Warrior Reborn Read online

  That, he had mastered. That and a million other little feats of Magic. But those amazing abilities spoken of in the scroll, ah, those were passed down from the ancient seid, from the darkest corners of Svartálfheim. The words written on those scrolls represented a dark power. The True power. To be able to disappear in one place and materialize in another excited his imagination in a way none of the other powers had for a very long time.

  And that power would be his, no matter how long it took him to master it.

  “But not, it appears, on this day.”

  Once the anger slithered into his mind, it robbed him of his concentration. And without concentration, he had no chance at mastering the ancient Magic.

  He walked across to the table and ran his hand over the yellowed parchment before lovingly rolling it into its former cylindrical shape and replacing it in the jeweled case where it belonged—right next to its twin and their deadly companion, the Sword of the Ancients.

  It was as if his father had planned this misery for his son long before his untimely death. As if the old man had hidden the scrolls for the purpose of taunting Torquil, after he himself was no longer able to, knowing that the act would trigger his son’s anger. Knowing that Torquil’s anger would prevent his mastering that which he wanted more than anything.

  “More’s the pity I waited so long to send you where you belong, Father.” He spoke to the sky but he had no doubt his father’s spirit was not there. After the way his father had contaminated their ancient bloodline by taking that filthy Tinkler for his second wife, there was no way the gods would have allowed him to spend his eternity anywhere but in the agony of Hela’s domain.

  Below him, in the courtyard, movement caught his eye. Two strangers stood encircled by his guards.

  Likely more new recruits. Strangers had been trickling in to augment his forces for weeks now. Ulfr had returned yesterday bringing several new faces with him, and others had been dispatched to hire as many men as they could find. Come spring, Malcolm would taste the fruits of his revenge when he marched his army south on Castle MacGahan. When he finished with them there would be nothing left behind, and no one to remember his brother had ever existed.

  Something about the little gathering below snagged his attention again and held it. Something odd in Ulfr’s manner as he dealt with the newcomers. When his captain turned to face his direction and raised his arm, Torquil felt quite strongly that his presence was needed in the courtyard. Perhaps because he’d recently mastered the ability to call Ulfr to him when he chose to do so.

  He returned the jeweled case to its hiding spot behind the stones above the fireplace. No one would dare enter his tower chamber without his permission, but neither the scroll nor the sword was an item he’d want falling into the wrong hands.

  He made his way to the main entrance of the castle and paused at the top of the staircase to eye the newcomers. He liked what he saw well enough to descend the stairs and approach the gathering of men.

  Not the toothless vermin his men usually dragged back to serve him. These two had the look of breeding about them. Both appeared strong and well fed. Though the younger of the two dressed oddly, these were the types of warriors he wanted to fill the ranks of his army.

  “My lord.” Ulfr rose from his knee, eyes still averted. “These Irish wish to . . .” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “They wish to bargain with you for their service.”

  “Bargain with me?” Laughter crawled up Torquil’s throat, but he swallowed it. He’d rarely heard such a foolhardy request. “Bargain away, warriors. What would you have of me for the use of your swords?”

  The larger of the two men stepped forward, ignoring the ring of steel as Ulfr drew his weapon. Supreme confidence. Torquil liked that in a man. Especially in a man who served him.

  “My brother was set upon by thieves along the road. He needs proper clothing and a good weapon to replace that which was taken from him, along with a suitable mount. I assume you have a healer. We need access to her skills as well, or at least to her supply of herbs.” The big Irishman leaned forward, grinning as the tip of Ulfr’s sword touched his chest. “And silver, of course. We’ll both be wanting plenty of silver for our efforts, good sir.”

  “And are you worth such a large investment on my part?”

  “We are,” the younger man answered. “All that he asked for, and more.”

  The laughter in Torquil’s throat burst forth. What grand audacity these Irish brothers showed! They amused him as none had in a very long time.

