Lords of the Isles

by Le Veque, Kathryn

  A guard rushed forward and knelt beside the woman. He raised his eyes to the line of women waiting their turn for a run in the ring. He gazed at them all in a way that made Ceana shudder. His lip curled and eyes gleamed. He enjoyed his duty entirely too much.

  “One. Two. Three. Four. Five…” he counted until he reached, “Fifteen.”

  Still the woman did not move. She’d not even curled her fingers to indicate life was yet inside of her.

  He held his hand over her face, then knelt lower, pressing his ear to her chest. When he rose, a smear of blood streaked his cheek. “Dead!” he bellowed, then leapt to his feet and raised the opposing woman’s arm in the air and tugged her, arm still high, toward the council tent. “Your victor.”

  The council members looked on soberly, clapping their hands slowly, until one shouted, “Next.”

  Dead. Beaten to death.

  And she didn’t even warrant a moment of silence. Simply a call for the next round of fighters to enter.

  Ceana closed her eyes. Blocking out the violence, the sadness, the inhumanity of it. Even though the council members would not issue a prayer to the gods for the poor woman’s soul, she would, though she did so inside her mind, unwilling to call attention to what the council had obviously neglected.

  She was certain she’d not be able to beat another person to death with her bare hands. Did that mean she was going to be the one to die?

  The next two women were ushered into the arena. Their fight was just as brutal, but did not end in death, and nor did the two after. The unconscious women were dragged from the list field by their squires. Ceana refused to look and see what happened to them, instead taking a moment to breathe.

  “Next!”

  It was her. She knew it was, and yet she couldn’t make her feet move. Staring down at them, she saw her boots—brown and weathered—sunken into the grass.

  She wasn’t ready. But they were pushing her. The women in line behind her shoved. And shoved again.

  “Go, they have called you! Do not make the rest of us suffer,” they yelled at her. “We do not want to wait even longer for our turns because of you.”

  And still, she couldn’t make her feet lift. If she refused to go, would they drag her into the arena?

  “Bitch of MacRae!” The shout sounded like it came from the guard who’d named her thus when she first arrived.

  The name rattled around in her mind and suddenly her feet were moving. Her blood was boiling through her and she recalled the faces of her clan members, the hungry children, those wounded from too many raids. She glanced at Board who sat a dozen paces away. Then she looked to Aaron, who nodded, giving her the confidence to do what she must.

  This was for her clan.

  Her opponent was about the same size—thank goodness she wasn’t up against one of the hulking women who could take her down with one thwack. Had her opponent been chosen to enter the games by her clan or had she willingly joined? It was hard to tell something like that. Her gown was torn and dirtied just as everyone else’s was from the first round. Her face was thin, as was her body. Wrists delicate. A trick of her bloodline, or from circumstance?

  “Begin!”

  Ceana worked to see past the woman in front of her, to see the person as nothing more than a sack of wool she needed to pound into shape. They circled one another, assessing the other.

  For a moment she wished she’d paid more attention when the females were wrestling in the tents. Though she’d learned a few things from her brawl that morning by the water barrels. But, that woman had been much more skilled than she was and without Lady Beatrice’s intervention, Ceana wasn’t sure that sheer will alone would have won her that incident. Why hadn’t she insisted that beyond climbing trees, fighting with swords, practicing with arrows, that her brother teach her hand-to-hand combat?

  The best way to get through this round without killing the other woman would be to hit her in the head to knock her to the ground and hopefully into a deep sleep. On the same note, she’d need to protect her—

  The woman swung out, striking Ceana painfully in the shoulder. She recoiled, her eyes flicking to the woman who danced back and forth like a wild, skittish animal. She was terrified and rather than hit her back, Ceana wanted to pull her into her arms and protect her. She was laird of her own clan, that’s what she did. But such was not possible. I have to retaliate.

  Ceana lashed out, her fist grazing with the woman’s forehead when she shakily dodged the blow meant for her temple. Her own footsteps faltered at the power she’d put behind the blow that missed, and it was enough for the other woman to wrap her hands around Ceana’s waist and tug her to the ground.

