Celtic Shores, Book 2 in the Celtic Steel Series

by Delaney Rhodes

  Afraid she may have scared Payton, she quickly stood up, wiped off her truis and turned in the direction of the castle. Meeting her at the top of the ridge was a white-faced, obviously traumatized Payton who appeared to be paralyzed. He looked straight at her, or straight through her, but straight past her in any regards—towards the stonehenge.

  “Payton,” she said, “are ye alright?”

  Unable to speak, he nodded his head up and down.

  “Did ye hear me scream?”

  He nodded his head again and raised his arm to point towards the circular ornament of stones.

  “I have no idea where to find Patrick,” she said forlornly.

  “I do,” he said, not taking his eyes from the henge.

  “How’s that?” she asked taking him by the arms now, still unable to get him to remove his eyes from their target.

  “He told me,” he said. “He told me.”

  ***

  Dirk half-ran, half-walked towards the armory, hoping to avoid Easal’s clutches. He sent his best boy on in front to gather his best fighting men, and his eldest son to take his wife and family to McDermott territory. Satisfied he had not been followed, he opened the outer door to the armory and gulped in shock. Empty.

  “Looking for something?”

  A curious spine tingle overtook him and he shuddered visibly.

  “Easal,” he said turning around, “how are ye?”

  Not two steps behind him and gaining at that, Easal strode determinedly towards the armory himself, fire and mischief in his eyes.

  “Dirk, can ye tell me where the weapons have gone?” he asked.

  “Weapons?”

  “Yes, Dirk. The weapons —they are all gone,” he echoed. It was a sound that made Dirk’s skin crawl and caused him to stumble backwards, miss his footing and topple head first down the shallow stairwell into the armory itself.

  Easal loomed over Dirk’s crumpled body, as he lay twisted and mangled on the floor. His left hip was shattered and the long bone of his right shin protruded through the skin. Too terrified to move, and in more pain than he could fathom, Dirk was certain he was hallucinating. Easal’s image was hazy, out of focus, moving and twisting, and at times—he didn’t resemble Easal at all. He envisioned that his hands were no longer human but were dark-skinned, sinewy daggers which arched like a meat hanging hook and were coming to slice into him. Easal exhaled a black noxious smoke from his nostrils and bent down to his ear.

  “Where is me wife?” he asked.

  Dirk rose on his elbows, now painfully aware that his right wrist was twisted and out-of-socket. He inched backwards, perhaps a foot or two, before Easal dropped a boot on his chest, preventing his further movement.

  “I’ll ask ye one more time. Where is me wife?”

  Dirk shook his head silently from side-to-side and Easal calmly removed his boot. Starting back up the narrow stairwell, Easal turned to gaze down on Dirk one last time. In a sadistic show of spirit, Easal transformed to Eaton…the dark visitor…before Dirk’s very eyes, sending his heart clenching and spasming in his chest.

  Easal raised his gnarled claws upward and towards Dirk and the back of the armory, and spheres of molten fire shot through the tips of his claws, lighting the wooden shelving and rushed flooring in its path. The armory became engulfed in flames and lapped about Dirk’s legs and feet, catching his truis on fire. He writhed about in pain unable to move with his broken hip and shattered leg. His hair was aflame now and the smell of burning flesh permeated the chamber. Suddenly realizing the hideous screams of pain were his own, Dirk crossed himself with his left hand and began to pray audibly for mercy.

  “Enjoy hell,” Eaton said, transforming into Easal in the process. “I hope to see ye there soon.”

  THIRTY

  Burke Lands

  Naelyn crouched down beside Braeden on the cave floor and grabbed him by the jaw. Jerking it just slightly enough to bring them eye to eye, she repeated herself, “I said, ye can read it boy?” she asked.

  Pulling his jaw back and placing his dagger at her jugular, Braeden responded, “If ye are fond o’ that hand there lassie, ye will no’ grab me such ever again.”

  In one short flash, Cordal unarmed the boy and stood steadfast between he and Naelyn, “What’s all this?” he asked.

