Warrior Reborn Page 21

  “Not yet finished.”

  Torquil marveled at the size of his own hand reaching out to close around the minstrel’s neck. Marveled at his own strength as he lifted the struggling man from his feet. Marveled at the pleasure of the thick, warm liquid filling his mouth, slaking a hunger such as he’d never before experienced.

  When he hungered no more, he tossed the pieces of the body to the floor and filled his lungs with the essence of fear lingering in the room.

  As quickly as the beast had joined with him, it now departed, slinking back into the deep recesses of his soul.

  He leaned back against the door, feeling the loss as if it were a physical blow. A search within left him weak with relief when he at last discovered the beast, tightly encased behind the Magic as it had been before the first time he’d called upon its power. Not gone, only resting, at peace for the first time since he’d discovered it in the scrolls.

  So many new sensations bubbled inside him, so many raging emotions. It was as if in joining with the beast he had opened up a whole new piece of himself. A piece filled with a reservoir of Magic he had only dared to imagine in the past. He could feel it coursing through his veins. With this power, he had no doubt he could conquer the spells on the ancient scroll that waited for him in his tower.

  As he reached for the door, a wave of nausea and dizziness washed over him, reminding him of his body’s need for food. How long had it been since he’d last eaten? One day? Two?

  The scroll warned of such a hazard. Even as he nurtured what grew within him, so too must he care for the Mortal shell that housed it all.

  He stepped from his solar and closed the door behind him, his mind whirling with half-formed thoughts and emotions, the mass of them disconnected from one another.

  The hunger was draining his strength. A trip down to the kitchens would allow him to center his thoughts and rid himself of the vague worry riding his shoulders like an annoying winged creature refusing to take flight, marring his otherwise perfect morning. An annoyance, really, a small nagging disquiet, as if he’d failed to recognize something important.

  MATHEW SLIPPED FROM the shadows as soon as the MacDowylt laird disappeared through the doors leading to the great hall. Odd that the laird had come out of his solar without Hugo. Surely his brother wouldn’t have left earlier without him.

  Even as the thought crossed his mind, the cold finger of reason flicked it away. If the MacDowylt had given Hugo the silver he wanted, his brother would have left him behind without a thought—just as he had abandoned Eleyne to the Tinklers’ mercies.

  He should have stayed with the Tinklers. Should have kept his pipes and his cousin close.

  “Too late for should,” he whispered, repeating his aunt’s favorite saying.

  With one more check of the hallway, he stepped forward, his hand hesitating at the door to the laird’s solar.

  If he found the room empty, it would mean he had been abandoned, as he feared. He would be well and truly alone.

  He had to know. With one more glance in either direction, he gave a push and slipped into the opening.

  Carnage such as he’d not seen in the entirety of his sixteen years greeted him, locking up every muscle in his body. Even the scream crawling up his throat refused to come out.

  The metallic scent of fresh blood snaked into his nostrils, identical to the smell of men cleaning their kill after a hunt. Across the room a headless body lay crumpled, no doubt the source of the blood splattered everywhere.

  He knew whose body it was even before his eyes tracked down to the floor at his feet. Even before he spotted the head staring up at him with its sightless eyes, its mouth hanging grotesquely open as if the jaw had been broken in mid-scream.

  Mathew forced himself to take the next breath. And then one more, as fear threatened to overwhelm him.

  He stepped back out of the solar. Closing the door behind him, he moved silently to the keep’s entrance, lifting the hood of his cloak as he slipped outside. He could only pray that no one would take note of one lone boy making his way across the early-morning courtyard.

  He would hide within the storage buildings as he had when he’d arrived. The sun had already begun its ascent into the sky, but once its rays no longer lit the land, he’d make his way outside the gates and travel south. Perhaps to Inverness, where he could sell the treasures he’d gathered in the keep.

  And then?

  He fought back the panic, exiled it to a little box at the bottom of his heart. He couldn’t give up now, or all would be lost. He must have a plan to survive.

