by Hazel Hunter
“’Tis why I shall need another mount,” Bhaltair said as he joined them, and leaned over the stall door to give the pony a fond stroke. “Chieftain, I’m in no place to ask for your mercy, but I would just the same.”
Brennus already knew what he wanted. “I shallnae kill your lass for setting me to burn.” He turned around to meet the old meddler’s gaze. “As you willnae end her for wishing vengeance on you.”
Bhaltair looked relieved rather than offended, and nodded before he said, “If ’tis Barra who uses Oriana, then you need ken more of her powers.” He glanced at Cadeyrn. “And plan how we may fight them.”
“We fight. You keep out of it.” Shoving a saddle in the old druid’s arms gave Brennus a small amount of pleasure.
Once they left the settlement and rejoined the waiting Skaraven, Cadeyrn rode a little ahead of the clan with Brennus, and said, “You cannae kill one druid for what another did, Bren.”
“’Tis memory that plagues me. Recall how often Ru returned bloody and bruised after training alone with Galan? Near every time. I saw how he looked at that brutal bastart, but told myself ’twas just an echo of my own resentment.” He shook his head. “Why didnae he tell me of this, Cade?”
“As Flen said, to keep the rest of us alive.” His war master’s jaw tightened. “After what they did to us, likely he hates himself even more than his sire despises him.”
Bhaltair trotted his gelding up between them. “I dinnae crave to further rile you, Chieftain, but you must ken what Barra did, and what she may do through Oriana.”
Brennus slowed his mount. As much as he despised the old druid, his acolyte had come close to ending him. “Regale us,” he said sourly.
“Barra Omey’s transgressions compelled the conclave to outlaw all bone-conjuring fifty years past.” He grimaced. “’Twas an ancient practice of bringing back the dead, frowned on even then. Out of respect for the disincarnated, ’twas rarely attempted.”
Cadeyrn gave the old druid a skeptical look. “You raised us from our graves.”
“’Twas a different matter, War Master,” Bhaltair countered. “Bone-conjurers used their magics to invite the souls of the dead to speak to them. They bespelled the bones left behind to summon their spirits. Only Barra didnae wait for the living to die. She sacrificed them.”
Disgust filled Brennus. “She killed so that she might speak to their spirits?”
“Worse, I fear. After a sacrificial ritual, Barra tore the newly-dead souls from their afterlife. She attempted to force them back into their own corpses.” He cleared his throat. “’Twas no’ made known at the time of her judgment, but she had managed to resurrect a few mortals.”
“You did as much with us,” Brennus said. “What of it?”
“We transformed you into immortals,” the old druid corrected. “Barra didnae ken or didnae care to revive the flesh. The bodies of the souls she trapped kept rotting. In the end the conclave freed the imprisoned by burning them.”
“By the Gods,” the war master muttered, shaking his head.
After being nearly burned alive himself, that settled the matter for Brennus. “If this Barra yet lives, ken that I shallnae spare her.”
“You’ll no’ need to,” Bhaltair assured him, his querulous voice now flat and cold.
Halfway to the McAra’s stronghold Brennus called a halt, and directed the clan to ride to the loch and return to Dun Mor. The men didn’t look happy as they left them, nor did it please him to approach the castle without his brothers at his back. Yet if the Skaraven arrived as a warband, that was how Maddock would treat them.
“I’d send you along with them,” he told Cadeyrn, “but I need your owl inside the stronghold.”
His war master simply nodded. His ability to spot weakness in anything allowed him to detect anything from falsehoods to an opponent’s most vulnerable position on the battlefield.
When Brennus saw the first of the laird’s patrols he sheathed his sword and dismounted. Cadeyrn did the same before he helped Bhaltair to the ground. A few moments later six large McAra clansmen approached them, blades held ready.
“Skaraven arenae welcome here, Chieftain,” Maddock’s tall, burly second-in-command said, but slowly lowered his sword. “My sentries saw you send away your warband. Do they await with our sister?”
Brennus shook his head. “We come to warn your lord of a new enemy, and in hopes of calling a brief truce.” He unbuckled his belt and offered it and his sword to the tanist. “We dinnae wish a war with your clan.”
