The Warrior Trainer

by Gerri Russell

  She wanted to say something, anything to wipe the shadows away, but Maisie appeared, clutching a wooden bowl that usually held one of her curatives. She offered the bowl to Scotia. "You will need this to treat her."

  "Nay." Scotia waved the bowl away. "I shall not let you drug her. We need answers before she can sleep."

  A gentle smile came to Maisie's lips. "This is merely water for cleanin' the child, Scotia."

  "Oh." Scotia sat back on her heels, chagrined by her reaction to something any mother would want to provide a child, especially one in distress. It was a blatant reminder of what a poor mother she would make.

  Maisie offered Scotia the bowl and linen again.

  Scotia shook her head, keeping her hands well away from the objects. "You had best cleanse her. I do not wish to harm her further."

  "Children are far more durable than you think," Maisie chided as she set about gently removing the blood and dirt from the child's face. Maisie wiped the deep cut, and the girl winced.

  "There now, sweeting. You are safe with us," Ian soothed while Maisie worked.

  Lizbet's gaze moved from Maisie and Ian to Scotia. "Make the bad men go away," she said in a voice thick with fear. "Mama tried, but she was not strong like you."

  Ian and Scotia shared a wary glance across the child's makeshift bed. "What kind of bad men?” Ian asked.

  Lizbet closed her eyes and started to tremble. "A big man on a white horse."

  The king and his armies Scotia did not fear. The current English king had yet to prove himself as powerful a leader as his father before him. Nay, there was another force of destruction she feared above all others: the Four Horsemen. Her blood ran cold at the thought.

  "Was he alone?" Scotia prompted as she stroked the rounded pink cheek closest to her. When tears spilled from Lizbet's eyes, Scotia snatched her hand back, fearing she had hurt the child.

  "I only saw... the big man and the fire," she whispered. "He killed Mama ... with an arrow."

  A cry of sorrow echoed deep within Scotia as she remembered that image from her own past. Her heartbeat thundered in her ears, mimicking the sound of horses approaching the castle.

  She had been older than Lizbet during her own encounter with the Four Horsemen, but the fear had been the same. A gust of wind had swirled through the great hall as the door slammed against the wall, one more sound in a monotonous litany heard since the siege on the castle began that morning. The cry of war tore through the open space, raising the gooseflesh on Scotia's arms. A formless shape emerged through the doorway, a crossbow raised to strike. It was then that she realized this sound had stood apart from the rest. So near, so threatening.

  Her body began to quake as the shape took the form of a man, his white cape billowing around his shoulders. He flashed her an eerie smile, one that made him look almost familiar. He moved closer.

  Scotia knew she should run, yet her feet would not obey. He moved closer, then closer still. Recognition flared in her memory. She had not seen him before, but she knew who he was, a specter of death who had come to kill.

  The air in the room seemed to press in around her, warning her to flee. With his free hand, the man reached out to grab her. Her feet shuffled backward and, thankfully, he grabbed only air. She continued backward, out of his grasp.

  His smile dissolved as his face twisted in rage. A roar that seemed to come from the depths of hell itself filled the chamber. The sound went on and on, sending the other occupants in the hall fleeing for their lives.

  He lifted his bow again and took aim at her. Only in the face of death did her feet find flight. She spun around just in time to feel the bite of an arrow in her back as she ran toward Maisie and Burke. They stood at the edge of the shadows, but she could see them clearly. As her heartbeat drowned out all else, they coaxed her to them, anxiety and fear written on their usually serene faces. Scotia thrust herself into the protection of Maisie's bosom before she drew a rasping breath around the pain exploding in her back and dared to look behind her.

  Her tormentor had turned away, toward more worthy prey. Scotia tightened her grip on Maisie's arm, and cried out, screaming in sharp pain like a child who has just put her hand on a kettle from the fire.

  "Mother!" she screamed as an arrow pierced her mother's armor. "Mother!" she shrieked, struggling within the arms that held her like a vise. Before she could break free Maisie pulled her away, into the depths of the castle.