  Both of them went down hard. This would not do.

  Ceana kicked out her legs, shoving the woman off of her, and then she rolled on top to have the advantage. She weighed more than the waif beneath her, and held her pinned, tucking her hands up over her head.

  “I want this to end quickly and without your death, do you not?” Ceana said through gritted teeth.

  The woman didn’t respond, but her eyes were wide, face pale, lips trembling. She bucked beneath her, but Ceana held on tight.

  She leaned down close. “I’m going to hit you. Be prepared. Do not be afraid.”

  Her opponent continued to wiggle a moment longer, then when she must have realized that resistance was futile, gazed up at Ceana, perhaps truly for the first time. As soon as the woman gave just the slightest nod, Ceana grabbed the front of her gown, and tugged, lifting her slightly from the ground. And then she tried a move that she’d seen her brother do on occasion to a MacLeod that always got the measured result he’d wanted. She reared her head back and slammed the crown against the other woman’s forehead. The thundering crack echoed in her head along with the pain that ricocheted around her own skull.

  Ceana blinked rapidly, her fingers uncurling from the woman’s gown to see her lying unconscious on the ground in front of her. She’d done it. Good gods, it hurt more than she imagined. She grabbed the woman’s chin and gave a slight shake, but there was no response, though warmth breath drifted over her fingertips. Asleep, but not dead.

  She leapt to her feet in time for Aaron to catch her trembling elbow and the guard to count to fifteen. Her opponent’s squire picked her up and carried her off the field. This time Ceana did want to see where those who lost were taken. Aaron tugged at her sleeve.

  “Come, my laird. You’ve done well. You must rest until the next round.”

  “But I want to see—”

  “Clear the field! Next!” the guard shouted, giving Ceana a hard glare and shove.

  This time she allowed Aaron to pull her along.

  She waited on the opposite side of the fence with the other winners and their squires. The discontents were tossed onto the ground until they wakened, their squires watching over them. But they weren’t executed as she’d feared. They’d live to fight the next round.

  Macrath’s woman went down hard, her nose and lips bleeding. When he bent to pick her up, she cringed at the odd angle the woman’s arm was bent. A pang of regret and sorrow filled his face. But it lacked anything more—the pain she was most assured he would have if he cared about this woman like he would a lover just wasn’t there. The woman had to be from his clan, not his lover. Did he feel just as responsible for her as Ceana felt for Aaron? Or was she just fooling herself?

  “Be careful, my laird,” Aaron said under his breath, jutting his chin in Macrath’s direction.

  “Why do you not like the man?”

  Aaron smiled. “ ’Tis not that I dislike him. I just don’t trust him.”

  Ceana tilted her head. “Why is that?”

  “He’s a hard warrior. I’ve seen men like him before. Besides, the interest he has in you is of concern. With Dougal gone, I feel like it’s my place to protect you.”

  Ceana waffled with feeling grateful to Aaron for looking out for her, and irritated all the same. It was her choice who she spoke with�
� who she kissed.

  “Do not fret over it, Aaron. I am a good judge of character and I believe Macrath is a good man.”

  Aaron grunted, and she could tell he wanted to say more, but she didn’t want to hear it.

  Across the field, Macrath glanced up, his gaze falling on hers and for a few sparking moments he held it there. She wished they were closer so she could see his expression. Aaron was partly right. Macrath was a hard man, and she should stay away from him. But not because he was dangerous or unpredictable. He’d only ever been kind and gentlemanly toward her—even with his heated kisses.

  She had to stay away from him because thinking about him only distracted her from the task at hand. From winning. But maybe this was the gods way of giving her a sign. That in order to win, perhaps she needed to side with Macrath. Out of all the men here, he seemed more determined to win than any other. But why? He’d mentioned his stepmother sending him here to die. The woman sounded like a horrid witch. If he won, it would be the best revenge. But she needed more than that from him. Living out of retribution wasn’t enough. If they were to partner together, she would need him to want something for their country, for their people.

