As soon as the guards were finished, they turned to the council members waiting for the cue to continue. There was a moment of hushed, suspended silence. No one breathed, especially Macrath. This was it. Game four had commenced and it was going to prove to be more brutal than the previous three.
One nod from Beatrice had the four bound females being tossed haphazardly into the water. Their bodies splashed, water spraying up onto those on the pier, before quickly disappearing into the murky depths. Gasps sounded all around them, and prayers and curses, too.
Gods help them… And gods aid him and Ceana in destroying these abominable games.
The men tried to jump in after them, but the guards held them back for the span of at least five heartbeats, and then the men, too, were shoved into the water.
“You’ll have to hold your breath,” Macrath said. “Hold it until it burns, and then keep holding it. Do not open your mouth in that water. Do not move, either. Remain still, else you use up your air.”
Ceana nodded, her face having gone pale. He squeezed her hand, trying to offer comfort, and when that didn’t work, he wrapped his arm around her shoulders and pulled her in tight—guards and council be damned. Most of the entrants had their arms around each other, or at least clasped hands, how could they not? They were watching their fellow entrants plunge to their deaths.
One of the men splashed around in the water, shouting his terror. He could not swim. Macrath’s gut clenched. His female entrant would die and so would he. Instinct bade him run to the pier, to leap into the water and save the dying man, but self-preservation, the end goal of destroying the council, kept his feet rooted in place.
“Oh, gods save them,” Ceana whispered, her face pressed to his chest.
He couldn’t blame her for not wanting to watch. He tucked her even closer. But even holding her didn’t lesson the agony of watching someone die.
But there were no gods that could. The man fell beneath the surface, and did not return. A moment later one of the males brought up his female.
“Swim to the shore,” the guards yelled.
Another surfaced, and then another. The only ones who did not was the male who could not swim.
On the shore, the women coughed, and shucked out of the remainder of their ties, shivering as they went. Their lips were blue, eyes haunted. The men wore mirrored tight-lipped expressions as they were called back to the pier for the second round. They were tied, weighted and tossed. The females held back, and then pushed in. This time only one surfaced, she worked hard, coughing and spluttering herself to get her male to shore. When they finally reached it, another of the females surfaced, shook her head and swam to shore.
Out of eight entrants, only three had survived. Not very good odds.
The next set of names were called, and once more Macrath and Ceana were not among them. But Judith was.
“This is goodbye, Bitch,” she said with a shy shrug. “Spend all my time up a mountain. I cannot swim.”
Ceana reached out and tugged Judith in for a hug. “You can do it. You can. You must.”
“I’ll be swimming in spirit.” Judith pushed away and stood tall. “It has been a pleasure fighting with you.” And then she was gone, walking along the pier.
Ceana sobbed beside Macrath, and he would have done anything to take away her pain. Much the same occurred, though it was hard to stomach. Five survived—three males and two females—Judith not one of them.
When their names were finally shouted, Macrath could not move his feet. It was Ceana who tugged him along. Eyes swollen from tears, bore intently into his. “We’ll survive, remember?”
He nodded and gave a clipped, “Aye.”
Ceana was tied, the ropes cutting into the pale, delicate skin of her wrists and ankles. She gasped as the guard roughly handled her, wobbled backward when the weights were attached. Macrath refrained from retaliating, from removing a sword from the guard’s hip before tumbling him into the water, afraid it would only cause them to be split apart and then there was no certainty of survival.
“Macrath.” Ceana’s breathing was heavy and she gaped at him with terror in her eyes.
And then she was shoved off the pier.
*
The frigid water hit her body like a massive block of ice. The weights sucked her down and down and down, into the murky waters. Ceana blinked, trying to see around the greenish fog, but it made her eyes hurt it was so cold. She’d taken a huge gasp before the plunge, and while her lungs were uncomfortable, they did not yet burn.