  Once he’d sold the treasures he would track down the Tinklers to find Eleyne. Together they would return to MacFalny Keep and beg her father to take them back.

  All he had to do now was to keep his head attached to his body long enough to escape this evil place. A feat his older brother had not managed.

  Thirty-four

  THE HORSES CANNOT long maintain this pace.”

  Chase recognized the truth of what Hall said, even if he didn’t want to acknowledge it. Already his animal’s sides puffed in and out like a smithy’s bellows. Killing his mount would only slow him down in the long run.

  Yielding to better judgment, Chase pulled up on the reins, directing his horse once more to a slow walk.

  “Someone follows.” Hall’s head cocked to the side as he drew up next to Chase, much like a bird eyeing seed on the ground.

  Chase tilted his head in a similar fashion, straining to hear whatever it was that had caught his friend’s attention. Nothing other than the heavy breathing of their horses and their hooves hitting the trail reached his ear.

  Not that he didn’t think Hall was telling the truth. It would surprise him more if someone didn’t follow. In all likelihood, Ulfr himself led them. With little love lost between them, Ulfr would no doubt relish the opportunity to come after him.

  “We must be getting close.” Rationalizations were all that kept him from losing it entirely after all the hours he’d put in the saddle. If that son of a bitch had laid one hand on Christiana . . . Chase breathed deeply through his nose and forced the air back out again, directing his thoughts to the here and now. “If we have to slow down, so does whoever is following us.”

  “They do. Though at some point, we will have to stand and fight.” An eerie glow emanated from Hall’s eyes in the predawn light. “Whether on open road or after we reach Tordenet, I cannot yet determine.”

  Again he strained without success to match the other man’s hearing.

  “You have any guess as to how many of them are coming after us?”

  They’d left ten men behind sleeping. Well, nine. The sentry had been awake before they bound and gagged him. The question in Chase’s mind was whether Ulfr would bring the full number after them, abandoning the task his lord and master had sent him to perform, or if he would come with just a contingent of one or two.

  It didn’t matter. Not even all ten men combined could keep him from reaching Christiana.

  Thirty-five

  MORE.”

  The old cook continued slicing meat from the roast, piling it upon the table as Torquil instructed. His stomach growled in ravenous anticipation.

  “And the cheese,” he directed. “That’s no enough.”

  Not nearly enough. With a desire for food he hadn’t felt for years, he snagged a bite from the pile and slipped it into his mouth.

  Everything tasted so wonderful. When had he stopped enjoying this simple pleasure?

  “It’s good to see yer appetite returned, Master Torquil.” The old cook flashed a ragged grin. “I’ve a special bit of sweet prepared and set back for later today. Would you like to try some?”

  He nodded and gestured for her to bring it, his mouth too filled with the creamy cheese to speak. With each bite he felt more and more himself, his thoughts less chaotic and fragmented.

  “Here you go.” The cook placed a sticky bun in front of him. “I think you’ll find it quite enjoyable. Ever
yone who’s tasted it has agreed.”

  As if the vague disquiet hanging over his shoulder had just grown by half, Torquil stopped chewing. Something the old woman just said had annoyed the worry, like someone poking a sharp stick at a trapped animal.

  “What did you say?”

  “Only that I hope you’ll enjoy it.” She wiped her hands nervously down her apron.

  “No. What exact words did you say? Repeat them for me.”

  “I . . . I think you’ll find it to yer liking,” she stumbled, obviously trying to remember. “Everyone what’s had a taste has agreed that I’ve done a fine job on it.”

  Not the exact words, but close enough.

  “Leave me,” he ordered, and she ran from the kitchen.

  “ ‘Agreed,’ ” he muttered aloud. “Why does that word rankle at my memory?”

  Agreed, agreed, agreed . . . Surely he’d heard it only a short time ago. A commonly used word. Anyone could have said it. . . .

