“Skald!” James bellowed back, leaping aside as the man charged. Whipping around, he swung hard, driving his blade deep into the Mackintosh’s side. The man roared, toppling heavily to the ground, his ax still clutched in his hand.
Somewhere – in another world – the crowd cheered, their shouts of glee lifting above the furious blare of pipes. Rage, hot, swift and terrible, swept James. He spun about again, this time glaring at the Lowland spectators. But his fury only earned more hoots and whistles as they jumped to their feet, yelling for more blood.
Utter silence came from the barricades where the clansfolk stood.
Above it all, the hellish din and the eerie quiet, the wild howling of the Berserkers went on without cease, piercing and terrible.
Panting, James gulped air. Blood, hot and thick, pulsed from a gash above his ankle. It was a wound he hadn’t felt until now, and likely took when a MacDonald in the shield wall stabbed beneath his targe, slicing at the only Cameron flesh he could reach.
Ignoring the pain – for he felt it now, sharply - he once again scanned the mass of fighting men for Alasdair. But he could hardly distinguish his own warriors. Blood reddened the faces of every man standing, even staining their plaids beyond recognition.
Only Kendrew’s Berserkers stood out from the rest, their wild-eyed grins and ferocity setting them apart. And even they ran crimson, their tangled manes and wolf pelts blood-drenched and streaming red.
One of them raced at him again, roaring fury, his huge war ax whirling. James raised his targe, ready to take the ax swing, but the man tripped over a fallen MacDonald and slammed face down onto the gore-slicked grass. Leaving him, James ran on, dodging swinging blades and lurching men, many of them dying on their feet, their lives spent before they could even open their mouths to scream.
“Come, bastards! Our hounds want your flesh!” Colin’s cry came from James’ left and he wheeled about to see his cousin grinning devilishly, his great sword flashing in a deadly figure-of-eight motion as he taunted two ax-wielding Mackintoshes, their own expressions equally fiendish.
James sprinted forward, eager to help Colin send the men to Odin’s corpse hall, but Colin’s arcing steel sliced off his opponents’ ax hands before James could reach his cousin’s side. The two Berserkers screamed, reeling backwards, blood fountaining from their naked wrists.
“Colin!” James hurried, jumping over the wounded and dying. He skirted the increasing number of men now fighting in single combat, warriors circling and hacking each other with dirks and axes.
Unaware of him, Colin leapt back as the two Berserkers charged, lashing at him with the iron-rimmed edge of their shields. But the blood gushing from their empty wrists pooled at their feet and they slipped, crashing to their knees even as Colin rushed in, lopping off their heads with one terrible sword swipe.
“Skald!” Colin thrust his red-smeared blade to the sky, shaking it fiercely.
James stared at him, his cousin’s triumphant shout chilling him.
The horror of it iced his veins. The sharp metallic reek of blood – and the ghastly stench of other, worse things – froze him where he stood. He closed his eyes, only for a beat, and to clear the burning scorch of sweat, and when he looked again, Colin was gone.
James shuddered, his own bloodlust draining away when he spotted Colin running across the field, making for one of the few clusters of still-fighting men.
Almost all fought one-on-one now. More littered the blood-red ground. Colin was just now cutting his way into the fiercest affray yet going and - praise God - James knew the brash-headed fool would emerge without a scratch.
James might be the devil.
But Colin had an angel on his shoulder, always.
Somewhere behind James, a Berserker howled again – the same mad wail he’d heard before - and James whipped around, his heart stopping when, across the emptying field, a dazzling flash of white caught his eye.
Rannoch stood at the MacDonald barricade.
The stag was staring at him, his antlered head high and his snowy coat shining with the brilliance of stars. But when James blinked, the creature disappeared, vanishing as quickly as he’d appeared.
And now….
Geordie stood with his paws on the railing, his grayed head tipped back as he howled and whined, piteously. Terrible, gut-wrenching wails that – James knew – were the cries he’d mistaken for the Berserkers’ worst howls.
To be sure, they’d bellowed like fiends, but the soul-splitting wails had been Geordie’s.
