Highland Dragon Warrior

by Isabel Cooper

  There was no gap in her reasoning, no hole that Cathal could find to justify any argument. He would’ve given years of his life for one, but there was nobody to take him up on that offer, and so he could only nod. Where Sophia was going, he’d be more hindrance than help. Again he had to wait, and hope, and know himself to be useless.

  Just so, it came to him, how the women in the camps must have felt before battles. His mother too, mayhap. Real war had been more distant in Cathal’s youth; his mother had been a sorceress who could aid her husband from a distance; and even in age, Artair was harder to kill than the rocks around them, but there were always threats.

  If they endured, so could he. It was no new thing, sending one’s—

  Before Cathal’s mind could supply the word and shock him further, Sophia spoke again. “I believe I’m well supplied enough for the journey. If you think you’ll need food, waiting, I can leave some.”

  Cathal shook his head. “I’ll hunt. Should I get desperate, I’ll take a sheep and leave the coin for it later. And I’ve gone a fair few days without food before.”

  “If you’re in danger,” she said, “if we were wrong and he can track your presence even here, if you have to leave, you should. Leave me a sign if you can, but if I return and you’re not here, I’ll wait a night, then try to make my way back to your lands.”

  “My father’s.”

  Sophia waved a hand, not understanding why the distinction was important. In truth, Cathal wasn’t sure why he’d felt the need to make it just then, but it had been irresistible. “I’m only human, and there’s nothing exceptional about me. And I have coin and skills. I’ll be all right.”

  “Don’t,” he said. It was almost a growl, but she didn’t flinch.

  “Very well. I have as good a chance as anyone of being all right. Better than many people would have. It…” He saw the whites of her wide eyes, the swell of her breasts as she gulped air, and the swift motion with which she pushed back a stray lock of hair, as if she could tuck away fear as quickly and completely. “It shall suffice, yes?”

  “It must,” said Cathal.

  He wanted to tell her again that she didn’t need to do this. She could turn away from the path before her and the blighted place to which it led. She’d done enough. But that would be insulting, he knew, and besides, it was no longer the truth. The journey into Valerius’s domain was the best hope that any of them had. Sophia was the best person to make it now.

  And so there was nothing more he could do.

  “We will come for you,” he said. “If you’re captured. I’ll pluck Agnes out of her tower if I need to and get her to weave spells for us, or I’ll drag my father home from his treaties. Or I’ll manage what’s needed myself. I can, given time.”

  Unexpectedly, she smiled again, and in her smile was an echo of those hours flying beneath the stars, with only the two of them and no need for words. Even Cathal didn’t see her move when she stepped forward. She flowed toward him, reached up, and cupped the side of his face in one hand. “I would never doubt it,” Sophia said.

  “You’re wrong,” he said thickly, and clasped her shoulders in his hands. She looked up at him, startled, about to argue the point. “Not about rescue. Earlier.”

  “Wha—”

  “Everything about you is exceptional,” he said, and kissed her before she could reply.

  Rather, she didn’t reply in words. Her response was as desperate as his embrace. Sophia didn’t melt into his arms so much as throw hers around him, grasping him with the urgent strength he remembered from the flight, now colored and transformed by sensuality. As her mouth opened before his, her hands roamed his back, short nails almost scoring his skin even through his clothing.

  He kissed her as if by sheer force he could make them both forget what waited, as though with his lips and tongue and his hands on her breasts he could himself cast a spell to banish Valerius to whatever hell would claim him in the end. He drank Sophia’s little gasps of desire like the strongest wine and wanted nothing more than to hear those sounds, to feel her fingers twined in his hair, to think of nothing else, to think nothing at all.

  When he pulled away, far more gently than he’d kissed her, it wasn’t only his cock aching. Reality sat heavily on his chest, and the sight of Sophia’s face stirred a longing even more painful than the feel of her body. He’d managed to move his hands to her shoulders once more, but couldn’t let them fall back to his sides, not yet.