  The minstrel had used the word. He could hear the man’s voice in his memory.

  The Tinklers agreed to assist in her escape.

  But with whom did they agree? Who at Tordenet would care what happened to the stranger who had attempted his murder?

  He rose from the bench to pace, his thoughts swirling.

  If not the minstrel himself, there was only one other who would have an interest in saving the woman. The one who had interceded to save her the night she’d come at him with a knife.

  Halldor O’Donar.

  Of course! It was the only option that made sense. And if O’Donar had plotted against him, he could hardly be the champion Christiana had foretold.

  At last, no matter how his sister might try to parse her words when she answered his questions, he had the answer for which he’d waited so long. Chase Noble was the champion who would guide him into the future, riding at his side, leading the way to his victories.

  Laughter rose in his throat, bursting forth until his sides were aching and his throat parched.

  “Ale,” he managed to croak, motioning to the cook when her face appeared through the open door.

  She scurried forward, her hand shaking as she filled the tankard.

  “Perhaps, dear lady, I should decree that everyone should eat in the kitchen before meals are served, rather than wait for them in the great hall.” He tried for a gracious smile, feeling magnanimous in his joy. “The food tastes so much better served here. Or perhaps it’s only that my hunger does not wait for regular meal service.”

  “Seems to be a popular problem of late, my lord.”

  “Indeed? What makes you say that? Has someone else dined in the kitchens recently?”

  Again she backed away, as if she feared his wrath at her candor. “One of the new men wanted to. Noble, I believe Ulfr called him. Though he dinna make it all the way to the kitchen. I found him at the bottom of the big staircase, in the entry hall before preparations for the morning meal were hardly even begun. But then Ulfr showed up as well, telling him he’d best be worrying about his arse, no his empty belly.” Her eyes rounded and she hurried to add, “Begging yer pardon for my language, my good laird.”

  What would have brought Noble into the entry hall so early in the morning? If he’d wanted food, why not enter through the kitchen? Again the small animal of disquiet living on his shoulder flapped its wings. “When was this?”

  “Yesterday, before the men left, sir.”

  “Early yesterday,” he murmured, the wings flapping in his ears as if an entire flock of birds beat about his head. “Was Ulfr alone when you saw him?”

  She shuffled a few steps farther away, darting her eyes to the floor. “There might have been someone with him,” she answered hesitantly. “Though I canna say with any accuracy who it could have been wrapped in that heavy cloak.”

  He knew exactly who Ulfr had removed from his tower at yesterday’s dawn. Dawn—not a time for any of his soldiers to make their way down his stairs.

  Not unless they had spent the night in the upper chambers. Chambers housing no one except on that particular night when Christiana had chosen to spend the night there.

  “You say you found Noble at the base of the stairs. Could he have been coming down those stairs, do you suppose?”

  “Now that you mention it, he was stepping off the bottom stair when I first called out to him.”

  The flapping of wings stilled, and a heavy black haze of anger colored the remaining dregs of suspicion and doubt.

  Torquil rose to his feet, knocking over the bench upon which he had sat, and in long, determined strides he made his way from the kitchen through the great hall.

  Each conversation he’d had with Christiana, each interaction, played over and over in his mind, from her first foray at encouraging him to seek out new men to swell his ranks.

  It was essential that he do so, she had informed him, because her Vision had shown her that there would be one among them who would be essential to the outcome of his efforts. His new champion, she had confirmed. But now that he recalled her exact words, she had never claimed the champion would be his, any more than she had claimed that the outcome would be to his liking rather than to her own.

  She had deceived him. From the moment she had returned from the glen after Malcolm’s escape, right up until yesterday morning when she greeted his waking touch with her moan of pleasure—until she had opened her eyes and recognized it was he standing over her bed. He, Torquil of Katanes—not some vagabond mercenary who sold his skills to the highest bidder.