The big man’s gaze narrowed before he accepted the weapon. “A truce would be most welcome, Chieftain.”
After collecting Cadeyrn’s blade the McAra clansmen flanked them on all sides and marched them to the stronghold. As they walked Brennus noted the large number of guards posted along the outer curtain walls, and lookouts high above them on the tower walks. No doubt every other McAra male who could hold a blade watched them from places of concealment, ready to defend their laird and his family.
That ’tis come to this, Brennus thought as he stopped a short distance from the gatehouse. All for a squabble over a sick lass.
The tanist disappeared inside for a few minutes before he returned and dismissed his men. “The laird grants you a brief visit, that you may assure we’ve well-treated your weapons master.”
That was Maddock’s slap back at his intentions, Brennus thought, but nodded.
Inside the stronghold’s great hall more armed men had gathered, positioned at every entry and standing ready. The laird himself looked remarkably unconcerned as he sat by the hearth reading and sipping wine from an ornate goblet.
“The scroll he reads,” Cadeyrn murmured, only loud enough for Brennus to hear. “’Tis blank.”
Maddock leisurely looked over at them. “I’ve sent for Kanyth Skaraven. He shall be delivered from the dungeons–” He paused as his steward hurried over and whispered something to him. Then he scowled. “Gods damn me. Who let him out this time?”
The pale-faced steward grimaced. “I believe ’twas your lady wife, my lord.”
“I should have wed McFarlan’s horse-faced sister.” Maddock crumpled the blank scroll and tossed it into the hearth. “Why do you yet stand there?” he said to the steward, and motioned for him to leave. “Go fetch our hostage, that his kin may inspect him.”
Kanyth appeared a few minutes later, escorted not by guards but most of Maddock’s children. From the look of the wooden swords and pillows the lads carried they had been playing at battle. Their sisters wore circlets woven of straw and brightly-colored ribbons, and fluttered kerchiefs like so many fine ladies.
The laird rose to his feet and regarded his family with a narrow gaze. “Now ’tis no’ the time for frolic.”
“’Twas my fault, my lord,” Kanyth said. “I should have remained in my cell. Forgive me.” He pulled off the lad clinging to his back and handed him to the laird’s wife. “’Tis good to see you, Chieftain, War Master.” He frowned a little at Bhaltair. “And druid I reckoned to be dead.”
Before anyone could speak the laird’s youngest daughter rushed over to Maddock. “Father, my brothers routed Ka five times at battle, and killed him thrice, and he a Skaraven.”
“Indeed.” The laird’s lips twitched before he leveled a stern look at his lady. “I recall we agreed to keep the prisoner in the dungeon.”
“So we did, my love. Our bairns, however, didnae,” his wife said, and curtseyed to Brennus. “Despite his many losses I think your brother an excellent sparring master, Chieftain. Come now, my dear ones. ’Tis time for your lessons.” Over the groans of her children Lady McAra herded them out of the great hall.
Maddock watched them go, and then turned to face Brennus. “Dinnae mistake my misplaced affection for my younglings as pardon for what you’ve done.”
“Never,” Brennus said. “With your leave, I would speak to Kanyth while the druid relates to you some news.”
The laird looked suspicious, but after a momen
t nodded his consent. As the druid went to speak to him Kanyth joined Brennus and Cadeyrn.
“Yesterday Maddock arranged a betrothal between McFarlan’s son and Emeline to better secure their alliance,” the weapons master said. “Dinnae bring her here unless she wishes to wed.” He eyed Brennus’s tunic and his grin vanished. “You’ve been burnt.”
“More than once.” He quickly related the attempt on his life in Aviemore, and the disappearances of the healers and the acolyte. “Whatever truce Flen manages to arrange, you must remain here to protect the laird and his family.”
“This while I’m their hostage.” Kanyth’s brows arched. “A true challenge.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
AT SUNRISE RUADRI left Emeline sleeping and went to check on their mounts. The horses remained in a nearby sheep pen where he had left them last night, and both whickered a greeting. He fetched water for them from the shelter’s well, and then checked their hooves. As he left them to graze a little longer, he spied a large patch of purple and red wild raspberries where the trees edged the grasses.