  Mother. The word echoed through her head as the memory faded. Scotia stared at the young child before her, trembling with the same terror that had changed her life so many years ago.

  The Four Horsemen.

  The thought of the mounted warriors sent icy fear to her core. Scotia shot to her feet and bolted from the hall, the ghosts of the past chasing at her heels. Only one thing would keep the memories and her growing panic at bay.

  As she ran blindly from the hall, down the long corridor, her footsteps echoed the question burning in her mind. Could she, one woman alone, be enough to right the wrongs the Four Horsemen had inflicted on her and her country since her mother's death? When she was younger, she had thought so. But that was when her life, her beliefs, her experiences were all black and white, like the fairy stories where good always prevailed over evil. But in the last few years doubts had replaced her confidence, tarnishing her hopes and dreams.

  And without hope, without dreams, what else was there to provide strength to her spirit?

  Training, discipline, hard work, her thoughts answered back. Those actions had always brought her comfort when she had foundered. They would help her now.

  At the doorway of her training chamber, Scotia paused to bow her head, waiting for silence to fill her mind as it always did when she entered this room. It was how her mother trained her to approach her fighting—with a clear mind.

  This evening, that sense of solitude eluded her. The unsettling memories of her mother's death whirled through her thoughts. Scotia raised her eyes and looked at the wall of weapons before her, her gaze coming to rest on her mother's sword. The weapon was all that remained of the once great warrior, except for the memories held in the recesses of her daughter's mind.

  With great difficulty, Scotia grasped her trembling hands together and struggled to clear her thoughts. Her mother would disapprove of any sort of emotion while in the training chamber. Scotia drew in a slow, deep breath until she felt the tension in her shoulders ease and her inner turmoil fade.

  Once more in control of herself, she entered the room, making an effort to leave the outside world and all her uncertainty behind.

  Silver shafts of moonlight spilled across the open floor. She wrapped herself in the warmth as she unfastened her belt and placed her sword at her feet, within reach if she had need of it. For now, her training would be only for her—a reminder of her beginnings and of her connection to her past.

  She closed her eyes and allowed the silence of the chamber to flow around her. Cool evening air bathed her skin as she began to stretch, muscle by muscle, isolating each one, from her feet to her neck, preparing for the rite she would push herself to endure.

  As her body began to relax and her breathing focused her mind, she started to move, sending her body through a ritual of precise movements until all thoughts disappeared and only her body and breathing remained.

  Forget your fears. The mantra began, matching the beat of her heart. Over and over the words played through her mind until the shadows receded and light took its place. The future stretched before her, new, unwritten, a void filled with hope once again.

  As the light of the moon shifted to overhead, Scotia finally sank to her knees before her sword, her body bathed in sweat, too exhausted to push herself further. Her muscles burned, and she welcomed the pain. It gave her focus and silenced her fears.

  In this chamber, she had no doubts about who she was. Her purpose seemed clear. Here, she felt the presence of all the Scotias who had come before her. Their strength and wisdom would protect her, h
elp her remember her purpose.

  "I defend Scotland by training other warriors," she whispered, reminding herself of her goal. "I must defend the Stone." She pulled her shoulders back. "I must have a successor." The last words escaped her before she could stop them. Those were the words she had learned, but they were words she could not embrace for herself. Not until her battle with the Four Horsemen was through. The image of Ian crept inside her mind. He held her close, his arms warm and sheltering. With him she felt safe, cared for, even .. .

  She refused to let the sentiment form. She and Ian had no future together, temporary or otherwise. The sooner she accepted that, the better off she would be. When she finished here, she would find Ian and continue the conversation her guard had interrupted earlier.

  By tomorrow he would be gone. With the resolution came a bittersweet ache that opened the deepest, darkest wounds inside her. Whether she liked it or not, Ian's presence in her life, however short, would forever leave a footprint across her soul.

