by Cathy MacRae
“She consorts with the fae!” The man to her right shoved his fist into the air and received a shouted aye of affirmation from the crowd.
“She is a witch and has sold her soul to the devil!” he roared, pumping his arm once more.
“Aye!” rumbled the crowd.
Laila’s eyes searched the mass of milling people, seeking a friendly face, someone who would speak for her. But the faces, contorted by anger and fear of the unknown, met her gaze with blazing, critical eyes.
Och, no! Along the edge of the crowd she spied Patrick, his lips turned down, his face unhappy. Next to him stood a man she felt sure had orchestrated the mob, his blond hair an indeterminate pale ruddy shade in the torchlight.
If Harald takes a good look at Patrick, the lad will join me before he knows what happened. A small sigh of relief whispered past her dry lips as she spotted Gregor beside them, his dark scowl telling her he did not approve of the night’s activities.
Her heart warmed for his concern, but she knew there was nothing he could do. There had been an attraction between them once, but his pledge had been given to another, and no matter if he regretted his decision or not, her life was not his to defend.
She completed her scan of the crowd. There was no one present who would stand with Gregor. But perhaps he would keep Patrick safe. Why had Patrick not fled when they dragged her from the barn? Had he not understood the message she tried to send him? Unless the pistol was a better weapon than he admitted, his life would quickly be forfeit once daylight came and the clan people took note of the stranger among them.
Overhead, the whipping sound of billowing sails captured her attention. Rhythmically, the beat filled the air, and Laila’s captors cringed. Her heart soared and a tiny smile touched her lips. No Viking sail ever stretched as tight before a wind. Ormarr was here!
CHAPTER SEVEN
Torches guttered beneath the whoosh of air, only to snatch upright again as the dragon’s wings sucked the flames into the updraft. Cries of fear crackled, and people fell to the ground, their arms cast over their heads. Only Patrick and one other remained standing. Patrick gaped in a mixture of horror and disbelief at the enormous creature as it settled next to Laila, its long neck snaking around the healer as it studied the crowd through sparkling gold eyes.
Wounded betrayal sluiced through Patrick as he met Laila’s gaze over the heads of the downed clansmen. If he’d entertained any doubts she was a witch, witnessing her summon a monster extinguished them without a trace.
’Twas for naught my priest forbade discourse with a witch. I have been tempted twice—and yet I remain on my feet.
Freed from restraint, Laila quickly climbed aboard the dragon’s shoulder, using his raised foreleg as a step to boost herself up, and sat between two dorsal ridges. Smoke roiled from the beast’s nostrils, filling the air with the stench of char and something Patrick could not describe.
The dragon surged into the air with a powerful leap and down-stroke of his wings. Air rushed from beneath the rather fragile-looking pinions with a boom, dousing the torches in the blink of an eye.
Ice flashed across his skin, a combination of fear and bitter cold. A keening cry bled through the darkness as people rose to their feet and called to each other, terror in their voices. Patrick’s legs shook and he swallowed down the bile in his throat.
“Are ye hurt?”
Patrick startled as he recognized the dark-haired man’s voice. He gave a weak shake of his head. A hand clamped on his shoulder.
“Then come with us.”
His eyes adjusted to the darkness, the forms of people keeping pace with them slightly paler than the shadows beneath the thin light of the half-moon. They halted behind a hut where a fire—mostly embers this time of night—glowed. Like dragons’ eyes.
Something prickled down Patrick’s spine and he jumped as someone bumped against him. A couple of men fed the fire from a nearby stack of wood, and the pulsing glow soon became a roaring fire. To his discomfort, Patrick noticed many faces turned to him. Angry mutterings rippled through the air.
“Ye dinnae fall to the ground when the dragon came,” one man noted. “Do ye not fear them?”
Patrick swallowed hard. “I cannae say I’ve ever seen one before,” he said.
“Lad, ye dinnae have to have seen something to fear it.”
Silence but for a low whisper of voices filled the night. Finally, another spoke to him.
“We must destroy it—the dragon and its witch. It has caused much harm and we cannae allow it to prey upon us any longer. We need a champion. What say ye?”