  “She grabbed me,” snorted Braeden.

  “He pulled a dagger on me,” Naelyn said.

  “Sit! The both of ye!” Cordal shouted and the cave echoed.

  “I canna be sure about where ye came from there, Cordal, but I will tell ye that when I was a boy, my elders were not liking to me storytelling,” said the priest nodding in the direction of Braeden.

  “And where I come from, fathair,” said Braeden sarcastically, “we don’t take kindly to being called liars; it’s akin to bearing false witness—is it no’?”

  Having had enough of the drama, Orla pushed her way through the tangled group of weary travelers and stomping her foot, shouted, “What the devil is the matter here?”

  Naelyn reached towards her and placing a hand on her shoulder, quietly said, “The boy is addled, ye ken?”

  “Is that so?” asked Orla, “and how do ye ken?”

  “He claims he can decipher the cave drawings and I ken the better of it.”

  “Ye ken this how, Naelyn?”

  “Well…for one…he is but a cotter’s son…”

  “Ye don’t ken me, ye snotty wench!” he shouted, inching towards Naelyn.

  Orla raised her hand up chest level to Braeden and he stopped immediately in his tracks. “I see but one way to remedy this,” she stated matter-of-factly. Turning towards Braeden, she said, “Read it then.”

  “Ye want me to read it?” he asked, surprised.

  “Aye, prove yerself, read the blewdy drawings and be done with it,” Orla responded.

  “Ye must understand, I canna decipher it, ye ken?”

  “What do ye mean, boy?” asked Cordal.

  “Well, I can tell ye what it says, but I canna’ tell ye what it means,” he said tilting his head to one side and looking at Cordal.

  “How so?” asked Cordal.

  “Well, if ye are at all familiar with religious texts, ye will understand that I can tell ye what it says, but it’s up to the individual person to gather what it actually means, ye ken?” he added.

  “I think we are smart enough to figure that out,” interrupted Father MacArtrey. “Now. Out with it boy!”

  “Verra well,” said Braeden, motioning with his arms for the others to back away. Lighting a small torch, he started at the front of the cavernous alcove. Tracing the symbols and pictographs with his fingers, he began, “A verra long time ago, the people of this land had a sore time with their crops and harvests and what nots.” He searched the faces of the group and continued, “Well, there was a holy man, a shaman from the clan and he held a ceremony and called up the spirits and asked for help.”

  “Fairly soon after that, a shipping vessel had an accident at sea and many lives were lost, but some were saved,” he said, excited. “It seems that there were bodies washed to shore and some lived, and took up residence here in Burke lands. Others lived, but they didna’ stay here, they went to an island just to the south of here, I think it’s in another territory now, but that doesn’t matter.”

  “Go on,” said Orla, crossing her arms in disbelief.

  “Well, at first they thought this was the help the shaman had prayed for from the spirits, but things didn’t get better, so they held another service. This time the shaman broke the laws of the land, and they sacrificed a young boy, the Lord’s boy! Oh no, the people kidnapped the clan leader’s boy and they drained his blood and they all drank it and he died later, from the blood-letting.”

  Naelyn froze in her tracks. Chills ran up and down her spine and she collapsed onto the cold stone floor, unconscious. The priest went over to attend to her and waved for Braeden to continue.

  “Well, it seems that shortly after this service, a shi
pping vessel came with visitors, but it was no’ exactly a ship.”

  “What do ye mean?” asked Shanleigh, “not exactly a shipping vessel?

  “Well, it didna’ sail on the sea, ye ken?” he asked to a cave filled with astonished onlookers. “Look here, won’t ye? See that the vessel here does no’ come from the waters, but instead, from the clouds?” he asked pointing to the drawing. “It sails on the sky,” he added.

  “That’s nonsense,” the priest interjected, “he is playing us for fools.”

  “Remember what I told ye a’fore, ye old goat?” responded Braeden. “I can only tell ye what it says, not what it means. Ye can clearly see the image here on the rock. I did no’ draw it! And this crooked symbol here, this one that raises up on the edge, that is the symbol for sky!”

