by Carey Corp
After escaping the witch’s guards at the loch, we’d hurried back to camp, where the Doonians greeted me like a returning war hero, tears streaming down many of their faces as they declared my return a miracle.
But not Fergus. The big man had hung back, arms crossed, eyes narrowed to slits, examining me like a sword with a broken hilt that he couldn’t decide whether to fix or melt into scrap. Now, as dawn began to sneak up on the horizon, I longed to collapse onto a pallet somewhere—preferably within easy reach of Veronica as she slept. But I’d come to the fire ring to wait, certain my oldest friend would find me.
Fergus cleared his throat, shifted his weight, and began again. “I’m curious how I watched a noose bein’ looped around yer neck and saw ye drop from the gallows, and yet here ye sit.”
“I was wondering the same thing,” a melodic voice said behind me. I turned to find Veronica approaching, wrapped in a tattered quilt, hair mussed and eyes heavy with sleep. My heart raced at the mere sight of her, and I patted the log beside me in invitation.
Blaz, a head taller than last I’d seen him, padded up to me. Ears erect, tail down, he paused several feet away. I extended my open palm. Cautious, he stepped forward and sniffed my hand. His tail rose, wagging faster as he licked my skin. With a mighty leap, his enormous paws were on my shoulders and a wet, warm tongue bathed my face.
“Down, boy,” I commanded with a chuckle. Following one more quick lick, he settled near my feet, one paw resting on my boot.
When I looked up, I saw that Fergus still awaited my answer. I wasn’t entirely sure how to explain what had happened to me without causing him to question my sanity. Veronica sat close, the heat of her side pressed into mine as I let my mind go back over the moments surrounding my near execution. So much had transpired since that fateful night, but I’d had plenty of time to ponder what I’d experienced and to form a theory, no matter how outlandish.
I rubbed Blaz’s downy head, allowing his presence to calm me as I relived the nightmare. “When I walked out onto the gallows and stared into the witch’s smug face, the hood lowered over my head. I wish I could say I faced death wi’ bravery, but it took ever’ thing I had no’ to scream.”
Veronica’s breath caught and she looped her arm through mine, squeezing tight. I kissed her temple and then met Fergus’s tormented gaze, realizing there was more than curiosity, or even distrust, in his face. If he thought he’d watched me die, then as a royal guardsman he harbored the guilt of being unable to protect me—his prince. His charge.
The best I could do was reassure him with the facts. Such as they were. “I remember my last prayers, beseeching the Protector, and then Adelaide’s voice tauntin’ me, promisin’ my death would break Doon and its queen once and for all.” The witch’s words echoed in my head, followed by flashes of Sean’s fists, the never-ending pain, then Adelaide’s voracious gaze as her brand burned into my skin. Fury pulsed inside me, obliterating my focus, taking me back . . .
“Jamie?”
Sharp fingers dug into my arm and I realized my entire body was tense, ready to spring. I blinked at Veronica, her aqua eyes wide with concern, her small hand running over my clenched bicep. But all I could see was the witch staring back at me through my love’s face. I tore my gaze from hers and tugged my arm from her grasp.
This was my Veronica.
I was safe.
Free.
Like climbing a rope hand over hand, I heaved my mind back to the present and out of the horrors I’d experienced. Then I forced my muscles to relax and turned back to Vee and Fergus.
“Before I felt the drop, hands pulled me back and a deep voice said, It is not yet your time. The next thing I knew, I awoke in the castle gardens unharmed.”
Tears glistened in Fergus’s eyes. “Do ye think . . . could it have been . . . an angel?”
“Aye, that is my belief.”
My old friend reached over and clapped me on the shoulder. “A true miracle, then.”
“But what happened after that?” Vee asked softly.
“I ran, but the witch caught me within hours.”
“So you’ve been her prisoner this whole time?” Her delicate brow furrowed and she shook her head. “But why didn’t she kill you once she got you back? Not that I’m complaining. I just don’t understand . . .”
A pain shot up my jaw and I unclenched my teeth before saying, “The witch had . . . other plans for me.”
“Jamie, whatever you’ve been through . . . I’m sorry.”
