“Last chance, my dear,” Brother Willows breathed as Octavian prepared his tools. “The more pain you’re in, the less likely we are to believe your confession… witches tend to reach a point where they’ll confess to anything to make it stop, you see…”
But before she could come up with a plan, or at least a clever lie that would delay the use of these tools, the door crashed open, surprising not only her, but Willows, who had clearly expected that they’d be undisturbed. The man in the doorway was dressed in black, with no clear marking of allegiance, but his weapons were well maintained and he had the rangy, wary look of a fighter. She recognized a mercenary when she saw one.
“Brother Willows. We’re under attack. Scotsmen.” His accent was English, like Baldric’s, but distorted somewhat — she got the idea that this man had travelled a lot. “Weatherby’s staff have revolted and joined them.”
“Heretics,” Willows spat. He took up the great staff he walked with, and Delilah noticed how his muscles had to tense to wield it — sure enough, it was a heavier and more dangerous weapon than it appeared. “Kenneth — with me. We’ll put down this insurrection. Madoc and Octavian… as much as I regret missing all the fun, maybe you could have a quick chat with our guest while I’m away. Soften her up a little, as it were.”
Octavian inclined his bald head, and she felt a thrill of fear at the look of complete emptiness in his dark eyes. This wasn’t a man who empathized with his fellow man, she knew that — this was the kind of psychopath who saw everyone around him as walking bodies to dissect. But there was hope beating furiously in her chest regardless. Scotsmen — that had to mean someone from Clan MacClaran had noticed her absence and somehow figured out that she needed rescuing. But how?
The door slammed behind Willows, Kenneth and the other mercenary — and Delilah saw that Baldric was on his feet. Her heart leapt in her chest — but before she could do anything, Weatherby jumped out of the armchair and bolted for the door, clearly taking advantage of the situation to run and hide. Madoc shouted a warning, and Octavian spun as though to stop Weatherby — but he was already gone, the sounds of his footsteps echoing on the floor. But Octavian’s eyes were on Baldric, now, who had lost the element of surprise. The tall man lifted one of the silver blades, pointing it directly at Delilah’s throat as he stared down Baldric.
“Come a step further and I’ll open her throat,” he said, in a whispery, matter-of-fact voice that made Delilah’s skin crawl.
There was a silence in the room, broken only by the distant sound of combat. Baldric raised his hands and backed away, a look of dejection in his eyes, and Madoc made a triumphant, crowing sound of victory to mock him. Delilah felt his hands loosen up on her wrists, just a tiny bit, and at the same time, Octavian lowered his blade.
Then she struck.
Chapter 28
It was the work of a moment to jerk her hands free with all her strength — she’d been making calculated gestures for the past little while, straining at Madoc’s grip with about half of her strength to convince him that he only needed moderate force to hold her down. He yelped in surprise as she jerked free, but she was already spinning, lashing out with one leg to drive the armchair she was sitting in into his body and throw him off balance. That done, she spun and drove the heel of her hand as hard as she could into Octavian’s face, aiming for his nose.
He was quicker than she’d anticipated, dodging away from the blow and advancing on her with a flicker of interest stirring the depths of those cold, dead eyes — but she didn’t give him a chance to psych her out. She did what he wouldn’t expect a frightened woman to do — schooling her expression to avoid giving her actions away, she simply hurled herself with full force at him, reaching for his head as she did and wrapping her palms around the bald sides of his head. Her thumbs sought his eye sockets and pressed hard, and she felt a savage satisfaction as he screamed, staggering backwards away from her. The absurdly crowded sitting room did its work — there was a low ottoman behind him, a ridiculous ornamental thing that was just low enough to trip him over. He hit the ground hard, and she saw him crack the back of his head on yet another ornamental little table. His body went loose and ragged with the force of the impact, but she narrowed her eyes. People didn’t tend to be knocked out for long, even if he wasn’t faking it. She hesitated for a second, but Madoc was swearing behind her and she knew she only had a millisecond. So she skipped forward and stomped down as hard as she could on the surgeon’s right hand, feeling nausea flare in the pit of her stomach as the hand crunched sickeningly under her heel. He didn’t even scream — what was wrong with him?
