Kanyth (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 4): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  “Elspeth, it’s us, it’s all right.” Perrin tried to take the wailing child from her, but the lady shook her head.

  “They’re dying.” She hurried into the dining hall, where her children stood huddled together, staring at the maids and clansmen that lay unmoving where they had fallen from their chairs. “’Tis Ana’s work, I ken it. She’s dosed them with some evil potion. Clanmaster, please, you must send for the druid.”

  Kanyth didn’t tell her that the storm and the pending attack both made that impossible. “I shall try to get word to him, my lady.”

  “Did you eat or drink anything yet, Elspeth?” Perrin asked gently.

  The laird’s wife stared at her with a blank look. “No, I…I brought down pear juice from the solar for the bairns. I didnae wish to upset my belly again so I drank it with them.” She gazed around the room in horror. “Oh, Gods, she means to kill us all.”

  Kanyth checked each of the children, assuring that their eyes remained clear. He saw Perrin do the same with the child in Elspeth’s arms. “Dinnae be afraid,” he told the laird’s brood. “Have you seen your sire this morning?”

  The oldest boy pointed under one of the tables.

  Kanyth dragged Maddock out, making Elspeth scream again, and turned him onto his belly. Sticking his fingers down the laird’s throat, he forced him to spew. Although it didn’t rouse him awake, what came out of Maddock told him exactly how the clan had been dosed.

  “He yet lives, my lady. Perrin.” When she came to him he nodded down at the puddle of morning brew. “I must empty the kettles in the kitchens before more are dosed.” He drew out his dagger and pressed it into her hand. “Stay with the family here.”

  She nodded. “Hurry back.”

  On the way to the kitchens Kanyth passed more fallen clansmen, among them Alec and Maddock’s tanist. He encountered only one alert boy, whom he found trying to wake a guard, and quickly told him of the poisoning.

  “I found the same in the garrison when I came in to break my fast with my older brother,” the stable hand told him. “Duff serves our lord as a sentry. I’m Ross.” His expression grew bleak as he gazed down at the unconscious man. “We’ve ten more hands in the stables. ’Tis all the lads left standing, I reckon.”

  “We’ll make do with twelve, then, Ross,” he told him. “Come with me.”

  In the kitchens the boy helped Kanyth empty the brew pots, most of which were nearly empty. Nothing looked amiss, but he saw an empty bottle on the cook’s work table, and lifted it to his nose. The acrid scent made him cork it and set it out of reach.

  “Fill every clean, large pot you may find with snow from outside,” he told the stable hand. “Add three fists of salt, and set them to melt and warm by the hearth.”

  Ross gave him a tight look. “You mean to purge them?”

  “Aye. Until we may fetch a healer ’tis all we may do for those sickened. Once you’ve prepared the pots, then fetch your brothers from the stables, and carry the salt water to the great hall. We’ll do the work there.” He saw how the lad’s shoulders drooped, and gripped his arm. “’Tis said the Gods favor the daring, Ross. I ken of no bolder clan than the McAra.”

  The boy nodded, determination chasing the fear from his eyes as he went to work.

  On his way back to the dining hall Kanyth heard crashing sounds, and the cries of the laird’s children. He scooped up a sword from an unconscious guard and broke into a flat run.

  Inside the laird’s wife stood with her bairns cowering behind her as Perrin and a smaller female dressed in white fought wildly. Kanyth saw the flash of a dagger in the attacker’s hand, while all Perrin held was a large serving platter, which she used like a shield. He got behind the female, clamped an arm around her throat and clouted her hand to knock loose the blade.

  The female uttered not a sound, but twisted and kicked, using such strength that she nearly broke free. Kanyth grabbed a poker from the hearth as he dragged her over to the laird’s big chair, and shoved her into it. There he pinned her across the middle with the poker, and bent the iron on both ends to the back of the seat. Though she still struggled, it held her in place.

  Her hair hung in a snarl over her face. That and her paleness and silence made him wonder if she had been bespelled. Then she stopped fighting the restraint and sat without moving at all.

  “Thank you,” Perrin said, sounding out of breath. “I heard footsteps in the back hall. When I went to see who it was, she attacked me with the dagger.”