  “I…” Sophia raised a hand to touch her lips, swollen and possibly bruised. A chivalrous man would have apologized, but as she wasn’t complaining, Cathal couldn’t even pretend regret. “I should go, shouldn’t I?”

  No, he said silently.

  Aloud, forcing every syllable, he replied, “If we’re to do this—”

  “Then leaving won’t get any easier for waiting, will it?” she finished, smiling sadly.

  As usual, she spoke accurately. Every moment that passed made Cathal more reluctant to let her go at all. He shook his head.

  “Then…stay safe, as much as you can. I’ll do the same.”

  “Aye,” he said, and couldn’t get any other words through his throat.

  She turned. A small path, not much more than a game trail, led off through the forest and toward what Valerius probably called civilization. Cathal watched as she walked down it: small, fragile, and valiant in the shapeless night.

  Thirty-one

  Over several weeks, through both analysis and experiment, Sophia had come to acknowledge that the Valerius-sent nightmares could serve her cause. She’d never been glad of them, nor imagined that she could be. Her journey into the wizard’s lands changed that.

  A map of the two places would have been similar, accounting for the wayward nature of dreams: a forest on a hill, leading down to a valley with a large, dark castle in it. The dreams hadn’t shown the village and fields in between, and even from what little Sophia could see at a distance, the castle looked less dark and impregnable than its nightmare twin. More obviously, the sky was only normally overcast, the ground only vaguely damp, and no shadow-beasts chased her.

  It could be worse.

  Had Sophia not just known but also lived it, her walk toward the castle would have hit her like a runaway cart.

  She supposed the land itself wasn’t so very bad. The fields were stark and barren, but so would any field be, early in the year; the cottages were squat and dark, but that too seemed typical. She couldn’t see rivers of blood or heads on pikes. Mayhap the village she was approaching was no different from the ones she and Alice had occasionally passed through with their merchants, and she was only letting her task nibble around the edges of her mind. Or the difference might have been that she was alone and aware of the danger ahead and its nature.

  Yet there seemed a quality to the air that she couldn’t name, not quite the smell of rot nor a feeling of chill clamminess, but akin to both and just out of her perception.

  She remembered that she’d thought Loch Arach unwelcoming when first they’d arrived—and it still seemed less than precisely welcoming—but its remoteness had been honest. Walking toward the village, Sophia kept looking behind her, thinking to see…she didn’t know what, and she wouldn’t have wanted to name it if she had, not even in her own mind.

  When dawn broke and she saw the first villagers emerging from their cottages, heading forth to milk goats or cows and do various other farming tasks she found more mysterious than Greek or Latin, she approached one of the larger buildings and tapped on the door.

  The woman who answered was a year or two older than Sophia, dressed plainly but not poorly, but her face was more lined than Sophia would have expected, and very white until she saw who her visitor was. “Don’t have aught to spare for beggars,” she said.

  “I’m not,” Sophia protested, trying to keep any hint of an accent out of her English. “I’m
looking for work. My aunt—”

  “I’m not your aunt, and I’ve got no work. You don’t want to stay here,” said the woman, and shut the door.

  Having half expected a response of that nature, Sophia nonetheless found herself blinking, startled and disappointed to have her suspicions confirmed—and more nervous as well, because of the woman’s caution and her wary expression.

  The next cottage was smaller, and the girl at the door almost a child. She stared at Sophia with wide eyes, but shook her head when asked about work. “Should I try the castle, then?” Sophia asked.

  “Well…” The girl looked her over, taking in face, figure, and gown with a gaze older than Sophia had seen from most, even the poorer girls in Flanders. “Could be. You might do all right there for a bit. I…wouldn’t think to stay, though.”

  “No,” Sophia said. “I’m not staying.”