The dog who – James knew from Alasdair – hadn’t made a sound in years.
“God’s mercy!” James gripped his sword, staring at the raggedy beast. His heart split, the soiled ground rolling beneath his feet.
Catriona was on her knees beside the dog. She’d wrapped her arms around him, her bright head buried against his shoulder, her face turned away from the slaughter.
“Mother Mary….” James dropped his sword, a hot, sick feeling sluicing him, squeezing his chest until he couldn’t draw a breath.
“This is how you thank me, Mackintosh?”
Alasdair’s furious voice came loud from James’ right. “I risked all, even riding to Nought, your God-forsaken keep to warn you of treacheries-”
An outraged roar – Kendrew’s? – cut off Alasdair even as James snatched up his blade and pounded off in the direction of the two chieftains’ angry voices.
James ran blindly, knocking aside men and – only once, thank the saints – barreling right over a low mound of mangled and torn bodies. And when he reached Alasdair, he saw at once that he’d guessed rightly.
Alasdair and Kendrew were clashing steel. Though – James’ gut clenched - it was Kendrew’s huge Norse battle ax that the Mackintosh chief tossed from hand to hand as he stood grinning at Alasdair. Malice streamed off every inch of Kendrew’s towering, bear-like body, while a gaping red wound in Alasdair’s left arm showed why Kendrew smiled so wickedly.
Worse, Alasdair’s injured arm wasn’t just bleeding. It hung limply at his side, useless.
Men often fought with grievous cuts and slashes, wielding their blades on sheer will alone. If they could. Alasdair did still clutch his sword with his right hand. And his face was hard-set, his anger alive, seething. But his blade’s swings were feeble, the blood pouring from his left arm, draining any strength that was left in his sword arm.
“Hold!” Like a man possessed, James threw himself between them, sword raised. “Come at him again, Mackintosh, and you’re a dead man.”
Kendrew laughed. “Bluidy hell, I am, whoreson!”
Alasdair scowled. “Be gone, Cameron. I dinnae need your help.”
Ignoring them both, James let his blade flash, slicing cleanly through the haft of Kendrew’s ax. Then, before either man could blink, he lunged closer to rend a groin-to-hem rip in Kendrew’s kilt, exposing more than the bastard’s thick, naked thighs.
Grinning wickedly himself now, James kicked aside the lout’s fallen ax blade. Still smiling, he rammed the tip of his sword against Kendrew’s belly.
“Say it’s over.” He pressed the blade into hard muscle, thrusting only enough to draw a bead blood. “Say it now, or I’ll slice down, unmanning you before you can wipe that mad grin off your poxy face.”
“Odin!” Kendrew thrust his jaw, glaring.
“Fool!” James jabbed his sword tip deeper – and jerked down, ripping an inch of flesh. Blood welled, spilling down Kendrew’s loins. “I’ll no’ kill you, see? I’d rather watch you tell your womenfolk that you’ve become one of them!”
“Bastard!” Kendrew hissed, the skin around his mouth turning white.
“Say it’s over.” James sliced lower, vaguely noting that a loud silence was spreading across the field. Even the pipes no longer skirled and no cheers now came from the spectators, only thick, deep stillness.
“The words, Mackintosh.” He eased the blade back a bit, risking mercy. “Now, or-”
“It is over, you ar
se!” Kendrew jerked away from him, clutching his stomach as he bent double, defeated. “Have you no’ seen?” He turned his bearded head, glaring at James and Alastair. “We’re nigh the last men standing.”
James stared at him, lowering his sword as trumpets blasted and the crowd roared. The pipers started strutting again, though now they played a mournful lament. Many of the spectators ran down from the tiered viewing platforms to race onto the field, their cheers deafening.
Throwing down his sword, James dragged his arm over his forehead. “It cannae be done so long as we’re on our feet. No decision made until-”
Alasdair threw aside his own sword and leaned down to fetch James’ blade from the grass, thrusting it at James. “Have done, Cameron. Make an end to it – one good turn for saving me from dying beneath a madman’s ax.”
