Brennus (Immortal Highlander, Clan Skaraven Book 1): A Scottish Time Travel Romance

by Hazel Hunter

  All of it told him that more than a day had passed since their deaths.

  He glanced down at the sword he still gripped, but it, too, had changed greatly. Rust and soil encased the crumbling iron blade, so thickly that he could no longer make out the lines of the fuller. His Weapons Master, Kanyth, had forged the sword for him only last winter, and yet it looked as if it had been buried for centuries. But why did he hold the blade when the clan stood unarmed?

  Chieftains are always put in the ground with their swords.

  One of the tree-knowers used a cane as he left the circle to hobble toward Brennus. Several others carrying piles of folded trews and tunics followed. Behind them, four hauled a low, long cart filled with boots, belts, and thick checkered cloths in every color.

  Beside him Cadeyrn’s stance shifted from observer to defender. “They carry no weapons.”

  “They dinnae need them,” Brennus reminded him.

  The lame dru-wid halted a short distance away, and held up a gnarled hand to stop the others trailing him. “Chieftain Brennus, I am Bhaltair Flen, headman of the Dawn Fire tribe.” He pulled back his hood to reveal a gaunt, wrinkled face. His piercing dark eyes remained averted from the clan’s nudity, as did all the other druids’ gazes. “We welcome your return to the mortal realm.”

  Bhaltair Flen had been a young man with a different face when last they’d met, which meant at least a lifetime had passed. That they now slurred their race’s name together hinted at more than one. Temper burned in Brennus, as hot as a whiskey-soaked torch, but he kept it off his face.

  “What have you done now?” Brennus demanded.

  The old man gestured toward the garb his people held. “Might we first clothe you and your men?”

  Like the property they’d once been, Brennus thought. “You’ll do naught for us.”

  After Brennus raised his hand to signal his first-ranked, the nine clansmen strode forward to retrieve the garb and cart. They efficiently distributed the clothing and boots among the other men before dressing. Cadeyrn left and returned with two sets, placing one on the ground beside the chieftain before donning the other.

  Brennus made no move to dress himself. “Explain, Tree-Knower.”

  Temper flared red across Bhaltair’s hollowed cheeks, but he kept his tone civil. “As you ken, we’ve long owed a debt to the Skaraven Clan.”

  That explained why none of his people would look straight at them: what they cunningly called their debt. “How long since we fell?”

  “Some time.” The druid cleared his throat. “The spell we used to awaken you and your clan bestows immortality. You’ll be stronger and heal faster. You’ll no’ age, and be near impossible to kill. You can bond with water and travel through it to another place just by thinking of it–”

  “How facking long?” Brennus demanded.

  The old man recoiled a step before he regained his composure. “’Tis been twelve centuries since the day.”

  None of the clan reacted with sound or movement, but Brennus could feel their silent shock like a hail of blunt arrows bouncing off his back. His own roiled inside him, and if he set it free now druid blood would spill.

  Clenching his jaw, Brennus breathed deep until he could speak without shouting. “You didnae do this to repay a debt.”

  “We did.” Bhaltair’s stern expression softened. “We’ve always meant to return you to life, Chieftain. When we did the same with another murdered clan, we created a terrible enemy only recently vanquished. Before we awakened you, we had to be sure ’twould no’ happen again.”

  That much Brennus believed, but then tree-knowers made a practice to add a pinch of truth to every kettle of their lies. “What more?”

  Before the old man could reply some of the druids gasped and pointed. Brennus turned his head to see a stag the color of snow standing on the other side of the river. It stood watching them in turn, and then swiveled its head to stare at the chieftain and Bhaltair. A moment later it bounded off and disappeared into the forest.

  Brennus felt unmoved. Even if great change was coming, as foretold by the sight of a white stag, the Gods would have to wait their turn.

  “Sevenday past, the quislings, Hendry and Murdina, and their giants escaped their imprisonment and returned from the future,” Bhaltair said, his face almost as white as the prophetic deer. “They’ve encamped somewhere near Beinn Nibheis to take up their evil work again. Yesterday they slaughtered an entire village of mortals outside of Lochabar.”