  “Let him continue,” said Orla, patting Braeden on the shoulder, “What happens next?”

  “Well, the sky people take up with the land dwellers and they make their home with them. It seems the shaman believes that the sky people are the helpers sent by the gods to the clan.”

  “But?” asked Cordal.

  “But,” continued Braeden, “they are no’.”

  “How do ye ken?” asked Shanleigh.

  “Come over here,” said Braeden, leading the others further down the cavern with the torch lighting the way. “I canna’ read that part,” he motioned to a three-to-four foot space to his left, “the drawings have worn and I canna’ make out the symbols.”

  “So,” added Orla.

  “So, it appears from this section down here, that the land dwellers and the sky people go to war against each other. The sky people want to take the land dweller’s lands and they want the land dwellers to leave or be killed. They need the shore…no the shoreline, no…they need the beach. For some reason the sky people want the shoreline as their own, so that they can bring more vessels here. The land dwellers will no’ agree to give up their land to the sky people.”

  “What happens next, after they go to war,” asked Cordal.

  “Well, many people die; the lord and his family, the shaman, most of the land dwellers flee to other clans. The sky people, what’s left of them, they get in their vessel, and they leave. Except that, they don’t travel in the clouds, their vessel goes under the water somewhere, just off the shore.”

  “Under the sea, ye are pulling our legs, ye are,” laughed Shanleigh.

  “Nay, look right here, I am just showing ye what it says,” said Braeden. “Then some time later, many moons, mind ye, a new group of people arrive on their boats to take over the lands, all but a few of the previous land dwellers are gone, and there is a new lord and his family, and they build a new castle and the such, and the land is prosperous and there is trade.”

  “What happened to the sky people?” asked Naelyn, fully alert and now fully engaged.

  “Well, one day there is a terrible storm. The land dwellers do their worst to secure their shipping vessels at the piers and the clan’s people, well the most of them, hole up in the main castle keep for safety. The land dweller’s leader, he has a dream. In his dream, the sky people leave their place at the bottom of the sea. They set about on the shoreline, looking about, digging at the rocks and such and then as they are getting ready to leave, there is a tussle between the sky people. The leader of the sky people, he makes that two of them canna’ leave with them. He leaves two of the sky people behind, on the shoreline.”

  “And they just leave them?” asked Orla.

  “Aye, leaves them right behind. Two strong males of the sky people, they are left behind.”

  “And what happens next?” asks Cordal.

  Braeden grew very silent and placed an index finger over his mouth, motioning for the others to be silent. He cupped his right hand over his ear and held up the torch with the other.

  “There is someone out there,” he whispered almost inaudibly to Cordal.

  Gesturing for the girls to move to the back of the cave, Cordal took Braeden’s dagger and handed him a handmade spear he had used for fishing. The two made their way slowly to the cave opening, leaving the priest and women behind.

  ***

  Kyra finished combing the prisoner’s hair and fastened it with a leather thong at the nape of his neck. For the most part, she had managed in garnering a semblance of submission from the man; although he still refused to speak. Grunts, groans and grumbles were common though, so he wasn’t adverse to audible communication. Not in the least. He moaned loudly when she resumed her massage of his tight shoulders.

  They released gently though as she continued to stroke his back, but quickly re-tensed at the brush of a nipple against his shoulder.

  “Ye should be verra glad that it was me they chose, to do your…uh…torture,” she whispered into his ear. “I have gentle hands, or so I hear.” She left his back for the moment and worked at something at the table for a bit before coming back up behind him. “Do no’ let this startle ye none,” she said. “’Twil be wet, but warm,” she breathed.

  He lurched forward at the touch of the wet cloth between his shoulders but quickly relaxed when she placed a knowing hand on his cheek. Before he knew what to do with his hands, she had one raised to the sky, and she bathed him languorously with the linen rags which smelled sweetly of citrus and lavender. Back and forth, and up and down, she moved the smooth soft cloth across his muscled back and shoulders; dipping ever so lightly,only occasionally to re-wet and then squeeze the warm liquid over his form again. Confident she had covered every available square inch of his back side; she placed the bucket of sudsy water on the table and retrieved a new one.