  And why couldn’t she partner with Aaron?

  She glanced sideways at her brother’s friend. He was a good guard, but there was a reason he’d never been Dougal’s second-in-command. Aaron was slight, and tended to act a lot more with instinct than his mind. Siding with him may not be her choice. He’d only joined the games because she needed him to. And, aye, he had a stake in the clan. He and his family were MacRaes but that didn’t give him the drive to reign supreme. Self-preservation was what would drive Aaron to win.

  The horn blew, startling Ceana from her intense thoughts. She’d not even realized how much of what was going on around her that she’d drowned out. The final set of women had finished fighting. A total of three were dead, the rest of the rabble ranged from injuries as mild as a headache to broken or dislocated limbs.

  The women were ushered forward, those who’d lost paired against each other—and first—while the winners were paired in the back according to the guard’s whims.

  Ceana sucked in a chilled breath. She was right next to She-muscle. The larger woman grinned down at her, as though Ceana was going to be her next meal. The one milky eye screamed of nightmares and pain to come.

  “Round two will begin imminently. This time, you shall each be given a cudgel…”

  Ceana found her throat growing tight. She’d made it out easy in the last round—a headache and that was all. Because her first opponent had lost, she was paired in the front. Ceana was now in the back with the rest of the winners—the strongest and fiercest women. The ones who terrified her, and yet she had to be the one to shock them. To send them skittering away from her. Shorter than the average woman, Ceana didn’t pose much of a threat on a normal day, and next to none in battle. Especially next to the behemoth.

  “Told you we’d meet again, little chickie,” She-muscle said under her breath.

  Ceana bit the inside of her cheeks to keep from screaming. The only way she was going to get anywhere was by being quick. A feat she’d already proven her superiority at with this woman when they’d both raced for the bow in the first game. Even still, her new opponent’s brute strength would be enough to throw her off her feet and into a dark oblivion.

  And the way She-muscle leered at her, Ceana was in for a world of pain.

  The second round went a bit faster than the first. The weakened women barely had to hit each other before one was knocked to the ground unable to move. Those with broken limbs barely lasted before the call to begin was sounded.

  All too quickly, it was her turn, and She-muscle was already devouring her with her sick grin and eager eye. Damn. This was not going to feel good.

  Just as her feet shuffled to the opening gate, Ceana paused, closed her eyes and looked up at the sky. She imagined her mother, father and brother looking down on her. Giving her their strength, their courage.

  Aaron approached, handed her a cudgel, the wood cool from the autumn breeze. “You can do this,” he murmured. “Tire her out.”

  Exactly as she’d been thinking.

  Standing several paces away, She-muscle bobbed on her feet, tossed her cudgel from hand to hand and leered at Ceana.

  “Come on, don’t just stand there, little chickie. It’s time for us to battle.”

  Ceana gripped the cudgel, letting the heat of her body seep into the wood, making it an extension of herself. She took a tentative step forward, keenly watching the expression on She-muscle. The woman expected this to be easy, that was evident in both her speech and her mannerisms. Lucky for Ceana, this woman appeared to lack the cunning that it took to win at some games.

  Keeping that realization in the back of her mind, Ceana walked sideways, beginning the courting dance. She-muscle jumped forward, her cudgel bouncing outward and just barely missing Ceana as she dove to the right and ran out of the way of woman’s counter attack.

  Tire her out. Tire her out.

  Ceana ran in a wide circle around her, making the woman turn in circles, and hopefully getting her a little dizzy. She had to duck away from—and leap over—to avoid several hits.

  “Stop your running, you little brat,” She-muscle yelled out.

  But that only made Ceana smile—because though she’d yelled, the tail-end of her words had been breathy. Ceana ran one more time then leapt forward, swinging the cudgel as hard as she could. Her wood cracked against the side of the woman’s arm. The howl that elicited from her vibrated Ceana’s insides, and the growl the woman issued had her fearing for her life. For a moment, she was too terrified to move as she watched the woman barreling down on her. Bent over, seething, good eye shooting daggers. She reminded Ceana of one of the wolves from the woods.

