Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  In this game, it was most likely her cunning that would help her win.

  “Do not watch, my laird,” Aaron said.

  “Aye, my laird, avert your eyes,” Boarg added.

  But how could she not?

  If she’d thought that life on MacRae lands was harsh, she’d just entered an entirely new realm. One it seemed more likely she’d not escape from.

  “Tents this way,” shouted a scrawny guard from the second gate entrance—complete with another portcullis and opened thick wooden doors. “Hurry now, let me see your papers.”

  Ceana couldn’t have been more relieved when the man barely glanced at her after reading her name.

  “Go on through. Supper’s in an hour, leave your weapons in your tent. Best make haste, else you miss it. No quarter given.”

  ’Twas the second time she’d heard the term, no quarter given. From legends past, she’d known the war games were ferocious, that only the fiercest and mightiest won, but it had not seemed as real as it did now, and even still, she was certain she’d be in for more of a shock come the time to begin. Which would be when?

  They were told to arrive today before the sun set. She’d done that. Good gods, could they mean to send them into the first round at night? What would the first round be?

  She wavered on her feet realizing she may not see breakfast the following morning.

  Aaron and Boarg gripped the back of her elbows, steadying her before she could make a fool of herself.

  “Don’t worry, lass, you’ll do just fine,” Boarg murmured. “I knew your mother, and she was one of the fiercest female warriors I’ve ever seen. You resemble her greatly.”

  “Agreed,” Aaron grunted. “And fiercer than some men, too.”

  “My mother?”

  “Aye, she came close to entering the games herself before your father asked for her hand.” Boarg nodded. “Just think, you’re practically following in her footsteps.”

  That brought a smile to her face. How had she not known this? Her mother had died a few years past during one of the neighboring clan raids. Ceana missed her dearly, and most days tried not to think about it. Her mother had a hand in the farming for the clan, and none of the crops had been the same since her passing.

  Once in the courtyard, they followed the long line of entrants around the side of the imposing castle to the back where a vast amount of land was riddled white with tents, though they appeared to have an order to them. Along the left were four rows of tents, ten deep, and the same on the right, separated in the middle by three large tents. A female side and a male side. Perhaps the dining halls between.

  As impressive as the tents were, she found herself turning around to gaze up at Sìtheil Castle. Counted the narrow windows all the way to the top and estimated there had to be at least five stories. Ceana tried to imagine herself living there. Tried to envision herself as Lady Morrison—and Laird MacRae. She’d bring two clans together, and rule fairly and justly across the lands. After her five years, she’d have enough coin and allies to keep her clan shored up in the future.

  Without realizing her feet had moved, she reached out and touched the stones. They were cold, and in some places caught the light of what little sun was left, making it seem enchanted all the more. She could see herself living there. Ruling here alongside the male victor.

  “You there, get to your tent!”

  Ceana startled, turning to the left to see a half-dozen guards standing on wide, thick stone steps that led up into the back of the castle. Nodding, she hurried back to her guards who’d waited patiently.

  “Papers,” a guard, who Ceana assumed had to be the tent steward, held out his hand, and glowered at the three of them.

  Ceana handed him the parchment, and like the other guard, he barely glanced at her.

  “Third row, ninth back. Supper bell will be ringing soon. When it does, go to the middle tent. Leave your weapons.”

  “We thank you,” Ceana said.

  The steward grunted and gave her a hard stare. “You’ll not be so grateful come the start of the games. Beware, you’ve come this far, the only way out is death or victory.”

  Ceana swallowed hard. She’d known this already but hearing it from his lips sent an icy chill to wrap around her middle. She cocked her head to the side and stared at the guard. “And what is your fate?”

  “To see the lot of you buried.”

  “And to those who win?”

  “I serve them well.”

  Ceana smiled, the first since she’d arrived. “Then you will serve me at the game’s end.”

  “You’ll not be the first to have crowed as such.”