Patrick quenched a short bleat of laughter. ’Tis not my battle to fight. I cannae protect them from a dragon. Or a witch. Why me?
He glanced at the faces made ruddy by the campfire flames, their black eyes fastened expectantly on him. He felt the pull like tenterhooks set in his flesh.
“I’m no hero. I cannae defeat a dragon.”
The faces turned away and disappointment descended on Patrick. Someone shoved a warm mug into his hand.
“Here. Drink this.”
* * *
Night air bit into Laila’s skin like a mantle of ice. She shivered, gripping the dorsal ridge before her to keep from sliding. Ormarr angled his flight to descend behind the island’s peak, adjusting abruptly as though a draft caught his wings. Laila knew better. She’d seen the injury he’d sustained only hours earlier. She cursed the need to call on him for assistance.
Can we not simply live in peace? Why is different so terrible?
She stroked the muscular neck fondly, the scales smooth and faintly warm beneath her hand. With belly-dropping speed, Ormarr landed on the beach, small pebbles crunching beneath his feet as he stumbled to a halt. Laila dismounted quickly, one hand skimming the dragon’s hide as she inspected his injury, using touch more than sight in the dim light.
She came to a stuttering stop as her fingers slipped into the deep gash in the otherwise pristine hide. Blood ran warm over her hand. Ormarr flinched.
“’This wound is deeper than ye told me,” she scolded softly. His frame twitched, then wrenched violently. Laila stumbled back with a cry.
“Dinnae do this! Ye will heal faster as a dragon!”
“I cannae let them find me like this,” Ormarr gasped in two-word phrases as his body changed brutally from dragon-form to man. Change complete, he fell to the ground, leaning his back against the ancient rock of the natural cavern. “Go,” he whispered. “If ye leave now, ye can out-run them.”
Tears flowed down Laila’s cheeks. “I’m not that fast,” she choked, torn between the sensible act of fleeing the mob who sought her death and protecting the one who’d likely given his life to save her. Blood surged slowly to the surface of the gash beneath Ormarr’s arm, black and shiny in the moonlight. It spilled in thick droplets to the ground, staining the pebbles and sand. Laila slipped her cloak off and dragged it around Ormarr’s shoulders, fastening the strings at the neck.
“I will distract them,” Ormarr sighed. Using his good arm, he shoved away from his seat on the ground, stumbling and growling beneath his breath as his legs barely held him upright.
Laila planted her fists at her waist. “Will ye be hiding or distracting? From the looks of ye, ye willnae last long either way.”
“Dinnae argue with me, lass,” Ormarr grunted, the effort to stand almost more than he could bear if the gritted teeth and ashen skin were any indication. “I havenae lived this long to go down before those dunga.” He jutted his chin toward the far shore where points of light winked in the night.
He settled his amber gaze on her face. “It willnae take them long to gather their courage and weaponry and storm the island. I will create a mist to make them wary, but ye must be far from here before they come.”
Laila’s throat thickened. “Where will I go, Ormarr? My reputation will follow me, and a healer, no matter how skilled, cannae last long labeled a witch. I dinnae wish to live my life alone, fleeing from one vi
llage to the next.”
Ormarr winced and slid heavily back to the ground, hugging his arm tight against his side. Silver mist crept over their feet like a rising tide, dimming the glitter of moonlight on water. “Ye should never have befriended me, lass. As a wee bairn, no one paid heed to yer wandering about. Now, everyone wishes to know how ye spend yer time, and it has cost ye dear. I should have tried harder to frighten ye the first time we met. Ye always were a brave lass.”
Laila knelt at his side. “’Tis not that I dinnae fear ye. I saw something more important than fear—someone in need of a friend.” Pulling a strip of cloth from the hem of her skirt, she bandaged his wound as best she could as he feebly resisted her help.
“I wouldnae trade our friendship for anything, Ormarr. Not for the acceptance of my clan. Not for life itself.”
A muffled shout boomed across the water, the sound of many voices raised in accord. The mist glowed red and gold, glimmering in the rekindled blaze of many fires. The shout died to a rumble, but that did not lessen the savage power of the sound.
