Copyright © 2017 Lisanne Valente
The moral right of the author has been asserted.
Apart from any fair dealing for the purposes of research or private study, or criticism or review, as permitted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988, this publication may only be reproduced, stored or transmitted, in any form or by any means, with the prior permission in writing of the publishers, or in the case of reprographic reproduction in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency. Enquiries concerning reproduction outside those terms should be sent to the publishers.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
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For those we wish were here
and
For those who are yet to come.
May the angels guide you safely home.
Slàinte
Contents
Prologue
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty One
Chapter Twenty Two
Epilogue
Artists’ Poetic Licence
Glossary
With Thanks to
Prologue
“Baglis, Baglis!” Lesley yelled. Good Lord, I swear that woman gets deafer by the century, she thought. When it was clear she couldn’t be heard, she cupped her hands over her lips and sent a shouted whisper.
“Mum!”
Baglis turned in Lesley’s direction, focussing on the area from where the sound came, searching for the voice, then smiling as she caught sight of a slightly disgruntled lass.
“What? What is it, ma deary?” she replied calmly, keeping her laughter in check.
“What are you doing here in the open? All those in there,” she pointed to Mingary “they can all see you from the castle.”
“I know that, lass. They think me to be Witch.”
“You are a witch,” Lesley interrupted.
“You know as well as I, we are as far removed from their idea of witch as we are from that man in the moon.”
Lesley looked skyward. Her mother had tried to convince her of the man in the moon and how the planet was made of green cheese her entire life, she now knew this to be a load of old rubbish, and yet she still searched, expecting to see a man winking back at her!
“Well… are you going to tell me why you are out here? I’ve been looking everywhere for you.” Lesley was tired, and frustrated with her mother. She had been searching for over an hour, and she knew for certain The MacIain would be waiting for news the minute she returned to the castle.
“I’m needin’ some more herbs, lass. I’ve run out of a few. Wait!” Baglis pulled her young daughter tightly into her arms, more for her own comfort and the enjoyment of holding her than for the danger to the vole she nearly stood on. “Dinnae stand there, lass.”
“But you don’t need herbs,” Lesley said, grumpily, not comprehending her mother’s reasoning, but happily snuggled into her arms. Let The MacIain wait. My Ma is the softest, cuddliest person.
“Of course I do! There’s only so much magic can be shared with the mortals. Their healing has to come from the herbs of their own world. We can fuse those herbs together with our magic, and that can aid their healing, but it’s up to their own bodies to complete that which we give them. No matter what we do, though, there comes a time when a mortal’s body has just decided it no longer wants to be cured, and that the time is right for it to leave this world and go to the next.”
“And that’s when we see Uncle Azrael?”
Baglis stroked her daughter’s long hair. It was plaited into a tight row and fell to her waist, but wisps of ash-blonde strands strayed from the knot. No matter how hard Baglis tried to keep her hair in check, it always had a mind of its own and escaped whatever hair concoction she tried.
“Yes, ma deary, that’s when we see ma brother, yer uncle. Now away and get yer chores done, Lesley. There’s much to do in the infirmary. I gave yi a list, did ah no?”
“Aye, Ma, you always give me a list, cause there’s eyeways somethin’ in there to do,” she grumbled.
Baglis pulled away from her daughter and regarded her curiously. “Aren’t you the one who’s just telt me tae be careful? Aye? Then what do you think would happen if, because we havenae the essentials in place for the humans, it ended in one oh yon humans dying. Eh? Can yi tell me what and who would get the blame?”
Lesley went pale and began to pull away. “Ah’m sorry, Ma, yi have the right oh it.”
Lesley freed herself, reluctantly, from her mother’s arms, and marched towards the castle, with a quick backward glance, she waved.
“You have to tell her soon, Baglis.” She didn’t turn when she heard the deep voice coming from behind her. He caused her no distress; she had known he was near, waiting.
“Aye, that ah do, ma bonnie prince, but it’s breaking ma heart even thinkin’ about losin’ her. Does it have to be so? No,” she said quickly, not allowing him to answer. “I ken the truth of it, I ken it’s for her ane safety, but ma own daughter no’ havin’ knowledge of who her ane mither is, it… It isnae fair.” She shook her head sadly. “The powers that be, the Angels and the Fae, have a lot tae answer for, Seere, and your Demon horde hae done nothin’ but cause pain and anguish for all.”
“I cannot argue with you, Baglis, on any count. However, I will promise to take good care of your daughter. She will remain as an integral member of my castle, and she will be taken care of there. The queen of the Fae has assured me she alone will be in charge of her training.”
“And me? Her faither and her brithers? How do we cope with the losin’ of one so special? How do we stand by and watch her go, never knowing what’s become of her?”
