Daggers? Macrath felt the color drain from his face.
“Lassies, be prepared to fight with every ounce of skill you possess. Winners of this round will be granted a request of comfort.”
The value of human life had not been a topic Macrath often pondered.
In fact, when he was on the battlefield it was a subject best left untouched.
Sitting on the lumpy log beside a bunch of stinking, whiny brutes, watching the women hack each other to pieces, he’d never considered it more. He scrubbed a hand over his face and contemplated just how he could take on every one of the guards and council members in order to save the rest of the contestants. Doing so would mean there was no winner to the games and henceforth, Sìtheil would be again steeped in war, but that trumped watching another innocent person die for sport.
A scream sounded from the list field as another woman felt the pain of her opponent’s knife slicing through her flesh. This time, gutting her. Her insides spilled into the dirt as she fell to her knees, staring up at the sky. She clutched her middle and the woman who’d done the deed slowly backed away. The humane thing to do would have been to slice the dying woman’s throat to ease her passage and pain, but the horror of what had transpired filled the eyes and shaped the silent scream of the winner.
Silence reigned among the male and female entrants.
To him, it appeared that the only ones enjoying the games were those who presided over them. Of course, there were bound to be a few deranged men and women who joined only for the fact that they’d be able to beat and kill people without anyone asking questions. But he had to wonder why the games continued. Why hadn’t a single winner in the last hundred years questioned their right to rule longer than five years? The only one to have succeeded was Guillemorre. He’d ruled for fifteen years and that was purely because he’d entered the games and won his seat three times.
He was a legend among men and warriors. Every young lad grew up, fantasizing about changing their names and charging onto the battlefield with an army behind them chanting on about their prowess and with a woman—or three—at home faithfully waiting for their return. Macrath was willing to bet that none of them, himself included, had ever imagined what they’d be seeing now.
Maybe it was hitting him more viscerally now than before because it was the women fighting. If he was observing the men, he’d probably not think twice as he’d watched and participated in many a tournament before. But the tourneys were also not fought to the death.
The men jabbed each other’s ribs and made lewd comments as the broken and bloodied women were brought out to line up two by two. Several of them were not even able to walk of their own accord. He shook his head subtly knocking the man to his left off the bench when he tried to elbow him. Damned if he was going to join in their ridiculous commenting.
“Were you born an animal, you jackanapes?” Macrath seethed. “Our women are killing each other.”
“Aye, and I intend for one of them to be my wife. Imagine what the lass would be like in bed.” The maggot guffawed and seated himself back down, not at all concerned with Macrath having knocked him to the ground. “A right wildcat.”
Macrath looked at the man, his lip curling in disgust. “If, by some miracle, you win these games, your wife is more likely to gut you and watch you bleed than see to your pleasure.”
That shut the man up. Macrath couldn’t have been happier about it because another word out of his mouth and he was likely to punch him until every one of his teeth littered the grass like pearls.
But his attention was called away from beating the man to death when Ceana limped out onto the field. Even bruised, she was a beautiful sight. Her fiery hair was wound up atop her head, knotted tendrils curling around her ears and the nape of her neck. The new gown she’d been given was no longer clean, but at least it was not torn. A bruise marred her cheek and she kept her gaze steady on the women in front of her. His chest tightened, and he itched to leap up and run to her. He longed to thread his fingers through her hair, to untangle the snarls, to take her away from here, pamper her and give her everything she deserved.
Leaning against the fence, several feet from him, was Aaron who also intently studied her. The man’s expression was grim. Macrath knew that face. Aaron felt responsible for the state in which Ceana found herself. But, though he knew not how she’d come to be in the games, Macrath had an idea that she wanted to be here, that no matter how much Aaron would take responsibility for the outcome, it was her choice.