  But even wounded warriors went on, and somehow she would find a way to do just that. Scotia forced her breathing into a slow, even rhythm. She had to think about her challengers, her duty, the battle ahead. When the Four Horsemen came for her, she would be ready. She placed the palms of her hands on the flat blade of her sword, finding further comfort in the coolness of the metal.

  Her mother's past mistakes would not be her own. She would make certain of it.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Outside the training chamber, Ian leaned against the open doorway, unwilling and unable to intrude as Scotia wove her lean and muscular body through the steps of a primal dance. There was no doubt she was a woman of action, a warrior, who had lived by the strength of her body, her wit, and her sword.

  She was a woman who had admitted to making a mistake.

  A woman. Not a mythic being. Not some supernatural entity. A woman of flesh who could live and die by the sword.

  Suddenly uneasy, Ian pushed away from the door. He had always courted death, taunted it even, wishing to find some sort of release from his failings within its grasp. No one but Abbus would miss him if he were gone.

  But if Scotia died, an entire country would mourn her loss.

  He narrowed his gaze upon her as she continued her punishing routine. How could he have possibly thought the Warrior Trainer was only a legend? While growing up in the clan he had heard stories of her, just as he'd heard stories of other Scots throughout history. But he had assumed she had died, along with all the other historical figures. At least that's what the storytellers had wanted him to believe.

  How had she, a living legend, faded from the memory of her people for the last twelve years? And more importantly, why?

  Ian studied the legend before him. Her concentration focused on her movements, on the inhuman physical endurance she forced herself to attain. With all her efforts elsewhere, her guard had dropped, revealing a haunted desperation in her eyes. He also noted the determined set of her chin and the violence in her swordless thrusts.

  The violence of her thrusts. The need for revenge.

  The realization shocked him. It was revenge that drove her to this room. Revenge against the Four Horsemen? Her behavior had certainly changed abruptly after Lizbet's revelation.

  Along with the heated emotion, he also saw vulnerability, hurt, and betrayal. He recognized the emotions, understood them, because he walked the same nightmare, shared the same double-edged sword of fear and fearlessness.

  Ian closed his eyes, bracing himself against the onslaught of compassion that swept over him. He did not want to care about this woman. He did not want any kind of connection to her at all. He had followed her to this room to finish the conversation they had begun earlier. Freedom from his training and her castle was all he sought.

  Ian opened his eyes, regarding Scotia with new insight. He wanted to leave, needed to forward his own goals. So why did he suddenly long to stay?

  "MacKinnon."

  His gaze moved to hers. Green eyes filled first with uncertainty that faded to a soft, pleased glow.

  "I did not mean to disturb you." Ian attempted a smile, but failed. "I shall leave you alone."

  "Nay." She picked up her sword, then stood, the movement exuding strength and vibrancy despite the fatigue she must feel. "I am done here."

  "Battling demons?" He remained at the doorway, the distance between them a sudden buffer of safety.

  The pleasure on her face slipped as she refastened her belt and sword. She hesitated only a moment before bringing her gaze back to his. Her open vulnerability brought mauve smudges to the smooth skin beneath her eyes. "How did you know?"

  She had not tried to lie or cover up her feelings. Instead, she had confessed her inner thoughts to him. This brave, strong, independent female had dropped her armor, however temporarily, exposing herself. He knew he should turn and walk away. Instead he stepped into the room, drawn to the vulnerability she laid bare before him, unable to resist its lure.

  "Experience." Ian approached her cautiously, not wanting to trigger her defenses. "From experience I also know nothing will shed those demons until the Horsemen are dead."

  A lost, almost tortured expression passed through her eyes. "I shall challenge them when the time is right."

  "You will challenge them alone?"

  She hesitated, a slight check no longer than a heartbeat, before she drew herself up, pulling that wall of reserve about herself once more. "With my army."

  "Of inexperienced fighters," he added. "How will you fight all four of the Horsemen, plus their army, without other strong warriors to aid you?"