  “Kill them,” the female said in a flat monotone.

  “Who sent you to kill?” When she didn’t answer, Kanyth reached for her hair, and pulled it away from her face. He had to snatch his hand back as she tried to bite him, and then recognized who she was. “’Tis the lass from the loch.”

  “Wynda?” Perrin said, recoiling. “But how can it be? She’s been dead for days.”

  “’Tis the work of Flen’s acolyte,” Kanyth said, feeling disgusted now. “She’s no’ alive. She’s been made a revenant.”

  Some of the dishes on the dining table rattled, and a chair fell over as the floor beneath them began to shake. Kanyth brought the women and children out into the great hall, and then went to the window slit to look out into the storm, which had begun to diminish. The shaking continued as deep furrows in the snow came from all directions to surround the keepe.

  The famhairean had arrived.

  Chapter Thirty

  AFTER RIDING THROUGH the blizzard and braving it a second time to send a dove through the sacred grove portal, Bhaltair Flen had fallen into a fitful sleep by the Tullachs’ cozy hearth. Cora woke him just before dawn with a bolstering brew and a bowl of porridge laced with cream and honey.

  “You shall break your fast before you endeavor to save the world again,” she told him firmly when he tried to refuse her coddling. “’Twill also prevent you fainting from hunger while confronting the forces of darkness in battle.”

  “I willnae battle anything this day but my wretched knee, Sister.” He took a sip of the brew and a few spoons from the bowl to please her, and then noticed the shadows under her eyes. “Tell me I didnae keep you from your rest last night.”

  “Naught does that these days. I felt something in the wind, just before you arrived. Old magic, of the like I’ve no’ sensed since my novice days. I wouldnae say, but the more I think on it…I cannae be mistaken.” She met his gaze. “’Twas a bone conjuring.”

  Bhaltair might have felt the ripple of such a dark, evil spell, had he not been caked in snow and ice at the time. For the final half-league to the settlement he’d been obliged to dismount and lead his pony by the reins through the blinding wind. He’d had to pour his magic into keeping in the proper direction, or he’d yet be out there, trudging in circles. He didn’t wish to think of who had cast such a spell, but there could be only one.

  “Barra prevails at last.”

  Cora reached to touch his hand. “I’m so sorry.”

  “If Oriana now raises the dead, then she’s forever cursed by the Gods, and lost to me.” The thought of such evil corrupting a druidess so young made his eyes water. “Forgive me. How I yet care for the lass after all she’s done, I cannae tell you.”

  “My dear friend, I live mated to a lad incarnated but seventeen years,” the druidess reminded him. “He ever regards me as beautiful, fascinating and wholly enchanting, when I shall soon celebrate my seventieth year in this life. By the Gods. I’ve boots older than Fingal.” She rubbed her wrinkled cheek. “But we are soul-mated.”

  Seeing her faraway look and hearing the tender way she still spoke of Fingal helped to dispel some of Bhaltair’s gloom.

  “’Tis a rare and wondrous love that you share,” he said, as he wrapped his hands around the warm cup. “And to have flourished these many incarnations, ’tis a kind of miracle.”

  “’Tis nothing of the sort,” Cora said lightly, as she fed a small log into the hearth. She paused and smiled at him over her shoulder. “When we touch, F
ingal does as I command.” Bhaltair had taken a sip of his brew, but spewed it with a cough as he nearly choked. She laughed as she stood. “So no’ all the ways of magic are known to conclavists.” After she brought him a small cloth which he used to wipe his mouth, she went back to the fire. “’Tis something we discovered in our first incarnation.” A wry smile spread across her face. “I couldnae think on eternity without it.”

  Bhaltair chuckled at the little revelation that explained so much. “Mayhap a conclavist can still learn a thing or two, and feel a bit of a fool.”

  “Then you keep good company, old friend, for we’re all made fools by those we love.” She nodded at the bowl in his lap. “Now, eat your porridge.”