Ormarr gripped Laila’s wrist, stilling her movements. “It begins.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
Patrick sipped the spicy liquid in the mug, relishing the slide of warmth to his stomach. A faint tingle spread outward, pulsing heat and courage through his veins. Someone, anonymous in the darkness, refilled his mug and he took another sip.
A few men formed a group separate from the main crowd, speaking together in hushed tones, slashes of words that reached Patrick’s ears with angry ferocity, but he did not understand their meaning. He recognized two as the men he’d accompanied to the clearing. Looks passed in his direction from them, but the dark-haired man crossed his arms over his chest and stubbornly refused to join in whatever they discussed. After a few moments, the sandy-haired man broke from the cluster and stepped closer to Patrick.
He settled a hand on Patrick’s shoulder. “Ye arenae one of us?” His gaze roamed over Patrick’s strange attire. For all that his clothes had become tattered and worn during his short time as a soldier, the cut of his jacket was different from the tunics of the men around him, the cloth both finer and more vibrantly colored—had the sun been available to kiss the blue and tan hues—and the metal buttons—the three that remained—something only a wealthy man would own in this age.
Panic raised Patrick’s heartbeat a notch. “I dinnae live here, aye,” he tentatively agreed.
The man nodded. “I thought not. And travelers are rare in these parts. I am called Harald.”
“I am Patrick.”
Harald cast a look at his dark companion, but the man remained several feet away, his disapproval palpable. Tugging Patrick’s arm, Harald increased the distance between them and the others by a few steps. “I have been verra concerned for our Laila for a time. Her manner changed noticeably a few months ago, and ’tis my belief the dragon has charmed her.”
His look of sorrow tugged at Patrick’s heart, over-riding the shock of the dragon. And Laila.
Harald stared across the water where the island’s peak rose, partially hidden by thickening mist. “I dinnae wish her harm, but she put the well-being of that monster over that of her people, and I fear our Laila is no longer the person I knew as a child.”
He faced Patrick, staring urgently into his eyes, a quick motion of his hand indicating the crowd. “This got out of hand tonight. If we go after her, enter the forbidden cavern, men will die, for none among us know its secrets. If we remain here, the dragon will continue to prey upon our clan, and women and children will also die. He takes from us what he chooses, leaving us with little to feed ourselves over the long winter. Our people cannot continue to exist only to serve the beast. We have been ruled by the dragon for too long. ’Tis past time to put an end to his terrible reign. It is time to regain our freedom.”
The English have ravaged more than our land. They take what isnae theirs, leaving us with no authority. No pride. No freedom. Our women are raped, children left fatherless, homeless. Fight with us and earn our land back. Fight and regain your pride. Fight for Prince Charlie. For freedom!
Words from so long ago sighed ghost-like through Patrick’s memory. Remembered warmth of the inside of the pub replaced the cold night air and raging bonfire. Smells he’d all but forgotten surged through his nostrils—peat, whisky, Mistress O’Donnell’s lamb stew and her sweet raspberry pasties. Voices long silenced rang in his heart, clogged his throat with tears.
Were ye proud of me, Da? Did ye know I was afraid? Deep in my heart where it wouldnae show, I was afraid of the blood and pain and the certainty of death. But I had to do it. I had a chance to make a difference. Did ye understand?
Is this another chance to make a difference? Am I to help rid them of this beastly tyrant? But who is the tyrant? The dragon or Harald?
As though awakening from a deep sleep, Patrick drew a shuddering breath, dragging his focus to Harald. Laila doesnae need these men chasing her. Witch or not, I willnae allow them to harm her. A tiny glow of hope glimmered. Perhaps he could change her fate.
“How can I help?”
* * *
The rumble of drums echoed beneath their feet, more sensation than sound. Laila hid the quake of her limbs as she turned briskly to Ormarr.
“Hie yerself inside, auld man. ’Twill take them longer to find us deep in the heart of the mountain.”
Ormarr grunted as he lumbered unsteadily to his feet. “Do ye think they will be put off by the maze yet again? I fear we have gone too far this time, lass.”
