Mael: Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 2 Page 12

  No memory of what caused his slumbering agitation ever came to him, but sometimes he heard himself mutter as he woke. He didn’t understand most of the words, so he kept it to himself. Whatever plagued him kept him weary and on edge, especially around Broden. Of late he couldn’t stop himself from goading the trapper at every turn.

  Rosealise’s gentle reproof came back to him: Broden deserved praise, not scorn.

  Edane hated the other man’s gift of strength, but what stirred his temper most was Broden’s indifference to it. If Edane had the ability to rebuild Dun Chaill single-handedly, he wouldn’t waste it cleaning chimneys or setting snares. He’d have put it to use at every turn. The mound he might have emptied in a day. The forest itself he’d have smashed into kindling.

  Broden deserved to have his arse handed to him, bloody and beaten.

  Wood bruised his palm until Edane realized he was still clutching his bow. Drawing it out from under the tartan, he held it up and watched the faint moonlight run along the polished yew. He’d dried the wood for two years before carving, and used oil and pine pitch to seal the grain. After centuries of fashioning his weapons Edane knew himself to be the finest bow maker in Scotland, perhaps the world. He never missed a target, either, thanks to the gift that he’d awoken with in the ash grove.

  Like his own uselessness, his gift had no value to the Mag Raith.

  He could make a hundred bows, and thousands of arrows, and shoot anything that moved within his sight. Edane had longed to become a superb hunter, and he had, only to awake to immortality to discover he could no longer abide hunting. Like the other hunters he had no notion as to why, but to use his bow on any living thing had become completely revolting to him.

  The other side of the hated coin was his lack of ability as a healer. Despite all the old shaman’s training, Edane could do nothing to save Rosealise. He hadn’t the magic nor the power to cure her affliction, and he never would. In a few months the white plague would drown the lady in her own blood.

  What cruel jests the Gods enjoyed.

  Just before Edane drifted off, he felt something like the touch of soft lips on his cheek, and heard a low trill of laughter. He fell asleep before he heard the words that came with them, words that he knew he’d repeat again when he awoke.

  Don’t take any wooden nickels, you goof.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  AS SHE HURRIED down the passage Rosealise recalled that Fargas had been the name of Mael’s father, the brute he’d claimed that he closely resembled. But why would Broden invoke it? Surely, he knew the seneschal to be nothing like his sire.

  Inside the old pantry she saw the door to the garden had been left ajar, and went through it out into the night. The glyphs on her leg grew warm as she made her way through the herb beds, and began to pulse as she approached the first wall of juniper. There she saw Mael’s silhouette against a dark blue glowing gap in the towering hedge.

  “No, please,” Rosealise said, and stumbled toward him. Her leg burned as if she were being branded again. “You know you can’t go in there.”

  The seneschal didn’t answer her, and when she reached him, she saw the grim set of his features.

  “Return to the keepe, my lady.” His voice sounded so defeated it wrenched at her. “Dun Chaill shall have its due.”

  “So now you become a lunatic?” She planted her hands on his chest and pushed him as hard as she could. He barely moved, so she shoved him again. “I will not allow you to feed yourself to this monstrous maze.” She seized his knotted hands. “Why are you doing this? Is it because I forced you to remember something more than our love-making? What was it?”

  “Torment. Fury.” His eyes grew unfocused. “Pain.”

  The rough manner in which the last word burst from him sent a pang of the same through her heart.

  “The Sluath hurt you?”

  “No.” He gripped her hands tighter. “I brought it with me to the underworld.”

  Rosealise frowned. “Do you mean that you were injured before you were captured?”

  He shook his head, and beads of sweat began pouring down the sides of his face. He pressed his mouth shut so tightly it became a hard slash of a line. Whatever admission he was fighting not to make obviously distressed him, and she took her hands away.

  “I told you that I wouldn’t hurt you. Clearly forcing you to recall something so terrible does.”

  “No, lass. ’Tis what I’ve never forgotten.” Mael looked into her eyes, his own reflecting the glow from the maze with a gleaming shimmer now. “You dinnae ken me.”

  “I know that I want you alive.” Rosealise offered her hand to him. “Please, Mael. I beg of you. Come away with me now.”

  He stared down at her hand for several long moments, and Rosealise realized she might have to compel him to save his life. But finally he blinked, his massive shoulders sagged, and he took her hand.

  She led him back through the herbs and into the hidden patch of berries. There the overgrowth hid them from sight, and the scent of the ripe fruit sweetened the dark air. Rosealise knelt down in the cool springy leaves, and drew Mael down with her. She took her hand from him and made sure they weren’t touching.

  “It was something that I said in your chamber, wasn’t it?”

  For a long time Mael said nothing. But as the silence stretched on, Rosealise forced herself to wait. Though she ached to comfort him and soothe his evident pain, she wouldn’t add to it—not again.

  “You reckon me the best of men,” he suddenly said. “But I’m no’. I carry in my veins the blood of the worst.”

  Rosealise felt a shadow of agony as his words tugged at her. In the past they had spoken of this. She felt sure of it.

  “You refer to your father.”

  “My sire,” he said quietly. “Aye.”