Her sympathy didn’t help. Would she feel the same if she knew I’d murdered one of our people in cold blood? I shot to my feet. The weight of what I’d done was suddenly heavy enough to drive me into the ground.
Startled, Blaz let out a deep bark and I jumped, the abrupt noise sending my heart pounding into my ears. I shook so hard, I had to cross my arms to still their trembling.
Vee started to rise. “Jamie—”
I shot her a glare and she lowered back down.
“Where’s my brother?” I couldn’t trust that what Adelaide had told me was true. But if it wasn’t, surely I would’ve seen him by now.
“He . . .” Vee started and then began again, her voice firm. “I sent him across the bridge with as many Doonians as he could take with him, in accordance with my vision.”
I gave a single nod. “And the bridge?”
Fergus answered, “ ’Tis gone. Disintegrated during the quake. We believe by the witch’s magic.”
“What of the mountain pass?”
“We don’t know,” Veronica said.
None of it was their fault. And yet red closed in on my vision and my pulse thrummed in my fingertips. Vee had sent Duncan out of Doon when I needed him most. And with no way to return, I may never see my brother again. Judging from the numbers of those who’d greeted me in camp, our population had dwindled to a third or less. And the witch was raising an undead army of thousands. We were as good as dead.
“I need to sleep.” And with that, I stalked off.
I found an empty pallet next to Oliver in the infirmary and collapsed upon it without removing my boots. How long had it been since I’d truly slept?
When sleep finally came, the same dream I’d had for weeks sucked me in . . .
This was it. Our last hope—my last hope.
Because if I couldn’t save Doon, I couldn’t save her—the girl who had become the sustainer of my soul, my strength, my light—and if I didn’t have her, I would never be strong enough to lead what was left of us.
If there is anything left.
Tension buzzed through my veins as strategies and contingencies rebounded through my brain. I rolled my shoulders and bent my head. The prayer was incoherent at best, a mantra of deliver us, give me strength, protect her . . .
I lifted my eyes, and the outline of our beloved Brig o’Doon—our portal to the outside world—shimmered in the malevolent haze. The bitter taste of fear coated my tongue as a rhythmic beating filled the air, vibrating in my chest.
With a resounding ring, I drew my sword. The answering tone of blade, ax, and bow staff being unsheathed rang out behind me. The unity of our people was heartening, but it wasn’t enough. Half the guard had been lost in the separation. These soldiers were mothers and fathers, tanners, blacksmiths, maids . . . trained in only the bare essentials of battle.
The bridge solidified with every deafening beat of my heart. Its stones becoming solid once more, I could make out the silhouettes of men on the other side. Glancing to my right, I wished to see the Captain of the Guard, my brother and friend, Duncan. Instead, I was greeted by the ashen face of Gideon MacTavish, his bald head dripping with sweat, his sword quivering as if it had a life of its own.
Saints.
In disgust, I turned back to the ominous sight on the bridge. The rising mist brought the ghostly figures into sharper view. A burst of icy wind pushed against my overheated skin, sweeping away the last of the fog, revealing the witches’ army in all its malefic glory
. Vacant eyes, glowing with an ethereal violet light, faces void of all expression. The sheer numbers spreading across the bridge and beyond were staggering.
Searching for affirmation—some sign that I didn’t lead my people into certain death—I glanced to my left, bolstered to see my mate, Fergus, a fervor burning in his eyes to match my own. Waves of righteous fury radiated from the giant solider as he growled, “I’ve got yer back, Laird.”
I swallowed the last vestiges of my fear, tucking it deep down inside, then nodded my acknowledgment with a grim smile. “Aye, let’s do this.”
Raising my sword high into the air I shouted, “Archers ready!”
This was it. I’d gotten us into this nightmare, now I would get us out of it—or die trying.
“For Doon and her queen!” I bellowed, pointing my sword toward our enemy. An answering cry echoed all around me and we surged forward as one.
My last thought of Vee, her aqua eyes filled with sorrow and accusation as I shut and locked the door behind me. If I lived, I only hoped she could forgive me for what I’d done.
