by Beth Trissel
“True. Your mom chose well.” Neil could move unhindered and this drafty hall would stand some movement before he grew overheated. “Figured there was some method to her madness.”
“There usually is.” Fergus spoke in a hush. “Neo was buff, but you’re not half bad.”
“I suppose I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“All I’m saying is just do your best and I’ll try to cover for you. I don’t have brute strength, but I’m quick and conniving.”
“A welcome combination, but it’s still me out there wielding the sword.”
His cagey friend hesitated, and then rushed on under his breath. “Don’t forget you’ve got that dagger from Mom. She must have intended a use for it.”
Neil recoiled. “I don’t want to mortally injure my own brother. Can’t believe she intended that.”
Fergus was grim. “You may have to, if he doesn’t get you first. I’d say there’s little love lost between you.”
“But there was never hate. I always thought when the chips were down he’d come to my aid.”
Calum snorted like an annoyed bull. “Have ye finished with yer preparation, gentlemen, or shall we commence after ye’ve dined and taken yer ease by the hearth?”
“Doesn’t sound like he’s gonna back you up,” Fergus mumbled.
“Not a lot. More likely to trample me.” Neil gulped a final swallow, set the tankard down, and got to his feet. “Let’s get on with this then.”
Calum swept his arm at the wall and the swords mounted against the stones. “Choose the blade to yer liking.”
Neil strode over and took a claymore in hand. This weapon could deliver sweeping slashes or powerful thrusts. How he knew that, he couldn’t say, only that the knowledge was inherent. As far as swords went, it was a beauty. A globate pommel topped the leather covered grip. The sloping cross-guard, or quillons, between the blade and the hilt, terminated in quatrefoils and a high collared quillon block with langets followed the blade fuller.
The finely crafted steel was well-honed. Yes, it would do the job nicely, if Neil could recapture his age-old skills. Nor was he unaware of Calum’s equally fine sword, and he seemed bursting to have at him with it.
If Calum believed he really was Niall would he still want to lop off his head?
They’d never been especially close; rivals, certainly, but not enemies. How was it they were going after each other with swords? Hadn’t they played together as children?
Neil tested his weighty blade in sample swipes and listened to the whistle of metal slicing the air. Dueling without the intention of doing severe bodily harm to one’s opponent was far more difficult than going full fury at your foe. How this lout of a brother had persuaded Mora to wed him four hundred years ago, Neil couldn’t imagine.
Perhaps she’d been sorely in want of comfort and Calum more chivalrous than he’d been at Neil’s unexpected return. What a bloody welcome home.
Gripping the sword hilt, he turned and faced his brother. Mora darted glances between them. Neil held her eyes for a moment then shifted his full attention to Calum. He was as ready as he’d ever be.
He gave a nod. “Begin.”
Eyes aflame, a fierce set to his mouth, Calum sprang forward. Firelight reflected off his upraised sword.
Teeth gritted, Neil rushed to meet him. The clash of steel on steel rang in his ears.
Terms like parry, parry, thrust, thrust, flitted through his mind. But the fact of the matter was that he found himself in a battle for his life, acting purely on instinct and an adrenalin rush spurred by caffeine.
And in that moment, he knew Calum would deal him a lethal blow and apologize to their mother later. Then lay claim to Mora, or try to.
By God, not if Neil could help it!
Chapter Twenty-Three
Mora encircled her arms around Anna MacKenzie while the two men struck sparks with their great blades. Sorely taxed in mind and body, Niall’s frail mother might swoon if not supported. Scarcely a morsel of food had passed the grieved woman’s lips since Niall had disappeared. Nor was Mora entirely steady herself, but trembled against his wisp of a mother. Lord protect him.
Not only did she shake from fear for him, but fury at her immobility. Helpless did not describe how she felt in not being able to intervene in this rash duel. And how Mora despised being ineffectual. She vowed to do whatever came to hand the instant the opportunity revealed itself.
Astonished that Neil wasn’t already pierced and bleeding, terrified he would be at any moment, Mora willed him to miraculously prevail. The blessed Virgin and all the saints guard him, she prayed, hearken him back to the days when he was master of the claymore.
