by Hazel Hunter
He pushed himself upright, and looked over at the glowing forms of his woman and his best friend. Light funneled into Raen’s neck, streaking through him to emerge from the back. His exposed spine sank back into his flesh, which covered over the terrible wound.
The light faded, and Raen opened his eyes and dragged in a breath as he pushed himself upright. He touched the smooth skin of his neck where the spear had pierced it. “My lord.”
“Welcome back, lad,” Lachlan said.
“I was crawling toward the loch,” the big man murmured as he stared down at Kinley. “I never made it.” He gripped the back of his neck. “How…?”
“She saved you,” Lachlan said and moved to Kinley’s side, where he watched the much slower process of her healing.
The light saturated her from head to toe, gleaming as it filled in the recesses in her cheeks and brow. New hair sprouted from the bald patches on her scalp and grew into thick, soft golden tresses. Her shattered leg straightened, and her curves grew riper as her limbs filled out. By the time the light evaporated she looked as she had the first time he had seen her from across the battlefield.
“My lord,” Raen gasped as his dazed eyes shifted to Lachlan’s face. “How can this be? I could feel naught, I couldnae breathe. I swear, I was dead.”
“You were, nearly,” Lachlan said and helped Kinley sit up, and brushed his mouth over her temple. “Crossing over healed you.” He held her tightly against him. “Anything you ask is yours, faodail. My castle. My clan. Even my horse, if you want the demon.”
She drew back. “I don’t want anyone to know I did this but you and Raen. Also, I never want to do it again.”
Lachlan tried to smile. “I dinnae think I could survive another go.”
“No, you don’t understand. Someone taped off the grove on my side as a crime scene, and…okay, that’s trouble I’ll explain later.” She rubbed her brow. “The thing is, if someone had been there and saw us, they might have kept us from coming back. Then Raen would have died in the future, and when they found his body…”
“Even more trouble,” Lachlan finished for her. “Raen, was it Evander?”
“Aye. He was running away with a wench who spied for the legion, and I tried to stop them.” He touched the front of his throat before he looked at Kinley. “I saw your wounds, Kinley. You shouldnae have survived them.”
“We have these things in the future called VA hospitals, and I guess someone up there likes me.” She saw the way Raen prodded his chest. “Sure you’re okay?”
“I’m fashed, is all.” He extended his arms and touched the back of his neck, and then rubbed the side of his head. “My battle scars have vanished. As if they never were.” He took off one boot and peered at his big foot. “There’s the toe I lost chopping wood as a boy. ’Tis grown back.” He looked at the stone. “What does it mean?”
“Mayhap the gods send us a missive,” Lachlan said and lifted up his tunic to see his abdomen was as smooth as a lad’s. So were his arms and neck. He wouldn’t miss his scars, especially the reminder of his own beheading, but Neac would likely make much of them vanishing. “To remind us that we shouldnae make the same mistakes again.”
She nodded slowly. “That’s the other reason I don’t want to do this again. I could feel myself dying in the future, and death was much closer than it was the first time I crossed over here. If I make a third trip, I don’t think I’d live long enough to come back.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
IN THE LAIR of the undead the light of day was never welcomed. But the sun’s warmth soaked into the earth above, and crept into the caves and tunnels to warm the frigid air. Mist drifted and swirled near the roofs of the caves as the sun rose. As day dawned outside, the legion retreated to their stone chambers. There they slept without dreams, while the sentries and guards braced themselves at their posts and closed their black eyes.
Cailean Lusk bent down to look through the wooden grate covering the entrance to the holding pen. There were two Romans standing watch.
“The undead are no’ moving now, Master,” he said and squinted. “I dinnae think they are breathing.” He grimaced as the horrible smell of the pen filled his nostrils. “I wish I dinnae have to breathe either. Gods, this place reeks.”
“When the sun rises, it may leech away the life they steal from mortal blood,” Bhaltair said. “Then they would have to spend the daylight hours in stillness, like the dead that they are.” He grunted as he knelt down beside him to peer out at the motionless guards. “If only we could reach one of those swords.”