  Cora’s wry wisdom eased his sorrow enough for him to fill his empty belly. Nothing could be done to mend the cracks in his battered old heart, but purpose still held it together. He suspected the McAra and the Skaraven would save each other, as they had from the days of the first tribes, but he would do whatever he could to aid them. Oriana, his last connection to his old friend Gwyn, followed the dark path now. It would lead her, as it ever did, to a dismal end without hope of reincarnation. He could not turn her back, so he would pray that it would be quick.

  As for the traitors and their famhairean, Bhaltair clung to his faith in good prevailing over evil. They would be defeated again by the Skaraven, and this time forever. He could not live in the world believing otherwise.

  A short time later Fingal came into the cottage, his cloak heavy with driven snow. “Bhaltair, the clan has arrived.”

  He wrapped up warmly before he followed the headman out into the wind. The skies remained dreary and dark, but the snowfall had grown lighter. The blustery air slapped rather than tore at him as well. From the glen the Skaraven led their horses toward the Sky Thatch’s stables, where Fingal had druids waiting to water and warm the mounts.

  When he saw Bhaltair, Brennus handed off his reins to another Skaraven and waded through the snow to loom over the two druids.

  “We came as you bid,” the chieftain said. “Cadeyrn rode to the hilltop to survey the country. If they’ve come, he should see some sign in the snows.” He regarded Fingal. “I reckon I’ve you to thank, Headman, for clearing enough ice from your stream to provide us passage.”

  “I shall relate it to all the brothers and village men who worked through the night to chop out that great hole,” Fingal told him. “Come in the barn. There’s more to discuss with you and your clan.”

  Men and horses crowded the inside of the druid stables, but the Sky Thatch defenders worked diligently alongside the Skaraven to tend to the ice-crusted animals. Ruadri and Taran came to flank Brennus, and a curious silence fell over the immortal warriors as they observed and listened.

  “As I wrote in my message, Mistress Perrin spoke with me last night of a vision she had. She saw the Skaraven come to this settlement before the storm ended, which you have.” Bhaltair gestured in the direction of the McAra’s castle. “By this hour she also predicted that the famhairean would surround and attack the stronghold, and that the Skaraven would attack them. ’Twill be a fierce battle and the outcome is no’ certain.”

  Brennus grunted. “’Tis never certain, vision or no’.”

  “Mistress Perrin possesses a rare and powerful foresight, proven many times,” Bhaltair said. “’Tis what my kind call seeing through the eyes of the Gods. Even thus, sometimes even they must blink.”

  The chieftain eyed him with his customary suspicion. “Shaman, Horse Master, counsel.”

  “However unhappy, Master Flen speaks truth.” Ruadri gave Bhaltair a decidedly cool look. “The lass had lost her gift by the time she arrived at Dun Mor. Yet my lady assured me the forge spirit healed Perrin, and restored her. From the scheme used to attack the midland villages we ourselves predicted this attack. I’m inclined to believe Master Flen and the lady.”

  Brennus nodded, and regarded his horse master. “What say you, Tran?”

  “’Tis but two things I ken that make famhairean retreat: water or fire.” He paused to let the sound of the wind wailing outside fill the stables. “For water we must wait for the thaw. Yet if Kanyth somehow unleashes the forge on the giants, they shall burn. I’m with Ruadri. Let us make the attack.”

  The door to the stable burst open, and a snow-covered warrior strode in leading a horse even more heavily encrusted. He threw off the hooded cloak shrouding him, revealing the shrewd face of the Skaraven war master, Cadeyrn.

  “Get him dry and warm,” he told the druid who hurried up to take the mount. To Brennus he said, “’Tis as the tree-knower wrote. From the hill I saw furrows in the snow stretching from the east to gather on all sides of the McAra’s keepe. They’ve sieged the castle.”

  “Prepare the mounts to ride,” Brennus called out. He met Bhaltair’s gaze. “You should make ready for mortal wounded.”

  “Fingal shall,” he told him. “Mistress Perrin said I must ride with you and the Skaraven clan into battle.” When the chieftain uttered an incredulous laugh, he added, “She said that if I dinnae, the McAra clan shall perish.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  WHEN THE SIEGE began Perrin would have taken Elspeth and the children upstairs to lock them in the solar, but the laird’s wife refused to leave her husband. In the end she and Kanyth barricaded them in the dining hall with the poisoning victims. Before they secured the doors, her lover carried out the revenant, chair and all. Wynda didn’t move or speak when he shut her inside a hall storage room.