Macrath was right about the cold. The temperature of the water seeped into her bones and muscles, nearly paralyzing her. She counted to five in her head, her heartbeat echoing slowly, and then heard the sound of the plunges from above, like an explosion echoing, as the men were tossed in.
Her lungs were starting to burn. She struggled to remain still and calm, her body warring with her mind’s choice and its natural instinct to survive. Not a moment later, she felt Macrath’s hand on her shoulder. Her eyes popped open, and she could see his outline looming in front of her. He kissed her quickly on the mouth, and then cut the weight of the rope at her wrists, but not the rest. Instead, she felt herself being propelled upward, her head breaking the surface with a stinging slap of wind.
“Stay still, lass, I’m going to cut these ropes.” He made quick work of slicing the ones at her wrist, and then rolled her into the cradle of his arms as he cut the lines at her ankles. “We did it,” he said.
“Not quite. We still have you, and I’m fr-freezing.” She shivered, her teeth chattering.
The cold of the water did not seem to have affected him as badly. He rubbed her arms and legs vigorously, then tugged her toward the shore.
“Let us do this quickly,” Ceana said, with confidence. She was certain she could do for him what he’d done for her. Mostly certain.
They walked stiffly across the pier, their limbs still numb from the cold. Ceana shivered while Macrath was tied and weighted. Took the dirk from the guards and prayed over and over again in her head that she could get him out of the water before he drowned. Of their group, only one other pair had made it back to the pier. She’d not noticed when she was tossed down, but she had been floating at the bottom with dead entrants.
Oh, gods! What if she couldn’t find Macrath, but only one corpse after another?
Macrath was shoved off the pier taking her mind away from its disastrous thoughts and focusing her energy on the task at hand. Seconds later, she, too, was thrown back into the icy cold water.
At first, she was too shocked to move. Anger rushed through her at her body denying her orders to move. Her legs cramped painfully, and tears stung her eyes. No! I have to do this! I cannot fail Macrath!
She took a deep, shuddering breath and dove down toward where she thought he’d been dropped. It was hard to see. There were many shadowed shapes at the bottom of the loch. Corpses.
I am swimming with the dead.
Macrath would be still as he’d told her to be, and so she couldn’t truly discern him from the lifeless. But his size—he was easily bigger than many of those who’d already drowned. Ceana swam through the bodies, lungs burning, mind panicking. Had she gone too far? Had she dove in the wrong direction? Her foot bumped against one, cold, motionless limb after another.
Where are you?
When she thought she’d have to surface to take another breath, she finally caught sight of him. There was no time for a welcome kiss as he’d given her. She slid the dagger along the length of cord and sawed through. When the weights fell with a muted clunk on the bottom of the loch, she tugged his arms as he’d done. But he was considerably heavier. She could barely get him to budge, there was no way she could swim with him all the way to the top.
Ceana cut through the ropes at his wrists, lungs near to bursting, so Macrath could at least help her paddle upward. Once they were at the surface, the cold air stabbing into her lungs, she went below the water to cut the rope at his ankles. T
hey swam back slowly to the shore, muscles cramping, lungs burning—the only survivors of their round.
They huddled together with the other survivors, shivering in the breeze off the shore in their wet clothes. They didn’t speak, didn’t say anything. Aye, they’d lived—a victory to rejoice in, but so many had died.
By the end of game four, there were only five women left and nine men. Fourteen entrants out of one-hundred sixteen originally entered into the war games.
And Judith was not among them. Neither was Aaron.
She and Aaron had shared a long, tension-filled stare as his name was called. Guilt had flooded her and she shook her head, hoping he’d try to run. But he glanced at Macrath and then whirled toward the frigid water. He’d willingly gone to his death.
A sob escaped Ceana and she flung herself into Macrath’s arms, grief overtaking her. Macrath held her tight, and though he did not make a sound, there was a subtle shake of his back. They mourned the loss of so many, together.