Behind them one of the tormented souls giggled. “If you touch them, they wake up, and they are very angry. They chop off your fingers, or your hand, or they drag you out and drain you until you are as a worm shriveled in the sun.”
Cailean shuddered. “Perhaps no’ quite as still as the dead then.”
The old druid scuttled backward and stood, helping Cailean to his feet. “We should capture one of these fellows and study him. We could learn much.”
“Or he could get loose and kill everyone in the conclave,” Cailean said. “We need to discover where they took all the children before that cold-eyed one carries out his threat.” He tried lifting the grate. “I am no’ strong enough to dislodge it by myself.” He turned to the other captives. “Is there anyone who will help me?”
“No.” A pale, thin female covered in bruises cringed away from him. “They will hurt us. They will eat us.”
The terror that the blood thralls felt frustrated Cailean. For him and Bhaltair, and all of druid kind, death was simply a journey to their next life. It was true that after rebirth they had to wait some years until they grew old enough to communicate, declare their identities, and practice their crafts, but that was the cost of reincarnation. Death, while sometimes unpleasant and painful, was never the end for them, so they did not fear it.
The mortals imprisoned with them might have attained the same enlightenment, had they been born to druid kind. Their ignorance and superstitions made them impossible to trust, much less teach. But they were terrified, and he should not judge them. He’d been a captive for less than a day and already he wanted to kill himself.
“I see some movement,” his master said, and stood on his toes to look through one of the vent holes that allowed air into the pens. “’Tis that woman taken with us from the village, and the McDonnel seneschal.” He frowned. “An odd alliance.”
“’Tis what our brothers and sisters have always said about us,” Cailean said.
He didn’t want to risk waking the slumbering guards by calling out to them. Instead Cailean got on hands and knees and shove his hand through the grate, waving it as best he could.
“You’ll wake them,” the woman behind him whimpered. “Stop.”
“Master, these poor folk are very frightened. ’Twould help if they were to pray for our safe release.”
“’Twould be better,” Bhaltair grumbled. He turned and began tapping the mortals one by one. “You will pray now. In silence. Without fear.” The soporific tone to his voice made their eyes half-close as his touch-charm went to work on them. “Pray. You will pray now.”
One by one the captives dropped on their knees and clasped their hands together.
Two big hands gripped the bottom of the wooden grate and began to lift it. Two smaller, feminine hands reached for Cailean’s and helped him as he crawled through and stood.
“Master Talorc,” Cailean whispered. “Mistress Marphee. You are a welcome sight.” He turned and bent to help his master out. “How did you free yourself, Mistress?”
“I was never a captive. I have been a spy for the legion,” Fiona told him bluntly. “I am no more now, and I am sorry I brought you to this.”
“Quickly,” Cailean whispered, gesturing to the mortals still in the pen.
Coaxing the prisoners out took precious minutes, but when the last came through Evander replaced the grate. As they made their way into the tunnel one of the women s
lipped and fell heavily, crying out as she looked down at the broken bones under her.
The nearest sentry sleeping at his post snapped to attention, saw the woman and bared his fangs.
“Escape!” he shouted. “To arms, to arms!”
“Run,” Evander bellowed as he snatched up Fiona.
As the undead swarmed around them, Bhaltair murmured under his breath, releasing the mortals from his calming spell. Seeing the guards rushing into the tunnel sent all the mortals fleeing after Evander and Fiona. Cailean quickly worked a light spell, creating the illusion of a wall of sunlight, from which the undead staggered back. It lasted only a few moments, but gave them time to herd the mortals after Evander and Fiona into an empty passage with daylight at the end. As they staggered out, the captives from the pens embraced each other, fell to their knees or simply stood and wept in the daylight.
Cailean asked Evander, “You didnae find the villagers’ bairns?”
The highlander shook his head. “We found you first.”
