by Alisa Adams
The battle was quick and decisive.
While Lachlan had assumed that these men belonged to a laird keeping his allegiance quiet, it was easy to realize his mistake. These men were not soldiers. They charged forward with hammers, chisels, pitchforks, and the odd cleaving knife. They wore no shield, had shoes that promoted no grip, and possessed no helmets. Instead, they had wrapped cloth around their heads to see to the chill and kept leather masks upon their eyes to hide their identities. They fought with no coordination or unitary tactics—just ran blindly forward with the passion and speed of the desperate.
These men were not soldiers. They were common thieves.
By the time a half dozen men were scattered across the ground with stains of crimson oozing from beneath their bodies, there was no fight left in those that had hoped to catch Lachlan's men unawares. The simple sight of death had turned half upon their heels, and suddenly the whole mob was disheveled and out of sorts. They crashed into one another and tripped over their fallen comrades. When one of the older men was held at Harris's swordpoint, Lachlan witnessed the thief throw one of the smallest boys at the lieutenant. Harris was forced to defend himself against the human projectile and lost his leverage on the larger, older man.
That had obviously been his intention: sacrifice the small for the sake of the strong.
No loyalty amongst thieves, Lachlan recalled. That was what people said.
Apparently, it was all too true.
In all, only a handful of the brigands were able to break free and run back towards the cragged hills from which they had been birthed. The others lay either dying upon the ground or were surrounded by Mackenzie soldiers, their hands secured behind their heads. The smallest of the lot—a child that couldn't be more than twelve years old beneath all that dirt—was being held at the arm by Harris.
"What do you want done with them, my lord?" Harris asked, as Lachlan dismounted from his horse.
Lachlan flicked his sword towards the earth, the streak of scarlet sliding from the metal to spray the ground. He took a rag from behind his belt and rubbed the blade.
"You wan’ an example made?" his lieutenant prompted, throwing the child at Lachlan's feet, who hit the earth with a soft gasp that only served to confirm his suspicions. His voice was too high. There was no chance that this little creature had even reached manhood yet.
Just what kind of monsters brought children into fights against trained soldiers?
Aoide wished that she knew more curses. Her mother had used a select few when life had been difficult, and the men in their township would close in with their suspicions of witchcraft. She had learned them, simply from being the only person that Fanny could ever confide in. But she had never sought to expand her vocabulary.
She wished she knew them now when her world was nothing but fear and pain and she needed something to scream and shout.
Something that would express the level of injustice at this moment.
Forced to the ground, her knees sore with bruises and her hands cut and blistered, Aoide was bent on all fours attempting to squash down her terror.
She had tried to stay clear of the fighting. She had run slower, kept to the back of the ambushing force, tried not to dive directly for any of the soldiers, and just duck and dive between them. She'd done nothing with her rock except stab at an arm that had reached for her in the melee. There had been a cry of pain, the fingers had released her, and she had continued running. She hadn't attacked anyone, only defended herself. And, even then, only the once.
Yet, she had been part of an ignorant group that had made an ambush upon soldiers. There would be consequences; results she could not escape.
Not that she hadn't tried.
In keeping to the back, Aoide had hoped that she would be able to dart away when trouble arose. Old Garrett had put paid to that. When he'd been in trouble, it had been nothing to him to simply reach out, take her arm, and throw her upon the mercy of the soldiers. He had hauled her at them as if she were nothing of worth.
And it had worked.
The selfish damnation of a man had gotten away, and here she was splayed at the feet of the commander-in-charge.
Trying not to shake, Aoide slowly looked up.
Fear had Aoide's eyes fly wide.
Before her stood the largest man she had ever beheld. Her head was forced back, her neck aching at the nape, as she tried to meet his gaze, so far above her. The man was as thick as he was tall. With shoulders broader than the horizon and legs solid and strong, she instantly felt herself tremble.
This man could tear her limb from limb without breaking a sweat.
And worse still, from the thunderous look on his face, he would feel no guilt in doing so. He would have rid the world of a useless wastrel. His conscience would be clean.
Shooting her gaze straight back to the floor, Aoide's hand tightened on her rock. She hadn't let it go—even when the other man had latched hold of her arm and seen fit to pull her into a binding embrace. She had held on to it, unable to use it to free herself but not willing to discard it altogether.
It was hers. It was one of the only things that were hers.
Sliding it further into her hand, beneath the long and gaping sleeve of her shirt, Aoide prayed to whoever might be listening that it would go unnoticed, that she would not lose something again. Even if it was just a stone.
Swallowing, Aoide realized that she needed to listen. The rolling voice above her head—the one that sounded like the rumble of a storm—was deciding her fate right now.
And she was letting it pass her by without notice.
"...no sense in holding us up," the commander was saying to his man. "We deal with them here, and it's our Christian duty to see them buried on consecrated ground. I'll not have the delay. We'll take them with us to Scone."
Aoide felt her whole body begin to shake.