  This time, Ceana grunted and swept past the steward, her two guards following. The little bit of arrogance she boasted made her feel good. If she was going to win this game, she needed to think of herself as victorious. She needed to believe in herself, a feat that would be very difficult, but she was up to the challenge.

  Weaving their way through the tents—and equally through the smells of unwashed bodies, sweat, and old ale—they found the tent easily enough. It looked like the tent on the left side of hers was still empty, but the one on the right housed a woman who looked like she’d been crying. She glanced at Ceana with bloodshot eyes before ducking into her tent, a subtle reminder that not everyone willingly joined in the games. If your clan chose you, there was no choice but to join—unless a plan of escape could be devised. But more often than not, clan leaders would have taken precaution against it.

  With a sigh, Ceana tugged back the flap of her tent and stared into the dark and desolate space. They provided entrants with no comforts, and thank goodness they’d brought their own bed rolls.

  “This is home,” she said, with a weary glance at Aaron and Boarg. “For now.”

  “Until the title is yours, my laird,” Boarg said.

  Aaron nodded, before looking away and Ceana felt the weight of his position settling on her shoulders. If he won, they’d be married. For the sake of the clan, if that was what the gods had in store for her, then she would say her vows. Aaron was a skilled fighter, adept at guarding the clan’s meager holding, but how would he hold up against a fierce warrior? Maybe just as well as she did. Maybe he’d sustain an injury that disqualified him from the game. Was that possible? Or did everyone have to die?

  The thoughts tumbling through her mind were too deep, too heavy, to ruminate on further. She shook them away and eagerly leapt into the task of setting up her bed. Five minutes later two makeshift beds lined the walls of the tent, Ceana on one side and her guard on the other. Aaron stood with his bed roll in hand.

  “I’ll have to sleep on the male warriors side.”

  Ceana nodded, unsure of how to respond. She still hated the idea that he’d be involved.

  “I’m going to splash water on my face,” she informed Aaron and Boarg, stepping through the slit in the tent.

  “I’m coming with you,” Aaron responded stepping out behind her.

  “No. I want to go on my own,” she said. “It could only be a few hours’ time before I’m alone. Let me have a taste of protecting myself when I still have a tent and my guards to return to.”

  “Aye, my laird.” Aaron bowed his head. “I’ll see you at supper then.” He ducked his head, giving Ceana the freedom she’d asked for.

  Walking between the tents, she encountered an equal number of frightening male and female warriors. The majority ignored her—and those that did pay her attention, only did so with assessing looks. The females deciding how they’d kill her and the males imagining bedding her on their wedding night.

  Ceana did her own amount of assessing. There were many women less capable than herself. Some weeping, others looking ill. Still some, who looked as though they’d not seen a meal in months, and others who’d seen too many. But the ones that made Ceana tremble with fear were either covered in battle scars or bulging with sinew. These women had seen their share of fighting, and if Ceana were to come up against them, she w
ould have a hard time warding them off.

  But how could she avoid them? These women would hunt her down and pick her off like a frog did flies.

  “What are you looking at?” a particularly masculine-looking woman asked. She crossed her arms over her chest and narrowed her eyes—one of which was milky white. Blind?

  “A thousand pardons,” Ceana murmured, not realizing she’d been staring.

  The woman laughed. “A thousand pardons,” she said, mimicking Ceana. “Is that what you’ll say when I’ve got a knife at your throat?”

  Ceana took the bait—and also the opportunity to practice. “The chance will never come, because while you’re lumbering toward me like some giant who’s had one too many swigs of whisky, I’ll have nocked my bow and put an arrow through your heart. Just as I did the braggart who killed my brother last week.”

  She-muscle’s eyes widened—including the milky-white one—and she smirked. “So you’ve killed before?”

  “Aye.”

  “First?”

  Ceana huffed. “Hardly.” She-muscle didn’t need to know that Ceana was including animals in that count.

  “A tough one you are, for one so small.”

  “I may be small, but I am quick.”

