Domnall (Immortal Highlander, Clan Mag Raith Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “I’m not afraid of him.” Frustration knotted inside her as she tried to find the words to explain her feelings. “It’s just that…I don’t know. Maybe my people don’t have a chieftain or headman.”

  “Of course, they do, lass,” Mael said. “Och, dinnae give me such a glower. You’ve but forgotten the way ’tis for every tribe.”

  If she kept trying to remember she’d give herself another headache, so Jenna simply nodded and finished her oatcake.

  They started out a short time later, riding through the forest and crossing the stream Broden had found. On the other side the land sloped down before it spread out into the valley. When she looked back at Dun Chaill she couldn’t see any part of the castle. The forest had swallowed it up completely. Watching the trees as they passed allowed her to pick out another oddity.

  “Someone planted those oaks over there,” she said to Domnall, and pointed to the most visible rows at the forest’s edge. “They look smaller than the others.”

  He reined in his mount and scanned the tree line. “Mayhap they wished to replenish what they felled for building or burning.”

  “But why take it from here? You’d have to drag the logs through the forest.” Then she realized something else. “There aren’t any stumps.”

  Domnall regarded her. “You see trees like the dru-wids.”

  “Or maybe I’ve chopped down a lot of them.” The thought of even belonging to the same kind of tribe as Galan made her suppress a shudder. “What do you think, Mael?”

  “I reckon we should ride now,” the tracker said, “and fathom such after our return.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  A cutting wind greeted Galan once he’d finished his search of the settlements nearest the Moss Dapple’s lands, and howled after him as he rode up into a maze of rocky, barren slopes. Once he reached the appointed meeting place, he dismounted and hobbled his horse. As a precaution he cast a ward over the horse to keep it from bolting when the Sluath arrived. He then did the same to protect himself, and slipped a vial containing a blinding potion into his sleeve.

  Prince Iolar might possess powers far beyond anything imaginable, but to use them he’d surely need eyes to see.

  Standing on an outcropping to keep watch on the sky, Galan silently debated how much he would ask of the prince. Despite his efforts he’d been unable to find a trace of the Mag Raith, which suggested that they had either fled or gone into hiding.

  While serving the tribe, the hunters had suppressed their savage Pritani natures, but their brutish ways could never truly wane. Even confronting creatures as terrifying as the Sluath, Domnall and his men were unlikely to run. Galan knew his former defenders would wish to answer the unexpected attack out of pride, but they’d use their keen instincts and experience as hunters to safeguard themselves while they prepared to strike back.

  He felt sure that they had gone to ground, to hide and watch and scheme with that dark-haired slut. But where?

  A blast of needle-fine ice pelted his neck, and Galan turned to see the radiant figure of the Sluath prince emerge from the nearest cave. Wings of gold-tipped white spread out, huge and magnificent, shedding swaths of frost crystals. Yet in a blink they folded in on themselves and disappeared. A shimmer of barely-perceptible magic cloaked Iolar, reshaping his unearthly form with the illusion of a tall, fair-haired mortal warrior.

  Seeing the transformation again made dread grip Galan’s throat, keeping him mute as the prince approached him. He’d had to wonder if, in his rage, he’d imagined the unearthly creatures. But now any doubt that lingered over the existence of the Sluath dissolved. As he looked into Iolar’s golden eyes, his bladder swelled as if hot and loose, and he but a quailing, quivering lad facing a monster.

  Show naught of it.

  “Fair day, my prince.” He bowed low enough to show respect, but not so deeply that he pissed himself. “I didnae ken your kind use the caves.”

  “We don’t, Druid,” Iolar said as he stepped closer. He raised a languid hand to probe the space between them. “You’ve shielded yourself. How tiresome you humans are. Where are the hunters?”

  “I cannae yet tell you.” Galan slipped his hands into his sleeves, and uncorked the vial. “’Tis a large territory I must search. To find them I must hire men to aid me. I’ve no’ the means to do thus.” When the Sluath said nothing he added, “I need gold.”

  “Gold that you expect me to provide.” The prince moved closer, stopping only when the protective ward crackled. “Very well.” His eyes never left Galan’s. “Danar.”