“Well… there’s something else I’d like to discuss with you, Baglis, if you have a moment. It could solve a few problems. Oh, I’m afraid Lesley will still not know you’re her family, but at least you’ll be close by—very close by—and you could be a part—a very important part—of her life. I don’t believe the Queen of the Fae will be well pleased.” Prince Seere laughed, throwing his head back in glee.
“Aye, but isn’t it your job, young prince, to cause her as much bother as possible? You’ve never held back in your pranks that cause her strife and give her a fair amount of discomfort, and I’m no’ sayin’ she doesnae deserve it, cause let’s be oanest, she does deserve some mischief-making.” Baglis chortled happily, a
tiny hope filling her saddened heart.
“Let’s away inside, and you can tell me of this plan that will no doubt get you thrown out of yer ane hame, Lenticularis Kisimul, again!”
Chapter One
The Veil
The Glen—in Gaelic, A’ Charnaich, “The Stoney Place”—is a place of mystery and magic, it has been protected by Angels and Mistdreamers for centuries.
Glencoe, with its barbaric, beautiful mountains, is also known in the Heavens as The Veil.
The Angels have safeguarded this sacred location, forever, because it is the gateway to all the worlds, and all the universes. Throughout the ages, the Angels have shared this responsibility with other races. The Fae are one of those who have taken part in the task, and as brothers of the Angels, they worked closely with one another. When the time was right, together, they developed a plan that would be instigated, upon the birth of the human race. It was agreed that a family of humans would be invited to become Mistdreamers, and with this gift bestowed upon them, they would assist the Angels from the Earth’s plane and help to defend the universes from evil.
With careful consideration, the Angels agreed that the clan best suited to be their mystical warriors on Earth would be the MacDonalds.
And, therefore, it came about that the clan MacDonald of Glencoe became the first humans to pledge their fealty and unite with the Angels to help protect The Veil. Upon becoming the first Mistdreamers, their names, and those of their descendants, were written—by Ambriel, the Angel of Communications, using gold from the heavens and with the most prolific and artistic penmanship—into the Book of Angels. The words of the original agreement, and also the names of the Mistdreamers, were witnessed by the King of the Fae, who then confirmed it by signing his name in blood, thus sealing the fate of the Mistdreamers.
*
Throughout the history of the universes, wars had continually erupted in the heavens. Angels fought their Angelic brethren, and divisions appeared amongst Archangels, Seraphim, Cherubim, and the multitude of Angelic tiers. When Archangel Michael led his forces into the thousand-year war, it was to command a well-trained, disciplined army of Angels that he would direct to an overall victory, and in so doing, he would take no prisoners. When the war ended, the outcome left those still existing in the heavens agreeing to be governed by his rules. Not every Angel accepted this, or wanted his rules, and bitter acrimony caused further conflict. With the disunity, however, new allegiances would be forged, and the foundations of new alliances began.
Although Michael’s wrath was impossible to avoid, the Angels who had endured enough of the bitter fighting and had subsequently gone on to align themselves with new acquaintances, automatically fell from Michael’s grace. Thus, the ‘fallen’ Angel was born. Not quite an Angel of Hell’s domain, but one who could traverse between Hell and Heaven, while belonging to neither. The mightiest and most beautiful of all the fallen Angels was The Conjurer, the King of Hell, who carries many other names: The Devil, Lucifer, and Satan are only a few of them.
When The Conjurer, in his arrogance, came to his irrevocable conclusion that he no longer desired that which Heaven could offer—because it limited his great potential—he proceeded to create his own kingdom in Hell and made it an inviting concept to a thousand fallen Angels. He rejoiced in welcoming them as his own, encouraging them to delight in Hell as they had the Heavens, and he persuaded them to turn away from the Heavens, accepting his new realm as their own.
He taught them their lives could exceed any of their expectations; maybe a little different from their time as Angels, but much better. He explained punishment was enjoyable, pain without mercy was fun. He seduced them into understanding greed and personal pleasure was the ultimate objective, and that they could live their lives without recourse from anyone, especially those now dwelling in the Heavens.
He divided his realm into subdivisions, and placing his most reliable and trustworthy supporters as rulers of their own domains, he gave them the authority to rule as they believed fit. He coaxed them into recruiting new demons, and introduced minions—those humans who were easily lured from Earth’s realm with promises of all manner of temptations, and who then became their possessions. Toys to dally with whenever they felt a need. Owned by them, always available whenever they had an itch that needed satisfying. Accommodating whatever demonic urges arose.
His select Fallen Angels, those specifically chosen by The Conjurer, were to become the Kings, Presidents, and Dukes of Hell. The chosen nobility were each given a district within the Kingdom of Hell as their own realm. They would recruit warriors and build their own legions of demons, for the sole purpose of helping The Conjurer succeed, and, of course, the elected noble would continue ruling his given district, remaining loosely within the laws The Conjurer had set. These Fallen Angels were those he depended upon. His presence was more beneficial elsewhere, his awesome power required for purposes other than the running of the realm. It was tedious keeping his own minions in check, and whilst he knew they would not remain faithful to his laws, so long as there were not too many outrageous deviances, he would grant them certain aberrations.