  Her gaze moved beyond him to the weapons that lined the walls of her chamber and he could only assume the direction of her thoughts.

  "You only have two hands, Scotia. Even with all those weapons, you can only fight with one or two of them at a time."

  "What would you have me do, turn and run? I did that once when I was a child. I shall not do it again." Pain darkened her eyes. "But if my plan to separate the Horsemen succeeds, I shall take them on one at a time."

  "You are not a one-woman army. Aye, you are a great fighter. But even great fighters can die."

  The force of his own words hit him. She would fight the Horsemen exactly as he always fought his battles, not caring about his own life, only the outcome of the battle.

  "I do not wish to kill all of them." Emotion clotted her throat. "Only one."

  "Which one?" He knew the answer even as he asked the question. Scotia's reaction to Lizbet's terror told him all he needed to know. "If you are fortunate enough to meet only one Horseman, then what? You will sacrifice yourself to the other three?" He ignored the stab of familiarity her plan had to his own course of action. "I cannot allow you to do such a thing. It is not your deed." It is mine, he finished silently.

  She touched his arm and he could feel the slight tremble of her fingers through the linen of his shirt.

  He pulled his gaze away, feeling suddenly too exposed to her assessment.

  "Why are you so concerned for my safety.” She paused. "Unless it is not my safety you are worried about at all."

  Her fingers slipped from his arm, leaving a chill in their absence. "The shadows on your face tell me what your words do not." She moved about him now, in a slow, methodic circle. "I finally understand. It is not your foster father's wish that you train with me that brought you here. Nay, your whole motive was revenge."

  "My plans do not matter." He turned away, but she caught him by the arm. Instead of angry and hard, her fingers were soft, comforting.

  "They matter to me. You matter to me."

  He swallowed hard, blindsided by her admission. No one had ever said such a thing to him before. No one had accepted him for who he was, expecting nothing more.

  He swallowed again, breathing too hard, overwhelmed and uncomfortable. He did not want her to care. He had other plans for what remained of his life.

  With difficulty, Ian pulled away from her
touch. "I am honor-bound to avenge the murder of my brother, Malcolm. And I am not afraid of that destiny, Scotia. By my sword, I shall see that revenge is mine."

  Scotia watched him with gentle understanding. "I do not intend to fight the Four Horsemen alone. Not unless I have to. My warriors will separate the Horsemen, in time. And when they do, I shall be ready."

  She made it sound so easy, so effortless. But it wasn't. To fight the Four Horsemen brought only death and destruction. It would bring death and destruction to her unless he did something to intervene.

  "We are so alike, you and I," she said as a look of tender sadness crossed her face. "Do you ever wonder why we were given the gift to fight like we do?"

  He tensed, disarmed by the quick change in tactic. What was she up to? "Your meaning?"

  "Do you wonder why we were given such a wonderful and yet horrible gift? We kill people, Ian. One swipe of our swords and our opponent can lay dead before us."

  "We fight against the evils of this world."

  "That may be so. But do you ever think beyond the revenge? What is to come of you after the battle, after your revenge is spent?"

  After the battle ... He had never allowed himself to consider such a possibility before. Fighting injustice wherever he found it had always been enough for him.

  Until coming to this castle. Until meeting this woman. Until now.

  He clenched his fists at his side, willing his old ways to rush back to him, to fill the spaces inside him with the burning need for revenge. Nothing came. His old ways had incinerated at his feet the moment he agreed to train with Scotia.

  She had opened his eyes to another way to fight. She had changed him. Damn the woman. In less than a fortnight, she had changed the very nature of what drove his actions.

  He should walk away from this place now while he still could, and seek his revenge without hesitation. She had been about to release him earlier. If he pushed, she might do so again. "Release me from my promise."

  Was it his imagination, or did he detect the lightest sheen of tears in her eyes? Before he could be certain she looked away. "Will you stand alone against the fury of the Four Horsemen and their army?"