  Another, larger Sluath emerged from the cave, and tossed a bulging leather pouch to Iolar, who caught it without looking back. He dropped the purse at Galan’s feet before he thrust his hand against the ward. Power flashed, and shards of ice sprayed in all directions, but the magic held.

  Iolar snarled, baring snow-white teeth. “You dare deny me.”

  “I cannae find the Mag Raith if I’m made your fodder,” Galan told him, and wondered if the ward would survive another such blow. “Keep to our bargain, and you shall soon have back your hoor.” The Sluath said nothing. “I’ll leave this territory to hire the men and continue the search. How shall I find you?”

  Iolar reached back and yanked at something, returning his hand with a gilded white feather. “Burn it, and I shall come to you.” He threw it to the ground.

  Galan knew better than to risk breeching his ward to reach for the gold or the feather. “I shall find them soon, my prince.”

  Iolar turned away, creating a snow flurry as his wings smashed through the illusion of his mortal guise. He flew past Danar into the cave, which glowed briefly.

  “Don’t fail him, Druid,” the big Sluath warned. “For I’ll peel you slow, and choke your screams with the skinnings.”

  Galan waited until the light from them both faded from the interior of the cave. Only then did he drop his ward. He ignored the spreading dark patch from his bladder as it stained the front of his robes. Quickly he collected the gold and the feather, and went to retrieve his mount.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Domnall led the way along the edge of the valley taking note of scant evidence of old trails leading into the slopes that they passed. The ridges appeared empty, and judging by the overgrowth and rocky conditions none of the paths had been used for some time. The deep sods and untouched look of the valley’s grazing lands also baffled him. Such rich, fertile land would be prized among stockmen, yet it appeared only the deer herds made use of it.

  Along the way Mael showed Jenna the different tracks of animals that had recently traversed the valley. Domnall dropped back to ride alongside them as the tracker explained how the patterns of movement helped hunters predict where they would congregate, and why.

  “Stags look for hinds, females, to breed before the snowfall,” the tracker said. “The herd stays in the valley for winter where it’s warmer. By now all the hinds have birthed, so they’ll be in the slopes with their calves.”

  “I saw two deer with antlers by Domnall’s cottage,” she told him. “Those were both stags, right?”

  “Aye, for the males congregate until the rut begins again.” Mael winked at her. “The hinds’ll want naught to do with them until then.”

  Jenna smiled a little, and then regarded Domnall with a look that made him wish they were alone. Never had a female entranced him more with a simple gaze.

  White smoke drifted ahead of them, and made him rein in his mount.

  “Hold,” he ordered.

  He eyed the source of the plume, a narrow gap in the slopes. He could also see a high, well-built drystane wall stretching across the valley between them and the grazing animals. From the amount of moss pelting it, the wall had stood for decades.

  “They put up stone,” Mael murmured under his breath, sounding perplexed.

  “What’s wrong with that?” Jenna asked him.

  “’Tis far more work than needed,” the tracker said. “Our tribe planted hedges of hazel to en
close pastures in but a season. That…” He nodded at the wall. “…took much spine-cracking work.”

  No shepherds or herding dogs occupied the pasture, but the loose condition of the sheep’s long fleeces told Domnall they were ready for rooing. The animals also showed a healthy amount of fat, suggesting they’d been regularly grazed since the cold season.

  He scanned the slopes again but saw nothing to make him wary. “Keep watchful, Tracker.”

  Slowly they rode up to the wall, and Jenna turned her head to peer down the length of it.

  “Whoever built this knew their trigging,” she murmured, reaching out to touch the rough surface of the stacked rocks. “They chiseled wedge stones to fit in every single gap.”

  “’Twas no’ built of late,” Mael said. “From the weathering and signs of repair I’d reckon ’tis stood for centuries, as Dun Chaill.”

  “I don’t think the castle builders constructed this,” Jenna told him. “This wall was made with schist and flagstone, probably gathered from rockfalls at the base of the ridges. Dun Chaill’s walls and towers were made of quarried sandstone and granite.”