The ovate regarded Fiona. “Where would the undead take them?”
“The tribune turns mortals in the Temple of Mars, beyond the great cavern. ’Tis what he means to do to the bairns.”
Horrible snarls came from deep in the tunnels. Grim-faced, Evander drew his sword and made to enter, but Fiona clutched his arm.
“You cannae, my love. They have awakened now. They will kill anyone who goes inside.” She turned to the druids and told them how to find the Temple of Mars before she added, “We are outlaws now, and can stay no longer. You must ask the clan to help you rescue the bairns.”
Cailean eyed the highlander. Evander looked frustrated, and strangely ashamed.
“We will send word to them,” Cailean said. “Where do you go now, Mistress Marphee?”
Fiona looked up at Evander. “Far from here.”
“Ovate Lusk,” the highlander said. “If you hurry, you may find the laird in the grove of the old Pritani stones. We saw him go there before we came for you.” Another, more intense flash of guilt shone from his eyes before he took hold of Fiona’s hand and led her away, disappearing into the trees.
Cailean felt a tingle of premonition. What good Evander Talorc had done to balance the weight of Fiona’s evil, he suspected, was not enough. The pair might have their freedom, but the gods were not finished with them. He did not envy them their lot. When the gods decided to punish those who transgressed, they could be very cruel.
Bhaltair spoke with two of the mortal men who seemed sanest, and instructed them to take the other thralls to the nearest town to seek shelter. He and Cailean backtracked to where they’d tethered their horses and rode to the sacred grove. Lachlan, his bodyguard and a golden-haired woman were just leaving it. All three of them seemed to glow in the sunlight.
“My lord, are you hurt?” Cailean said and he dismounted and hurried over to them. But he stopped when he realized what radiated from them was not light but time magic. “You have crossed over.”
Bhaltair stared at the woman. “She has, and taken them with her.”
“Aye, and brought us back again,” the laird said and inspected them with a frown. “Why are you in such a state, Master Lusk?”
“We were lured to a burned village, and there captured by the undead.” He quickly related their rescue by Evander and Fiona, and the ultimatum issued by the tribune. “My lord, we cannae permit the legion to turn so many innocents. You ken what bairns who are made undead are like.”
“Aye, as rabid dogs,” Lachlan said.
“I saw the little ones before we were penned,” Bhaltair said. “They took more than fifty, and near half of them babes that cannae walk. They will have to be carried out.”
“But how can we save them before they are turned?” Cailean demanded, and then said to the laird. “To go back in those tunnels now is suicide, and as soon as the sun sets, the rest of the legion will wake. When you dinnae surrender, they will turn the little ones.”
“We don’t go in after the legion,” the woman told him before Lachlan could reply. “We make them come out to us.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
KINLEY STOOD BY Tormod at the window of the map room, and glanced back at Lachlan, who was conferring with Cailean and Bhaltair. She wasn’t sure how to feel about the druids, who looked like regular guys and yet had the power to raise an army of Pritani tribesmen from the dead and make them immortal. The younger man looked like a tallish high school freshman, and kept staring at her when he thought she wasn’t looking.
What was seriously strange was how much the older one reminded Kinley of her grandmother. Voice, hair, eyes—all were exactly like Bridget’s, as if he were a long-lost twin brother. But her grandmother wouldn’t be born for another seven hundred odd years. Since that side of Kinley’s family had come to America from Skye, it wasn’t too much of a stretch to imagine Bhaltair Flen as a very, very distant relative. But why did he keep looking at her as if he wanted to punch her in the head?
She needed to quit worrying about the wand-wavers. Instead she turned to the Norseman.
“Just how much trouble are you in for helping me run away?”
“The laird hammered me good, and Neac will no’ permit me to heal in the loch.” The Norseman gingerly touched the dark purple bruise ringing his right eye, and then tapped his split lip. “I’ve woken with worse after a long night of drink.” He glared at her. “My pottage every morning now is fish bones and water. Washing water, as it happens.”