Maybe it was the set of her shoulders or the determined way in which she continued to fight back. There was definitely something about the way she held her head higher than the other women. The way she carried herself despite how tiny she was. Even now as she stood in line, straightening her spine despite the pain she must be feeling. The way she eyed the woman standing beside her…
Bloody hell…
Rhona stood beside her.
Macrath’s stomach twisted into knots and his blood ran cold. There stood the only two women in this entire competition that he gave a wit about. His clanswoman and the woman he… Gods, what? He didn’t know. He wanted Ceana to win, to marry her, bed her and have her bear his children. But it was purely physical. Purely strategic. He knew little about her.
And now she would fight against a woman he’d vowed to protect. Watching this round would be impossible.
What were the odds that the two of them would face off against each other? Was this the Lady’s doing? Her way of punishing Macrath for arguing so openly with that sniveling little snake Aaron? Macrath couldn’t decide what would have been worse—the stake or watching the two women fight. He would have gladly taken the stake over this. ’Twas a cruel, cruel penance.
Cheering for Rhona meant watching Ceana fall. Cheering for Ceana meant wishing ill to his clanswoman. His stepmother and half-brother may have had little faith in him, may have tried to push him aside, but his father let him live amongst the people, and the clan members had always treated him with respect. How could he turn his back on them? On Rhona?
Macrath’s head fell to his hands and he gripped his skull, for the first time actually wishing he wasn’t here. To hell with proving himself to Leticia, to Victor. To hell with trying to show his father that he was a man of honor.
This was brutal. Barbaric.
Only half of the women standing in line would walk away today. The discontents would not be rounded up to compete against each other. They’d be piled in a mass pyre and pushed out to sea. And either Rhona or Ceana would be among them. Unless one of them passed out before the round ended. And if they were to pass out, it was likely they’d die from their injuries.
Macrath had barely watched as the first four rounds of women cut at each other with their knives. The dirt-packed ground of the list field had long since turned to red mud as the blood of many spilled. He’d never been one to wilt at the sight of blood, but knowing how the field had turned to sludge twisted his stomach.
Aaron brushed past him toward the field. Ceana was next. And Rhona.
Damn.
“Come on, Macrath,” Aaron muttered.
And though he didn’t want to, he forced himself to stand, because the only thing he could do was move forward. He didn’t want to watch, yet he’d be forced to, else he not provide Rhona with a squire and any assistance she needed—against Ceana.
Gods be damned!
Anger boiled through him as he watched the two women enter through the gate. He wracked his brain for a way to put a stop to what was happening, but the only answers he came up with ended with his death and theirs. But staying out of it meant one of the women would die anyway.
He marched past the women, intent on going to the council and begging for a pardon. Of all people, Aaron grabbed his arm, stopping him.
“Don’t do it, Macrath. Neither one of us wants the women to fight, but if you go and make a spectacle, all four of us will die. You won’t do Ceana or Rhona any good by sentencing them to deat
h.”
Macrath gritted his teeth, his feet stuck in place. The guard nearest him eyed him closely, a silent threat written in the corners of his eyes and mouth, his hand touching the hilt of his sword. Macrath drew in a long jagged breath, glanced up at the sky. Darkening clouds edged the horizon, as though the gods were warning him.
Making a decision was damned challenging, but he made it all the same. Macrath turned his back on the guard and took his spot beside Rhona, though he kept his gaze on Ceana for several moments longer than was necessary. The warrior inside him—the one who lead many into battle—tried for logic. Siding with reason was the only way he’d remain strong for both women.
Aaron passed Ceana a long, wicked looking dagger with a curved blade. He whispered something in her ear, pressed his hand to her shoulder, and she nodded, her knuckles turning white from her tight grip. Macrath wanted to be the one offering her suggestions, words to keep her safe and comforted.
“Macrath?” Rhona’s voice was full of fear. He felt like he’d failed her already.
He took a few steps to the weapons pile and picked up a dagger, equally as dreadful as Ceana’s, and handed it to Rhona. He gazed into her one good eye—the other too swollen for her to even open—and hoped to calm the sheer terror that glistened there. “ ’Haps the two of you can agree to a few cuts, and one pretend to fall unconscious?”