  Even the runes she wore hanging from her neck made sense now. One for her, and one for her warrior lover.

  She had fooled him with her clever use of words. Lured him into unknowingly acting on her behalf, in a vain attempt to defeat him.

  He paused in his rampage across the courtyard for the moment it took to send his command winging through the ether to Ulfr and Artur. They would deal with Noble and his brother, even as he dealt with Christiana.

  His sister would pay dearly for her disloyalty. They all would.

  Thirty-six

  CHRISTIANA LEANED OVER the fire, inhaling the soothing aroma that drifted up from the heavy iron pot that held her simmering herbs. Once she strained the bits and pieces from her tisane and allowed them to cool, she would use them in a poultice to place over her tired, scratchy eyes.

  It would have to do, since she didn’t see any restful sleep in her immediate future.

  When she’d awoken from her Vision travels yesterday evening, she’d been overwhelmed with relief to find herself alone. She’d sought out Chase to tell him of what she’d seen, but her relief had been short-lived when she learned it was too late to warn him. All that was left was to wait and worry.

  While her hands performed the familiar task of straining the herbs, her thoughts drifted to the gates of Sinclair Keep, the stronghold she’d seen along the pathways of her Vision.

  A sense of foreboding hung in the air this morning, thick and cloying, hindering each and every breath she took.

  Perhaps that was due to the heavy dread in her heart. The images she’d seen haunted her. None of the paths that she had managed to explore had ended well. Not one of them.

  Her only slim hope lay in her final fleeting glimpse of the future, in the small scattered shining holes where something—or someone—had been ripped from Skuld’s carefully woven tapestry.

  The pot shook in her grip as she poured the hot liquid into the straining cloth. Its heat seeped through the pad she’d wrapped around the handle, burning into her skin, and she dropped it to the hearth as soon as she’d filled her cup.

  If only she’d managed to warn Chase before he’d left. If only she’d never insisted the Elf interfere. If only she were smart enough to properly interpret what she had seen.

  “If only, if only, if only,” she muttered, balancing the steaming mug of clear liquid as she sat on the rumpled blankets where she had tried unsuccessfully to sleep.

  At some point she
would need to dress, to eat, to prepare for the inevitable encounter with her brother. She needed to move all the bags of dried herbs from around the hearth, where Ulfr’s men had carelessly tossed them, to the upper tower. One random spark and her treasured herbs would be gone in a bonfire.

  So many little tasks awaited her attention, but right now she hadn’t the strength of will to ignore the dark clouds of sorrow hanging heavily over her.

  Right now, she could only watch in her mind’s eye as the steed Chase had ridden galloped wildly from the Sinclair’s gates, riderless.

  She lifted the cup to her lips, to sip the hot liquid, when the door was flung open, crashing back against the stone wall.

  Her cup jostled, splashing hot liquid on her, but Christiana barely noticed. She had eyes only for the angry man filling her doorway.

  “I’d have the truth from you,” Torquil snarled, his eyes wild with rage.

  “I canna speak to you with any words that are not true, brother. Well you ken the limitations—”

  “Silence,” he roared, kicking the door closed before he moved slowly in her direction, one foot after another like a beast stalking its prey. “The time for yer clever deceptions is past. I’ll no be making the errors I have in the past, allowing room for yer words to dance with the truth.”

  Christiana’s thoughts raced, searching for what could possibly have happened to set him off.

  “Neither Noble nor O’Donar is here for my benefit, are they? They were never meant to be my champions, but yers. It’s yer preference for the future they serve, no mine, is that no the way of it? You’ve betrayed me in my own keep, have you no?”

  He knew. Somehow, he’d learned the truth.

  She desperately sought a way to divert him from his questions as she rose to her feet, but the fury on his face did not bode well for her success.

  “Dinna bother to search for a clever riddle to put me off. I see the truth in yer silence. And I’ll be having no more of yer deceptions. Straight answers to straight questions, Christiana.”