James took his sword, but retrieved Alasdair’s and handed it back to him, forcing the lout to seize it. That done, he scowled, and then yanked his own untouched battle ax from his belt, tossing it at Kendrew’s feet.
“Then let’s end it in proper Highland fashion!” He raised his sword high, waiting for Alasdair to bring up his blade and slam it against James’ own.
When Alasadair did so, Kendrew swore and spit on the ground. But then he snatched James’ ax off the grass and, perhaps a little too forcefully, thrust it against James’ and Alasdair’s raised swords.
And as they stood there, scowling darkly at each other, waiting for the King’s trumpets to blare a final fanfare, somewhere in the crowd, a terrible howling eased to soft and quiet whimpers.
It was done.
Whatever came now, the three clans of the glen would decide their future on their own.
Chapter 16
“God’s mercy! That was as good a battle as any I’ve ever seen.”
Earl David came hurrying across the blood-slicked ground to where James, Alasdair, and Kendrew held their weapons aloft, the blades touching. The smile splitting David’s handsome face made James want to sweep his brand around and take off the young prince’s head. Instead, he quelled the itch in his sword hand and raised his voice so that all men near – and some not so near - could hear him.
“It was the King’s writ, lord. No’ true warring.” He bent a long stare on the prince. “And now our duty to the crown is served. It is done.”
“And boldly, I say!” Earl David’s grin widened, his eyes alive with excitement.
Jostling spectators pressed near, the sight of them making a muscle twitch in James’ jaw. On and on they came, groups of Lowland nobles from the King’s entourage, and commoners who’d left their tiered seats to race onto the field, eager to get a closer look at the steaming redness of Highland blood.
Just now they gave their prince cheering accord, clearly of a mind with him that the men of the glen had fought hard and well.
James squashed his contempt. All around them, the reek of slaughter was so powerful that the stench may well have been standing beside him, a living thing. Solid, terrible, and tainting the air.
“Never have I seen such boldness,” Earl David enthused again, his eyes still shining. “So much hacking and stabbing, the clashing of swords….”
Several paces behind the prince, the guards in his escort said nothing. Big, hard-faced men in well-polished mail coats and bristling with arms, they stood silent. Their cold-eyed arrogance spoke louder than any words, their rigid stances showing disdain.
James ignored them.
It was the prince’s glee that filled him with murderous rage. “All warriors are bold when faced with steel – if they are men! We have honor, lord.” James looked straight into the prince’s eyes. His tone was harsh, proud. “That is what you saw this day. That above all.”
James secretly excluded Kendrew and his madmen from the ranks of the valorous. Men who ran around in wolf pelts and howled like demons deserved no such praise. But that opinion was his business and no one else’s.
Not even the son of a King.
Against outsiders, Highlanders did stick together. That was just survival, however much the tradition could sour one’s belly at times.
His own gut roiling now, he exchanged a look with Alasdair and Kendrew. Then he stepped back swiftly to slash his sword downward, plunging it into the ground. The other two chieftains did the same, thrusting their weapons into the glistening red grass so near to James’ blade that the two swords and the ax raged from the earth as one.
“We are again our own arbiters.” James turned to the prince, meeting his gaze squarely. “The Glen of Many Legends is ours, as ever it was.”
Something, perhaps the devil inside him, made him put a hand to his sword’s empty scabbard. His brand might be half buried in the ground, but his dirk – well-honed and sharp enough to split a hair – still hung close by, within an easy and threatening hand grip.
The royal guardsmen noticed, edging nearer, their own hands dropping to the swords strapped low at their sides.
Alasdair and Kendrew moved to stand with him. Kendrew did so somewhat grudgingly, though he did turn one of his evil grins on the prince.
Oblivious, Earl David bobbed his bright head. “Aye, you shall be your own arbiters. You may retain your own Highland rule. And you will not be banished from your hills.” He paused, some of the lightness disappearing from his tone. “So long as you honor and obey the King.”
“We have ne’er done otherwise.” James looked at him, anger still burning in his veins. “Your father agrees to such terms? He will take his men and their followers and leave the glen? Allow us our peace?”