  A curious ache swelled in Brennus’s chest as he thought of the flame-haired beauty in the forest. If she had been real, the giants had already killed her. “Use your tricks on them again.”

  “Even if we dared approach them, ’twill no’ work anymore. To prevent the quislings from reincarnating we– Chieftain, please,” he begged as Brennus turned away. “The details matter no’. You ken what the giants shall do, and naught can stop them but the Skaraven. ’Tis why we bred your clan.”

  The tree-knower spoke of them as if they yet served as the property of the two Pritani tribes that had created them. By pairing their cleverest males and females with their strongest, the dru-wids of that time had helped the tribes deliberately breed one hundred boys to serve as protectors. As the eldest, Brennus had been the first to be trained for their cold, grim lives as indentured warriors. Years of battle and hardship followed, until a plague had killed both tribes. That had dissolved the indenture, and the Skaraven had lived for the first time as free men. Too soon that had ended. The druids had come pleading for their help, and sent them to their deaths. Now they had brought them back to use them again.

  If nothing else, the old bastart had baws the size of Orkney.

  Brennus suddenly knew why the white stag had appeared. A time for change was upon the Skaraven, and as chieftain to see it done fell to him. He handed his rusted blade to Cadeyrn before he tugged on the garb and boots his second had brought for him. His long black hair settled over his shoulders and back like a heavy cloak as he retrieved his sword and faced the dru-wid.

  With a single thrust he drove the blade it into the ground between Bhaltair’s sandals, where it shattered into a dozen pieces.

  “We’re no’ your slaves anymore,” he told the old man. “Clean up your own cac.”

  Chapter Four

  ALTHEA SAT IN a corner of the primitive barn and plaited a few pieces of straw onto the braided cord she was making. She hadn’t worn a belt, and if her jeans got any looser they’d fall around her ankles. She’d finally figured out how to brush her teeth with a frayed twig sprinkled with salt from a packet in her bag, but her hair hung lank and grimy down her back. Being dirty didn’t bother her as much as the horrifying moments that still flashed through her head—moments she still couldn’t quite comprehend.

  It had happened. She’d been taken. But why? And how had they pulled off the unbelievable way they’d taken her?

  Her stomach still clenched whenever she remembered those first, horrifying moments. Like an oversize mole, some creature in the shape of a man had come out of the ground to grab her from behind and pull her into the earth. Then he’d dragged her with him as he’d somehow tunneled beneath the surface. Cuts and bruises still covered her from being hauled through a mass of exploding soil, rocks, and roots. He’d shoved her up into more brutal hands, which had jerked her back into the air. Choking and struggling, Althea had fought for her life, only to be hurled into a tunnel of thrashing, swirling tree branches. But she hadn’t landed on roots. Instead she’d fallen into a dank abyss. The gnarled boughs had swept past her until they blurred, and the sense that she’d fallen for far too long overcame her. That was all she recalled before blacking out.

  Waking up here, in this barn, made no sense. Neither did finding four other traumatized women imprisoned with her.

  After a week of captivity, Althea had formed and discarded a dozen theories. She was fairly sure they were still in Scotland. The disagreeable odors of sheep and manure had stopped bothering he
r, but not the cold. The lunatics responsible for this nightmare hadn’t given them any blankets or extra clothing. At the moment she could see her breath, but she couldn’t feel her nose, ears or fingertips anymore. Soon she’d have to get up and walk around to get warm, but that was only a temporary solution.

  If she didn’t try to escape and get help, Althea felt convinced they would all die here.

  Despite the horrible conditions, she and the other four women taken prisoner had managed to survive well enough. To keep warm during the frigid nights they slept huddled together in the mound of hay by the empty stalls. They’d also managed to get water for drinking and washing from a deep trough well, although it had taken hours to figure out how to work the long pivoting rod to lower and lift their only bucket. Twice a day their guards tossed in some bags containing hard oat cakes and overripe pears, but everyone divided the starvation rations fairly. With the exception of one woman they’d all discussed their situation.

