Table of Contents
Chapter OneThe Final Return
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
The Sentinel
by
Avril Borthiry
Copyright © 2017 by Avril Borthiry
Kindle Edition
Published by Dragonblade Publishing, an imprint of Kathryn Le Veque Novels, Inc
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
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Endearing
Condemned by an ancient spell, Turi has wandered the earth for thirteen centuries. Thirteen hundred years of regret, loneliness, and anguish. He has paid the price. Served his sentence. Endured a punishment brought about by a tragic betrayal.
Now, as his torturous existence draws to a close, Turi returns to the land of his birth, eager to find the peace that has eluded him for so long.
Cristen St. Clair is a fugitive. Alone and defenseless, she is easy prey for men who would do her harm – until an enigmatic warrior comes to her aid.
It is a fated meeting. Turi and Cristen each have something to offer – and they each have something to hide.
But before their shocking secrets are even brought to light, they are faced with another daunting challenge. The Black Death has already decimated the lands across the narrow sea. It is merciless. Deadly.
And it has just arrived on England’s southern shores.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Books from Dragonblade Publishing
About the Book
Epigraph
Dedication
Glossary
The Beginning
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Epilogue
Author Notes
About the Author
“Go on and increase in valor,
for this is the path to immortality.”
Virgil
70 – 19 BCE
For Ingrid.
Glossary
Aeron – Welsh god of war.
Alba – Scotland.
Albion – the oldest known name for Britain.
Éire – Ireland.
Ellan Vannin – Manx name for the Isle of Man.
Green Man – Open to conjecture. Believed to be a pre-Christian entity, he is nevertheless commonly represented in ancient church carvings/sculptures throughout Britain and Europe.
Manx – Native (Gaelic) language of the Isle of Man.
Môr-afon – the old Welsh name for the river Mersey.
Saesneg – Welsh word for English. (Language and race)
Shaner – Manx Gaelic for grandfather.
Terce – The third of the canonical hours, usually 9am.
Uffern – Hell in Welsh mythology.
Ynys Dywyll (Dark Isle) – Ancient name for the Welsh isle of Anglesey.
y seren gogledd – Welsh for the North Star.
The Beginning
Meeting Hall
The sacred isle of Ellan Vannin
Midsummer, AD 48
“Was the bitch worth it?”
Beven’s putrid breath and flecks of spittle hit Turi in the face. He flinched and tried to straighten his exhausted legs, needing to ease the stress on his tethered arms. Suspended from an overhead beam, the harsh ropes that held him gnawed like rats at his wrists, and the wound in his side throbbed as he peered at Beven through swollen eyelids.
“You know she was not.” Turi’s voice grated over his parched throat. “You should have left me there to die with them.”
“I agree.” Beven’s fist slammed into Turi’s side and a sharp spear of pain sliced through his core. Winded, he convulsed, the merciless bonds preventing him from doubling over. A fresh rivulet of blood trailed a warm path over his left hip and down his leg.
Beven’s lip curled. “I have yet to fathom Pendaran’s wisdom in bringing you here. I pray it is because he intends to mete out a more painful punishment than even Rome could contrive. Yours cannot be a quick death. You must suffer. You must scream and beg for mercy as you die, as did our women and children when the flames took them. As did my wife!”
Saliva drooled from Turi’s mouth as he gasped for breath. “Do with me… what you will. No physical pain can equal the anguish I feel in my heart. I shall welcome death when it comes. To live with what I have done would be –”
“I care nothing for your anguish, so spare me your empty remorse!”
Turi heaved as Beven’s fist again found its mark. Agony sliced through him once more and threw his mind into a nauseating spiral. He felt himself sliding toward the edge of a dark abyss and welcomed the merciful plunge. Then, from somewhere above the pounding in his ears, he heard the grind of a hinge on metal. Torch flames flickered and a waft of damp air brushed across his face.
&
nbsp; “Leave him be!”
Turi recognized the voice. For as long as anyone could remember, it had passed judgement and law on his people. It belonged to Pendaran, the most revered and feared of all druid priests. This, the sacred isle of Ellan Vannin, was his hallowed domain. Turi was at the priest’s mercy, although there could only be one certain punishment.
Sight blurred by pain and wood smoke, Turi squinted, trying to focus on the hazy outline of the druid as he approached. He was considered to be nothing less than an earthbound god, chosen to walk among his mortal underlings. It was said he even possessed the ability to see and speak with the dead. Draped in robes of rich, sky blue, he appeared to float across the earthen floor.