  Ceana didn’t give the woman a chance to respond. Instead she turned her back only to come face to face with a vision she’d thought never to see—a tent flap was pinned wide open and several women were engaged in… in…

  “Never you mind that, just a bit of wrestling. They do it in the nude to keep from ruining the clothes they’ll need for the games.”

  Ceana flicked her gaze back to the giant woman. “Wrestling?”

  “Aye. Keeps their spirits up. Well, best of luck to you.” She turned her back on Ceana this time.

  Ceana watched the women a moment longer, mesmerized by the way they moved, and their unapologetic nudity.

  Having had no luck in finding a well to drink from and wash the dirt from her face—and quite frankly a little unnerved with what she’d find next—Ceana headed toward the center of the tents where the larger tents were erected.

  Several wooden and steel barrels lined the front of one tent and most were occupied by men slurping from ladles. Ceana sucked in a breath, steeling her resolve. She was likely to run into more vulgarity, but thirst won out over her nerves.

  Stepping up to a barrel, she grabbed up a ladle that was hooked over the side. She dipped it into the water, sipping with vigor before dipping in again and then pouring it over her head. The strands of hair that had already come free from her plait followed the path of the water and plastered to her forehead and cheeks. The chill air blew lightly against her wetted hair and skin making her shiver and raising gooseflesh along her skin.

  “ ’Tis a good look for you.”

  Ceana swiped the water off her face with her hands, smoothed her hair back into place and turned deliberately toward the man who’d spoken to her. She rubbed her free hand on her other arm, trying to soothe her chill. Expecting to see another grotesque brute wishing to invite her into his bed, she was surprised to see a rather handsome warrior. He had eyes such a dark blue, they could almost be onyx, unruly black hair framed his face, and though he didn’t have a beard, his shadowed jaw lent to the idea that he’d not shaven in days. Beneath the shadows were sculpted cheeks and a strong square jaw. A scar curved over the length of one of his eyebrows and another stroked along his jaw. His linen white shirt was untied at the top, falling open to reveal part of his tanned chest. Overtop his shirt, a plaid of blue, white and green, and much nicer than her own, was tossed over his shoulder. He looked, and smelled, cleaner than anyone else she’d run into.

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he said. And then he smiled, showing mostly even white teeth, and a mouth that made her think of kissing.

  Thoughts she’d not dwelled on in the past. A little shiver took her, and she realized that the warrior had spoken twice now without her responding. And she was still staring at his mouth. Ceana glanced away, her face heating with embarrassment.

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  “You do not need to apologize, lass. We’re all new here. Well, most of us.” He smiled again, and this time Ceana made certain not to fall into his darkened eyes.

  “Most?”

  “Aye. I’ve met a past Chief already. He sat on the Morrison seat ten years ago.”

  “And he wants to sit there again?” Ceana asked.

  The man nodded. “ ’Twould seem so, but I didn’t ask him why. Suppose I should have.”

  “I’m Ceana.” She chose not to mention her title.

  “Macrath.” He held out his arm, also curiously refraining from naming his clan. Leather bracers covered his forearms over his linen shirt. His hand was big, and welcoming.

  Ceana stuck out her own arm and gripped his bracer. Macrath’s fingers wrapped around her flesh, absorbing her into his palm, making her feel small and delicate. She suppressed another shiver, but couldn’t help staring at his mouth again. If she were to die tomorrow, she would have liked to have a kiss from this man.

  “What brings you to Sìtheil Castle?” Macrath asked.

  “I heard they had a good cook,” Ceana said, surprised at her own response.

  Macrath laughed. “And I heard they had a secret storeroom filled with chests of gold and jewels.”

  Now it was Ceana’s turn to laugh. “Are we both to be disappointed then?”

  “Nay, lass, we’ll both rejoice with sweetmeat pies in one hand and fat rubies in the other.”

  “If only.” The thought made her suddenly sad. Macrath was the first person she’d seen and met at this place who made her feel safe—and she thought she could enjoy spending time with him. Wanted to spend more time with him, in fact.