  In a flat, unemotional voice Mael told her how brutal Fargas mag Raith had been to his wife, subjecting her to such savage beatings that he’d come close to killing her dozens of times. As a boy Mael had also suffered the same, but once he grew to manhood his father began to fear him fighting back. Fargas then turned all of his wrath on the helpless mother and her children, taking daily delight in the violence he wreaked on them.

  It appalled Rosealise to learn that Mael could do nothing to stop his father’s viciousness. Since the tribe believed men had the right to do as they wished with their mates and children, no one could interfere. Regarded as his property, they couldn’t even escape.

  “I’ve in me more than the blood of Fargas,” Mael finally said. “His anger, his selfish desires, his viciousness, all shaped me. You saw that in the vision, when I returned from the arena.”

  “You are nothing like Fargas,” Rosealise protested. “The Sluath forced you to fight for your life. As for this man you call your sire, that seems all he was. He gave you and your sisters life, but nothing more. Was he ever truly a father to you? Did he provide you with guidance and strength? Did he protect and support you? Did he ever once show you affection?”

  “Never.” He ducked his head. “Yet I didnae show him the love and respect of a son.”

  “Because he never treated you as one.” She so badly wanted to touch him that she had to clasp her hands together tightly to prevent it. “And this is why you think yourself the worst of men?”

  “You dinnae ken how much I hated my sire.” He touched her cheek. “When you spoke of having my bairn, I saw how I’d deceived you. No female in my tribe would choose me as mate. They feared me the same as Fargas.”

  “I’m glad you never married any of them. They were simpletons.” She kissed his fingers. “Was there anyone in this tribe of yours with a jot of sense?”

  Mael closed his eyes for a moment. “Rosealise, I’m no’ the man you think me.”

  “I know that you’re the man who protected me in the underworld.” She slid her hands onto his stiff shoulders. “I’m a very good judge of character, you know. As a captive I trusted you with my body and my heart. I do the same now.”<
br />
  Gently, he tucked her face against his neck. “Then ever shall I be as you would have me.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  IN THE SHADOWS Cul skirted the archer’s makeshift berth, keeping his movements silent to avoid awakening the Pritani shaman. With the demons in the ridges so close to Dun Chaill, and unable now to return to the underworld, he had a rare opportunity at hand, and he would not waste it dodging his unwelcome tenants.

  This could be the night.

  After waiting so long for the chance to repay the Sluath for the ruin they had made of him, Cul could hardly believe it had arrived.

  He climbed the gap in the southern curtain wall to the perch that allowed him full view of his kingdom. Although the magic of the maze had been triggered again, he sensed nothing had been caught and killed by its hedges.

  Perversely it pleased him. The intruders had proven cleverer than he’d imagined.

  The largest of the hunters emerged from the gardens, the Englishwoman on his arm. A faint tendril of their scents came to him on the night wind, making it plain they were in no state to face the demons. He waited until they disappeared into the castle before he did the same.

  I must be calm, and think through this.

  He’d not spent centuries building the greatest trap in history to squander it on an impulse of the moment.

  Descending into the lower levels, he limped down a seldom-used tunnel to his armory. Although the archer had found the old leavings pit in the forest, Cul had kept the most useful items concealed beneath Dun Chaill.

  Inside the silent chamber his torchlight fell on shelves of druid crystals and stacked scrolls, which together contained enough power and magic to level the castle. From the Roman invaders he’d wrested many fine gladii swords with ornately-embellished hilts, plumbata darts with tips that could be dipped in poison, and slender dolabra axes with skull-piercing picks. One foreign assassin who had nearly survived his battle with Cul had contributed a curved-bladed sica dagger bespelled never to miss its mark.

  His treasures and trophies provided many satisfying memories, but to use them he needed the Sluath to venture inside Dun Chaill. With the hunters and their women remaining inside the spell barrier that protected the ruins, they would not attract the attention of the demons. To attack his enemy out in the open would lead only to Cul’s exposure and quick demise.

  Perhaps he could use one of the intruders to shield him and distract the demons. Or maybe he’d use all of them, since one might not survive long enough. Or he could…

  A small smile curved his mouth.

  Yes, of course.

  He selected a carved stone before leaving the armory, and went from there to the warriors he’d placed in a store room beneath the tower. Moving among the motionless ironclads, Cul selected one and released it from sleep.

  “Come with me,” he told the soldier. “We have much work to do.”

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  IF I AM to sleep through the night, I will need more of Edane’s tonic,” Rosealise told Mael after they’d returned to his chamber. He moved to go with her, but she held up her hand and nodded toward the cold ashes in the fireplace. “A little warmth when I return would be greatly appreciated.”

  He caught her hand and brought it to his cheek. Then he wrapped his tartan around her shoulders. “I’ll warm you myself when you return.”

  The passage outside was dim. Earlier her lover had extinguished most of the torches, so only a few lit the way. The silence of the castle seemed more pronounced with every step she took, and as always, she felt as if unseen eyes were watching her.

  My imagination gets the better of me again.

  Moving through the shadows made Rosealise wonder about the underworld, and what it had been like outside the sumptuous cell she had shared with Mael. For the first time the luxury they had been afforded puzzled her.