Rhona shook her head. “She’s little. I can win. I need to win.” She looked down at the blade in her hand. “I’ve cut off many a chicken’s head back in Argyll. I know how to use a knife.”
“There is no need if you can both agree to bow out,” he urged.
“I can’t, Macrath. Would you bow to your enemy if you were asked, simply so no one would get hurt?”
She had a point, however much he hated to make note of it. “ ’Tis different,” he said.
“How? This is battle, and though I didn’t choose to be here, I will not fall without giving my best.”
Macrath curtly nodded, finding it hard to give her any advice as to how to proceed. He’d seen Ceana offer mercy to a woman in the first round. But Rhona wouldn’t even consider it. Being able to show mercy was a good trait in a leader, only another reason why he was certain Ceana would be a good match to rule beside him.
“May the gods be with you,” Macrath mumbled.
*
She was going to fight Macrath’s woman.
Dizzy from her previous injuries, Ceana managed to find whatever energy she had left inside her and brought it to the surface.
“You can do this, my laird,” Aaron said. “Your clan needs you. Do not let this round be the death of you when you’ve made it thus far with nary a scratch.”
Ceana nodded. He was right. She couldn’t be defeated now.
In the distant horizon, the sky was turning orange. Night would fall soon. And in good time, since the games wouldn’t last long now that the contestants had been given weapons with which to kill each other faster.
She curled her fingers around the hilt of the knife. This, she was comfortable with. Thank the gods for that. The guards shouted for them to begin and she turned her gaze on the woman named Rhona standing opposite her.
Her opponent’s eyes were narrowed, one eye swollen shut, and blood streaked her gown. Thick bandages covered one arm, but that didn’t seem to bother her as it didn’t appear to be her fighting arm. Rhona was in worse shape than Ceana, but the fire in her brown eyes said she was just as determined to win.
Ceana sent up a prayer to the gods and her deceased family, that they would watch over her and guide her. She would leave this field alive, even if she had to be carried. And she prayed for Rhona’s soul, because even though she didn’t want to, she had to take her life.
I am not a murderer. I am doing this for my people.
But even if she said it aloud, Ceana wasn’t sure it would be convincing enough.
Narrowing her attention solely onto Rhona, Ceana bent her knees, feet spread apart, her arms outstretched at the precise angle her brother had shown her. Her fighting stance.
Rhona’s eyes widened and she moved to copy Ceana’s stance. The woman may have appeared confident, but that err in judgment showed Ceana that she would be the superior fighter.
Rhona’s eye twitched, and sweat beaded on her upper lip and brow. Ceana’s nerves weren’t much better. Her knees shook a little and a trickle of sweat was making its way down her spine. But she couldn’t let it show. Couldn’t think about it either.
Overhead a lone bird cawed, breaking the silence and Ceana made her move. Shifting a foot forward, she thrust out her arm cutting a slice along Rhona’s injured arm from her shoulder to her elbow.
Rhona cried out, and inside Ceana did, too. Her stomach turned and she wanted to scream. The sensation of her knife breaking through Rhona’s flesh reverberated again and again in her fingertips. She ground her teeth, forcing herself not to react. Demon’s ballocks, but this was hard. Nonetheless, she couldn’t relent. Couldn’t deliberate. Ceana forced all thoughts from her mind on who this person was, where she’d come from and that she felt the pain Ceana was inflicting on her. Instead she pretended to be using a wooden knife and that she was at home, play-fighting with Dougal.
She went through the motions he’d taught her. Shuffling of feet, strike, retreat. Shuffling of feet, strike, retreat. Again and again. When Rhona retaliated, she ignored the burn on her shoulder, her leg, her hand. Just kept on moving forward. Intent not to let the other woman win. Intent to be victorious. Exactly as it was when she played with her brother and clansmen and women.