  “Now, open yer mouth,” she said. He shrugged his shoulders and moved his head to the side, unsure of what she meant. “Open yer mouth, please,” she added. Opening his mouth, she caught sight of his near perfect teeth, gleaming white and inviting. His pouty lips framed his wet tongue, swollen and pink. Placing a laurel leaf in his mouth, she instructed him to chew, then rinse with the water in the cup she held to his mouth, and then to chew and rinse again. He obliged, ever the obedient prisoner.

  “Now, me prisoner, won’t ye tell me yer name? Please?” she added as she stood in front of him again and nestled his taut thighs apart.

  He grinned and shook his head back and forth again, reaching up to find her hips to station himself.

  “Aye, I ken ye think this is a game?” she asked.

  He nodded his headed in agreement, up and down, and a smile broke across her mouth.

  “Well, I ken I must make ye believe me then,” she said. “Do I need to blindfold ye again or can I trust ye not to open them eyes?” she asked.

  He shook his head from side-to-side indicating he would not look and she scooted far from him for a moment, situating some items on the table and something on the floor beside his feet.

  “Alright then, if yer sure,” she asked.

  He nodded again and she removed his hands from her hips and placed them back on either side of the stool. “Hold here lest ye fall now.”

  She began at his bare chest; squeezing lathered suds of warm, soapy water over him like it were a waterfall. His head moved in tandem to her motions, from side-to-side, never able to anticipate from where it would come. From the tops of his shoulders to his waist, he was now covered in soapy, sudsy water and his kilt was soaked. After he was thoroughly drenched, she took the cleaning cloth and rubbed circles around his upper torso. Easing closer into him, she noticed he gripped the sides of the stool so fiercely his knuckles were white.

  She stopped for a moment and stood back looking at her victim. He was helpless. His chest heaving violently in wracked breaths you would expect from a dying man, he struggled to sit upright and his thighs were now shaking violently against her legs. He has much resolve, she laughed to herself.

  “Have ye had enough?” she asked.

  He gasped and let out a long-held breath and ultimately, shook his head otherwise.

  “Verra well then,” she continued, grabbi
ng the cleaning cloth and starting at the top of his shoulder, she made her way down to his well-defined arms. Using her fingers, rather than the cloth, she stroked the back of his arms and massaged his bulging biceps with her thumbs, making them quiver.

  “I can do this all night,” she whispered in his ear. His hands shot up to her waist and he gripped her hips, bidding her not to move. Not an inch, not a breath. He was hers.

  “I just have need to reach this one little spot,” she breathed. Stepping backward she closed his legs, dropping his hands back to his lap. She sat at his feet on the floor in front of him. “Don’t be alarmed,” she said, “I’m working down here now.”

  What seemed like an eternity passed between them and the silence became unbearable. He careened his neck upward and grunted as if asking her whereabouts and she answered with a cleaning cloth on his right ankle. “Now put yer hands on the stool, lest ye fall over.”

  He grasped each side of the stool with his hands and held on as if for dear life. Before he could anticipate her next move, she had inched her way up his long legs and over his kneecaps, drawing wet circles on his skin with her hands. Lathering the curly hairs of his legs, she added more pressure until she was full-on massaging his thighs on both sides, breasts rested on his knees.

  His face grew red, then pale, then purple before she finally shouted, “Breathe mon!” and he gasped and choked for air.

  “Ye must be presentable to the council for yer trial, I presume,” she said. “Seeing as how ye are a childnapper.”

  He grunted and his disposition changed visibly. Now tense, and what she thought may have been offended, he stiffened in his seat and sat indignant before her.

  “Put yer legs together, me prisoner,” she said and raised from her position on the floor. “I am almost done with this. Have ye a name?”