She didn't like soldiers at the best of times. In numerous towns and cities, it had been the militia that had seen to her mother's arrests. It had been the people that rose up, that birthed the suspicions and the ignorant hatred. But it was the soldiers that had been charged with the duty of arresting and subduing the “witches.” They acted, so they said, in the name of protecting their people.
Yet no one ever decided that we were their people, Aoide had always thought with a little sting.
Now, the notion of traveling with them was trebled under the knowledge of their destination—Scone—where the prisons were dank and the criminals of the land strung up by their thumbs. Naive enough to believe every rumor as truth, Aoide knew that those kept within the walls of Scone Prison were treated as little more than experiments. Test subjects to see how long a human being could survive torture and humiliation. Mutilations, cruelty, and violations were commonplace. She knew that. For it was what Old Garrett had always told her when she had stepped out of line. That were she not to obey his every command, their next journey would be to Scone, where they would hand over the “baby witch” for the soldiers to play with.
Fearing that she might be sick, Aoide took great gasps of air.
She needed to say something, to explain. She needed to beg or plead or claim her innocence. She needed to do something. But, as the boys would have said, Aoide was not the sharpest arrow in the quiver, and her frightened mind failed to come up with anything that might make so large and powerful a man listen to her. Surely, if he didn't like what she said, he had only to put out a foot, step down, and squash her like a bug?
Right now, he was at least promising to keep her alive until Scone.
As rough hands reached to take hold of her underarms, Aoide struggled to adjust her balance, her bare feet trying to find purchase on the ground. A stone cut into her heel, and she winced, but she kept her lips sealed around the gasp of pain. Instead, her tongue tangled with two words that were perhaps odd to all but she.
As her gaze happened to meet that of the monstrous bear of a man before her, Aoide breathed a reverent whisper. "Thank you."<
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Bizarre as it might have been, Aoide knew the strength of this man. She could see it in the bulging lines of his muscles of his arms and thighs and the way in which his men obeyed him. She could tell that he was a powerful man—a God amongst the others as he rode his steed on two legs instead of four. He had every right to take her head, to feed her to his men for their lascivious delights.
He had done none of it, only vowed that they would be taken for arrest and trial under a court of law. Even if such a final destination was as bad as hell itself, he had given her just a few more days of life.
How could she not thank him for that?
Momentary surprise and confusion were the last emotions that Aoide saw flicker across the man's face before she was hauled around and pushed towards a nearby oak. It was tall and wide and already sported the ornaments of Jacky, Eric, and Micky tied in place about its trunk. The lieutenant was quick and effective as he whipped up another length of cord, bound her hands and feet, and then saw her shackled to the tree with the others. She did nothing to fight him, hiding her rock between her hands and watching the other men over his shoulder. They were breaking into groups, seeing to tasks like saddling the horses and filling waterskins.
"We move out in ten minutes," the big commander growled as his second finished with his knots. The scruffy-bearded man barely looked at her as he turned his back and headed back to his duties, quick to make ready their camp for departure.
Ten minutes, she thought. Ten minutes and I will be on my way to a future of cruelty, terror, and pain.
Trying not to cry, Aoide let her head fall back against the trunk of the tree. Above her, the dimmed light sparkled through the leaves. Hopeful rays that, given her current situation, she could hardly trust.
She knew that she had never been a saint, but just what had she ever done to deserve this sort of end?
3
While carting a handful of would-be thieves all over the Highlands was hardly a boon for the journey, a good commander wasn't fazed by momentary setbacks.
Lachlan ensured, with a simple order and an attitude that posed no argument, that the additional cargo would not slow them down. A simple threat to the thieves and a word in Harris's ear and the group marched at the same pace as the soldiers, their hands bound in a rope chain that would see them all fall to their deaths if a single foot was placed wrong.
If God decided that to be their fate, so be it.
Instead of worrying about the thieves, Lachlan was more interested in the welfare of his men. They had been marching for weeks, and while he had taken great care to ensure that their food and water supplies had never run short, boredom could be just as hard on a soldier's efficiency as any lack of sustenance. During the day, when they were ordered to put one foot in front of the other, this was hardly a concern; they were distracted enough by their duty to be kept quiet and forward-facing. When it came to the evenings, however, when the sun dipped too far beneath the horizon for them to be able to safely journey onwards, the noise of rough play and jeering was beginning to increase.
Four nights after they had stopped at Loch Airen, the noise reached the loudest it had been since they had left the Mackenzie provinces. Lachlan had been settled within his tent, seeing to missives and records of their last day's journey, when calls and hoots rose up amongst the camp.
Initially, he ignored them.
Harris was an effective commander of men and knew what was and wasn't permitted in the unit. He was not the sort of captain who overstepped his officers or did their job for them. Instead, he had simply glanced about his tent, his eyes taking in his environment in their momentary distraction, and then turned back to his writing.
He likely looked almost comical at his little desk. It was small, able to be condensed down to a single plate of wood that was then carried on the back of one of their pack mules. The stool on which he perched and the cot on which he slept was the same. None were large enough for his frame, and he dwarfed them in his use of them—a giant living amongst mortal possessions.