  “My stepmother sent me here, hoping I’d die,” he said, running his fingers through his thick hair. “Nice of her, wouldn’t you say?”

  His confession was harsh. “Extremely so.”

  His lips curled in a half smile and he raised his brow. “And you?”

  She wasn’t sure she wanted to share. Chewing her lip, she hesitated. Disclosing such information would make her vulnerable to him. And she couldn’t risk being exposed to anyone. “I was chosen.”

  “Are we not all?” He dipped his ladle back into the water, and took another sip.

  “We are.” Ceana hooked her ladle back on the barrel, no longer thirsty despite how dry her mouth had turned. One look at a handsome warrior and she was weak-kneed. She’d never survive the games at this rate. “It was good to meet you, Macrath.”

  He gave her a bow. “It was a pleasure, lass, and I do hope to see you again.”

  “I’d like that.” She’d not the heart to tell him how unlikely it was that they two would ever speak again.

  It was then the horn blew. And her heart dropped to her feet.

  Chapter Three

  “Women left side, men on the right.” The tent steward’s voice carried over the uproar of the crowd and was echoed by many of the guards as they pointed for the entrants to move into the proper positions. “No weapons!”

  Macrath raked his gaze through the throngs of men and women who moved in droves toward their respective spots. The two lines of competitors looked like cattle going to slaughter. None of them had their weapons—and he’d been extremely loathe to leave his father’s prize sword in his tent. Without anyone to guard it, he was certain it would disappear—that was, if anyone could find it. He’d buried it in the ground beneath his bedroll and prayed anyone looking to loot would do so without the time to dig.

  His stomach growled. It’d been a long day of travel for them with only a paltry meal of jerky and stale bannock cakes. There’d not been much time to prepare and Leticia had seen to it that a meal befitting a man and woman going into battle was not procured. With the stint it took to get to Sìtheil there’d been no time to hunt. His last meal had been that morning. Thank goodness for the barrels overflowing with water, else his
stomach would be eating him alive.

  Would the council feed them a meal befitting men and women going to their deaths? Or would they consider it a cost best saved?

  Macrath glanced at the men lining up beside him. His assigned place was front and center.

  Men as tall as he, and some bigger had entered the games, but they were few and far between. Perhaps only a quarter of entrants would give him a run for victory. It looked like most of the clans sent in men they wished to punish or simply for population control. If—no, when—he won these games, one of the first items of concern on his agenda would be to find a means to do away with the games.

  While he observed all the men he would be going up against for a claim to the Morrison seat—some four dozen at least—his eyes kept sliding over to the female ranks. He tried to tell himself it was because he wanted to see the lot of potential brides. After all, he’d have to wed and bed the woman for five years at least—and to him, it would may be a lifetime commitment because if that union were to bear fruit, he’d not leave any child a bastard as he’d been.

  No. None of his offspring would ever endure the torment he himself had. So, indeed, he was examining the women as they passed him and those who were already in line. He was taking note of the weaker ones and the ones who might even be able to take him on in a fight. He searched the lines of women for Rhona from his clan and found her chatting with another woman—perhaps she’d been smart and was connecting with potential allies. Or mayhap, she just needed to pretend she was anywhere but here. Rhona was an entrant who’d been sent unwillingly. If there was anything Macrath could have done to be sent off on his own he would have. But, that was impossible.

  Even still, no matter how many allies Rhona had, there were enough behemoth women warriors to crush a half-dozen women opponents at once. If he found her upon the field he would protect her—pair with her for protection, though she’d likely offer him little. Macrath’s gaze roved away from Rhona, guilt souring his countenance. It wasn’t his fault that Leticia had chosen Rhona, but it could be his fault they’d sent in entrants at all. It was not required for the clans to send in fighters. But if they did not, they’d have to stay to themselves. No growth in power or coin. Staying stagnant for five years was a lot to ask of an ever-populating holding.