Knight Everlasting

by Jackie Ivie

  Aidan smirked and went back to tormenting his eyes not only with the view, but with sunlight his eyes had to squint at in order to make it bearable. He didn’t know why he’d bothered drinking. There wasn’t enough whiskey to dull the pain, temper the reality, put him to sleep . . . or keep him from this horrid state called pondering. Aidan put a hand to his eyes, his thumb at one, fingers to the other, and pressed, seeking relief. They were sore, probably red, and drier than anything Tavish had ever attempted to cook. The one thing they weren’t was weeping.

  Aidan huffed out a shaky breath.

  Alpin had taken the news well. Having at least two lasses giggling from the bowels of his chamber behind him probably helped with that. The command to marry Juliana was burning a hole through Aidan’s belly, and his little brother had simply asked, “Is that all?” with a massive amount of impatience and moving about in the hall. Before receiving a nod and bolting back into the arms of his waiting women. That was when Aidan had decided to get a full sporran of the best MacKetryck whiskey he could find, making certain there was plenty of it and nobody to see.

  Is that all?

  Aidan uncovered his eyes, put his elbows on the table, and supported his head in his hands.

  “Aidan!”

  The sound reverberated through his chamber and then it was accompanied by some fool pounding on his door. Disturbing him. Bothering him. Making him face it. Despite his warning to the two honor guardsmen he’d put in control of preventing that very thing. And the bolt he’d dropped in place. Both were clear signals not to do exactly what they were doing. Aidan lifted his head and looked in that direction, ignoring the ache in his neck at the movement. The pounding got worse as more of his guardsmen joined in. By God! The castle better be under attack!

  He didn’t have to imagine the red. His sore eyes were cursing him with it. Aidan shoved the chair back, knocking it to the floor, grabbed for the scabbard, and strapped it on with vicious movements. Then he was checking the skeans in his belt and adding those from the table’s surface. And then he was striding to the door, shoving up the bolt and opening it with such a reddish cast on the fury, the seven men standing there all backed at least a step from him.

  “Aidan—”

  Aidan had Tavish on his skinny buttocks with a hooked ankle, a skean to Heck’s chest, and another one at Kerr’s throat before anyone else said anything.

  “It’s Alpin!” That was Stefan, who had the sense to be out of Aidan’s arms’ reach.

  Aidan pulled back, sucked in on the ache behind every eye blink to glare at them. “What of Alpin?” he asked slowly and distinctly.

  “He’s heading to the list!”

  Aidan pulled in a huge breath, and watched the reddish color about everything wash out into a pinkish tone. “Being on the list is a good thing after a night spent wenching. Jesu’!” He put one foot behind the other and used the move to pivot back toward his room.

  “Against Dugald!”

  Aidan continued his spin, ending back facing them. He lowered his head, endured the immediate throb of his heart adding to his discomfort by thudding within his chest with increasing beats, and glared. “What?” he asked.

  “Dugald challenged Alpin!”

  “Aye. Afore the sun even rose!”

  “To the death!”

  “What the devil for? Alpin does na’ have anything Dugald . . .” Aidan’s voice dribbled off as it dawned on him exactly what Alpin did possess.

  “For the Lady Juliana’s hand.”

  “Who betrayed me?” Aidan blinked around soreness a good sleep would cure and pierced each of them until Heck spoke.

  “The lone mention was in Alpin’s hall. With you. When you gave him the word.”

  “So?”

  “Was Lachlan MacGorrick anywhere about?” Heck asked.

  “Jesu’, Kerr!” That was Tavish.

  “Me?” Kerr cried.

  “He’s your cousin.”

  “One does na’ choose their cousins,” Kerr complained.

  Aidan shoved through the three closest men. The others had already made a path for him. “Move,” he commanded.