  “Then let it be so,” he said as his laughter subsided. “Ulfr, take them to my sister and then provide them with whatever they need.”

  Turning from them, he strode back toward the staircase that would lead him inside Tordenet, feeling well pleased. With such bravado, he’d have high expectations for them. They were certainly different from any he’d yet seen enter his—

  His foot skidded to a stop and he turned to stare after the men being led to his sister’s tower.

  They were different.

  What was it Christiana had said about her Vision of the man who would determine the outcome of his plans? That he would be somehow different from all the others. That he would have interaction with her.

  Access to the healer was among the first requests these men had made. And even now they were on their way to Christiana’s tower.

  These two would bear watching. One of them could very well be the man he’d searched for.

  Torquil smiled. His plans seemed to be progressing even more quickly than he had hoped. Now he must do his part to be ready.

  All the more reason to continue his efforts to master the Magic of the ancient scroll.

  Eight

  CHRISTIANA RUMMAGED THROUGH her jars of herbs, looking for the exact ones she wanted. So many of them were either close to empty or completely gone. Soon she’d need to seek Torquil’s permission to visit Orabilis to restock her supplies. Although, after what had happened the last time she’d received permission for a trip to see the wise woman, he might well decide to forbid her ever going again.

  She pushed away the thought. Her stomach already tumbled with nerves gone strangely awry this day. A good, hot tisane of all her favorite herbs was exactly what she needed to rid her of this unexplained sense of disquiet.

  A bit of lavender, a pinch of balm, some periwinkle.

  “No,” she groaned, turning the little pottery jar she held upside down in hopes there might be some small shreds stuck to the bottom. Empty. Completely empty. There would be no periwinkle in her tisane this day. She’d have to settle for a little chamomile and betony instead.

  “Oh, bollocks!” she fumed, finding the betony jar down to less than a quarter of its leaves and crumbles.

  This was one of herbs she used most, for everything from headaches to wounds. With her supply so low, she couldn’t afford to waste it on herself simply because she was feeling jumpy. She’d have to do without its aid this day. She’d be doing without most of her favorites for a while, with her stock so low.

  The alternative was marching across the bailey and demanding to speak with Torquil.

  With a snort, she put the stopper back on the betony jar and crossed the room to place her little pot of water over the fire.

  When she considered it in those terms, it was an easy enough choice. She’d rather drink lukewarm water running straight off the muck in the goat pens than face Torquil unnecessarily.

  She’d just retrieved her favorite mug when a knock at her door served as the final straw for her jittery nerves. The clay mug tumbled from her fingers, shattering on the hard floor.

  Visitors to her tower were infrequent, consisting only of those needing help with a wound or sickness or the men her brother sent when he summoned her.

  Taking a moment to compose herself, she brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face and then opened the door to find Ulfr waiting there, accompanied by two men she’d never seen before. Warriors, from the looks of them. Fro
m their massive builds to their sharp expressions, they radiated strength and confidence.

  Christiana stepped back into her room, extending an arm to invite them in. It was preferable to having them push her aside when they entered, which they would do if Torquil had sent them, regardless of whether or not she offered invitation.

  Her concern waned a bit when the strangers dipped their heads courteously as they entered, a sure sign they were new to Tordenet. Once they observed her place at the bottom of the pecking order, they’d treat her with the same indifference everyone else did.

  “These men have requested the assistance of a healer. Our lord has commanded me to bring them to you.” Ulfr’s gaze wandered around the room while he spoke, as if he hoped to find some sign of illicit behavior that he might report to his master.

  “What troubles you?” she asked, looking from one of the newcomers to the other.

  Weariness rode their shoulders, evidence they had traveled long and hard to reach their destination. Both men had hair in shades of gold, but there the similarities stopped. The larger of the two wore a neatly trimmed beard, his hair hanging loose around his shoulders, and he dressed in finely made clothing, while the smaller man wore what appeared to be oversize castoffs, and his hair barely brushed his shoulders.