  She pulled her shawl tighter around herself and continued up the road. She’d hoped to gain admission long enough to ask questions, and that well before she got to the castle, but if she couldn’t even ask for work without meeting hostility, she didn’t think questioning would go very well. The castle it was, then, even if the sight of armed men in front of the main doors did tighten her stomach and make her skin crawl.

  They’re soldiers. Every lord has them. Cathal does.

  The back of her mind refused to accept that, and the rest of her feared that it was right. None of the guards offered her direct insult—Sophia guessed that the worst of the lot were away fighting with their master, and even here there seemed to be a few standards of civilization—but she wished it were still night, that they might not see her as well or at least that she might be less aware of their gazes.

  “Kitchens. Maybe. Doubt it,” one of them said and shrugged a shoulder, then glanced to his companion.

  “That’s Cook’s problem. Go on.”

  In the courtyard of Valerius’s castle, there were smells, and not the unavoidable sort that Sophia was used to from both cities and Loch Arach. One could never do much about waste or spoiled food, but there were methods of avoiding at least the worst. The people she’d grown up with had used them, and so had those at Loch Arach. Here, either those in residence couldn’t afford to do so or didn’t care.

  She endeavored not to think overmuch about it, averted her eyes, and breathed through her mouth. Up above her was the castle proper. She’d need a way into that, in case what she sought was written down. How did one become a maidservant?

  A hand grabbed her by the elbow, interrupting her thoughts. Sophia yelped and turned to glare, then closed her mouth and cast her eyes down when she realized it was another of the men-at-arms. “What’s your business here, girl, and why aren’t you about it?”

  “I-I was looking for the steward. For work.”

  The man—scrawny and tall, with lank hair and the smell of wine about him—grinned. “If it’s a few coins you want…” He pulled her toward him, strong enough to ignore her resistance.

  This would not be a good time to stab a man. “Sir,” she said, preparing an excuse, when another voice cut in.

  “She’s here for us, Adney. Leave off, unless you want to wait another fortnight next time your horse needs shoes.”

  The speaker was young, female, and very plainly dressed, but when she spoke, the guard let go of Sophia’s elbow. “Another girl, Gilleis?” he asked, looking Sophia over again and now with more dubiousness than lechery.

  Gilleis tossed her dark head. “Well, since all the men are away at war—”

  The slight was clearly intentional, and she was just as clearly prepared for the blow, ducking out of the way before Adney’s hand could do worse than clip the side of her head.

  He spat. “Go, then, both of you. And Gilleis, you run your mouth while you can. Not much time left for it.”

  The girl grabbed Sophia by the arm—it was getting to be a pattern, though her touch wasn’t nearly as offensive—and guided her across the courtyard, walking slowly enough that spectators couldn’t say she was fleeing. “Wouldn’t leave a dog with that pox-ridden son of a bitch if I could help it,” she said.

  “He seems a bad sort,” Sophia agreed tentatively.

  “A drunk pig,” Gilleis said, shrugging skinny shoulders. “There’s worse. Adney can’t do much more than box my ears, and he misses that easy enough, as you saw. You’re lucky you came here while his lot’s got the run of the place—seeing as you’re unlucky enough to come here at all. Or stupid enough, but you don’t look that.”

  “It was… I could find no other work,” Sophia said. They picked their way across the courtyard toward the outbuildings, headed toward one where she could see smoke rising from the roof. “You’re a smith?”

  “Apprentice.” Sharp black eyes took in Sophia’s stained dress and plain shawl. “Might you know anything about the work? Don’t be scared to say no. We won’t turn you out tonight, and I’m mortal sick of sweeping.”

  “I know fires, and the bellows a bit. And a little about metal, though I’ve not done any proper ironwork. And I can sweep.”

  “That’s a sight better than I’d thought you might say. Besides, I meant what I said to Adney, and Harry’s last apprentice took a Scottish arrow through the eye, from what we heard. Poor boy.” She spoke with genuine pity, but didn’t go on either to lament or to curse the Scots, for which Sophia, wincing inwardly, was grateful. “So he took me on, his father and mine being all but kin. And we’ve work enough for another pair of hands. Here…Harry!”

