“Return to me what is mine!”
The demand echoed in his ears, beating at his mind. And all the while, the pulsing red eyes floated closer and closer.
What was this creature, this thing, that it could spike such panic in his heart and tighten his stomach in a knot of fear? It had no arms or legs to use against him, no visible way to hurt him, and yet his chest threatened to explode with his fear.
“Leave me be!” he shouted, tossing a handful of pebbles in the creature’s direction.
Maniacal laughter emanated from the apparition as the stones passed through the eyes, raining harmlessly to the ground beyond.
“What are you?” Mathew whispered.
As if in response to his question, the laughter grew louder and moved closer.
Mathew’s fingers brushed against something warm and metallic and he tightened his grip around the hilt of his new sword. With a yell of triumph, he hoisted the weapon high into the air in front of him.
Instantly, the laughter ceased, and with an earth-shattering roar the glow of the monstrous red eyes blinked out and disappeared.
Mathew sat up with a start, the mysterious sword he’d stolen from Tordenet clutched tightly in his hand. His memory of the glowing red eyes clouded his vision. Perspiration slicked his face and body, and his arm trembled under the weight of the weapon as he fought to slow his racing heart.
“What are you?” he demanded aloud.
“Only Dobbie Caskie,” a quavering voice answered. “And please, good sir, be so kind as to lower yer blade. I mean you no harm. As you can see for yerself, I dinna even carry a weapon of my own.”
Shaking off the hazy vestiges of his nightmare, Mathew made out the form of a boy on the other side of his campsite, holding one of Mathew’s bags of precious supplies open in his hands.
“You say you mean me no harm, but how am I to believe you when it’s my possessions you steal,” he accused, rising slowly to stand, the sword still held protectively in front of him.
“It’s only food I seek and nothing more. I’m fair starved, I am.”
The boy looked as if he could be telling the truth. Perhaps only a year or two younger than Mathew, this Dobbie character was thin as a rail and filthy enough that he could be living out here in the woods on his own.
“Put down my things. If hunger is all that drives you, there’s food left from my evening meal in the pot by the fire. Yer welcome to that.”
Dobbie dropped the bag he held and pounced on the pot, digging his first two fingers into the stale porridge to scoop it into his mouth.
Mathew sank down to sit on his blankets, unable to watch the boy’s ravenous eating. He remembered all too well the pain of an empty stomach. After his father’s death, when his uncle had seized Castle Glenluce, whether or not the MacFalny boys were fed was of little interest to the new laird.
This boy had all the markings of a runaway, just as Mathew had once been. Unlike this lad, he’d had the company of Hugo and Eleyne when he’d set off on his own. If not for Hugo’s light-fingered gift for thievery, they all might have starved.
The memory of his brother brought a pang of loss stabbing through his heart, and a renewed conviction to find his cousin once he’d sold the treasures he carried.
Perhaps this boy shared his sense of loneliness and loss.
“What are you doing out here all alone, with no food or provisions?”
“I’m on my way to Skye,” the boy answered, stopping to lick the sticky porridge from his fingers. “To my mam’s folk, the MacCabes. Now that both my mam and da are gone, finding my way to my kin seemed the best thing to do. I had food with me in the beginning, but no enough to last the whole of my trip.”
“Skye?” It was as if the hand of some benevolent god had dropped this boy into his path. “Will yer travels take you anywhere near the MacLeod stronghold?”
“Indeed they will,” the boy confirmed, nodding vigorously as he scraped the last bits of porridge from the pot. “My uncle watches over the MacLeod’s sheep. Dunvegan is exactly where I’m headed.”
Fate had intervened on Mathew’s behalf, sending this boy to guide him on his journey. Mathew clung to the knowledge like a lamb to the ewe’s teat. He had to believe in it. Otherwise, he’d be left with nothing but the deep black worry that hung over him day and night.
“Dunvegan is my destination as well. If you’ll agree to act as my guide, I’ll share my provisions along the way to keep yer belly filled.”