Laila shoved her shoulder beneath his uninjured arm, bracing herself against his weight, solidly muscled despite his age, as she helped him stand. Determined, she guided his steps toward the opening to the cavern, its black mouth a grim slash against the lighter rock. “They are useless fools, as ye pointed out a moment ago. Scarcely brave except in a group.” She paused, helping him navigate around boulders that littered the area just inside the cave.
She grunted, turning sideways as the passage narrowed to a path barely wide enough for the two of them to pass. “They cannae enter the forbidden cave excepting a few at a time. And the corridors are verra confusing. Mayhap they will tire of their chase quickly and return home to complain and argue—as they have in the past.”
She splashed through a puddle of water, chilling her feet. “’Tis wet and cold in here, also. And dark and dangerous—even if I know where the holes are,” she grumbled.
Ormarr snorted. “Should I be encouraged to imagine these hardships will turn the rascals back, or should I take offense at the aspersions ye cast on my home?”
Laila’s chuckle ended in a gasp as Ormarr stumbled, nearly sending them to the ground.
“I’m sorry, lass. Ye shouldnae waste yer life helping me. ’Tis for naught, as ye are well aware. Even if I survive this wound—which I tend to think is unlikely—the world has changed, and dragons such as I are no longer tolerated.”
He tried to halt, swaying as he propped a forearm against the stone wall, but Laila forced him to keep moving. “Do not consider stopping, Ormarr,” she warned, gritting her teeth against frustration, anger and grief. “I willnae leave ye to the merciless men who pursue ye.”
“Us,” he corrected her gently. “They pursue us.”
Step after painful step, Laila urged him relentlessly on, ignoring the stygian darkness, trusting her memory to keep them on the right path. And away from the fissures in the floor whose depths she didn’t care to plumb.
Left, then immediately right. Ormarr did not gainsay her path, but he had ceased bantering with her several turns ago. Their harsh breaths echoed off the damp walls like the rasp of sand beneath the heel of a boot. Suddenly, the closeness of the corridors opened into a grand cavern, the walls falling away as if by magic. Even in the dark Laila sensed the openness as the ceiling sprang upward to vaulted glory.
One hand outstretched, she groped for the low, natural stone shelf that was Ormarr’s sleeping space. Tucked to one si
de of a dazzling display of stalagmites, it needed only velvet hangings and coverings to rival that of a king.
Her fingers encountered the plain woolen blanket Ormarr preferred, the pattern faded almost beyond recall. She shoved it open and lowered Ormarr to the bed. Pulling the outer edge of the wool over him, she quickly moved to the side of the room, tapping the wall lightly with her fingertips to guide her way as she searched for a torch.
She grabbed a brand from its iron holder and returned to Ormarr’s side, the glow of his golden eyes in the dark marking her destination. Something rustled beneath her foot with a metallic shuffle and she stumbled, twisting her ankle. Recovering quickly, she knelt next to Ormarr.
“I dinnae suppose ye have a flint?” she asked. His grumbled answer was not exactly a laugh, but the lack of fire with a dragon present was a bit peculiar. Knowing Ormarr was beyond summoning the magic of fire, she dug in the small cloth bag at her waist which miraculously had survived the stramash earlier. Cold to the point of numbness, her nearly nerveless fingers grasped the tiny piece of stone and metal and struck them together.
A tiny spark sprang from the steel to the torch but immediately died. Laila bit back frustration as her second attempt fared no better. A faint giggle tinkled in the cold air and she jerked her head up. Wee specks of light danced high in the air like motes of dust in sunlight, blinking in and out in the darkness.
“Ye summoned the pixies?” she murmured for Ormarr’s ears only.
Ormarr grunted, a faint push of sound. “I have no need to summon them. They come because what ye do interests them.”
Laila sank back on her heels with an exaggerated sigh. “’Tis a shame they dinnae know how to light a torch,” she sighed, laying her palm on Ormarr’s shoulder to still any words of correction. The faint giggle sounded again. Several motes drifted together, their tiny wings and bodies becoming more distinct as their light grew. Laila held her breath and struck the steel once more, indicating with a shrug how powerless she thought they were.