  Domnall might have attributed her knowledge to hearing it spoken by a stone-cutter sire or mate. But Jenna spoke with the easy assurance of someone who had worked with such stone and knew how it had been acquired. It also explained her immediate fascination with Dun Chaill: she had likely designed such places in her past. Yet he suspected that whatever her tribe, no female in Scotland would have been permitted to do such work.

  Combined with all the other oddities Jenna possessed, Domnall wondered if she might be dru-wid kind after all. Only the tree-knowers could do one thing that ordinary folk could not: reincarnate and travel through the ages.

  “Look here,” Mael said, distracting him from his startling thoughts.

  Domnall saw on the other side a well-worn path leading from the pastures into the gap, and looked ahead to see smoke rising in the distance. A heavy wooden gate overgrown by brambles connected the wall to one side of the slope, completing the barrier.

  As they drew closer Domnall saw the brambles had been stripped of their berries and leaves, and woven like bracken to cover the gate with thorns. Atop the protective layer small chunks of white and pink quartz wound in twine had been tied to form a three-sided spiral. The dru-wids used similar arrangements of crystals to maintain their protective wards around the enchanted forest.

  “’Tis been charmed,” he warned Mael.

  “Aye.” The tracker eyed the heavily-covered gate as he dismounted and carefully reached into the thorns. “But no’ against us.”

  A rusty sound came from the gate just before he tugged it open.

  Domnall rode ahead, deliberately putting space between him and Jenna and Mael. He knew the tracker would keep close to the lass and, if necessary, turn and ride off with her at the hint of a threat. On the other side of the wall he saw deep heaps of ash and charred weeds from fires built so near the stones many bore scorch marks. He recognized the bits of purple-splotched stalks as poison, and kept one hand on his sword hilt as he passed through the gap and emerged into another, smaller glen.

  Inside a wide circle of flourishing gardens and crop fields stood a small village of well-kept cottages and sheds. Several women in the three-sided green at the center worked over steaming wash pots while children played nearby on a bench. A number of men led pairs of yoked oxen out of a barn. On either side of the road leading into the settlement two round, peak-roofed poultry houses stood with large slatted window openings.

  Domnall realized why they’d been positioned there when a half-dozen geese poked out their heads and began uttering raucous honks, stopping the villagers at their labors. The women retreated at once, taking the children with them. The men with the oxen stared at him, their surprise plain.

  Domnall dismounted. Signaling Mael to keep his distance, he drew his sword and went down on one knee. Holding the blade parallel to the ground to show that he meant no harm, he waited.

  Two young, muscular cottars came out, both holding hoes on their shoulders.

  “What do ye here, stranger?” one of them demanded.

  “I’m but a traveler passing through this valley with my kin.” He gestured behind him. “We’ve come to trade, if you’d welcome it.”

  The cottars peered around him and then eyed the brace of ptarmigan Mael had attached to his saddle. They muttered to each other for a moment, and then let out two sharp whistles.

  An older man wearing finer garments came to join them. “’Tis well, lads. Be off with ye.” To Domnall he said, “Ye cling to aulden ways.”

  “’Tis best remembered in strange lands, Maister,” he told him. “You’re the headman?”

  The older man nodded. “Rise, lad. Ye’ll come to no grief here in Wachvale.”

  “I’m grateful.” Domnall planted the tip of his sword in the ground before he stood. “Have you trouble here?”

  “Guard against it.” The headman looked past him at Jenna and Mael, and some of the tension left his features. “We’ve no inn nor tavern, but ye may trade in the green, and there water yer mounts.”

  “I saw burnt hemlock by your wall beyond,” Domnall said as he flipped the dirt from his blade and sheathed it. “’Tis to safeguard the sheep?”

  “Aye, and the village.” Without further explanation the older man turned and walked away.

  Chapter Eighteen

  All that morning Edane couldn’t shake the feeling that something had gone missing. He walked around the camp three times as he counted packs and horses, but found nothing lost. His disquiet added to the unease he’d felt since arriving at Dun Chaill. The old fortress that had once been their refuge now seemed like a great, slumbering beast. Though Broden and Kiaran went about their tasks with hardly a glance about them, Edane felt as if the castle’s ruined towers were somehow watching him, their jagged shadows growing longer with the passing hours.

