mortality. Clutching his side he wavered on his feet before tumbling to the ground. He wiped the sweat away from his eyes and tried to rise, but his feet wouldn’t obey.

  “It’s over.” The enemy raised his sword.

  Trey managed to get to his knees. He wouldn’t die lying down. He’d meet death on his feet. His vision caught a movement behind the enemy and fear gripped him. “Scáthach, no!” he shouted his warning as the enemy whirled around to fight her, already sensing her presence.

  “You will not take my warrior.” Her voice commanded with authority, fully expecting the enemy to comply.

  “Your warrior,” he mocked. “He is not yours. You cannot keep him like a pet, Scáthach.” He swung his sword, but Scáthach parried with ease.

  Trey looked down at his feet where the Gáe Bulg appeared the moment Scáthach did, but this wasn’t the way it was suppose to be. Scáthach wasn’t supposed to put herself in danger. This was his fight.

  The enemy swung his sword up and around, hooking Scáthach’s sword and flinging it from her grip. He had to move or the enemy would kill her.

  As the enemy raised his sword to take his beloved Scáthach’s head, he also raised the Gáe Bulg, bringing it down and using it like a javelin, spearing the enemy just below the ribs before shoving it deeper with an upward thrust. The enemy bellowed as the barbs opened inside of him, cutting away and severing as it forged its way into his heart. The dark eyes of his enemy focused on him with hatred before glazing over. Death took him before he hit the ground.

  Scáthach looked up at Trey, her blue eyes sparkling with approval. “You did it. You defeated the enemy.”

  Trey offered his hand to her. “You were not supposed to be in the midst of the fight. You could have been killed.”

  “Are you reprimanding me, warrior?”

  It seemed wrong to reprimand a goddess, but damn it any way. “Yes.” He pulled her to him and crushed his mouth to hers, kissing her like there was no tomorrow.

  She reluctantly pulled away, her hand on his chest.

  “No.” He tried to pull her to him once more, but she was persistent.

  “You will have to go now.”

  “Go? Why? I won. Shouldn’t I be able to claim the fair maiden?” His voice teased, but he was serious. He wouldn’t give her up so easily.

  Her lips curved. “Oh, aye my warrior. If it is your wish, you have the right to claim the fair maiden.” She touched the spiral Celtic symbols on her gold band that she wore on her arm. He remembered now what the symbols represented: Links to other worlds. She was sending him home.

  “Scáthach don’t.” He closed his eyes to block out the pain. He felt like every molecule in his body was splitting apart. Did he escape death only to succumb to this?

  “Don’t fight it.” Scáthach’s voice drifted toward him like a caress, a farewell kiss before all went black.

  Chapter Eight

  Every bone in his body ached as if someone had beaten him to a bloody pulp and left him for dead. Sleep seemed the best course of escape, but he forced himself to open his eyes. Deep brown irises stared at him unblinkingly. “Joey?”

  “Uncle Trey, you’re awake. The doctors said you’d be waking up soon, but they didn’t always think you would. They thought you were a goner a few days ago.”

  Leave it to his nephew to say it like it was. “I fought.” His voice sounded rough from lack of use.

  “Scáthach did it,” Joey said in breathless wonder. “I saw the prayer in the book you gave me about Celtic Gods and Goddesses.” He ran over to the chair and brought back the book to show him. “Your doctor told me your body was in a battle, fighting to make you well.”

  A nurse strode in with a cart to monitor his vitals. “Oh, you’re awake. Good.”

  “Scáthach,” Trey mumbled, remembering the dream. It was a dream, wasn’t it? He frowned. She’d made him a warrior and he had fought. “I feel like crap. Did I win the fight or not?” he asked the nurse.

  She chuckled. “You won. Dr. Laine said the tests came back and everything looked great. You’re going to be fine. You should be going home by the end of the week.”

  “Uncle Trey, did she make you a warrior?” Joey asked.

  “I…” he didn’t know what to say. He remembered the training and Scáthach, the beautiful goddess who had helped him.

  “If anyone qualifies as being a warrior, your uncle does,” the nurse told Joey. “He’s a real miracle and you don’t get to see that every day.”

  * * * *

  Later on, Joey had gone home with his friend, Christopher. His parents were good enough to let Joey stay with them while he was in the hospital. Thank goodness for nice people. Trey slept, only waking when a nurse would come in to check his vitals. He would then drift off to sleep with ease once more.

  In the morning he felt well enough to join some of the other long-termed patients in the lounge. The room had tables, and a flat screen television set on caption so as not to disturb those who wished to play cards or just talk.

  Jenna, his nurse for the day wheeled him down the hall toward the lounge, chatting all the way. “There’s a patient here who came out of a coma after being in one for six months. Just like that.” She snapped her fingers. “The weird thing is when she woke up, she asked for you. What are the odds that you two would know each other?”

  Trey turned in his seat to peer at her. “This woman knows me?”

  “Yes, I thought you would like to chat with her. Here she is.”

  “Who did you say she was?” Before Jenna could answer she had wheeled him around to face the woman who had awakened with his name on her lips. His breath caught in his throat. “Scáthach?”

  “My warrior,” she greeted him.

  They spoke at the same time and laughed.

  “I’ll let you two catch up,” the nurse said and left them.

  Trey stared at this woman before him. He couldn’t help it. The light from the window beamed down on her raven strands of hair, making them shimmer with cinnamon, russet, and red amber. His gaze took in her beautiful face with those kissable lips. “It is you.”

  Her brows puckered. “You called me Scáthach. My name is Skye. Do we know each other?”

  Now it was his turn to be confused. “I thought you kn
ew me. The nurse said…”

  Her face turned a nice shade of pink. “I dreamt about you. I knew your name.” She cleared her throat. “You were a warrior and…”

  “And you were Scáthach,” he finished for her.

  Her blush deepened. “It wasn’t a dream, was it? You were there. We fought with swords and we made…” Her eyes widened as she obviously remembered those wonderful other things they’d done.

  He didn’t pretend to understand what this all meant. Maybe in another realm she was a goddess and he was her warrior. Together, they had conquered the enemy, making them well and whole again. However, they were in this world and goddesses and warriors of legends weren’t real. Or were they? It was all in the eye of the beholder, he supposed.

  “Let’s start over. Let me introduce myself. I’m Trey Brennan.” He held out his hand.

  “I’m Skye Alba.” Her hand slipped into his, warm and soft. Her blue-eyed gaze met his, and anticipation thickened the air. He knew with all certainty they had the promise of tomorrows within their grasp.

  The End

  The Devil's Wolf

  Chapter One

  15th Century Scottish Border

  “The Johnstones took Archie!”

  Waylon Maxwell heard shouts and turned, spotting Reid Halliday, with his fiery locks whipping behind him, as he ran down the hill. “He’s been taken, I say,” Reid shouted again.

  Waylon left one of his men to secure the livestock they managed to secret away from the Armstrongs. The herd would be safe within the hollow of the four hills of Devil’s Beef Tub, but he didn’t want the creatures wandering off.

  “Say ye, cousin. What are ye shouting aboot?” He met Reid halfway.

  “Archie’s been accused of killing Two-left Feet, Billy Johnstone over a lass. The Johnstones plan on making an example of Archie. They bound him and dragged him off to Lochwood forest.”

  Waylon pursed his lips together in frustration. “A damn fool my brother is,” he grumbled. “I told him time and time again no’ to let his roving eye wander far. Blessed saints, a Johnstone lass of all things. Doesnae the young fool know there’s a feud between us?”