  “Move!” Aaron’s—and Macrath’s—joint bellow finally reached the sane part of her mind that held her desire to live.

  Ceana jumped into action, running full-on away from the woman, as though one of the wolves from the woods were chasing after her. The closer she got to the fence the more she panicked. She didn’t want to be trapped there where She-muscle would likely beat her to death. Ceana darted to the left, but her feet flew out from under her. At the last minute she saw that her opponent had thrust her cudgel forward, tripping her.

  When she fell, her own cudgel went flying. She scrambled forward to get it, She-muscle’s laughter filling her head.

  “Now I’ve got you, little chickie.”

  She heard the crack before she felt the pain. But it didn’t last long as darkness filled in all the little spaces between and she drifted off to someplace warm and safe.

  *

  Blinking repeatedly, Ceana tried to pull her hand to her head but her limbs were so heavy. What happened? Why did her head hurt so damn much?

  And then it all came rushing back to her. The fight with the behemoth woman. She’d been hit in the head with a cudgel. But not that hard, obviously, or she’d be dead. The woman had shown her mercy after-all, only hitting her hard enough to knock her out. Had she done so on purpose? Part of Ceana wanted to say it didn’t matter, that she was alive, and to thank the gods for it. The other part of her knew better. Ceana owed the woman her life—there was no way she could take hers. Not now. Probably not ever.

  The blackness began to ebb away, and light came to her eyes—along with the sound of men’s voices raised and angry. She could make out Aaron and Macrath. But their words were warbled; loud, but not pronounced.

  “Shh…” she tried to say, but her lips were still a little numb and dizziness made her want to vomit.

  If they didn’t stop arguing Lady Beatrice would hear and then the female councilor would make certain they were punished for their impudence. No quarter given.

  An arm filled her vision and then coldness against her lip. Someone was giving her a drink. She sipped slowly, but then turned to the side to retch, her entire body curling up to purge.
This only made Aaron and Macrath yell louder.

  “Hush,” she tried again, and this time with success.

  “Perhaps I shall see the lot of you punished. Cease this at once.” Too late. Lady Beatrice was already there. “What is this nonsense? You argue over this puny, insignificant woman?”

  Ceana wanted to shout out, “No! Don’t argue over me! Listen to the lady,” but her lips were still tingling and her stomach still threatened to spill what was left inside of it.

  “Perhaps the two of you will end up on the list field before all else. You can battle there, instead of here where you distract everyone from the games. This is unacceptable.”

  Ceana was able to focus her eyes for a moment where she saw both Aaron and Macrath standing a few feet away, each looking contrite in the face of the royal council woman, though the loathing glances they shot at one another spoke volumes.

  They fought over her. They risked so much. For me.

  She couldn’t allow that. Ceana was already miserable at the thought of having to see people’s lives lost in order to save her clan. She’d not be the cause of these men’s deaths. She would shun them to save them.

  “My lady,” she muttered, and this time her voice was heard. “Please do not punish them. ’Tis my fault that they argue. I have given them both cause to…” To what?

  But she didn’t need to find the word, because Lady Beatrice scoffed. “Do not play the martyr with me, Ceana MacRae.” She eyed the two men with disgust. “Leave off, or else I will see you put on the stakes.”

  Ceana let out the breath she was holding.

  “And, as for you, my lady, be prepared, for the discontents of round two fight first in the final round.”

  At that, Ceana sank back against the ground, both relieved the woman had given a reprieve to Aaron and Macrath, and terrified of what the third and final round would bring. Would she even be able to walk onto the field?

  Chapter Nine

  “Round three!” the guard called out and the crowd of men silenced.

  Again a council member stood upon the dais and raised their hand in the air to make sure everyone was listening. “In round three, each opponent will be given one dagger with which to fight.”