The hairs on the back of her neck prickled. Someone was near. They were being watched.
“Macrath…” she whispered, her throat tightening. “We have company.”
He pulled his sword from the scabbard on his back, and tucked her behind him, but she had no place being shy. This was a game they would fight together. Ceana snatched an arrow from her quiver, nocked it in her bow and pulled back the string, ready to shoot. Back to back, they turned in a slow circle. No sounds came from the woods, and no glints shined off weapons. Had her mind simply overreacted to their situation, fabricating a nemesis?
“They are close,” Macrath murmured. “I can hear them breathing.”
Ceana tuned out the rustle of leaves, the sounds of their own breathing. She jerked to the right, took aim and fired as a man leapt from behind a tree. Her arrow still in motion she nocked another, ready to fire as her first shot sank into his abdomen. The man fell to his knees. She recognized him from the men’s battle—one of the demon warriors, his face was still painted black.
“You’ll… never… make it…” the man said, blood spilling from his lips.
Ceana hated that he was voicing her fears. For she truly wondered if they would make it. The odds were stacked against them. And yet, together they were more powerful. From what she could see of the other entrants, there did not appear to be anyone who had made allies, though several of them had run off together. They were bound to join forces somehow. It was simple human instinct—the survival rate was better in a group than alone.
“I do not think there are any more,” Ceana said.
Macrath grunted. “There are always more of those devils.”
Branches cracked on their other side, and they both leapt to face the coming foe. Her heart pounded, fingers twitched against the bow string. But it was only a squirrel rummaging in the fallen leaves.
“Let’s keep moving. No sense in remaining a target,” Macrath said, his voice gruff.
Ceana took one last, longing glance at the burn, wishing they had a waterskin to fill. Macrath eased forward, holding his sword in two hands, and she kept her bow nocked and ready. They walked along the burn at a slow pace, stopping every so often to listen to the sounds of the woods. A bloodcurdling scream had Ceana’s feet faltering, and she tripped forward into Macrath’s back, nearly stabbing him with her arrow. Her heart skipped a beat.
“Steady, lass.” The calm in his voice, the strength of him, settled over her.
“I’m so sorry.”
“I know you wouldn’t stab me on purpose,” he said with a wink.
“Not unless you incur my wrath, warrior.”
Macrath chuckled. “I’ll be sure to stay on your good side then.”
They ducked beneath low-hanging branches, their steps silent. From Ceana’s estimation, they’d reached the next turn. The road itself bent in a curve verifying she was right.
“We’ll have to cross over the road to the woods on the other side,” Macrath said.
They both crept toward the road, then knelt beside a tree surrounded by gorse bushes. Voices carried from over a rise, and moments later a man and woman entrant appeared. They were arguing about something. Hands moved animatedly, and then the male entrant grabbed hold of the female’s arm, stopping her. He swung her around to face him, clutched her other arm and then backed her against a tree, grinding his body boorishly on hers.
The woman struggled, letting out a gurgled scream before the man slammed his mouth against her. She fought against him, kicking, bucking, but he held her tight. Was this a man who thought he’d win, demanding she give him what would be his right once they were wed? Did it matter? Nay, it did not. Rape was rape, and Ceana didn’t care what would be his right. For it wasn’t, now, and she didn’t think it would be ever. She raised her bow, aimed and fired. Her arrow struck his back, just between his spine and shoulder blade—hopefully piercing his heart.
The man jerked backward, stumbling as he cried out with pain and tried to see just what it was that had struck him. Not waiting to see who had maimed her attacker, the woman turned into the woods and ran. But not fast enough. The man who Ceana had shot, whipped out a knife and hurtled it through the air, striking her in the back of her neck. She fell forward, unmoving, onto the forest floor. At least she’d been spared torture before she died.
Heart slamming against her chest, Ceana gagged. Bent over and heaved water from her belly.
Macrath rubbed her back and tugged her hair out of the way. “ ’Twill be all right,” he cooed.
But she didn’t believe him. She didn’t think she’d ever be all right.
Not after what she’d witnessed and what she had to do.
At least four entrants were dead now that they’d seen, which meant there were possibly eight others still out there that they would have to defeat in order to win.
“We must move now,” Macrath said. “I can carry you.”
“I know you can.” She glanced up at him, and gave a feeble smile. “But I’ll walk beside you.”
“Stubborn, wench.” Macrath kissed her quick on the forehead and then tugged her forward.
She wanted to pull him back. To ask him to hold her for a little while, at least until her hands stopped shaking, but they did not have the luxury of recovery. Their only option was to move forward.
They ran, bent low, across the road, away from the bodies and out of sight. Once at a safe distance, they continued to walk cautiously. The wound in her leg throbbed. Studying the placement of the sun in the sky, Ceana nearly tripped over the body of another entrant. Looked as though she’d been hacked with an axe. That left only one female entrant besides Ceana, and six other men besides Macrath, unaccounted for. Make that four…
Two male entrants not far from the woman appeared to have fought to the death—killing each other. Had they fought over the deceased female?
The road to her left began a wide bend, hiding the rest of the road from view.