Madoc was making enough noise for both of them, though. He’d drawn both of his knives and was advancing on her, wary now that he’d seen what she could do. She feigned fear, backing away from him, careful to trace a clear path through the sitting room (she’d taken the opportunity while trapped in the chair to map out, in her head, where the furniture lay.) There was a fireplace on the wall — she just needed to make it as far as the hearth. Something Brother Willows had done would help her here… but she needed Madoc not to realize what she was doing. So she let a fraction of the pounding adrenalin in her chest show on her face, summoned a few tears as well — LARPing was a useful teacher.
“Please, sir,” she begged brokenly. “Don’t hurt me — please —”
He sneered, and she saw his body relax. Typical bully — made stronger by the fear of his victims. He started to say something mocking, but she wasn’t listening — her focus was on the tools behind her, the poker that had been sitting in the heart of the embers of the fire since she’d arrived, clearly intended for use on her… and in one smooth movement, she seized it by the cool end and hurled herself toward Madoc, driving the poker as hard as she could toward his face and neck. He tried to bring his knives up to block her, but he was just a fraction too slow, and she heard and smelled his skin singeing as the poker left a deep wound on his neck. He went down hard, clutching at the wound. But heat cauterized as it went — it wouldn’t be long before he realized he wasn’t incapacitated. They had to go. She went for the door, jumping over furniture, her pulse beating hard in her ears — and felt a thrill of smugness at the astonished look on Baldric’s face. He’d come forward to help her, but she hadn’t needed him.
“Let’s barricade the door,” she said, wrenching it open and hurrying him out. “Locking them in should keep them busy for a little while.”
“You’re an impressive woman, Delilah Cortland,” Baldric said, grinning.
“We’ll need weapons if we’re going to join the assault against Willows’ mercenaries,” she said, scanning the corridor.
Baldric nodded.
“They took my sword, but I keep a collection in my quarters. Come on.”
They were simple rooms, but there was nothing simple about the enormous chest Baldric opened — it was a beautiful thing, with specialized shelves and mounts for at least a dozen beautifully maintained weapons. If it hadn’t been for the circumstances, Delilah would have happily spent an hour poring over the contents of the chest — as it was, she had to content herself with a brief glimpse while Baldric seized a short sword and then glanced to her.
“What’s your weapon?”
She felt a flare of approval that he hadn’t asked if she could fight with a sword. “Longsword’s fine,” she said, nodding to one — he beamed, lifting it out with clear reverence and handing it to her hilt-first. It was a beautiful weapon — exquisitely balanced, and lethally sharp. But no time to admire it — she held it at her side the way she’d been taught and they moved through the castle together, following the sounds of shouting and clashing metal.
The beautiful entry foyer had been all but demolished, and it was clear enough which way the MacClarans had gone — they followed in the wake of the carnage, stepping over groaning and bleeding mercenaries in black. In one parlor there was a man in MacClaran tartan, breathing hard as he wrapped torn cloth around a serious wound — he poi
nted them in the right direction with his free hand as he pulled his makeshift tourniquet tight. Delilah hesitated, worried about leaving this man to bleed out, but he gestured her on.
“Don’t worry, lass,” the man said — she recognized him as one of the guards from the wall who’d often waved her through on her early morning trips into the woods. “Audrina’s taught us all a thing or two. I’ll be right as rain. Go help Gavin.”
A thrill of fear ran through her at that name — he’d come for her himself? It made sense, of course, he was a soldier and a senior man of the Guard… but still, it felt good that he was there. And terrible, too, to know that her own foolishness had put the man she cared about in so much danger. Put so many people in danger, she thought, staring around at the destruction in the room with dismay — but Baldric was already climbing the stairs two at a time, heading for where the sounds of combat were loudest. So she followed, sword in hand.