A sudden and profound sense of sadness darkened Turi’s thoughts further. His life was about to end, and deservedly so, yet he couldn’t help but lament the imminent loss of his future.
At that moment, an unexpected waft of air lifted the hair on his flesh. Its source a mystery, it swept over Turi’s body like a fresh, spring breeze. He inhaled, convinced he imagined the sweet fragrance of thyme that filled his nostrils. Another wisp, akin to the touch of a cool hand, brushed across his fevered brow and the anguish in his head dissipated. He groaned and embraced a sweet sense of peace as a vision arose from the shadows of his mind. What merciful distraction was this?
A fresh, autumn day in what appeared to be an orchard. At least, they looked like apple trees, their leaves edged in gold. A black dog’s excited bark and gales of childish laughter carried on the air. A small, dark-haired boy galloped in circles, the stick between his legs an imaginary horse. What was this? A long-forgotten memory? Or a reminder of the innocent lives lost because of him? Turi swallowed against an urge to weep and tasted blood.
“Great Lord.” Beven’s harsh voice shattered Turi’s vision like a hammer on a clay pot. “I ask you show no mercy to this snake. He deserves to suffer for what he has done.”
“And suffer he shall.” Pendaran grabbed a handful of Turi’s hair and tugged up on his scalp, forcing him to meet the druid’s gaze. “Leave us, Beven.”
“But, Lord, I wish to –”
“Leave us!”
“Very well.” Beven spat at Turi’s feet. “A thousand curses upon your soul, Turi. May it burn in the fires of Uffern forever.”
Only when the door closed with a thunderous bang did Pendaran release his grip. Turi’s chin dropped to his chest, but he gritted his teeth and lifted it again, neck muscles straining as he locked eyes with the priest once more. Pendaran swept a glance over Turi’s naked form.
“Do you challenge me, Setantii?”
Turi gave a sardonic smile. “’Tis clear I’m in no position to challenge anyone.”
A corner of the priest’s mouth twitched. “Most mortals cower before me. You do not.”
“To cower would imply fear. I respect you, Lord, but do not fear you.”
The priest raised a brow. “Do you fear death?”
“Nay.” He grimaced. “By all the gods, I welcome it.”
“Hmm.” Expression thoughtful, Pendaran circled Turi, pausing behind him. “And what of pain? Do you fear that?”
Turi suppressed another surge of nausea as he set his feet flat and tried to straighten his weary legs. “I take no pleasure from the giving or receiving of it.”
Other than the crackle of flame from the torches, the air fell silent. The scent of thyme had dissipated. Now, Turi’s nostrils flared at the stench of his own sweat and blood. Like a war drum, the wound in his side throbbed in time with the pulse in his head. He closed his eyes and cursed his foolishness for the thousandth time.
“Aye, you were a fool,” Pendaran said, still at Turi’s back, “but you are not the first man to suckle on a treacherous breast. Nor will you be the last, I fear.”
Turi’s eyes flew open. Had he voiced his thoughts out loud? “You should have left me there to die,” he murmured.
“At the hands of our enemies?” Pendaran clicked his tongue. “I think not, Setantii. The debt for your foolishness is owed to us, not to them. What, by Arawn’s sacred sword, persuaded you to bring a stranger back to your village?”
An image drifted into Turi’s mind. A forest clearing at dusk. The carcass of an impressive buck, felled with a well-aimed arrow. And the sudden appearance of a young woman with muddied flesh and torn clothes. In little more than a heartbeat, Turi had nocked another arrow and aimed it at the woman’s breast, ready to shoot and kill.
Who was she? What did she want?
The northern forests had long since trembled with tales of the Roman advance. Turi’s village still lay untouched. Hidden. Buried deep within the ancient stands of oak, beech and elm that bordered môr-afon, the great sea-river. Despite the fear of invasion, Turi’s people lived as they always had, at the mercy and with the blessings of the gods.
But he had been warned – they had all been warned – to be vigilant. Suspicious of strangers. To kill unknown visitors rather than take the risk of betrayal or discovery. But the woman had fallen, weeping, to her knees and begged for mercy. She had fear in her eyes – eyes the color of stormy skies. Turi, curse his compassion, had believed her. He had lowered his bow and taken her back to his village.
And to his bed.