  He led them down the steps, taking two at a time, before reaching the hall, and then came to a stop as he watched the scene unfolding to the dim light cast from the open door at one end, his staircase at the other, and a still burning fire. Kerr’s cousin, Lachlan, was atop one of the trencher tables. He was waving his arms and chattering and instructing. He’d ordered two serfs atop the structure, and then he’d made one serf get atop the other’s shoulders. And the higher one was waving a stick up into the air at wherever Lachlan pointed.

  “Lachlan MacGorrick!”

  All three jumped. The movement had the serf on the other’s shoulders landing ungracefully on his knees, before he moved to his feet beside the other two. All three stood looking down at Aidan and his men, and looking like fools. Aidan watched them and tempered the immediate wash of anger with a deep breath and a large gulping motion.

  “My . . . laird?” Lachlan asked finally.

  “My tables are for dining upon. Not standing atop.” Aidan enunciated through his teeth.

  “I was trying . . . to get the missive . . . down.”

  The man had ever been effeminate. His squeaky tone added to it and made everything worse somehow. Aidan’s heart decided to add further ache to his issues this morning, sending pinging thumps throughout his head with every beat.

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Some . . . body needs to answer it.”

  Aidan pulled a skean from his belt, looked up, and flung it toward the first one. There was a collective gasp as they hit, and then both knives fell to the chamber floor, while the paper floated about in the dimness.

  “There. It’s down. Now get off my tables.”

  He turned away from the scene and started toward the door. He was at a jog before he reached the step plateaus, deep worry behind the pace. Lachlan wasn’t at the list watching the outcome of the contest. That was another sign of what Aidan feared. If Alpin MacKetryck fought against his uncle Dugald, the winner was a foregone conclusion.

  The sound of a large crowd beckoned him toward the outer bailey, and Aidan was at a full run before reaching the archway between them. His heart was hammering loudly in his ears, reminding him of its presence and capacity for pain. It felt like a fist of immense strength and dimensions was gripped about it, squeezing along with each beat until they were at a painful level and scope.

  Dawn was just passing over the wall, putting a gold tint onto the tops of heads and from there reaching the churned-up mud comprising Castle Ketryck’s battle list. His ancestors had planned and constructed well. The list was long enough for a run with horses and wide enough to accommodate whatever moves a struggling mass of men might make. It had been designed to highlight the spectacle within. While both far ends were the same level of the courtyard, making for a head start atop a horse, the ground had gradually been removed and sloped down until the center was a full body jump down from the rock walls that had been built up on each side.

  The sound of metal striking metal could be heard over the crowd, and Aidan felt the first slight easing of the fist wrapped about his heart. He jogged the last steps, and then came to a halt. He stepped aside so his men could make a way through to the wall. A loud roar went through the people all about him, and Aidan couldn’t wait. He plucked people out of his way and shoved, and when he reached the wall, he was right in time to watch a sword going into the downed body. Before getting pulled back out, with a resultant shower of red. That was when everything went red. Bloodred, and it was coming with every agonized spurt of his heart.

  “Nae!”

  Aidan yelled it as he vaulted the retaining wall, landing in a crouch and then running in a half-standing stance from the moment he landed, making it look a seamless movement. He had his claymore pulled and readied as he neared, but then he slowed his pace and straightened at the same time. The body on the ground wasn’t Alpin.
Nor was the victorious man holding his sword in the air and pumping it his uncle, Dugald.

  Aidan scanned the end tents. Dugald paced outside the farthest one. Aidan turned direction and loped his way to the other, ignoring the new calls and loud cheering making the ground thump with it as they recognized him, and what that might mean.

  Aidan slapped the tent flap open and looked over the seven members of Alpin’s honor guard, who were all in a semicircle facing outward. One of them moved to the side, allowing him to see his brother, in a ball on the ground . . . retching and sobbing.

  “Alpin?”

  Aidan was on his knee and lifting his brother’s head and looking him over for the wound to cause such an event. His brother moaned and exhaled a foul breath all over Aidan.

  “Aidan. Forgive me. I canna’ do it. I’ve . . . been poisoned.”