  As they passed her on entering her chambers, she realized the second man was hardly what she could consider small, towering over her as he did. He was equal in stature to Ulfr. No, it was only that the first was a great bear of man.

  The larger of the two, obviously the one used to being in charge, spoke up first.

  “Begging your pardon, my lady, but on our travels here, my brother was set upon by thieves. He’s a nasty bump to his head and, with their having taken his boots, he’s blisters upon his feet now. We’ve a need for an herbal poultice to help with the healing.”

  “It’s not all that bad,” the second man added. “You don’t need to put yourself out, ma’am. I’ll be fine.”

  Something about his words, something in his voice, tickled at the back of her mind.

  “Sit. Remove the bindings from your feet,” the first one said as if his brother had never spoken. “Allow the healer to see for herself.”

  Christiana pushed away the odd feeling, attributing it to the strange disquiet and worry she’d battled all morning. “Here.”

  She pulled a small stool forward for the man, regretting her choice as soon as he bent down to perch awkwardly upon it. She dropped to her knees on the floor next to him, pushing his hands away to loosen the bindings herself before he lifted his foot for her to examine.

  The animal skin he’d worn had rubbed against the bottom of his foot until liquid-filled blisters had risen and, some of them, burst. The knowledge of the pain he endured knotted her stomach.

  “I can help you,” she assured, looking up to find him staring down at her with a gaze so intent, she floundered for her next words. “I’ve a . . . a balm,” she began. What was it about him that so put her off her comfort?

  “It’s a poultice what he’ll be wanting, my lady,” the one standing interrupted. “Made of good herbs.”

  “My balms are made from good herbs,” she explained, her eyes still held by the man in front of her. “But if you prefer a poultice, I can see what—”

  Her words froze in her throat as her fingers brushed over the man’s skin. A prickle of awareness ran the length of her arm and she jerked her hand away.

  Only his hand darting out to grasp her elbow saved her the embarrassment of toppling backward onto her bottom right there in front of them.

  “Steady,” he advised.

  What had that feeling been?

  “A . . . a poultice,” she managed, pulling away from him to rise to her feet. Steady? Not with that man’s hand upon her. “Herbs, yes. Of course.”

  “Of course,” the standing man agreed.

  “For wounds,” she murmured to herself, turning her back on her visitors as she moved to the wall shelves to search among her dwindling stock.

  She ran her hands over the jars to gain time to recover her senses.

  He had felt it as well, she was sure. The dark centers of his eyes had widened in acknowledgment of what had passed between them, like polished jet rising from a churning green sea.

  “Comfrey,” the big man advised. “And Jupiter’s Beard. Yarrow. I don’t suppose you have calendula?”

  “Calendula? No.” It surprised her that this man knew his herbs so well, especially when he named one she’d never heard of. “But I have others I would use, if they meet your approval. Agrimony and betony are two I like for wounds.”

  At his nod, she dumped the various herbs into a stone bowl and ground them with the pestle before adding a splash of whisky she kept on the shelf for exactly that purpose.

  “Good,” the big man muttered from his spot by the door.

  Of course what she did was good. She’d learned from the best. She’d like to see him dare to lead Orabilis through this process, as he had her.

  Dropping back onto her knees in front of her patient, she kept her eyes on the work in front of her, rubbing her hands together to force away the tremors that rippled through her fingers.

  “I’ll do my best to avoid causing you any further pain, sir,” she said, daring a glance up.

  “Don’t worry. You won’t hurt me,” he said quietly. “And my name is Chase, not sir.”

  She glanced up just as he smiled. Only a tiny lifting of one corner of his mouth, but it was enough. His eyes captured hers and she caught her breath as a wave of recognition broke over her.

  It was him! How she had not known it from the moment he’d entered her door was beyond her. She’d never clearly seen his face, but those eyes! She’d been lost in them too many times not to know them now. Her whole body tingled with recognition, a physical reaction to their first meeting she’d never foreseen or imagined possible.