  By then Ross McAra arrived with ten other stable hands, each armed with a sword. Her heart ached when she saw how young they were—hardly more than little boys—and the uncertain way they held their blades. Yet they wore the hardened expressions of men prepared for battle, and not one wavered as Kanyth began issuing orders and passing out torches.

  “We cannae permit the enemy to invade the great hall. You must stand ready at every entry to repel them. Use the torches, no’ your blades.” He beckoned to one of them. “Ross, I shall lower the gates. You assign your men their posts.”

  Perrin looked up as Kanyth began untying levered ropes and lowering heavy iron barriers over the thresholds and windows, where he’d secured them with chains. She hadn’t even noticed them hanging overhead. It must have taken him and Alec hours to hoist them in place. Once lowered into position he demonstrated to the stable hands how to thrust their torches between the bars.

  “Strike them in the face if you can,” Kanyth told them. “If no’, ignite their garments. My lady, come with me.”

  Perrin followed him back to the forge, where he began piling ore in two large buckets.

  “We can’t hold them off for long, can we?” she asked, though she suspected the answer.

  “No, lass.” He hefted the ore to one side and reached for her, pulling her into his arms. “I’ll barricade you here. ’Tis a cabinet in the back large enough to hide in, should they get inside.”

  “Oh, no, you’re not. I’m going with you.” She went to grab one of the buckets, yelped as she tried to lift it, and let go to shake her throbbing hand. “But I’m not hauling anything for you. That weighs like two, three hundred pounds.” When he didn’t reply she picked up one chunk of ore. “All right, I’ll carry this one. Come on, let’s move it.”

  Kanyth caught her chin and kissed her. “You’re mad. I love you, but you’re mad.”

  Now she would die for him. Probably with him, but that counted, too. “Where are we going?”

  He grabbed his tartan and wrapped it around her before he lifted both buckets as if they were filled with cotton balls.

  “Out onto the ramparts.”

  Perrin didn’t waste time asking him what he was going to do, but held the ore against her chest and hurried after him. When she opened the outer door for him the wind smacked her in the face, but only a little snow came with it.

  Kanyth dropped the buckets by the outer edge of the defensive wall, which stretched out directly above the f
urrows. As Perrin glanced over the edge she saw the famhairean emerging from the snow and standing as if waiting for something. Then she felt heat roll over her, and turned to see her lover’s tunic lighting up as he channeled his power into his hands.

  Now she understood the buckets. “You’re going to hit them with molten cannonballs?” When he frowned at her she held out her chunk. “Never mind. Go to work.”

  The ore began glowing the moment he touched it, and quickly began to change shape. Kanyth formed it into a rough sphere and then suffused it with more power, until the surface turned white-gold. He leaned over the wall, looking down, and then hurled it at the head of one of the famhairean. A grating cry came in response as the giant went down, his head half-covered in steaming iron.

  As furious shouts came from below, Perrin stationed herself by the buckets to pass him more.

  “You cannae touch my hands,” Kanyth warned her when she dropped another chunk into his palms.

  As they worked together the scent of molten iron grew strong, and Perrin began to sweat from the heat Kanyth generated. He uttered a low, satisfied sound with every hit he made, but soon the famhairean began to watch and dodge his volleys. She could hear them trying to break through the barriers below and hoped the stable hands were using their torches to set them on fire.

  She turned to Kanyth with the last piece of ore.

  “We need more iron,” she began but saw the burns streaking up his arms. “No.”

  He’d been using his power continuously for at least half an hour. His hands would be burnt to the bone.

  “’Tis naught,” he told her as he hurled the final sphere he’d made. “You cannae carry the ore by yourself, and the bastarts begin to climb now. Fack.”

  He doubled over as his hands cooled and began to blacken.

  She had to do something about his massive burnout, or he’d be crippled by the pain. Snow had collected in the buckets and melted from the heat. She picked up one.