  She called to a man who stood by the forge, and he raised his head to look at them with slow, unhurried curiosity. Sophia saw that he was middle-aged and towheaded, tall and muscled as befit his profession, with a full beard neatly trimmed short.

  “Christ’s blood, Gilleis, and who’s this?” He swore genially and didn’t step out of the smithy but rather beckoned them in.

  Once she’d crossed the threshold, Sophia felt better. The feelings of wrongness didn’t lift, but it was as though a wall went up between her and them—thin enough that she knew what was on the other side, but a barrier nonetheless. She stopped short, blinking.

  “Come along,” said Gilleis. “He’s not as bad as he looks.”

  “No…not at all,” Sophia said, smiling an apology. “I only felt faint for a minute. It’s been a long day.”

  It was a weak excuse, but she’d use what she could. It both heartened her and shamed her to see the concern on both faces. She didn’t want to deceive good people—but oh, it made her glad to have anyone well-meaning at hand.

  “She’s looking for work,” Gilleis explained, pushing a stool in Sophia’s direction with one foot. “She says she’s used to fire and metal, some, and she can sweep. Adney was drooling down her neck, and I thought—”

  “I know well enough what you thought,” Harry said and sighed. “The time will come, and soon, when you’ll have to watch your tongue around the guards.”

  “I know. But it’s only Adney.”

  “For now.” He turned his attention to Sophia. “Sweeping will be a start. You can show me your other skills in time…if you think that’s wise.”

  “What do you mean, sir?” she asked, wondering if he’d already thought of alchemy.

  Harry regarded her gravely. “What’s your name, mistress?”

  When she’d set out, she’d planned to go by Meg—a common-enough name, and one with no connections to her real identity. Standing in the smith’s yard, however, she felt, as strongly as she’d felt her way in dreams, that she should speak the truth. “Sophia,” she said.

  “Well, Sophia. I can give you a place by the fire and food for as long as you want, and I can keep you safe as long as you keep sensible. Come tomorrow, I can also give you food to be journeying on with. And that would likely be the wiser course. A few days from now, this castle will be…”

  “No pl
ace for a woman alone?” Sophia filled in when he hesitated.

  “No place for almost anyone, if they can help it.”

  Thirty-two

  Cathal spent most of the first two days in a tree.

  He could have wished for a better season. The evergreens were the only trees that would hide his presence, and it was difficult to go very far up them without breaking the branches. He settled for a point about halfway up that offered a keen lookout for anyone coming. There he sat, or lay with his face pressed to the branch, and waited.

  He’d passed more interesting days. In his youth, he’d learned stillness, and at least how patience could serve a man on a hunt or a battlefield, and he was glad of both. Cathal watched the flight of birds: the owls that were now waking up from their winter sleep, the smaller birds that were beginning to arrive back, and the grouse that simply sought warmth in one location or another. He noted squirrels, when they’d woken up, and once saw a deer at the very outskirts of the clearing, though he wasn’t surprised when it moved no closer. They were as nervy as horses about smell, even when he was in human form.

  When the first night fell and he could be certain that nobody would see him, he killed one of the grouse—caught it quickly, broke its neck, and risked a very small fire to roast it, then buried the remnants with the ashes. As a dragon, he could have eaten it raw and whole, but he judged that course of action riskier than the fire.

  He woke on the second day with a crick in his neck and bark in his hair, and it started to rain midway through the afternoon. Sheltered by the branches, and thinking the weather would keep most men inside, woodcutter and hunter alike, he broke a small branch from higher up the tree and began idly to carve it. Cathal had no object in mind, either of use or of decoration, and yet it came as no surprise when the lines of the branch turned into a gowned human figure beneath his knife, and the face took on Sophia’s expression of delighted curiosity.