“Here, Macrath. I think this is where we must make the final turn.” They’d have to cross over the road again.
Suddenly, Macrath speared his sword into the ground and cupped her face. He stared intently into her eyes. She let her bow sling back over her shoulder, her arrow falling to the ground. “Ceana, know this, I love you with every breath, more than I could ever express.”
Her chest swelled and tears prickled her eyes. “I love you, too.”
He brushed her cheeks with the pads of his thumbs. “We have made it this far, and I believe we will make it to the end. We will be crowned the winners of these games.”
Ceana sucked in a breath, nodded, her hands shaking.
“I also have a feeling that this last leg of our journey will not be easy, and I… I just… I needed you to know how much I love you, and that we will make it.”
“Aye.” Her voice trembled, and she licked her parched, cracked lips.
He kissed her softly then, just brushing his lips tenderly over hers, but it was enough to send energy sparking through her. Enough to tunnel her back to those precious moments on the beach when it had been only the two of them and the world itself had slipped away.
Around them, the forest had grown hushed, as though the trees themselves held their breath. The sun threw shafts of light onto the road, glittering flecks of dirt and pollen catching the rays and making the road look as though it beckoned them.
Ceana reached up, squeezed Macrath’s hands at her face. “We cannot dally any longer, else I go mad.”
Macrath chuckled and pressed his lips to hers once more. “I dare say, I do not want a mad wife.”
He pulled his sword from the earth, and Ceana bent to pick up her arrow. Armed once more, they inched out, looking downward and listening for the sound of voices. All appeared to be clear, save for a log fallen near the opposite side of the road.
“Go, lass. I’ll watch your back.”
Ceana kept her bow nocked, aiming it up and down the lane as she crossed, careful to keep her eyes on the f
orest ahead. She stepped over the fallen log.
And was suddenly falling.
She dropped her bow and arrow, turned to clutch at the fallen tree, one leg down in the hole, the other bent at an awkward angle over the log.
“Macrath!” she screeched.
“Ceana!” He was running toward her, the pounding of his feet, swishing plaid, all moving in slow motion.
She felt herself sliding, the slickness of her sweaty limbs not holding enough traction. Scrambling for purchase, her nails shredded against the bark, skin of her arms scraped. But all her grappling was no help against the weight of her body falling into a deep hole that had been covered with thatch and dirt.
But, Macrath was there in an instant, hands reaching out and gripping onto her upper arms just as she lost her battle with the log.
“Don’t look down,” he said. Face grim, he pulled her up and over the log.
As soon as she was safe she peered over the side at three male bodies lying at the bottom—more than a dozen snakes crawling over and around them—slithering over her fallen arrow. Her legs shook so hard, she could barely stand upright.
She let out a breath, and nearly collapsed on shaking knees. If Macrath had been one second later, she’d be lying dead with those men. Throwing herself into his arms, she was unable to control the torrent of tears that gushed from her eyes. “Macrath…”
“Hush, love,” he whispered, stroking her back. “You’re safe now.”
Are we?
“Who laid the trap?” she asked.
They both ducked, gazes darting into the trees but no one came forward.
“I think we are safe, but we must keep going,” Macrath said.
“There are two entrants left besides us—another male and female.” She swiped at her tears.
“ ’Haps there are, but we cannot let knowledge poison our thoughts. Come, we must be away. Your scream has likely brought every devil the council left to maim us.” He bent and picked up her bow which luckily had not fallen into the hole.
“I’m sorry.” She slung the bow over her shoulder with her quiver.
“There is no need for sorry, lass.” He swiped at her tears with the pads of his thumbs and looked into her eyes. “I would have screamed, too.”
Ceana let out a short laugh. “Nay, you would not have.”
“I’m deathly afraid of snakes.” He nodded, face all seriousness.
“Courtesy of your stepmother?”
He nodded grimly. “Aye. Likely, I would have screeched louder than you.”
But she knew he wouldn’t have. Macrath would have sliced through every one of those serpents with his sword. He would have vanquished them all, because that was who he was. He was a winner. He was a leader. He deserved to be crowned Prince of Sìtheil.
“We’ve not much further to go. Down the road and onto the moors. The castle will be in sight within the hour.” Macrath lifted her into his arms amid her protest. “Just for a little while, lass. Until your legs stop shaking.”
Ceana pressed her head to his shoulder and sighed. “You win.”
“No, we win.”
Macrath carried her for over a quarter hour. Despite the chill of the woods and the coming winter, they both had sweat trickling down their backs. Fighting to stay alive was exhausting.
“You can put me down now.”
“Are you certain?”
“Aye.”
Macrath set her on her feet, and kissed her tenderly. “We’re nearly there.”
They could see down the road where the light grew brighter. The end of the forest.
“We have to run,” Ceana said. “We’re so close, I just want to be there.”
Macrath nodded and they picked up their pace, careful to only step on solid, undisturbed ground.
They broke through the trees, stopping short at the edge of the moors, the castle jutting out of the ground in all its imposing intensity. They could see the guards, tiny as they were from here, standing atop the gate towers and the battlements of the castle.
“They beat us,” Ceana said, her breath catching.