There was a huge hall upstairs — not quite as large as the one in Castle MacClaran, but certainly in competition. And sure enough, this was where the mercenaries had chosen to make their final stand — there were tables overturned and a huge amount of mess on the floor, broken furniture and wounded men alike. There were men fighting in all corners of the room, MacClaran men in armor and their family tartan — but Delilah only had eyes for what was happening in the middle. There stood Gavin, a bloodstained great sword in his hand, his clothing and armor soaked in gore from the wrist up — other people’s blood, she realized with sick relief, not his own.
Not yet, anyway. He hadn’t seen her come in — he only had eyes for the man who was circling him. And Delilah’s mouth dropped open, a flash of her dream returning to her — for a moment, she was Morag again. She could almost feel the cold iron bars in her fists, the helplessness as she watched the man she loved take on his nemesis — for it was Kenneth, helmet removed, ugly face twisted even further in his hatred for the man in front of him. But it was even worse than her dream, because Gavin was outnumbered — hemmed in on both sides by Kenneth, and by Brother Willows, who was wielding his great staff with a murderous look in his little eyes.
Baldric shouted and started forward, his own eyes fixed on Brother Willows. A personal score to settle, it seemed. Delilah thought she could imagine how Baldric’s nose had been broken. Her fault, her fault again — she’d have a lot of amends to make after all this. If she survived, that is. If she wasn’t killed here and now, in this English lord’s manor. Where was Weatherby, anyway? Shouldn’t the Lord of the manor be defending it? But no — it was just MacClaran men in tartan, and a handful wearing livery she recognized as Weatherby’s, facing off against the black-clad mercenaries. But there was a certain stillness to the battles around the edges of the room — Delilah realized with a jolt that they were all focused on the showdown in the center.
And fair enough too, she thought with some amusement. Mercenaries weren’t in it for the same reasons as the MacClaran men, or even Weatherby’s men — they had no loyalty to anything but money. And if their employer was about to be killed by the second-in-command of the household they were occupying, they were going to need to beat a hasty retreat. She saw one man in black moving nonchalantly toward the doorway — and the man he was fighting (a MacClaran guard) let him, his sword still pointed at his chest. It made sense. Why kill a man who was willing to run away instead?
Willows and Baldric were trading blows, and Delilah was amazed to see how quickly the portly priest was moving. The staff made frightening sounds as it clashed against the floor and furniture around them, Baldric always dodging just in time — Delilah raised her sword, tempted to join him, but she knew in her heart that her experience wasn’t enough to contend with these men, trained killers, fighters who’d fought every day of their lives, for their lives. A bit of LARP training might have taught her the basics, but in a fight like the one Baldric was in, she’d only be a liability. Kenneth and Gavin were still circling one another. She knew better than to try to interfere in that blood feud. This was a fight Gavin needed to finish on his own.
Something pinged in her situational awareness and she raised her sword at a mercenary who’d been creeping toward her — he narrowed his eyes, his own blade raised, and sized her up. She hefted the sword, trying to project menace.
“You’re the witch,” he hissed. “The witch Brother Willows is here to kill.”
“He’s done a pretty poor job, hasn’t he,” she mocked him, voice low and flat. “Want to try your luck?”
The man hesitated — and as he did, the torches on the walls behind her flickered as though their flames had been stirred by a gust of wind. The man stared at them, then back at her — then fled past her through the doors, nearly knocking over another mercenary who’d been beating a hasty retreat. What had that been? None of the windows here were open — it was far too cold outside. How could a gust of wind have stirred the torches? She hadn’t felt it. A strange suspicion gripped her, and before she could think about it, she whispered under her breath.
“Thanks, Morag.”