But that hour was not yet upon him.
Mora sucked in her breath as Calum’s blade sliced past Neil’s bold defense and down across his chest. A black button flew off his coat and hit the floor with a ping. But the vile tip must have missed its mark or the wool was strong indeed. Thank the saints there were no rents in the cloth, or a dreaded crimson stain. Would Calum’s next thrust cut through Neil’s coat? Worse—his flesh?
Intently watching Neil, it took Mora a moment to note Calum blink as though at some vexing insect.
Was it her imagination or had a ray of blue light crossed his irate countenance? She studied him closely. A narrow beam indeed did shine in his baleful eyes like a ribbon of moonlight.
Wherever had it come from? And how? No moon had yet risen and rain would veil any light.
Fergus! It must be him with his craft and cunning.
She resisted the urge to shift her gaze in his direction and mayhap expose his act. But certainly the sly fox wielded one of those strange lights in Neil’s behalf. She prayed his ploy would buy them some much needed time for Neil to recover his former self. And remember all.
Neil and Fergus were far more true brothers than the ambitious Calum who thought only to be laird and claim all that belonged to Niall, including her. Forbid it, Almighty God!
Again, the flash of steel and Neil sprang forward, crossing blades with Calum. Gone, any trace of the humor that often played at his lips, any tenderness softening his eyes. The intensity of his expression reminded her of the old Niall.
As much as she wanted that Niall back, it came to her in a tumultuous swell how beyond description she loved this one. Like twins they were. Neil and Niall, the same and yet different. Inexplicable, and yet she understood.
A song Neil had played for her in Staunton on a baffling device called an MP3 player returned to Mora amid the strident meeting of steel. The haunting beauty of that ballad seemed to express the longings of her heart. He’d said she might like the song by Iron and Wine, an odd name for troubadours, and let her listen to the magical sound through tiny plugs, like molded wax, that fit in her ears.
Why the song came to her now, she had no idea, only that it seared her to the core to think of losing this man who battled not only for his life, but his very existence. If he perished from this earth, God’s blood, so would she, and seek for him in the realm that waited beyond. But if he ceased to be, could she find him there? Anywhere?
Black despair washed over her in a murky mire.
Dear Lord, there must be a way. Had she not journeyed to another realm and found him, and had he not returned with her to his homeland held by the MacKenzie’s since ancient days? Was that not marvelous?
Hope. She must cling to hope.
Body and soul, Mora urged Neil on, as, teeth set, he lunged, swinging and clashing. Back and forth the two went, the floor creaking beneath their feet. He followed Calum’s every move and countered his strokes so expertly she thought he must be remembering. Such skill couldn’t be mere chance.
Then Neil faltered. Whether from the hitch in his knee or Calum’s superior assault, she couldn’t be certain. Either way, he stood in dire peril.
So near came Calum’s blade! She could hardly bear to watch, nor could she look away.
Again, Calum forced Neil back toward the wall. He
r heart caught in her throat—a dry lump. She scarcely drew breath as he reined blows on Neil. Sword flashing, Neil valiantly defended himself but Calum closed in, a wolf going in for the kill.
“No,” she forced from her taut throat, a plaintive whisper echoed by Neil’s mother.
Once more, the blue flicker of light slanted at Calum. He grunted, swiping at the distraction like a buzzing fly.
A hint of mirth at his lips, Neil seized the advantage. He lunged. His sword whistled through the air. Calum’s upraised arm blocked the blow. He stepped back—only to leap forward again.
Steel sang out repeatedly in the hall. Now and then, that unnatural blue light came to Neil’s aid. Calum blinked, temporarily thrown off guard, mayhap blinded as well. He wasn’t readily daunted, though definitely perturbed.
Mora could no longer resist a glance at Fergus. His expression a mask of innocence, he leaned casually against a chair at the end of the table. One hand held a tankard, the other partly obscured by the furniture. He sipped from the vessel, seeming at ease. But his eyes never left Neil, like a hound watching a rabbit.