Standing at the gate were the remaining male and female entrant. Waiting.
“We’ll have to fight them in the list field.”
Ceana nodded, terrified. At this distance, they couldn’t see who they were. “I’m afraid my feet won’t work.”
“That gives me an idea.”
She raised a skeptical brow. “What?”
“If I carry you, they will think you’re weak, or injured. They will underestimate your ability to fight.”
Fight. Battle to the death. She would have to kill again or be killed. Ceana stared over the gently waving grasses of the moors toward the gate doors where the two entrants stood stock still.
“You just carried me a long way, if you carry me more, you will only weaken yourself.”
“Lass, I’ve enough energy to keep fighting for another month of moons if I have to. I mean to see us to the end.”
She glanced up at him, taking in the sharp angles of his cheeks, the strength of his jaw, the glittering determination in his eyes. Macrath spoke the truth, and she believed every word he said. Trusted him implicitly.
“All right,” she whispered, too afraid to speak as terror wound its way up through her middle. She wished she could be as strong as he was, but she was afraid she didn’t have it in her. The horror of the past week, of her brother’s death and their clan’s wars before that. It was catching up with her quickly.
“All right,” Macrath murmured against her ear as he bent to pick her up.
She shivered and let her body fall against his, arms around his neck. “I love you so much.”
“Och, lass, you’ve no idea how verra much I love you.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Fear tunneled a path from Macrath’s feet, all the way to his head.
His fingers were cold and his chest was tight.
They were so close to the end, and yet, they’d not yet made it. Ceana trembled in his arms, and he forced himself to remain calm—at least on the outside. He didn’t want her to know just how worried he was.
They closed in on the bridge. The male and female warrior turned to stare them down, sauntering away from the gate to meet them at the foot of the bridge. Macrath assessed the male. It was one of the men who had ridden on horseback and fought beside him during the third game. Blood caked the exposed skin of his arms. He wore his beard long and braided, the hair a lighter shade than the red of his head. His plaid was dirty, ripped in places, just as his shirt. He looked rough and the grin he wore was even coarser. Macrath had liked it a hell of a lot better when the man was on his side.
The woman was tall, tough, and she sneered at Ceana as they approached. Ceana would have trouble fighting her, he could tell. Not because Ceana wasn’t skilled, but the woman was larger and meaner.
A quiet groan left Ceana’s lips.
“ ’Twill be all right,” Macrath tried to soothe.
“Nay. ’Twill not.”
Her quaking grew in his arms, and he sought to divert her from her fears. “Why, love?”
“That is the woman who fought me by the water barrels. If we’d not been interrupted, she would have won that fight, too.”
Macrath recognized her at once, several of her front teeth missing. She’d been the one to say Lady Beatrice was violating Ceana, touching her and torturing her in that same chamber she’d taken Macrath. The warrior woman was brutish, vulgar and had no honor. “She is no princess, love.”
“But she is a warrior.”
“I am with you. I will be right beside you. I can take them both.”
“Well, if it isn’t the little bitch and his cunt,” the woman sneered.
Macrath tightened his hold on Ceana but said nothing. “Do not let them goad you,” he whispered in her ear.
“Had to carry the little sloppy mess all the way back, did you?” she said, elbowing the man beside her.
He grimaced, obviousl
y not thrilled that the woman to have made it back could be his wife. His eyes hungrily roved over Ceana. The warrior wanted her, and there was no way in bloody hell Macrath was going to let him take her away. Too bad for him, he didn’t know better. The man puffed his chest and sent a lecherous grin toward Ceana.
“I see you’ve brought me my bride.”
Macrath bared his teeth. “The only thing I’ve brought you is death.”
The man laughed, pulled his sword from his back scabbard and tossed it from hand to hand. “I wager I’m splitting her thighs afore the sun goes down—just after I split your skull.”
Macrath set Ceana down gently, maneuvering in front of her. He pulled his sword from his scabbard.
“Ah, you arseholes are going to fight over that bitch?” the woman scoffed. “Looks like you’re going to have to make do with me.” She whipped out a knife and tried to lunge behind Macrath to stab at Ceana, but both he and the other warrior brought their swords down at once.
She fell to the ground, a deep gash in her back and another in her neck.
Ceana remained silent behind him, and he dared not look her way for fear of taking his eyes off of his opponent. He trusted that she would stay safe. He did not trust his opponent to fight fairly. Nay, the man’s tactics would be as dirty as his hands.
“Well,” the warrior shrugged as he glanced down at the dead woman, “that’s a relief. I couldn’t have fucked her if my life depended on it.” He chuckled. “But that piece,” he pointed his sword at Ceana, “she’s worth fighting for.”
“Aye,” Macrath growled. And worth killing for.
Every muscle in his body tightened, ready to pounce on the craven fool.
His opponent must not have felt the need to waste time. He lunged forward, arms arching and swiping down. Macrath whipped his sword upward, the metal clashing together with a piercing clang. They stood pushing swords, both of equal strength. They might have been matched in power, but Macrath had more at stake than the pig he fought against. He was also a better swordsman—he was pretty damned sure of it.
Lords of the Isles Page 121