Emeline shall love those.
Picking the fruit also gave him time to think of how he would approach his sire. After finishing Ruadri’s training Galan had promised never again to come within sight of him. To approach him would doubtless seem like a deliberate attempt to provoke him, especially as he now lived in one of the most secretive and closely-guarded settlements in Scotland.
Likewise, Ruadri didn’t want to go anywhere near Galan. He also couldn’t allow his sire to discover that he had mated with Emeline, or why they needed him to send for the Skaraven. If he knew, Galan would refuse to help them.
Ruadri’s heart still grew tight as he walked back to the shelter. There he smelled the scent of porridge cooking and ducked his head as he stepped through the low threshold.
“Good morning,” Emeline said and came from the hearth, a spoon in one hand, and stood on her toes to kiss him. “I rummaged about and found a sack of oats and some cooking things. We’ll have some porridge in a few minutes.”
He eyed the pot she had hung on the hearth hook. “You ken how to cook.”
“Not as well as Lily, but I manage. You should see what I can do with chestnuts and an old Roman shield. Oh, raspberries,” she said as he unwrapped the heap he had picked. “They’re better than bananas.”
They had to eat directly from the pot, sharing the one spoon she’d found. As they broke their fast Emeline tried to explain to him what a banana was. She blushed a little when she described its shape and size, which sounded remarkably like a man’s penis.
“So, you cut them up to put atop your porridge,” Ruadri said, and glanced down at his lap. “Mayhap I should keep from the kitchens, lest my manhood be mistaken for this fruit.”
“Oh you’re much larger than a banana,” Emeline told him, and then groaned and covered her eyes. “I can’t believe I fell for that.”
He suddenly understood why she made so merry: to keep him from thinking about his sire and the difficult task they faced. But time was not on their side. Feeding her the last berry, he kissed her lips.
“’Tis a long ride to the Moss Dapple settlement. We must go.”
She curled her hand around the back of his neck. “I’d do this for you if I could.”
Together they tidied the shelter. Ruadri left one of the protective amulets he carried by the sack of oats, as payment for what they had used. “When we reach my sire’s settlement, you mustnae tell my sire we’re mated. Show me no affection and say as little as you may. The less Galan kens, the less he can use as a weapon.”
“I’ll be careful.” Emeline touched his cheek. “You didn’t kill your mother, Ru. You were just a helpless newborn. She died because it was her time. If you could ask her, do you think she would blame you for her death?”
Thanks to Galan’s hatred he’d spent his life carrying the weight of his mother’s death inside. He’d never once considered what Fiana might have felt.
“I cannae tell you.”
“I think she’d tell you that any mother would gladly give her life so her child could live,” Emeline told him, and took his hand in hers.
Together they retrieved their mounts, and rode from the highlands toward the Moss Dapple’s settlement. With each league they crossed Ruadri’s determination grew stronger. As a lad he had feared Galan’s cold brutality, and as a man he’d despised his sire for forcing him to turn traitor. The druid’s hatred for him would always be a threat, but Ruadri wouldn’t live imprisoned or humiliated by it anymore.
“I owe you much, Wife,” he told Emeline when they stopped at a stream to water and graze the horses. “You see everything with such clarity of heart.”
“That’s more Cade’s gift, I think. I see you.” She embraced him before she drew back. “I just wish everyone knew what a rat your father is.”
“Aye.” That gave Ruadri more to think on, and he began to plan.
As they rode he talked with her about how to handle Galan. The sun dipped low by the time they reached the river entrance to the Moss Dapple’s enchanted forest. Ruadri stopped and eyed the waterfall, knowing Galan’s defenders had already spotted them. Once they dismounted he tethered their horses and kept his empty hands where they could be seen.
“I would have you remain here,” he said. “’Twould be safer.”
“The moon said we have to do this together,” Emeline countered. “Your strength and my gift combined. It’s a good plan, my love.”
Ruadri took in a deep breath. If they were killed, they would go to the well of stars together. So, no matter what the outcome, they would be together.