  None of them knew what to think about their captors, who were definitely odd and seriously crazy.

  The older Scottish couple who seemed to be in charge had talked freely in front of them, so Althea knew all about their delusions. Murdina and Hendry believed they were immortal medieval druids. They believed that she and the other four women were somehow like them, what they called “druid kind,” and had the power to allow them to time-travel. They’d been brought to what they claimed was fourteenth century Scotland.

  Althea actually had no idea where in Scotland they were. From what she’d seen through the cracks in the barn walls, they’d been brought to a highland forest at the base of a very large mountain. Aside from some white birds, red deer, and a wandering herd of very dirty sheep, the area appeared completely deserted. Althea hadn’t seen a single person, car, truck, utility pole or road sign. No aircraft had passed over them in a week. None of their phones could get a signal. The other thing she couldn’t explain preyed on her like hungry teeth.

  The huge, strange men who had taken all of them might not be human.

  “You got any drugs in that thing?” a harsh voice demanded.

  Althea looked up at the scowling, dark-haired woman standing over her. Dimly she recalled that her name was Rowan, and that she worked as a carpenter. She’d been taken with her older sister, a lovely, timid dancer who looked and acted nothing like Rowan.

  “Drugs?”

  “Perrin is sick.” She used the toe of her boot to prod Althea’s carryall. “You said you were a doctor, right? So, you got aspirin? Ibuprofen? Anything that can help her?”

  “I’m sorry, no. I’m not that kind of doctor,” she admitted. “Ph.D., not M.D.”

  “Oh, so you can lecture us while my sister’s dying. Fantastic.” Rowan made a rude sound indicating the opposite. “We’ll call you if someone needs a test graded.”

  Wishing she really was made of liquid nitrogen, Althea pushed herself to her feet and walked over to where they slept. There Emeline, the black-haired nurse from Aberdeen, sat pressing a damp rag to the unconscious woman’s brow.

  She crouched beside her. “Do you know what’s making her sick?”

  “I’ve no clue,” the nurse said tiredly. She sat back on her heels and took hold of the dancer’s wrist. “Her temp and pulse are normal. Her only injuries are the same bruises and lacerations that all of us have. No signs of infection. I simply can’t wake her. It could be an allergic reaction–”

  Perrin’s dark blue eyes snapped open and fixed on Althea’s face. Something had made them turn opaque, as if she had gone blind. “Save the raven or we all die.” She blinked, and the opacity cleared. “Ro?”

  “I think she’s back,” Emeline said and directed her pen light at Perrin’s eyes. “Lass, are you an epileptic? Do you take medication for that or anything else?”

  “No and no,” Rowan said as she shouldered Althea aside and bent over her sister. “Rise and shine, Big Sis. I swear, you are the laziest chick on the planet.” She looked over her shoulder. “Give me your coat.”

  Althea didn’t realize the carpenter was speaking to her again until she got a dark glare. “Excuse me?”

  “She’s shivering and sweating, Dr. Useless, so she needs the coat more than you. Unless you’ve got a blanket stashed in that bag?” She thrust out a pretty hand marred by small scars and calluses. “Come on, hurry up.”

  The carryall only had a few days change of clothing, and nothing that would fit Perrin. Quickly Althea shrugged out of her coat and handed it to Rowan, who used it to cover Perrin’s shaking upper body. Althea felt startled when the fifth prisoner came to stand beside her. An athletic blonde who had stayed curled up in a corner and hadn’t yet said a word to anyone, she took off her long white uniform jacket. Leaning down, she draped it over Perrin’s long legs and tucked it in like a blanket. Althea recognized the ship emblem embroidered on the jacket’s left side. The silent woman worked for a British cruise line.

  “Thanks,” the carpenter said and stretched out beside her sister and held her as a mother would a sick child. “I’ve got you, Perr. You’re going to be fine.”

  Emeline gestured Althea to come away from the sisters and went with her to the other side of the barn. “Don’t take that personally. Rowan is just anxious.”