Lachlan shifted his rear on the stool again and set himself the task of focusing once more. He ignored the ache in the small of his back, his duty coming first, and his health second.
He was about to put quill to paper once more when another holler and several calls broke through the night. They were louder this time and, even through the linen of his tent, Lachlan made out some of the words.
Frowning, he threw down the stylus and rose to his feet. His head brushed the roof of the tent, and he was forced to duck under an oil lamp before he reached the flap that served as a door. He stepped out into the night, his face a mask of thunderous disapproval as he stormed across to the open campfire and the rest of his men.
Despite his size, Lachlan was quick on his feet, and his careful tread made little noise as he approached. It was only when his looming shape and the black expression on his face could be seen in the firelight that his lieutenant and a few of his newest soldiers jumped to their feet. Several hovered, already standing, their attentions turned towards the prisoners. One even had a hand outstretched, ready to touch the smallest boy.
"Report, Harris," Lachlan ordered. His voice was like stone; cold and hard. He didn't accept dissension in the ranks. He didn't care how long the men had been traveling, how long they had been away from their wives and children, or without an enemy to fight. He would not see them break down into bullies and tricksters.
"Seems we have a woman in the camp, sir," Harris explained. His voice gave nothing away, but then it didn't have to. Lachlan knew exactly what kind of a stir having a female around would cause.
Yet he hadn't seen one.
His gaze ran over the crowd, wondering if one of the boys had slipped away to a township and brought back a whore or clingy female.
"You sure?" he asked, his voice so low it was practically a growl.
Harris tilted the corner of his temple towards where the prisoners were tied to the tree.
With a frown, Lachlan stepped amongst his men to his right. He dodged around their log benches and splayed knees before bending to claim a rod of wood from the fire. Selecting one that would not see the conical shape falling in upon itself, Lachlan lifted the torch and moved towards their makeshift prison. One of his younger soldiers, Unwin, was already hovering beside the tree. His hand hung in midair, poised in its reach towards the smallest of the boys. His face was unsure, and seemed fearful that his actions were about to be punished. As his captain approached, his hand snapped back to his side. His feet stumbled as he tried to fall back and out of Lachlan's way, his cheeks turning pink.
Such a strange response had Lachlan narrowing his eyes, his gaze shifting from Unwin to the boy.
The boy stared straight back, frightened but defiant.
Over the last four days, Aoide had begun to worry about her sanity. It was as if she were separating into two people. While her future had been dictated as one of a hellish nightmare, each step towards Scone had only seen one half of her grow in bravery. With each night she had spent in the company of the soldiers, she had observed the way they made camp and who had been assigned which shifts of watch. She had learned their behaviors and patterns and prayed that she might find a moment of discrepancy. If she knew just when there might be a time when she and the boys weren't being watched as if by hawks, she could use her rock to tear at the ropes and break them free. But freedom would do them no good if they hadn't the chance to run with it.
And a failed escape was worse than no escape at all.
With every night that had passed, the bolder side of her had found herself asking questions of some of the soldiers, peering at them in a way that they had found a little too pretty for the likes of a little boy.
The closer they grew to Scone and her eventual fate, the less she cared for her safety. Not to mention the fact that none of the soldiers were anywhere near as scary as their leader. The captain spent most of his evenings in his tent, away from the others. Without his tall, dark s
hadow, Aoide had found herself taking more risk than she probably should have. She had been more confident than she had any right to be as a prisoner, and now she was paying the price.
Her gender had been discovered, her weakness exposed.
Had she realized that she had a secret to keep, that brave side of Aoide might have been more careful. She might have hidden from the darker gazes of the men.
She hadn't known that the soldiers had assumed her to be male until their reactions to her sex had brought jeers and taunts as well as offers to keep her warm at night, and suggestions that she was to dance for them soon followed.
She was used to such comments from the brigands she was forced to call her comrades, but she had never been approached by those that exuded such violence, and not in so great a number.
And that was when her second half had taken over.
Where the first half of her split heart had gained confidence with every passing day, her determination to break free stronger with each rising of the sun, the sacrifice for such moments of courage was to fall into raptures of terror elsewhere, such as now.
In moments like this, when staring eyes were hot with interest and hands were reaching to touch, Aoide's reality became so painfully obvious. It sparked fear in her gut and fueled her weakling self to take over, to clamor with the desire to curl into a ball and hide away someplace safe and quiet.
A sharp voice had seen the havoc her sex had caused come to a quiet stillness. The men had turned static, paralyzed by the appearance of their commander.
Aoide felt her mouth go dry. Perhaps their silence was a warning of her future.
Did his men draw silent and step away because the commander was supposed to hold the first claim over captured women? She had seen that he was the only man to claim a tent during their encampments. Was she about to be claimed and taken there, forced to bow down and be subjected to him? Was that why his soldiers now seemed to fear the notion of touching her?