“Done!” Dobbie agreed, extending a dirty hand to shake. “And a fine deal you’ve struck, too, if I do say so myself. I ken the old man who ferries travelers across the water to Skye quite well and I’m sure I can get you his best rate for the crossing.”
“Excellent!” Mathew tossed one of his blankets to the boy. “If you’ve finished eating, we should get some sleep now, aye? I’d have us make an early start in the morning.”
Dobbie nodded and wrapped the blanket around himself before dropping down next to the fire. If the snores coming from his direction were any indication, the boy fell asleep almost as soon as his head touched the ground.
Mathew lay awake, staring up into the clear night sky, afraid to allow himself to fall back into the world of dreams where the hideous red-eyed monster lurked.
As he lay wide-eyed, waiting for sleep to find him, his brother’s voice echoed in his thoughts.
Only a fool would trust anyone but his own self. No other will ever care for yer fate the same as you do.
His brother had lived by that motto.
“And where did that get you, Hugo?” Mathew’s whispered question floated up into the dark, cold sky.
Dead—that’s where it had gotten his brother. Dead, with his head thrown clear across the room from his body.
Whether or not Dobbie was a gift presented by the hand of Fate, Mathew planned to make good use of the boy. Having someone who actually knew his way to Dunvegan would save him time and effort and be well worth the expense of sharing his provisions.
To be truthful, having a living, breathing companion on the journey appealed to him, too.
Perhaps with Dobbie for company, the dark dreams that plagued him lately would cease their torment.
A yawn stretched his jaw and glassed over his vision, and for just an instant he could almost swear that two of those stars overhead glowed red, exactly like the eyes in his dream.
He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands, and when he looked again, the sky twinkled with only the stars that were supposed to be there.
Rolling to his side, Mathew hugged the sword close, remembering how in his dream it had been the sword that had chased the monster away. A guardian, it was, and such a weapon as this one deserved a fitting name.
Dream Guardian, he would call it, and with it at his side, he could face the world of dreams without fear. Perhaps it would even give him the courage to master the same control over his feelings in the waking world.
With one last glance up at the night sky, he forced himself not to think about who—or what—might be staring up at those same stars this night.
HALL LAY ON his back, staring up into a perfect night sky. On a cold, crisp evening such as this, the stars always seemed to sparkle much more brightly.
“Sleep,” he commanded, watching his breath curl up into the air over his face as he spoke.
His body ignored the command, his thoughts flittering around like the stars twinkling over his head.
He squeezed his eyes shut, as if by sheer force of will he could transport himself into Nott’s domain. But, try as he might, sleep eluded him.
He mulled over the track he’d taken so far. Cutting cross-country rather than following well-traveled trails should put him ahead of his quarry and all those who followed the boy.
Assuming Torquil’s men hadn’t thought to do just as he was doing. His hope was that they didn’t know the back country as well as he did. There were some advantages to all his years spent serving Thor.
H
e knew of only a few places where Mathew could easily cross over the narrows of Loch Alsh to reach the island of clouds. There was an old man who made his living ferrying people back and forth across the waters. Likely everyone making this journey knew of the man.
As Hall saw things, he had two choices going forward. He could head for the old man and wait, hoping his luck would hold, or he could travel as he had for one more day and then cut over to the established trails, hoping to intercept Mathew.
Either way, hope was all he had to go on.
He scrubbed his hands over his face, drawing his fingers down into his beard for a good scratch. Lo, but he’d let himself become a ragged, scraggly mess over the past few years.
What was it Bridget had called him? A great bristly-faced ogre. He could almost hear her voice shouting the epithet at him like a curse. Not that her name-calling bothered him. It didn’t. What she or any other woman thought of him was of no consequence.
His beard, on the other hand, had begun to bother him considerably.
With a resigned sigh, he sat up and reached for one of his bags. Since it didn’t appear as though he was destined to get any sleep tonight, he might as well make good use of the time.