As if on cue, she heard a frightening clash of metal. Kenneth and Gavin had stopped circling one another and were at each other’s throats, blades clashing again and again as they hacked and slashed at one another. This was no fencing match — no fancy footwork here. Only brute strength, and fury — a real hack-and-dodge fest. She’d seen similar fights at the SCA — but this one was terrifyingly real. Baldric was pressing his advantage on Willows, who seemed to be tiring, worn out by the weight of his staff and the long day he’d clearly had — and in a heartbeat, or less, the Brother stumbled, and Baldric was on him, knocking him back onto a dining table and holding his blade to his throat. Defeated, the Brother dropped his staff, and Baldric set about binding his hands behind him with a practiced series of movements. Delilah could see the smugness on his face — she was happy for her friend to have defeated this terrible man.
A roar from Gavin distracted her, and she spun to watch him heft his sword over his shoulder, a terrifying look on his face as all the brute strength in his body was channeled into the blow he was about to deliver to Kenneth. She saw why, in a heartbeat — in turning to see his master captured, Kenneth had left his shoulder unguarded for a second. And a second was all it took — with one devastating blow, and a sick, wet sound that would haunt Delilah’s dreams for nights to come, Gavin drove his blade down and severed Kenneth’s head from his body. Like a puppet with its strings cut, the rest of the man slumped to the floor in one motion, then toppled over onto the floor, gouts of blood gushing from the amputated stump.
Gavin stood over him, staring down as his shoulders heaved with the effort of his breathing. The sword fell from his fingers, which had gone loose on the hilt, and Delilah thought of Morag. Would she be happy now that her murderer had been killed? Would she finally be at rest? No — more was needed than that. Morag hadn’t been a vengeful witch, not entirely. She’d wanted happiness and joy in Gavin’s life, not just revenge. She’d wanted the best for her love. Fate had conspired to stop Morag from being the one to give it to him — but like any crafty witch, she’d done the next best thing. She’d brought Delilah to Scotland to take her place.
She moved up to his side, reaching out cautiously to put her hand on his elbow — and he jumped, spinning to her, his eyes wild before he realized who she was. As he looked at her, she saw acute relief rush through his face, and without warning he’d hurled his arms around her, pulled her hard into his embrace. She hugged him back, so grateful to see him she could hardly even think about how embarrassing their last conversation had been, heedless of the blood that was soaking from his armor into her dress. She was going to need to replace this one regardless — it was already full of too many horrible memories to ever wear again. And for now, Gavin needed her — needed the reassurance of her touch.
“Thank God,” he kept murmuring over and over into her ear, hugging her almost hard enough to hurt. “Thank God you’re safe. Thank God they didn’t ge
t you.”
“It was a close thing,” she murmured, pulling away to look into his green eyes. He touched her face with one bloodied hand — then stared at the smear of blood he’d left on her cheek as though surprised to remember he’d been fighting at all. “If you hadn’t come … I don’t know what would have happened. How did you know —”
“Followed you, you daft woman,” he rumbled, his eyes full of feeling. “How could I not? Riding off in the middle of the night like that — and the minute I saw a single guard on duty I knew something was wrong. Weatherby’s got a staff of thousands, it seems like — he wouldn’t have just one of his men on guard unless something was wrong. So I rode back, rallied the troops, and here we are.”
“Just in time, too,” Baldric said, joining them — he extended his hand and Gavin shook it, gazing appraisingly at the English knight.
“You fought well.”
“And you,” Baldric nodded, looking with some distaste at the corpse of Kenneth. “The staff will have their work cut out for them in the morning. But they’ll have their lives, and their freedom too. Thanks to you. If Clan MacClaran is ever in need — Lord Weatherby will be there. You have my word. And his,” he added, a smirk on his face. “If he tries to say otherwise, we’ll just ask where he was during all of this and I imagine he’ll quiet down in a hurry.”
“There are more men?”
“Not many,” Baldric said quickly. “And with Willows captured, the mercenaries are already clearing out. It’ll be easy enough to mop up the last pockets. I’ll handle it. You’ve done more than enough.”
“You’re sure?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Baldric said, his eyes gleaming. “I’ve got a few bones to pick with a couple of men Delilah knocked out earlier.”
Highlander Cursed: A Scottish Time Travel Romance Page 24