I sat up and gasped for air. The emotion of the dream still pounding through my heart, I threw back the quilt. I knew what we had to do . . . what I had to do.
CHAPTER 21
Mackenna
Not that anyone who knew me would believe it, but I’d actually started to enjoy my morning jog from Dunbrae Cottage to Mabel’s barn. Okay . . . maybe “enjoy” was too strong a word. But I did feel a sense of accomplishment that I no longer arrived huffing and puffing like the big, bad wolf. I’d started making decent time too. Not enough that I was in danger of exchanging my tap shoes for a track medal, but enough that I believed I might actually be useful in the impending battle against Addie and her minions.
The morning, though cool, was bright and clear. If one looked closely, not that I made a habit of it, you could see the first green shoots of spring struggling to life. That was another effect of running; my focus on the world around me became sharper as the ever-present show tunes in my brain shut off. Unfortunately, I did enjoy living my life with an internal Broadway soundtrack. When things got quiet, I missed the voices harmonizing in my head.
Still, the early signs of spring gave me hope that whatever funk Duncan had been suffering from the last couple days was over. In the distance, I spied my boyfriend setting up for training. As I approached, I searched for signs that whatever little, black rain cloud he’d been trapped under was gone.
Skidding to a halt, I glanced at the fitness app on my phone. “Ta-Da! Eight minutes and twenty-seven seconds. A new record.” With a flourishing sweep of my arms, I took a bow and straightened up in time to catch Duncan’s grimace before he resumed working.
“Were ye able to speak with Queen Veronica last night?” he asked as he placed a stone marker in the grass, completing a rectangle.
No “Good morning” or “Great job, woman.” No “You look positively radiant in this light, lass.” Zip.
Despite the clear skies, I found myself wishing I’d brought an umbrella for protection against my boyfriend’s isolated thunderstorms. “Not really. Last night’s dream was weird. It’s like we were underwater or something.”
He headed into the barn and I followed like Fosca begging for the scraps of Giorgio’s affection. “Vee looked like a mermaid with her hair floating around her head. I was swimming behind her, so I don’t think she even saw me. But I did see her wearing Aunt Gracie’s ring—so I think she has it.” I noticed because it sparked to life, lighting the water around her, just before I woke up. Since I didn’t have any context for the dream, I felt reluctant to mention that part.
“Tonight, try to speak with her again. If you can, tell her that we’re coming home. We’ll need her and the ring to be ready.”
“Aye, aye, captain,” I replied with a little salute.
He frowned again before pointing through the open barn door at two figures in the distance. “Eòran and Rabbie are going to help us today.”
“With what exactly?” I asked as I reached for the protective padding that Duncan insisted I wear under the leather gear. When I got it all on, I was more insulated than that kid in A Christmas Story.
“Sparring. And don’t bother with that,” he said, waving at the padding. “We’re fighting just like ye would in a battle—leather plating only, no extra gear. And be careful with the weapons, they’re extremely sharp.”
Great. Battling experienced soldiers with razor-sharp swords and no protective padding. That was like Christine Daaé being ripped from the chorus and thrust into the starring role at the Opéra Populaire. Did that make Duncan my Angel of Combat? I had to trust that he wouldn’t put me in this position if he didn’t think I was ready for it. He wouldn’t endanger me unnecessarily. At least I hoped he wouldn’t . . .
Rabbie and Eòran strode into the barn. While the former blushed at the prospect of interrupting something, the latter, whom I affectionately thought of as Mutton Chops, scowled as if he were here under duress.
“Thank ye for coming, lads.” Duncan picked up two swords, handed them to the guards, and then retrieved the remaining two for himself and me. As he handed me the weapon, he explained, “Rabbie and Eòran are familiar with this exercise. We will spar side by side. I’ll partner with you first and then we’ll switch until ye’ve fought all of us. All right?”
I nodded. That didn’t seem too hard. I’d sparred individually with each of them a dozen times or more.
Successfully blocking out the other two soldiers, I focused on blocking Duncan’s moves. Although he didn’t go easy on me, he did hold back—at least at the start. When I finally gained the offensive, he went into Celtic warrior mode, but I growled and snarled right back at him as I swung my blade repeatedly to drive him back.