The walk back to the castle was quiet. They’d been given instructions to go into the separate male and female large tents where fires had been set up to dry themselves by, and large plaids to keep warm. The women chose to undress and wrap themselves in their plaids.
Ceana stared into the flames. Her anger and hatred mounted.
Only one game left.
And when she and Macrath won, they would indeed make the council pay, for before she drew her last breath, she swore on everything she held dear, the war games would cease to exist.
Chapter Twenty-One
There were few certainties in life. But one of the most certain was death.
Fourteen pairs of feet trudged woefully across the wooden bridge away from the gatehouse of Sìtheil Castle and toward the beach. Fourteen pairs of eyes stared vacantly over the landscape. Fourteen mouths would not smile this day—nor many days to come.
“Keep it moving!” the guards shouted, rushing them even in this moment of lamentation.
Ceana felt as though she were being pressed to death with stones, the heaviness within her chest was so tangible. It was hard to breathe. Hard to think. Difficult to do much more than mourn the death of thirty-three men and women who’d died brutally just after sunrise.
Their deaths had not been quick, nor painless, nor without fear and hope for a rescue. For they’d either recognized that they’d drown for lack of knowing how to swim, or they waited patiently at the bottom of the loch for someone to free them, until the burn in their lungs became too much and instinctively they sucked in water when what they needed was air.
“I’m glad you stayed,” she said to her guard Boarg. He could have easily returned to their clan, rather than wait outside the walls unaware of her fate.
“I could never have left you here alone, my laird. My duty has been to your family since afore you were born.”
Ceana shuddered, fresh tears stinging her eyes. And she prayed he returned to their clan with good news and not the sad news of her passing. She clasped her arms around herself, trying to ward off the gooseflesh that rose along her limbs.
Dried and as warm as they could be—for it was certain her bones had taken on a chill that only dissipated when making love to Macrath—they crossed over the moors, the grasses swaying gently and ironically peaceful in the breeze. Finches and grouses dove in and out of the forest, warbling as they made nests for the coming winter. Nature, completely oblivious to the destruction of mankind.
The world seemed to move on without a care. But it had stopped for Ceana. She’d not only lost fellow entrants this morning, but she’d lost her guard, Aaron, and her friend, Judith. She’d never forgive herself for having allowed Aaron to enter. There had to have been more she could have done to stop him. His blood would be forever on her hands. And Judith… Ceana closed her eyes tight, her feet moving habitually over the fading heather covered moors. Judith had saved her life, and vice versa. The bond they’d formed had been tight, and in the back of her mind, Ceana had wished they could both end this game alive. But it was impossible—especially now. Judith was one of the few who didn’t know how to swim. Aaron had been victim to a savior who couldn’t swim either.
Victims. Saviors. How cruel of the council to name them such.
After the winners had been warmed and fed, their companions were allowed back within the walls of Sìtheil Castle to mourn the passing of the departed—the one’s who’d not made it past the drowning of game four, the siege of game three, the women’s fight in game two or the wolf attack in game one. The mightiest of nightmares and fears had been thrust upon everyone in less than a week’s time. Though they’d only be able to bury those who’d died during the last game, they’d be allowed a moment to pray for all who’d passed.
As they neared the beach, she could see that three small boats, piled high with wrapped packages, were moored to the pier. Where had the boats been before? Waiting, hidden in a cove?
The closer they got, the more she could see exactly what the packages were. Bodies wrapped tightly in linen. She could make out the shapes of their heads, the roundness of shoulders, the length of legs and feet sticking up. Piled one after another, kindling surrounded the edges of the boats. Everyone before today had been buried. Were these the bodies of those who’d drowned? Who had fished them out?
Again she shuddered.
She stepped closer to Boarg. She needed the comfort of home as they neared the beach. “His family will blame me,” she whispered.
“Nay, lass, they will not. They know Aaron came of his own accord. He died a warrior. ’Tis an honorable death.”