  Why had the Sluath pampered the captives that they otherwise used so abominably? She knew from the vision that they’d forced Mael to fight other slaves in their arena. She’d been dressed as a strumpet and expected to cater to his desires. If they had not formed such a close, passionate attachment–

  The sound of stone scraping stopped Rosealise in her tracks. She peered through the tower arch that led to the buttery, and saw the gleam of moss-covered metal moving. Drawing back out of sight, she went still and watched.

  An iron warrior walked through the arch and stepped through a gap in the stone. It was headed outside.

  Where has it come from?

  Only this afternoon she’d seen the secret arch in the great hall still blocked with massive stones. She needed to let Mael know. But when she glanced over her shoulder toward Mael’s chamber, and then back to the moving statue, it was gone.

  Where is it going?

  In another few moments, she wouldn’t even be able to hear it. She gathered the tartan tightly about her and hurried after it. Since it had no power of speech, she couldn’t persuade it to tell her where it meant to go, or what had brought it out of hiding. Once she knew its destination, she would rouse the entire keepe. Losing it now might mean they’d never learn its purpose.

  Outside, she just glimpsed it disappearing among the trees and quickened her pace.

  She followed the iron warrior through the forest, and watched it cross the stream and continue toward the ridges. At the edge of the water Rosealise hesitated, glancing back toward the castle. If Mael hadn’t fallen asleep by now he would be worried, and probably looking for her.

  A flicker of torchlight suddenly lashed the night sky, and Rosealise saw the iron warrior halt on the trail leading up into the ridges. It shuffled back, concealing itself in some brush. She couldn’t take her eyes from the brightening light, for around it there seemed an unnatural glow of white streaked with gold. The colors wrenched at her, for they seemed terrifying. Then something she had forgotten came back to her, and she knew what they meant.

  Sluath.

  Rosealise was trapped. For her to run would draw the demons’ notice, and to return to the castle would lead them directly to it. She had to protect Mael and his clan, even if it meant her own capture. Quickly she waded across the stream and hurried to the brush where she joined the iron warrior.

  Putting her hand on its arm, she murmured, “I mean you no harm. You must defend me if they attack.”

  The moss-covered head turned to look at her with blind eyes, and then it drew the short sword it carried and held it ready.

  “The little village ’tis mayhap a league from Wachvale,” a deep voice said as a tall man mounted on a horse rode down the trail toward the stream. The torch he carried showed plainly his deeply-lined face, which looked pale and grim. Beneath the back of his cloak a large, oddly-shaped mound bulged. “We shall arrive in but an hour, Prince Iolar. By then the mortals shall be subdued.”

  “If my deamhanan met any resistance, Galan, I will have your head.” Behind him rode a man of incredible beauty dressed in flowing garments of white and gold. His perfect face twisted in a scowl. “Danar, did you instruct Seabhag to keep the females under guard?”

  “As you commanded, my prince.” At the prince’s side a much bulkier, dark man appeared, mounted on a towering black warhorse. Leather straps covered with knives and daggers crisscrossed his huge body. “None will be touched by our men until you’ve chosen those you want to attend to your pleasures.”

  Horror made Rosealise take in a too-quick breath. Her lungs constricted, and she clapped a hand over her mouth, but it was too late. The pressure in her chest was already building. The only way to escape would be if the Sluath would pass by before the coming coughing spate forced its way out.

  The prince reined in his mount and sniffed the air.

  “What is that?” he said, turning his face in her direction.

  He swung down from his saddle and faced the brush where she and the iron warrior hid.

  Blazes, he can smell me.

  “Perhaps I will not have to wait after all.” He br
eathed in deeply and smiled directly at the leaves and branches concealing Rosealise. “I detect a female alone, and ripe with such delectable fear.”

  The other men dismounted and flanked him.

  “Show yourself,” Galan ordered, his voice harsh. At the same time, he lifted his hands, which took on a faint glow. “Now, wench, or I shall use my magic to drag you out.”

  “Stand aside, you idiot,” Iolar said as he came forward. He thrust his hand into the brush. “I’ll not have you taint her with your spells before I sample her delights.”

  Rosealise clamped a hand around his wrist, shuddering as soon as she felt the coldness of his flesh. “Forget me and leave.”

  “The little minx seeks to command me. How amusing.” The prince groped for her, just missing her hand. “A shame she’s one of your kind, druid. I might have saved her for when we return to–”

  Iolar’s fingers brushed against Mael’s tartan, which he immediately grabbed. Instinctively Rosealise dug in her heels and yanked it back, just as the iron warrior struck the prince with his sword. The weapon slashed deep into the Sluath’s forearm, and the demon howled and staggered back, falling against Danar.

  The bigger Sluath grabbed the prince’s bleeding arm and shouted, “Seize her, Druid, so I may cut her throat.”

  As Galan approached, he raised his glowing hands.

  Would the iron warrior be able to protect her from the druid’s power?

  There was only a split second to decide, but she knew what she had to do. She screwed up her courage and lunged forward. Galan paused, his face clearly startled, as Rosealise dove for his feet. She touched the druid’s shin.