  “And I am Halldor O’Donar,” the man next to the door boomed, laughter rolling in his voice. “Clearly, in the care of such a lovely healer, my brother has forgotten any manners he might have once had.”

  “You’ve no the need to waste yer time on introductions to Mistress Christiana. Our good laird’s sister is no one you’ll be talking to again, I can assure you,” Ulfr said.

  She flinched, almost having forgotten her brother’s hound still stood in the room.

  “You have another healer here, do you?” Halldor questioned, waiting only for Ulfr to shake his head in answer. “No? Then I suspect we’ll be seeing this good lady regularly until my brother’s wounds have healed. That poultice she’s wrapping around his foot will need changing soon enough.”

  Halldor was right about that. Unfortunately, some of the jars she’d selected for her mix were close to empty. She had enough for two, perhaps three more treatments.

  After that, she’d be forced to seek Torquil’s permission to visit Orabilis.

  “That poultice and bandage will want changing in two days’ time,” she advised Chase, watching his hands as he retied the straps around the furs covering his feet. “And best you find some proper footwear, aye? Or all the herbs in the world won’t help you.”

  She risked a look up just as a full grin split his face. It was as if her heart had forgotten how to beat.

  “Yeah. Proper footwear. I’ll do what I can about that. Thank you for your kindness . . .” He paused, that half-smile tugging at his mouth again before he finished. “Christiana.”

  She nodded, and the three of them filed out, her knees so weak she leaned her back against the door as she watched them walk away.

  Chase’s voice was deep and rich and his words had such a strange sound to them, befitting a man who came from a faraway land. With joy, she could listen to him speak for hours on end. And if the only word he chose to say over and over again was her name, she’d be well pleased.

  It was only as they crossed the bailey toward the soldier’s lodgings that she remembered what she must do.

&nb
sp; “Ulfr!” she called, stepping outside as the sun broke from behind the clouds where it had hidden all day. A good omen. “I’d ask you to carry a message to our laird. I’d seek an audience with him, if it pleases him.”

  Ulfr nodded his acknowledgment and strode off, leading the strangers to their new quarters.

  No, she reminded herself as she hurried back inside her tower. Not strangers. They were much, much more than that. They were her savior and his brother.

  Nine

  CASTLE MACGAHAN

  SOUTHERN HIGHLANDS, SCOTLAND

  BRIDGET MACCULLOCH PACED along the wall walk, a favorite spot since the first time her father had allowed her up here.

  Her beloved father. Her murdered father.

  Wild anger shafted through her grief-ravaged heart. After her mother’s death, Hamud had cared for her as both mother and father. Now it was time for her to pay back the debt of love she owed the man who had given her life.

  You’ve no a need to fash yerself over Jamesy, her uncle had said. We’ll find you a husband to fill yer days as yer father should have done long ago, and you’ll forget this vengeance business soon enough.

  Brie spat on the ground beside her. That’s what she thought of her uncle’s idea. How could any man who shared her father’s blood be so daft? How could her own uncle know so little about her? If these men thought she was simply going to accept her father’s murder, sitting in her little cottage, mourning away her life, or devoting it to the upkeep of some slovenly bastard they chose for her, well, they were all badly mistaken.

  Through her mother, Brie was a daughter of the House MacUlagh, descended from the Ancient Seven who’d ruled over this land when not even the Roman invaders had dared challenge all the way to the northern sea. Her father had honored her mother’s bloodline, training Brie with weapons even as he’d trained her older brother. Warrior ran in her blood as much as in Jamesy’s.

  Except that in her blood, temper ran in equal parts with warrior. Her da had always claimed it was that which kept her from being her brother’s equal. She drew in a deep breath, fighting to tamp down the anger as her father had often instructed. Fighting to wrestle it to the ground and bury it in a deep, dark hole.