  Aidan grinned, felt the huge release of worry as well as a complete dispersion of the red that had hampered his vision. He was nearly giddy with it as he hugged his brother, shaking with the laughter, and making the other groan worse in his agony.

  “I’m . . . dying. And . . . you laugh,” Alpin complained.

  “What . . . did you drink last eve?”

  “’Twas na’ the drink. ’Twas that Sorcha.”

  “Sorcha?” Aidan wrinkled his brow.

  “Juliana dismissed her from your . . . bed . . . so I thought—”

  “I had a woman named Sorcha?” Aidan asked.

  “Long black hair. Luscious limbs.”

  “Ah. Aye. Her.”

  “She gave me something. I—”

  Alpin rolled and was on his knees spewing nothing but bile, and Aidan looked up at his men.

  Aidan pointed at a large, burly lad. “Find this Sorcha. And hold her.”

  The man had a slight smile on his mouth before he nodded and moved from the tent.

  “Clan Patriarch . . . Dugald MacKetryck . . . sends another warning!”

  One of Dugald’s men was yelling the words from just past the center of the list. On this side of center. The crowd added to it with whistles and calls.

  Aidan gestured with his head to Tavish. Then, he picked up Alpin and put him back on his cot. “Get him to Lady Reina. Nae. First get him water. Cold water. And not to drink.”

  “Na’ to drink?” his man asked.

  “Nae. To dunk his head in.”

  Tavish was back. “Dugald claims the Lady Juliana’s hand in wedlock from Alpin MacKetryck. By forfeit.”

  “He canna’ have her. I claim her.”

  “You canna’ stop this, my liege. If Alpin does na’ meet the challenge, then Alpin forfeits.”

  Never. She was wedding Dugald over Aidan’s dead body. And not before.

  Aidan pulled in a huge breath. Exhaled it. And then he did it again. And again. Over and over, tightening every muscle in his body as he called on the ache that was hitting him with each increased heartbeat . . . forcing the red back into his vision. And making it stay there. Then he turned, lowered his chin, and snarled the answer.

  “Send word to Dugald. For my challenge.”

  And then he forwent the wait. His uncle would know what was happening. Aidan was right behind Tavish onto the list, lifting his claymore in his arms and pumping it over and over into the air, to gain the power of crowd noise that added to the charge of heartbeats hitting him, bringing alertness and readiness and anger. Massive anger. Everything went bloodred hued and perfectly focused.

  It was as exciting and massive an emotion as it had been seven years earlier when they’d met on this list. With Lady Reina and Dame Lileth tied and bound to a stake. Aidan hadn’t won in time to prevent the lighting of it, but that was the farthest it went. That was his uncle’s trick, at the last moment, to cheat a win from him.

  Dugald was at a run when he heard, gathering his own crowd noise with the way he answered. Aidan stayed where he was, his claymore high above his head, with his back to his uncle until he’d reached midfield before swiveling and starting his own charge.

  Each step flooded him with more red emotion, darkening the view to a blood hue that his slit eyes made darker. More powerful. Harsher. A moment before impact, he slid to a knee, scraping skin on the sod, putting his claymore upward at the same time, and that hooked the hilt of Dugald’s sword as he ran right past his nephew. The man’s weapon went sailing right out of his useless bloodied hand, and then Aidan was up on his feet, moving to face his uncle, head lowered and bellowing. Deep. Throbbing deep. Making certain there was no mistaking his intent, by his stance and tone.

  The crowd answered his bellow, making a swell of noise that barely penetrated the angry haze of red Aidan was living. He watched Dugald’s frustrated search before the blade landed to the side of him, blade down, where it trembled in place. Aidan circled his uncle, giving him time to retrieve his weapon and making certain Dugald understood everything that wasn’t put in words. There wasn’t going to be a survivor this time.

  And that was when he saw what he most prized. Fear. Soaking through the red haze, coloring everything and feeding the heartbeat that was controlling everything. There wasn’t pain attached to anything. There was anger and intensity and movement and reaction. Instant reaction.