  “Sure,” Althea said. Rowan was aggressive, hostile and terminally snide, and had been since day one. “Some people can’t handle being imprisoned, I guess.” She noticed the dark circles under the nurse’s eyes. “How are you holding up?”

  “Like everyone else. Almost feart out of my wits. Also starving, although that’s nothing new.” She glanced down at her curvaceous figure. “I’ve been dieting for two months for my best friend’s wedding. Which was either yesterday, or not for another seven centuries.” She rolled her eyes. “Did I mention this was my first vacation in five years?”

  The blonde woman joined them. “Then I won’t whinge about hating my first shore leave in six months,” she said, croaking out the words as if she were sick, but with a distinctly British accent.

  “Hi,” Althea said, relieved. She’d been convinced the fifth prisoner had completely lost it. “That was nice, what you did for Perrin.”

  Emeline nodded her agreement. “Do you have a sore throat?”

  “Lost my voice. No,” she tacked on when the nurse stepped closer, and cleared her throat with a rasping sound. “It’s fine. It’s coming back.”

  Instead of insisting, Emeline nodded and took a step back from the blonde. “Let me know if that changes, ah…”

  “Lily Stover. I was a sous-chef on the Atlantia Princess, which is probably halfway to the Bahamas by now.” She looked at Althea. “If you want to escape, you’ll have to be quick. How fast can you run?”

  “When motivated, like the wind,” she assured her, and frowned. “How did you know I was–”

  “I know the look. Plus, you spend a lot of time in the back stall, where those wood planks have rotted out.” The British woman nodded toward the doors as the sound of scraping wood came through them. “Wait until dark. They’re slower at night.”

  The doors flung open as two of the guards came in carrying worn, dirty sacks. Emeline drew Althea and Lily back against the nearest wall, while Rowan shot up and stood between the men and her sister.

  Seeing them made Althea feel panicky and sick at the same time. While they appeared to be two towering, heavily-built men, they moved like puppets being jerked by too-loose strings. From a distance no pores, wrinkles or hollows appeared on their faces, giving them a smooth, almost plastic look. Up close an almost imperceptible craquelure webbed their flesh like crazing on old porcelain. All of the guards had cropped hair and wide-set eyes in different shades of brown, but so flat and dull they looked painted.

  “Food.” The larger of the pair tossed the sack at Rowan’s feet, and then eyed Perrin. “Why cover that one? She dead?”

  Emeline folded her arms tight around her middle, and Althea knew exactly why. The grating sound of the guard’s voice
matched that of broken fingernails dragged across splintering wood.

  “She’s alive,” Rowan said and tilted her head back as the guard came to her, but otherwise didn’t move. “We covered her because she’s freezing, genius.”

  “We’re all pure cold,” Emeline said quickly. “If we could have some blankets–”

  “Use the grass,” the guard said and bent his head to peer into Rowan’s dark eyes. His thin lips peeled back from his yellowed tombstone teeth. “If I want the skinny one, I shall take her. You cannae stop me.”

  “You don’t want her. She won’t fight you.” The dark woman leaned in closer. “But I will. Come on. Give me a try, Ugly.”

  The guard made as if to grab her, but the other one dragged him back.

  “Go, Coig,” he said as he thrust the bigger man toward the doors. He shoved the sack he held into Rowan’s hands and waited until the other guard left. “Dinnae challenge us. You shallnae survive it.”

  “You mean if we’re nice to you, we live?” Rowan said and uttered a short laugh. “Right. Kill me now, Shorty.”

  “You call me Ochd.” The guard started to reach for her himself, and then backed away. He bobbled his head around to look at Althea and the other women. “Eat. Sleep. Make trouble, and Coig comes back. Coig likes hurting.” He nodded at Lily. “She ken.”

  Althea swallowed some bile as Ochd went out and slammed the barn doors shut. “Lily, what did he mean?”

  “That bloody bastard, Coig, took me from the market where I was shopping. He lugged me out by my neck.” The blonde tugged down the high collar of her shirt to show the huge, dark bruises mottling her slim throat. “And he bashed in the skull of a farmer who tried to stop him.” She met Althea’s gaze. “With one fist.”