“Stay ever at my side,” he said lowly.
Leading her into the river, they walked through the water illusion until they reached the thundering falls that guarded the only entry to the forest. Ruadri glanced at his lady, who nodded slightly before she walked into the cascade beside him.
Ruadri saw the shapes of men waiting ahead, but no one entered to confront them. He shifted in front of Emeline as they walked, grateful for once for his own massive body, which served as an excellent shield. When they reached the end of the passage he stepped out into the dimming sunlight.
Five bare-chested druids as large as himself surrounded them, but instead of the defenders’ traditional scythes they held swords. The intricate skinwork inked on their bodies resembled nothing Ruadri had ever before seen.
“You trespass, Pritani,” the largest of the defenders told him.
“No, Domnall. Like you, he hunts.”
A towering black-haired druid emerged from the trees. Wearing dark green robes worked with glyphs made of twigs and leaves, and holding a silver sword worked with black stones, Galan looked just as grim and forbidding as Ruadri remembered.
“Sire.” He bowed to his father.
Galan regarded Emeline for a long moment before he met Ruadri’s gaze. “You force me break my vow, Shaman. Have you forgot yours to me?”
How like Galan to refuse to say his name. “I would ask a word alone with you, Sire,” he said evenly. “A Pritani tribe in peril needs help.”
“You come to beg a boon from me.” Galan laughed, making a dry, rusty sound as if he hadn’t done so in years. “’Tis why you brought the wench? As a bribe, that I may forget what you be?”
A warm, loving sensation passed over and around Ruadri, steadying him enough to answer civilly. “Mistress Emeline belongs to the tribe in danger.”
“Aye, but she be a cursed halfling like you.” Galan bared his teeth in an unpleasant smile. “Who do you put in chains when you fack?”
Emeline stepped between them. “Invaders come hunting my people,” she said, her voice low and respectful. “I ask you summon the Skaraven chieftain to meet with my tribe, that they may bargain for their protection.”
Ruadri could feel Emeline pouring her calming radiance over Galan. He also saw the tell-tale shimmer of his sire’s body wards as they repelled her magic.
&nbs
p; “My son’s hoor seeks to enchant me while she spouts lies.” The big druid’s glittering eyes shifted to Ruadri. “Why cannae you summon Brennus?” When he didn’t reply Galan turned his back on him and said, “Take their heads, Overseer.”
Domnall didn’t move. “Mistress, what tribe?”
“The Ara,” Emeline said. “They fled to the highlands but shall soon return to their village. They cannae prevail alone over the Romans.”
“Domnall,” Galan grated. “You serve me, no’ this wench. Kill them now, else they bespell us all.”
The overseer gave the big druid a long look before he planted his sword in the ground at Ruadri’s feet. “There be no quarrel here but of blood,” he told Galan. “You wish your son dead, Dru-wid, so you must end him.”
“No,” Emeline cried out.
“Mistress,” Domnall cautioned her as he put a hand on her arm. “No interference. I cannae permit it.”
“Keep your pathetic enchantments to yourself, you hoor,” Galan spat.
“Keep her safe,” Ruadri said to Domnall. He pulled the blade from the earth before addressing his sire. “What need you of body wards, my brave Father? I remember you always said that I made a poor swordsman.” He gestured to himself. “Yet I wear none. ’Tis fear of me that keeps you cloaked?”
“There’s naught I fear less than a mewling welp,” Galan snarled and made a show of dropping his wards.
Ruadri grinned. “Mayhap if you hadnae beat my arms with your cudgel before blade training, I’d have improved.”
The druid’s face contorted, and he rushed at him with a roar of outrage.
Ruadri parried Galan’s first savage blow with a shaking arm and stumbling feet. “I’ve no more talent for crippling or killing than I had as a lad.” He ducked to avoid a sweep of his sire’s blade. “’Twas why you set a warband to kill me, and watched me defend myself alone.”
“Silence,” his father shouted, and slashed the front of Ruadri’s tunic, spilling first blood.
“Ruadri,” Emeline shrieked as she struggled against Domnall’s grip. “Let me go!”