Ceana tried to see it that way, but she couldn’t. Aaron had come to the games with one purpose in mind—to win and marry her. If only she’d known his plans before they’d ever left Gruamach lands, she’d have insisted he stay and that someone else escort her. Furthermore, if she’d been aware that there had to be two entrants per clan, she would have made certain—
What?
Would she have willingly lured one of her own clansmen to his death? No. Would she have married one of them for five years before pushing him aside? Maybe. Because the winners of the throne of Sìtheil only had to pledge themselves to each other for five years, and hadn’t it been her plan all along to bid farewell to whomever she was attached to at the end? To take precautions a child was not born of the union. To make certain she garnered enough wealth and power to protect her clan.
Things had changed when she’d met Macrath. She still wanted to protect her clan, but she also wanted to remain by his side the rest of her life.
She steeled a glance in his direction. Ever since the end of the game that morning he’d been silent, brooding. Much like she was.
He walked silently beside her, tall, stoic. The marks of the guards’ beating still marred his face. His broad shoulders were squared. A short growth of stubble lined his square jaw. Macrath was the epitome of manly strength. A true warrior. How many mourning ceremonies had he attended? Certainly more than she had. Gods, but she wanted to absorb his strength.
Her warrior did not have any servants or a personal guard. Ceana wasn’t surprised given his stepmother and half-brother’s extreme hatred of him. He’d said she’d shipped him and poor Rhona off without a crust of bread to sustain them during their fortnight long journey. It was a wonder they made it to the games alive. And it was a certainty at least one of them would never leave Sìtheil breathing. Ceana’s breath shuddered as a sob threatened to escape. Taking Rhona’s life was a moment she would forever remember in the darkest of night terrors.
Ceana glanced around, confirming that Leticia and Victor were not present within the group of mourners. She supposed she shouldn’t have been surprised. Neither of them seemed to care much about any of the entrants. They were only there to enjoy the bloodshed.
When their feet at last sunk into the rocky sand, Ceana braced herself to examine the boats filled with bodies. Her eyes counted the bundled and stacked forms, hoping and praying she wouldn’t ma
ke out the outlines of Judith and Aaron’s bodies. She couldn’t tell where they were, and she didn’t know whether that was worse or not. But there didn’t appear to be enough bodies. Many more had drowned. What happened to the rest of them? Fear and more questions than she cared to have the answers to invaded her mind. When she was a girl, the clan elders told stories of monsters that lived at the bottom of the lochs and fed on the feet and hands of little children. As an adult, she liked to think those monsters were simply the imaginings of elders to keep children from swimming too deep. But…
The piper stood at the end of the pier and put his lips to the mouthpiece. Graying clouds met the far side of the loch, and in the distance the forest appeared to weep. His cheeks puffed with air and then that first drone piped out before his mourning song filled the beach and carried on the wind. A song for the dead.
The council members dismounted from their horses and walked in a solemn line onto the pier, led by a stiff-backed Lady Beatrice. Though she was no longer Mistress of Sìtheil, she still carried herself as though she were. They were all dressed in their finest plaids with jeweled pins on their shoulders and gemstones glittering on their hands.
Beyond the piper’s woeful dirge, silence reigned. Even the seagulls left them to their sorrow. A slight breeze blew off the loch. The air was cold, the sun covered by storm clouds, and Ceana wondered if she’d ever see brightness in the sun again, or if for her it would always be gray.
Let the storm hold out until the birlinns are far out to sea and burned to ash.
Beside her, Boarg was stiff and stared out over the loch, his ancient brows wrinkled, lips turned down. Ceana shifted her gaze toward Macrath. He’d vacated her side and she shifted uncomfortably, searching him out and failing, until she felt him step up on the other side of her. Warmth and comfort seeped into her. His strength. She needed it. She needed him. Without Macrath by her side, she would not have made it as far as she had.
Lords of the Isles Page 117