  Dugald moved his vision from his nephew’s for a moment to fetch his sword, and when he looked back, Aidan had moved so far to one side, his uncle had to find him again. And then Aidan was charging, gaining speed and momentum and surprise to the attack. Dugald MacKetryck was a stout man. The match to his nephew in bulk. And muscle. And weight. He didn’t move easily. He was hampered by his injury and had to use his left hand. The right one was held to his side, dripping and bloodied and useless.

  Aidan used a pushing motion behind each slash of his blade, staying on the attack and forcing the man to give ground, shoving and pushing with each sword move until Dugald lost his stance and started backing away. Again. Despite sticking his feet in and lowering his head and sending cursed slurs through his teeth. Tripping. Breathing hard. Tripping again.

  When he went down, Aidan was right with the movement, using his uncle’s falling motion to slice at his left hand, hooking the hilt of Dugald’s blade again. From there, it was another flip of his wrist to send it up and into the air again.

  Aidan backed off again, jogging backward ten paces. Then he put his head and shoulders down and bellowed again, raising his chin as he did so, which sent the cry to the heavens above. This time the crowd was loud enough to get through the red haze coloring everything. Thumping came through the ground as Aidan circled his uncle, waiting for the man to regain his blade again.

  Circling. Pumping his blade into the air, calling on the crescendo of crowd thumping in rhythm with his motions. Reveling in it. Waiting. Taunting.

  Dugald moved his vision again to gain his blade. This time when he looked back, Aidan was right in front of him, making his uncle react with a jerk that didn’t come naturally to the man. And enjoying the abject fear deep in those emerald eyes. Eyes that had stolen Aidan’s wedded wife. Usurped his place. Seen his father’s last gasp for breath, after he’d shoved the blade into him.

  Just as his nephew had seen. And witnessed. And staunched. Setting it aside as something too painful to deal with. Ponder. Think on. Aidan watched the dawning realization of it in his uncle’s eyes. And gloried in the fear.

  Aidan renewed his attack, lashing time and again, putting punishing force with each push of his blade over and over again, until Dugald started backing up again. Flagging. Sucking for breath. His uncle was forced to use both hands on his sword in order to meet the continual punishment of Aidan’s blade as each move got faster and faster until the motion was near blurred. His uncle tripped again. Caught it. Parried another blow from Aidan. Tripped again. Going down.

  This time, Aidan reached over and grabbed the sword from his uncle’s hands, wet with blood and sweat. Aidan jogged back several steps, keeping his uncle in sight, and then he tossed his head into the air and held both blades high and yelled
the reaction into the sky.

  Massive throbs of crowd approval matched every beat of his heart, accompanying the red wash coloring everything and the loud whoosh of each heartbeat in his ears. Making a mass of sensation that filled every portion of him, making him one with the moment. The dawn was alive with it. The very air was filled with it. It was thunderous and it was massive, and it was daunting. And then it was something else . . . deathly. Aidan’s senses warned him a moment before the dirk tossed at him would have hit his back.

  He was on his back and rolling, keeping the swords above his head in order to keep the motion as the dirk aimed at his back passed harmlessly by. Another dirk hit the ground beside his head. Another near his leg and then another and another as his uncle violated every code of conduct by tossing dirks without honor or anything other than murderous intent.

  It was the same that had done in Aidan’s father.

  His push-up shove from the ground was punctuated by the fanning of one sword in front of his chest at the same time. That movement deflected the next dirk, sending an arc of sunlit sparks flying from the contact of skean to sword blade. The reaction of the crowd made the air vibrate, pumping red through the entire scene, while surges of thumps went all along the rock walls, into the earth, the sky. His very existence. Joining the red-induced vision he was enjoying, encapsulating and moving through.

  Aidan went into a crouch, with bouncing movements made on the balls of his feet as his thighs took the brunt force to make each parrying move. That way he made the smallest target possible. He started circling Dugald again, keeping the blood-lust fully in front of him with the thunderous beat of his heart. Each breath. Each blink of his dry punished eyes.