She’d witnessed Fergus in his home, seen his nimble fingers fly over the device called a laptop, and watched him perform any number of unusual skills with his other strange instruments. His hands were like magic. He could easily direct the furtive beam at Calum while swigging ale and no one would be the wiser.
Or would they?
Distracted by Neil’s steadily improving swordplay, Calum had not yet sought for the source of the mysterious beam. Mora feared he’d discern the culprit at any moment and rush at him with an angry snarl. Neil would be hard pressed to defend them both. And Mora would fly to Fergus’s defense. Devices aside, he wouldn’t last two minutes at Calum’s hand. Not unless he possessed true magic.
****
His brow beaded with the sweat stinging his eyes, Neil gulped a raspy breath and fought to regain his momentary advantage. If he could just hold on, summon the strength and dexterity. He willed his knee not to give out, or his lungs.
Calum might not be as spent, but Neil observed the rise and fall of his chest. His breath came faster and harder now. His forehead glistened from exertion. He appeared none too pleased by the fight he’d encountered in this imposter.
No doubt his brother expected a swift end to his challenge. One decidedly in his favor. And Neil would’ve been forced to gratify his incensed sibling if not for the distraction Fergus posed while he came back to himself.
Like being tossed into a deep loch, it was sink or swim. He didn’t fully recall or embrace the old Niall, only in part. Without Fergus’s assistance, he’d have fallen at the onset under Calum’s punishing blows. But now, surrounded by the walls he’d dwelt in, breathing the same air that once expanded his lungs, seeing his dear mother again, spurred on by his passion for Mora…all worked together to summon those long buried skills from his primal past and lend strength to his flagging arms. His hand remembered the feel of the sword hilt. But was it enough to counter such an able adversary as Calum?
Neil’s memory surge was new, while Calum wielded the claymore with a deftness borne of familiarity, his stout legs uninjured, and his muscular arms tireless. Here was a Highland warrior in all his glory. The old Niall had bettered him, but only just.
Maybe if their little brother had lived, and their mother hadn’t succumbed to the raging fever that left her infertile and there’d been more siblings, he and Calum would’ve been closer. With only the two of them, Calum seemed to resent Niall receiving more of the praise and everything else.
A fierce thrust drove Neil back. Pain shot through his knee. He staggered. Another blow sent him reeling into the tapestry on the wall. The hanging did little to cushion the stone. Crimson and blue colors in the weave swam before him. Shaking off that hard knock, Neil turned unsteadily to face his brother.
Like a locomotive pistoning toward him, Calum closed in, sword swinging.
“Calum, enough!” their mother cried.
He ignored her plea. Neil winced as he went down on his afflicted limb. Calum’s back was to Fergus now. His friend couldn’t help him from his position against the table. Brandishing his sword overhead, Neil detected the figure that was Fergus step around to sidle along the wall.
With a grunt at the accompanying stab, Neil clamored to his feet. It was only a matter of time until he went down again. For good.
If he were Neo, he’d run up the walls and defy the sharp reality of steel. But he wasn’t. This battle for his life did not bode well. Then he caught the flicker of blue cross his brother’s reddened face and shine in his glaring eyes. Fergus must’ve finagled a spot with better access at his target.
Calum squinted. “What the divil?”
Apparently, he’d had enough of this nonsense. Rearing his head around, Calum swept his furious stare over the room.
Fergus feigned nonchalance. But Calum was no fool. He’d ferret out the culprit if Fergus risked further interference and accuse him of sorcery—the penalty, a fiery death at the stake. A horrific fate Neil might not be able to prevent, particularly if he fell first. God forbid. But without Fergus’s aid, Neil couldn’t prevail in this duel. Not yet. It was too soon.
Mora broke from Anna and sprang forward, shouting, “Calum! For God’s sake! Would ye maim yer ain brother?”
“Has Niall not proven himself?” their mother pleaded.
Calum swiveled his slitty-eyed stare at the two women. “Nae. The rightful Niall would niver lose to me.”
“He’s wounded,” Mora argued, “and not fully himself.”
Calum snorted. “Sae I see. He’s another.”