“To be sure. He was much impressed.” Earl David glanced over his shoulder towards the royal loge, but the masses of spectators blocked the canopied platform from view. “His scribes are inking charters now, all you need to hold your own sway here.”
“Charters?” James glanced at the other two chieftains. Alasdair’s brows snapped down and Kendrew raised his arms over his head, loudly cracking his knuckles.
“There is a grant for this glen.” James flashed Kendrew a warning glare. “It is the ancient charter that, years ago, passed into the hands of Lady Edina, tied by blood or marriage to us all.”
Earl David didn’t appear to hear him, his gaze flicking over the carnage on the field. He seemed particularly interested in a slain MacDonald who’d been pinned to the ground, his spine pierced by a sword.
James stared at the prince, repelled.
Here, surrounded by a sea of blood, Earl David’s clean, tidy hair and gleaming coat of mail made him look like a vision from another world. His fascination with the fallen was offensive. Bodies of the dead and dying covered the trampled grass, their reddened swords, axes, and shields strewn around them. Wounded men writhed in agony, though some lay quiet, their eyes deep pools of unblinking horror.
But if the prince noticed their agony, he gave no sign.
Instead, he glanced round, seeming unaffected by the thick, hot stench of battle, delighted by the gore.
Beaming again, he turned back to the three chieftains. “Bards will sing of this day for years to come.” He glanced at his escort as if seeking agreement. “Highland men know how to fight!”
“Nae, lord” - Catriona appeared then, pushing her way through the wall of tightly-packed spectators - “our men know how to die. They do so when they must, and always unafraid.”
She started forward, Geordie trailing after her. The dog’s tail hung low and he quivered badly – until he spotted Alasdair and ran to him as quickly as his stiff legs would carry him. The old dog barked and then jumped all over his master, swishing his tail and slathering Alasdair with kisses.
“Catriona!” Alasdair called to her, his cry almost drowned by Geordie’s excited barking.
Or so James thought until he realized the voice had been his.
He turned away from Alasdair so the lout wouldn’t see his face coloring. The fool had dropped to his knees, hugging his dog, but James didn’t want to take any chances.
Alasd
air was almost better at reading him than Colin and – James knew – the perceptive bugger would take one look at his burning cheeks and know exactly why he’d called out Catriona’s name.
James frowned, hoping anyone else would mistake his flush for anger.
Catriona glowed like a balefire, two slashes of pink staining her cheekbones, bright and vivid. His heart thumped as he watched her approach. She strode across the red-drenched grass like an avenging fury and looking so maddeningly beautiful, she took his breath.
He could almost see a flaming sword in her hand, wings of fire rising from her shoulders, so terrible – and glorious – did she look in her outrage.
Something very near to a smile tugged at his lips, but the icy blue glare she’d pinned on Earl David was so magnificent, so wondrous to behold, that he didn’t want to risk banishing it by distracting her.
To his right – he caught the frenzied movement – Kendrew spluttered and snatched at the torn edges of his kilt, yanking them together. James clamped his jaw, resentfully allowing Kendrew a jot more honor than he would have cared to give the wild-eyed bastard.
“Ho, James!” Colin burst through the throng then, hot on Catriona’s heels. “I tried to head her off, I swear I did.” He hurried forward, his face, plaid, all of him, streaming red, though – relief sluiced James - none of the blood appeared to be Colin’s own.
As always in battle, Colin emerged unscathed.
But his dark eyes glinted with annoyance – irritation tinged with more than a touch of amusement as he skirted or leapt over the fallen, trying to keep pace with Catriona.
“I warned her that the field was no place for a lady.” Colin paused near the prince’s guard, panting. “She ran on, daring me to stop her.”
James scarce heard his cousin’s words.
He couldn’t take his gaze off Catriona. The sight of her sent raw desire whipping through him. Searing awareness scalded him, tightening his loins and making his pulse thunder in his ears. She held him captive, dazzling him so thoroughly that everything else slipped away to nothingness so that he saw only her.
Sins of a Highland Devil: Highland Warriors Book 1 Page 25