After filling a small wooden bowl with water, he pulled out a silver razor and set to work on the arduous task of removing his beard. Once he was done, he ran his fingers over his irritated skin, satisfied with his accomplishment.
He only hoped his current discomfort would be worth the look on Bridget’s face when next they met. Not that he’d shaved for her. Absolutely not. He wouldn’t do such a thing for any woman. No, it was standing next to that filthy stable keeper in Inverness that had convinced him to remove his whiskers. Odin himself only knew what vermin might have crawled off the old man and onto him. Without a decent bathhouse to be found for miles, it was little wonder his beard had itched.
Though he wasn’t at all sure the constant itching hadn’t been preferable to the raw burn stinging his freshly shaven skin.
What he wouldn’t give for a strong tisane of marigold and Jupiter’s Beard to sooth the sting. But out here, in the dead of winter, he might as well wish for a pot of fresh, warm lard to slather over his face. The only thing he could do was try again to rest and put the pain out of his mind.
This time when he lay down and closed his eyes, sleep quickly encroached on the boundaries of consciousness, freeing his thoughts to drift like leaves caught in a blustery current.
Scenes flittered through his mind as he balanced on the razor-thin line separating the waking world from the sleeping one, changing so quickly he had no time to consider whether they were memories or fantasies. A setting sun painted the sky a blistering red. The sea’s angry waves crashed up onto the shore. And Bridget MacCulloch, feet bare, twirled in time to the beat of an ancient drum, her body lithely twisting as if in some magnificent battle dance.
Hall toppled over the edge into sleep, a smile drifting through his mind, confident that the next time his path crossed that of the lovely Pictish Shield Maiden, she’d have to find a new epithet to hurl after him.
Eight
WE’D REACH THE ferryman much sooner if you’d but agree to travel off the main trail.” Dobbie flashed an encouraging smile and directed his steps toward the trees. “It’s a much shorter distance this way.”
“No.” Mathew kept his gaze fastened on the path ahead. “We’ll stay our course along these roads.”
“Yer choice, of course,” Dobbie murmured, returning to Mathew’s side. Though he said the proper words, he bowed his head as if to hide his true feelings about the decision.
Mathew didn’t need to see the boy’s eyes. He’d witnessed the cunning expression on Dobbie’s face often enough over the past two days they’d traveled together. And the premonition that overtook him each time his thoughts drifted to his traveling companion was ample warning to keep him on his guard.
Though he couldn’t put a name to it, he knew Dobbie Caskie was not quite what he seemed.
Mathew couldn’t always depend upon those odd warnings coming to him, but when they did, they’d rarely been wrong. He’d had one the night his father had been killed, and again when he’d entered Tordenet Castle with Hugo.
And Hugo had ended up torn to pieces.
It was one of those feelings today that kept him on the road. An odd twitching of the skin on the back of his neck. A tingling in his feet, as if his body desperately wanted to take flight. An emptiness in the pit of his stomach that no amount of food could drive away. Either something waited for them out there in the woods, or . . .
Mathew huffed out a breath of annoyance. It was likely nothing more than the horrible dreams that had plagued him. They shattered his rest, leaving him as exhausted when he awoke as he’d been when he’d closed his eyes the night before. They’d haunted him since the day he’d walked into the MacDowylt’s solar and found the body of his older brother Hugo with his head ripped from his shoulders.
With a shudder, Mathew forced the vision from his thoughts, willing himself to forget the grisly scene. He didn’t ever want to see such as that again, not even in his memories. Perhaps when he rid himself of the scrolls, the dreams would be gone as well.
Mathew fingered the hilt of the weapon he wore slung across his chest. His dreams might be plagued by vicious threats from invisible foes, but as long as he kept Dream Guardian close, the hideous red eyes at least kept their distance.
“Wonder what he’s up to?” Dobbie craned his neck, peering off into the distance, bringing Mathew back to the here and now.
Ahead of them, a horse and rider blocked the trail.
“He’s new to these parts,” Dobbie murmured. “I dinna think I’ve ever seen him before.”