When Rhona fell to the ground with a thump, Ceana’s vision blurred. All she saw was red as tears streamed down her face. She stumbled backward, the bloody knife falling from her hand and thudding against the ground. Bile clawed its way up the back of her throat and she dragged in one heavy breath after another, but no air seemed to reach her burning lungs.
Rhona was dead.
Aaron grabbed her from behind, his hands curling against her arms and forcing her from retreating further. “Come, you’ve won. We must get you cleaned up,” he said.
He didn’t congratulate her, and she was glad of that, for she didn’t feel like celebrating a gruesome victory. She’d taken a life. A life she couldn’t give back. A person who would be missed at home. Mourned by many, including Macrath.
Aaron half dragged her on unsteady feet from the field.
Extreme grief filled her as he pulled her toward a tent that had been erected at some point, but which she’d never seen before. Beneath it were bedrolls in a row and stacks of supplies for cleaning and tending wounds.
“Lie down,” he said. “I have to stitch you up.”
Ceana blindly listened, lying down on the ground and staring up at the white canvassed ceiling. Was this the comfort the winners would be provided? Rhona was provided no comforts except to bleed out on a field she’d never wanted to visit. Without the games, they never would have met. Never would have even heard of each other. But today, Ceana had given away her soul and viciously murdered another human being. Not really in self-defense either. But purposefully.
While Ceana had watched women die in the woods when the wolves attacked, she’d not been the one to end their lives outright. Even her opponents in the first two rounds of the games had survived. Up until now, perhaps she’d not taken what the rules of the Highland War games meant. To live or die.
It was all the stuff of legends. Of heroism. And she was going to win to save her clan.
Accept, in order to do that, she had to take a life. And Rhona’s would most likely not be the only one.
She just wanted to curl into herself. To roll over onto her side and cry, and sleep and forget about all of it. But she couldn’t. It was too close to her face. Reality was a hard hit to stomach. She had someone’s death on her hands. That responsibility took away a part of her soul, ripped it right out of her. By the end, she wouldn’t be surprised if she was just as bitter and cruel as Lady Beatrice
. She could already feel that bitterness sinking in. Shriveling her heart. When—if—she returned to her clan, she’d be sure to set them straight about the legends of the war games. There was nothing glamorous. Even if the victors would be named royals.
There was nothing glorious in death. Only darkness.
Aaron tugged on her sleeve, trying at first to roll it and then having to cut at the fabric to get to her wound. Her mother’s gown. Ruined just like the last one.
She barely felt the sting of the needle as it entered her skin. Barely noticed the tug of the thread as he sewed the deep gash on her forearm.
“Ceana,” Macrath’s voice filled her head, but she couldn’t look at him. Couldn’t face him after what she’d done. Couldn’t voice her anguish at the hurt she’d caused him. Surely he’d come seeking retribution.
“Leave this tent at once,” Aaron demanded. “You’re not supposed to be here.”
Macrath ignored him and stood on Ceana’s other side. She wanted to beg him to leave, but she was afraid that all that would come out when she opened her mouth was a scream.
“Look at me, please,” he said.
“Can’t you see she wants you to leave?” Aaron ground out.
Ceana rolled her head toward Macrath. “I’m so sorry,” she said, her voice hoarse and tight from the need to sob. “I’m so sorry.”
Macrath dropped to his knees beside her, grabbed her hand and pulled it to his lips. Infinite calm washed over her with that one simple touch. He kissed her hand again, his own eyes closing, and in that moment she felt his forgiveness even if he had yet to say it. Aaron sputtered, and she was afraid he might try to stab out Macrath’s eyes with the sewing needle.
“ ’Tis all right, Aaron. Would you mind excusing us for a moment?” she asked, though it wasn’t a question.
“I… I don’t know if I’m allowed to leave your side.”
“Tell Lady Beatrice I forced you. Let me take the blame for it.”
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