“Time!” Rabbie called as he lowered his weapon.
Duncan nodded toward the young soldier. “Partner with Mackenna and I’ll take Eòran.”
Expecting a brief intermission, I tried not to let my disappointment show as I moved to my next opponent. As I faced off against Rabbie, Duncan fought to my right. Suddenly my concentration split in two, and no matter how hard I tried to block him out, Duncan dominated my awareness. So much so that I failed to block Rabbie’s sword as it swung toward the leather plate strapped to my thigh. The adrenaline rush caused by the prospect of being amputated like the Black Knight allowed me to twist away, saving my leg, but earning a long gash in my favorite yoga pants.
Struggling to regain my mental focus, I gave myself a little pep talk. Duncan will be fine. He’s the Michael Crawford of battle. Focus on Rabbie. What’s his weakness? Find it and use it!
As I blocked my opponent, I focused on Rabbie’s movements. Tall and broad in the shoulders like Duncan, but without the same fighting mastery, Rabbie would be most vulnerable from a quick, agile attack toward his lower body. Since most of his strokes were high and wide, it would take him more time to respond.
When Rabbie’s body language announced his next move would be a sweeping down stroke, I hastily blocked a set of counter moves—fake parry, roll, turn, calf strike. As his weapon dropped, I feigned a block. Then at the last possible second, I dropped and rolled under his arm. Still in a crouch, I turned to strike.
That’s when I saw the blood. Duncan’s blood—running down his limp left arm, soaking the shirt under his leather breastplate and spattering the ground as he continued to fight Eòran.
Shouting his name, I dropped my weapon and ran toward him—right into Rabbie’s sword. With a “hey,” Rabbie checked his swing so that it stopped just short of cutting me in half. Undeterred, I pushed the flat of the sword out of the way and continued forward.
As I approached, Duncan leveled his blade at me. “Halt!”
Feeling like I was trapped in a nightmare, I stared down the pointy tip of the blade at my bleeding boyfriend. “What are you doing?”
Now that he was no longer fighting, a crimson pool began to form around his left boot. Face flus
hed, his body shaking, he growled, “Pick up your weapon and finish the exercise!”
“No. You’re injured.” I pointed to his left arm. “We need to stop.”
“There’s no stopping in battle. Now go get your sword.” He swayed on his feet, eyes rolling back in his head as the tip of his weapon lowered toward the ground.
Closing the distance between us, I carefully inspected the gash in his bicep. “This is bad. We need to get you to a doctor.”
Duncan’s eyes snapped back into focus with a grunt. “Get your hands off me. Continue fighting!”
“I will not!”
In one fluid motion, Duncan dropped his sword and then grabbed me by the hair. Quicker than I would’ve believe possible, he wound it around his wrist and spun me around so that my back was against his chest. “Do ye think the witch’s soldiers will give ye a time out?” he snarled. “Eòran, retrieve Mackenna’s sword for her.”
Mutton Chops scurried to do as his prince commanded. The badger-like guard handed me my weapon, hilt first. But I wouldn’t take it.
When I refused a second time, Duncan released me with a little push that sent me stumbling forward. “Pick up yer weapon and fight! Rabbie, begin the attack.”
The young guard’s mouth dropped open as he stared between the two of us with wide, disbelieving eyes. “But m’Laird.”
“That is an order, man!”
Rabbie leveled his sword at me, and nervously cleared his throat. “Please pick up your weapon, Miss Mackenna.”
“No.” I loosened the laces of my ruined top to expose my breastbone. “Kill me or let me tend to Duncan. Either way I’m not picking up my sword.”
Poor Rabbie looked at Duncan apologetically. “Sorry, m’Laird, I canna do what ye ask.”
“Be off with ye then! You too, Eòran.” Duncan waited for the guards to retreat, and then, without warning, he gripped my elbow and spun me around. “That was unacceptable. I’m tryin’ to save your life.”
“And I’m trying to save yours, you stupid ogre.” The blood streaming down his arm had started to pool on the ground. Whatever point he was stubbornly trying to prove would have to wait until after he got stitched up.