Red hair flying, she shook her head. “’Tisn’t what I said!”
“Makes no difference what ye speak. That man is no Niall MacKenzie.”
With an incoherent cry, Mora rushed at Calum. Her head reached only mid chest on this big Scotsman, but she lifted her chin and locked eyes with him.
“Put away that blade this instant, Calum MacKenzie, or gie me one for I swear I’ll fight ye me self!”
He gaped at her. “Have ye lost yer senses, or has a demon entered into ye?”
“Nae. He’s found a home in you!”
Lord help them all. Neil tensed at Mora’s outrageous tongue lashing and exchanged glances with Fergus.
His brow thunderous, color heightened to a purplish red, Calum sputtered, “How dare ye?”
Clearly, she was on the verge of daring considerably more. Time for that pepper spray. He gave Fergus a slight nod.
Returning, the faint gesture, he reached for the fiery miasma that would temporarily stun Calum.
Neil wondered how fast they could beat a retreat past him to the stables. Also critical, how many men were currently at Donhowel and would they automatically side with Calum, or render their loyalty to Neil? Calum would be after them like an enraged grizzly the moment he recovered enough to give chase.
Though momentarily taken aback by Mora, Calum held his sword at the ready, narrow gaze fixed on her. “I’ll not stand aboot and listen to all this haver. Git away wie ye.”
“So ye can battle Neil into his grave? Ye want to fight? Ye can battle me!” She whirled around and laid her hands on the sword hilt in Neil’s grasp. “M’ brothers taught me a bit about the claymore. Let me have at him, Niall.”
“Not on your life!” Astounded by her gumption, he held onto his weapon.
Calum regarded her as he would an escapee from an insane asylum, but lowered his arm. “I’ll not battle a woman.”
“No need.” Neil struggled to free the blade from Mora without cutting her. Eyes flashing, she literally wrestled him for the sword.
“Mora, git back,” Calum chided.
“Nae!”
Neil was hard-pressed to put her off. “You should have been a warrior.”
“I may yet be if Calum will not yield!”
“The claymore is too heavy for you,” Neil argued, though impressed by her strength.
An ima
ge returned to him of Mora as a fiery little girl. Being older, he hadn’t played with her when the Campbells visited Donhowel, but Calum had. Neil remembered looking on in amusement when she’d knocked Calum to the floor and flailed him with her fists after he’d teased her. Neil hadn’t suppressed a chuckle then and one escaped him now. She wouldn’t relent until she held the sword.
“Here. Take it, then.” He carefully shifted the weapon into her eager grasp.
She gripped the hilt in both hands to raise it. Chin arched, a tremor in her arms, she waved it determinedly at Calum.
He stepped aside. “Mora, lay the blade down. I’ll not fight ye.”
Neil smiled. “Better make a run for it while you have the chance. She pummeled you when you were a lad. Heaven preserve you if she wields the claymore.”
Calum inhaled sharply and stood like a suddenly reined in horse. “What did ye speak?”
“She lit into you. Blackened your eye.”
“Aye,” Anna said. “In a fit of temper.”
Mora seemed to sense the change in Calum and lowered her arms, but warned, “He’s about to git another taste of ’m poor humor.”
Calum let this pass and eyed Neil. Wonder mixed with the mistrust lingering in his scrutiny. “How do ye know this? Did she tell ye?”
“No. I remember.”
Calum stared at him. “What name did she gie me when we were bairns?”
“Calum Balum.”
He searched Neil’s eyes. “What did she call ye?”
“Niall Gial. She was but five years old and loved to rhyme.”
Shaking his head in disbelief or dawning recognition, Calum asked, “Niall? Are ye truly he?”
“Aye.”
Their mother heaved a shaky breath. “Did I not say?”
Calum wiped the back of his hand across his glistening brow. “What became of ye? Were ye knocked o’er the head?”
Actually Neil had cracked the back of his head after coming through the portal and it still ached, but he doubted this reply would suit Calum. He simply nodded.
It appeared they’d reached a sort of truce. Calum sheathed his blade over his shoulder in the back scabbard. “Were ye carried off by Englishers?”