“I’ll have a word with Meg,” Kinley said and nodded at Bhaltair. “That old one keeps giving me the stink eye. What’s his problem?”
“Master Flen still thinks you dangerous,” Raen said as he joined them. “The laird has no’ told him why we crossed over and back, but he suspects. The groves are sacred to the druids, and only they are permitted to use them.”
“I’m good with that,” she said and turned to Tormod. “I need some ideas that will work in this time, and you were a raider. To save these kids our best bet is to get the undead out of the tunnels before we go in. We need a lure, something they can’t resist.”
“Blood would work, but only if they were starving.” He thought for a moment. “When my clan once raided a monastery, we first sent our scouts in disguised as monks. They hid themselves until the brothers went to sleep, and then came to open the gates for us.” As she started to reply he shook his head. “Dinnae go there, Kinley. The undead can smell us. No disguise would deceive them.”
Kinley glanced over at the druids and their voluminous robes, and then studied Raen’s tartan. “But can they smell the difference between different types of people? Like druids and McDonnels?”
Raen shook his head. “We are all alive. They would smell our blood, but no’ who we are. For that they must see us.”
Kinley nodded. “Then maybe we don’t have to go inside at all.”
She went over to Lachlan, who was still listening to Bhaltair’s long-winded lecture, and smiled politely. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but we’re running out of daylight, and I have an idea on how to get to the children. We’ll need more people, which is where you druids come in.”
Bhaltair’s mouth puckered with disapproval. “This is a clan matter, Mistress Chandler. You would do well to leave this to the men folk.”
“I’m a trained combat search and rescue officer. The men folk? Aren’t.” She turned to Lachlan. “We need more druids. A lot more. As many as you can get together before sunset. Here’s why.”
As she explained her plan, Bhaltair looked horrified, but Lachlan listened intently, as did Cailean. She used a piece of parchment and a charred sliver of wood to sketch a quick map of the area, showing the undead lair in relation to the sacred grove. Finally she used lines and arrows to mark the movements of the clan and the druids as they carried out the rescue.
“There is an older road at the back of the grove, here,” Cailean said, and pointed to the spot on the map. “It leads around to the mouth of the stream
. That would be the best direction of retreat.”
“Aye,” Lachlan said, and borrowed Kinley’s makeshift pencil to encircle another area. “We can set up a blind here to disguise it.”
“To pull this off, we’ll have to work very fast,” she warned him. “But as long as our friends here don’t freak out, it should work.” She glanced at the two druids. “What do you think, friends?”
Bhaltair drew himself up to his full height. “I think you should remember to whom you speak. I am no’ your friend. I am a member of the conclave. We rule all of our kind, no matter their family. A word from me, and I can have any druid placed in restraints, imprisoned, punished, or even disincarnated.”
“Really? Awesome,” Kinley said and turned to Cailean. “Why is he telling me this?”
“Only druid kind can use the magic of the groves. We ken the laird and his man couldnae have crossed over into your time without one of us to activate the time spell.” The younger man gave her a pained smile. “That would be you, Sister Chandler.”
“So I’m druid kind. Okay. Goes with the Scottish heritage, I guess.” She leaned closer to murmur, “Does that mean I have to wear the hideous robe?”
Cailean winked at her. “I think no’.”
Bhaltair cleared his throat. “If you two striplings have finished your bantering, we have brothers and sisters to summon.” To Lachlan he said, “When they arrive, we should assemble in the great hall. There we may make the exchange quickly, and address everyone at once.”
Kinley felt a little taken aback by his enthusiasm. “You’re okay with my plan?”
“Why should I no’ be?” he countered, and sniffed. “’Tis brilliant. And when ’tis done, we will teach you proper manners. I’ve no doubt you can be trained. Most savages can.” He swept out of the map room.
“So, now, Kinley,” Tormod drawled. “No more a McDonnel. You’re to be a floor-duster. A savage one.”