However, as is the way with Angels, fallen or not, they became exceedingly discontented with their lot. Power and lust, while acceptable for a few millennia, could still lead to monotony. Therefore, boredom set in, just as it had done when they were in the Heavens, so they searched for an alternative, something new.
Some chose to distance themselves from The Conjurer. A few even attempted to return to the Heavens, but once associated with the Dark Lord, the Almighty Ruler of Heaven’s Realms did not give immediate forgiveness.
Those few Fallen Angels who, by the time they searched for another realm, were more demon than Fallen Angel, were rejected from reentering Heaven. They turned to Earth for the answers they sought. Several minions had been recruited from Earth; the brain power of those who had been turned was not intellectually stimulating to the demon rulers, but they served a purpose. There was no doubt in their minds, though, that humans continued to fascinate them.
The differences that presented in each human form was intriguing. The religious fanatics, who believed the literal word, were those humans the Fallen Angels would take great delight when whispering into their ears. The promise of a life in Heaven should they carry out a simple undertaking. Perhaps the murder of an innocent—it mattered not the task which they were required to undertake, just that they did it! And they rarely let the demons down!
There were humans who could not hear the fallen Angels when they whispered, so they would shout, striving to be heard, yet the humans still would not listen, which infuriated the Angels even more. They would return to those humans and repeat their whispers many times over the years. In some instances an eyelid would flicker, or there would be a slight quiver in a lip, which might indicate recognition of the Angels’ voices breaking through the humans’ seemingly impenetrable wall. They would then grasp at the opportunity to turn them.
In these instances, the game would eventually become dreary and monotonous, and the human’s life was ended. Not by the Angels’ hand, of course. The end would come about by the zealot—the soon-to-be minion—who, had heard ‘the voice of the Lord’ and acted upon the command. Without exception, the bored Angel observed, not taking any delight in the slaughtering of the innocent human, be that as it may, on occasion, the zealot could be quite ingenious in the kill. It was an unpleasant end to the human, but it was also an extremely unsatisfactory conclusion for the Angel.
No, what delighted the Dark Angel was the utter bliss experienced when he ended the life of the ‘future’ minion. Absorbing the reaction, as he stretched the creature’s neck.
The enjoyment in crushing a windpipe, hearing the last breath hiss from his throat.
The pleasure in watching eyes pop out of their sockets—then, moments before death, the Dark Angel would show himself, a wry smile fixed on his demonic face when the zealot saw him for the first time.
&nbs
p; Fear. It was a delicious smell.
Terror, a delightful taste.
The Dark Angel savoured the moment of reality hitting home. The murderer’s vision of a golden walkway disintegrated, like ash blown away on a warm wind, instead a burning yoke, clamped around his neck, and at the same time, scorching chains snaked their way around his ankles and wrists, chaining him for eternity to the demon’s chair.
Inevitability was the ambrosia a demon drank while the zealot would ready himself for the tortures to begin.
*
When the Dark Angels discovered the Scots’ race, they were intrigued. They were a panacea to the Dark Angels’ tedium. A race of people who would argue against religion and yet believe The Word. A stubborn race, yet gentle and kind. Warriors at heart, and fiercely protective. They were a race of contradictions, and for five centuries the fallen Angels played an intense game of life and death, until, at last, they plotted together to ensure their safe return to rule the Heavens.
In the Battle of Killiecrankie, the Jacobite rebellion of 1689, the Highlanders charged the government army. Their skilful forward attacks overpowered the government forces, allowing the Highlanders to walk from the battlefield the victors. The lives of many friends, and even more enemies, were taken that day, and the Highlanders lost one of their most influential leaders, John Graham, the First Viscount of Dundee, a man who would become immortalised in song. This was an especially difficult loss to bear. They were Highlanders. There was no other choice but to regroup, tiredly, undeniably unenthusiastically, but they had to prepare themselves for the next battle.
Being supporters of the deposed King James the VII of Scotland, their newly regrouped army travelled in force to meet the government regiment of covenanters, whose allegiance belonged with William of Orange.
The Jacobites outnumbered the covenanters four to one, when they met them in the Streets of Dunkeld on 21st August 1689. Using the same battle plan that had been so efficient in winning the previous battle, they charged and attacked, as before. This time, however, they were outmanoeuvred. The Highlanders forced the Covenanters away from their positions and chased them through narrow and winding streets. The Covenanters put a stranglehold on the type of battle Highlanders normally fought. They would not give up; even though they were placed in weakened positions, the Highlanders continued to fight.
The Park Family: Mairi: Retribution Page 1