  “I’ll set snares down by the water, and gather rushes to dry,” Broden said once they’d finished collecting and stacking enough firewood to last them several nights. “We’ll want greens for the meals if Domnall cannae trade for them.”

  He eyed Edane with an arched brow.

  “You do it,” Edane told the trapper, annoyed by his silent presumption that he should see to the task. He jutted his chin out at Kiaran. “You well ken what we may eat.”

  “Aye, but I’m no’ so swift as you to spot it. My friends and I do better to scout the boundary.” He lifted a gauntlet as one of the kestrels hovered over them, and the bird dropped to perch on his wrist. “What else shall you do? Braid Broden’s fine locks for him?”

  “Naught touches the hair,” the trapper said as he began cutting strips of leather. “Mayhap he could shave more arrow shafts, or tromp in more circles.”

  Grumbling under his breath, Edane picked up an empty sack and slung his bow over his shoulder as he headed into the woods. He should be hunting, not gathering veg like a useless old crone. Yet as soon as he spotted some tight white buds rising from a mound of broad, pointed leaves he forgot the insult to his manhood.

  Plucking the ramson leaves sent a strong odor of garlic into the air, but Edane knew they would be milder once cooked. Stuffed in birds they well-flavored the otherwise bland meat. Jenna would enjoy the taste more, and perhaps eat a little better. He felt a little foolish for worrying over her. She was Domnall’s lady, not his. But her unshakeable fortitude ever tugged at him. When any other female would have begged for pity, Jenna simply kept forging on.

  Edane decided to reserve some of the ramson to make a tonic for the lass, should she be plagued by bites. Insects never worried him or the other hunters, but she had such thin, fine skin, and soon the heat would bring out–

  Jarred out of his musings, Edane straightened and closely studied everything around him. The winter had long fled, and the woods should have been filled with all manner of worms, midges, ants and spiders. Yet he now saw none. Since coming to Dun Chaill,
in fact, he’d yet to spot so much as a single moth.

  ’Tis what’s gone missing.

  He tied the sack and began walking away from the castle toward the ridge. Halfway to the pass he finally spotted a huge web stretched between two pines, and the neatly-wrapped cocoons of the spider’s many meals. As he approached it his flesh tingled along the edges, and he halted and stepped back. Lifting a hand to probe the air, Edane felt unseen power, and then saw its tell-tale shimmer. The sack fell from his hand. He’d spent too many centuries in a spell-protected dru-wid settlement to mistake the cause.

  Someone had warded the forest with enough magic to hold back the smallest of living things. But how?

  A shaman would ken.

  Edane turned his back on the invisible barrier, feeling the icy bite of old shame. Never had it been his choice to serve the Gods as their instrument. He’d been born to wield the bow. He’d known it the moment he’d first watched Darro mag Raith fletching arrows for a hunt, and tried to pick one up.

  No’ for ye, lad. His sire had plucked him off his feet and handed him, squalling, to his mate. ’Tis a pity his size doesnae match his lungs.

  Like most Pritani men Darro stood tall and broad, with a heavy frame padded with great swaths of muscle suited to hard work. Yet Edane had been born small and puny, and sometimes fought for breath after he tried to run. As such his worried máthair had always treated him as frail and sickly. Even when he’d grown tall, Edane remained thin, and had been permitted to do only the very lightest work, such as gathering. He assumed it had been his skill in finding rare herbs that had drawn the interest of the tribe’s aging shaman.

  Yer lad shall never make a warrior, but he’s a fine eye for potion makings. I’ve no’ sired a son. Entrust him to me, and I shall teach him all I ken.

  Edane had no interest in performing rituals and making potions. Smearing himself with ochre and chanting before a night fire made him feel like a pretentious fool. Yet the old man kept insisting he had been chosen by the Gods to serve the tribe, and warned that to thwart them would bring down their wrath.