Dobbie might not have seen him before, but Mathew had. At Tordenet. The man was one of Laird MacDowylt’s warriors. And not just any ordinary warrior, but clearly a favorite of the laird.
He was also one of the two men who’d visited the Tinkler camp the day before they’d suddenly packed up their wagons and left Tordenet with Bridget MacCulloch as a secret passenger.
Whether the big man waited on the trail ahead to seek his revenge because Hugo had returned to Tordenet to warn the MacDowylt of the MacCulloch woman’s escape, or because of the items Mathew had taken from the castle, Mathew felt sure his being there couldn’t be a good thing.
He considered turning back on the path, but the feelings that had warned him out of the forest were doubly strong from the direction he’d already traveled.
“Best you let me handle this,” Dobbie whispered. “I’ve a way with strangers, just you watch.”
“As you wish.”
Mathew doubted Dobbie’s ability to “handle” the big warrior, but perhaps the boy’s intervention might give him time to steal away if it became necessary. Slowly, he reached to his saddle and untied one of the bags he carried there. He slipped the leather strings over his shoulder and let the bag nestle against his back. No time to remove the one from the other side. They were too close for him to make the change without his actions being obvious.
“Aho,” Dobbie called as they drew close enough to clearly make out the features on the big man’s face. “A fair gift it is to see a fellow traveler on the road! I’m Dobbie Caskie and this is Master MacFalny.”
The churning in Mathew’s stomach grew stronger, along with his need to climb up into the saddle of his horse and ride for all he was worth in the opposite direction. But that would be foolish. The animal he led beside him would be no match for the mighty black warhorse waiting ahead of them. The best he could hope for was a chance to make his way to the other side of his mount to retrieve the second bag.
“I know who you are, Dobbie Caskie. And I know what you’ve done. I believe you have a horse that belongs to a friend of mine. And you, young Mathew MacFalny”—the big man turned his piercing blue gaze toward Mathew—“you’ve taken something much more dangerous than another man’s horse.”
So it was t
he treasure that had led MacDowylt’s man to find him.
“Be on your way, warrior,” Mathew ordered, the cracking of his voice belying his fear. “I’ve taken nothing from Tordenet Castle that dinna belong to me.”
“No?” The big man laughed and lifted a hand to point in Mathew’s direction. “Did I make any mention of Tordenet? Don’t be foolish, boy. Next you’ll be telling me that sword you wear across your heart is your own.”
Mathew’s fingers tightened around Dream Guardian’s hilt. It was his own. This sword was all that stood between him and the evil that stalked his dreams. He’d never give it up.
HALL COULD SEE why Bridget had expressed concern for Mathew. He was a gangly lad, all long arms and legs, as much a boy as Dobbie Caskie.
Both he and Dobbie appeared ready to bolt at any second, and that would do Hall no good at all.
Hall continued to move forward, holding his horse to a slow and measured step. He didn’t wish to harm either of the boys, though he’d dearly love to bring the Caskie lad back to Castle MacGahan, to answer to Eric for the animal he’d stolen. Still, should they break and run, it was Mathew and the sword strapped to his chest that Hall would follow.
He was within one horse’s length when he heard the pounding upon the earth.
Hoofbeats. Four horses, he guessed, from the sound of it. Riding hard, headed in this direction. Only the distraction of the boys had kept him from recognizing the sound much earlier.
“Off the road!” he ordered, and Dobbie dove for the cover of the trees, needing no further encouragement.
Mathew froze where he stood, his eyes rounded with his fear.
“By the gods! Move, boy!”
Hall reined his horse in front of Mathew, placing himself in between the boy and the approaching men. Four riders, just as he’d thought. Torquil’s men, from the looks of them, charging forward at full gallop, swords drawn.
Poorly trained, the lot of them, to Hall’s way of thinking. They strung themselves out one after another with long gaps in between them rather than forming a close, tight line to ride against him. That was a mistake for which they’d pay.
Warrior Untamed Page 4