“She said she was an escaped slave, a daughter of the Gangani.” A bead of sweat, salty and burning, trickled into his eye. “She spoke our language as one born to it and begged for my help. I had no reason to doubt her.”
“Did she bear marks?”
Turi hesitated. “Marks?
“Those of a collar. Or a lash. Bruises. Scars, even. The common brands of slavery.”
“N-nay.”
“Then you had every reason to doubt her, Setantii.”
Turi swallowed against the bile in his throat. “I know that now.”
“Was she pleasing to look upon?”
“Like a goddess.” A lying, treacherous, goddess.
Pendaran appeared before him again. “A steel cock and a flaccid brain. ’Tis a common affliction among mortal men.”
Turi’s bit back a groan as the ropes bit harder into his arms. As each moment passed, he grew more exhausted. “I submit to all charges, Lord.”
“Those who remain are demanding your blood.”
“Give it to them.”
Pendaran narrowed his eyes and regarded Turi with a thoughtful expression. Then, muttering something under his breath, he drew a bejeweled dagger from beneath the folds of his cloak and ran his thumb along the edge of the blade. The scent of thyme drifted into Turi’s nostrils again, stronger this time. Bewildered, he closed his eyes and inhaled, drinking in the aroma as if seeking to sate some undefined thirst. Peace descended upon him once more, and yet another vision arose, unbidden, in his mind.
Seated on a stone bench beneath a sycamore tree, the woman had a pale, delicate profile. Someone of status, judging by her vestments. The style of clothing was strange to him, yet oddly familiar. Mottled sunlight fell through the overhead branches, capturing the flaxen hues of her braided hair. An unusual color. Rare among his people. The woman’s hands, resting in her lap, captured silver tears that fell from her eyes.
She meant something to him. Something important. But what? The vision was cloaked in silence, so Turi could not hear her weeping. Yet he felt her sorrow. He felt it to the depths of his soul, but knew not the reason for it. Who was she?
“I have watched you over the years.” Pendaran’s voice penetrated Turi’s strange reverie. “Savored your growth from boy to man.”
Turi blinked and the vision of the woman vanished. He was undoubtedly losing his mind. “I am honored by your interest in me, Lord.”
“I remember well the night you were born. A night your mother did not survive.”
Turi shifted and bit down against the resulting pain. “And I, of course, have no recollection of it, though my father placed the blame for her death on my shoulders.”
“Your father blamed no one but himself.” Pendar
an stepped closer and settled the point of the blade into the well of Turi’s throat. “You are a fine warrior, possessed of an honest and brave spirit. ’Tis a pity to rid the world of such a man.”
Turi grunted. “There are those beyond the door who would disagree.”
“Indeed.” With deliberation, the priest drew the point of the blade across Turi’s ribs, stopping at last atop his heart. “Finish what you were about to say, Setantii.”
Knowing the instrument of his death sat in readiness to strike, Turi struggled to focus on the unexpected demand. “Say?”
“When Beven was meting out his hatred earlier, he did not allow you to finish your declaration. To live with what I have done would be… what?” Pendaran lowered his voice. “What would it be?”
“It would be the ultimate torture, Great Lord.”
“Then to take your life this night would be no punishment at all.”
“Nay, I mean… my…my life should be forfeit.” Turi’s throat tightened. “I betrayed my tribe. Those women and children died because of me. It would be a sin to let me live.”
“What did you see?” The point of the blade bit into Turi’s flesh. “When you inhaled my essence just now, what visions arose in your mind?”
Turi gasped. “How did you –?”
“Answer me. Tell me what you saw.”
“A-a child. I first saw a child. A boy of maybe three summers.”
“Go on.”
“He was in an orchard, I think. Playing. Pretending to ride a horse.”
“The color of his hair?”
“Dark.”
“Like yours.”
Turi took a breath. “Aye, though I do not think it was me. I do not recall such a day.”
“And the second vision?”
“A woman.”
“Ah.” The priest smiled. “Describe the scene. Describe her. Tell me what you felt.”
Turi was about to die. Why was this relevant? “It… it looked like a courtyard of some kind. She was seated on a stone bench and wore fine clothes of a style unknown to me. She was young, fair of face, and had braided hair the color of ripe wheat. I felt as though I knew her, but I’m not sure from where. She was weeping and I felt her sadness. I felt it to the depths of my –”
The Sentinel (Legends of Love Book 3) Page 1