Born of Fire

by Kella McKinnon

  It slowly dawned on her that despite the beauty of the night, something didn’t feel right. As she looked around, trying to make sense of everything, the hairs on the back of her neck stood up with some long-forgotten instinct. Danger. Something bad was going to happen; she could feel it now in the tension of the air. Namet brought her to a stop directly in front of the dark alter. The edges of fear skirted her mind with icy fingers, and she had to work hard to tamp it down. Then King Bridei was walking towards her, and her fear was abruptly, if momentarily, overshadowed once more by sheer fascination.

  His skin was golden and his long hair shown in the firelight, which also accented the dark tattoos on his high cheekbones. There was something about him, a primal energy maybe, that drew all of her attention, and she was certain that she could look at him for hours and never be bored with it. He moved with an animal grace, and so much poise and power. He was her fantasy warrior-king come to life and stepping right out of her darkest dreams. And she had had dreams of him…oh had she ever. When other young girls were mooning over the latest gorgeous movie star, Nessa had been picturing herself in the arms of a sword-wielding barbarian.

  Bridei came to a stop just beside her. He was so close that she could feel the heat of his body, even above that of the fires, and once more smell the musk of his warm skin. Her heart pounded so loudly that she was certain he must hear it. His hand settled on the small of her back, and only then did she notice that Namet’s hand was no longer locked around her arm; at some point he had slipped away into the crowd.

  She looked up at Bridei, and he met her gaze. His eyes were dark, and the dancing flames were reflected in them. They were different than the flames of the torch that had reflected in Namet’s eyes. These flames almost seemed to come from within. The black tattoos on his cheekbones blended into shadow near his temples, but she could see his mouth clearly. His lips were full and soft looking against all of that raw maleness. Something flickered in his eyes as he regarded her, and she felt a subtle pull on her body, or her mind…or maybe it was both. Maybe it was just a trick of her fear and the firelight.

  A cheer rose from the crowd, and Nessa tore her gaze from the King beside her to see a man being dragged up onto the platform by a rope around his neck, his staggering, shuffling steps and air of hopelessness holding her bewildered stare. She sucked in a startled breath.

  “What’s happening?” she asked in a rough whisper.

  “Watch”, he commanded. But he was watching her. She could feel his dark eyes on her almost like a physical touch.

  She did watch; though later, and forever after, she would wish that she had looked away.

  A burly man holding a very long, very sharp-looking knife stepped up to the platform. Another stood beside him, speaking in a steady, monotone chant. Her ears strained to hear what he was saying, but she couldn’t understand a word of it, even though the crowd had suddenly gone quiet.

  She shook her head slightly in confusion. “That’s not Pictish. What language is he speaking?”

  Bridei leaned closer, and his warm breath near her ear made her shiver. “It’s the old tongue. A language much more ancient than our own. The priests use it because it is sacred. Have you never heard it before?”

  “No…I haven’t.” How did she not know about the existence of an ancient ceremonial language? Was it in a book that she had somehow missed? A scroll that had crumpled to dust before anyone thought to copy it? How old was it? She sighed. If she’d known she would actually end up here, she would have read and re-read every last book in her family’s collection. Then she at least might have been more prepared.

  Her budding curiosity died a sudden and violent death when the man with the knife held it high above his head, shouting his strange, beautiful words to the crowd. They answered as one, every man, woman and child, and she thought she imagined the fires blazing a little taller and brighter as they did. The knife came down and settled against the captive’s throat. The poor man had gone still, his eyes closed, waiting…

  She gasped when it dawned on her that she was about to watch an execution…or a ritual human sacrifice? Or maybe a little bit of both? After all, they were not that different when it came down to it. Her mind chose that moment to draw a sudden and horrible conclusion. The altar was a darker color because it was soaked with blood.

  And then it came: the pull of the knife across his throat, and a sick, gurgling sound as his lungs tried to draw in one more breath through a butchered windpipe. But before the man could bleed or suffocate to death, the executioner brought the blunt end of an axe down on his head, and his eyes closed forever. An act of mercy?

  The sharp tang of fresh blood filled the air, and the body was lifted and ceremoniously placed on the largest fire, which was—conveniently—built in a rectangular shape, about six feet in length. Soon the smell of burning flesh reached her, and it was all she could do to keep the bile from rising in her throat.

  Bridei lifted her chin, forcing her to look at him. “Now you have seen what happens to our enemies.” His lips quirked at the corners. “You are pale and trembling. Do you wish to change your story? I am listening.”

  “I thought the bodies were thrown into the bog, not…cooked.” she said quietly.

  “No, only the Celts throw their dead into the bogs. Though we sometimes punish people by pinning then under the water with stakes while they still breathe.”

  She turned her face to break his grip on her chin, and he let go. “But that would kill them.” She imagined the horror of being submerged in the dark, peaty water, sticks and half rotted leaves brushing her skin while she struggled to hold her breath just one second more. She’d had a nightmare like that once. She’d woken up screaming and gasping for air.

  He gave a little humorless laugh. “Aye, that is the punishment, lass.”

  She looked back to the platform, where now another unfortunate soul was being readied for his death. “Are these people being punished…or sacrificed?” she asked. Somehow she knew she would feel better if they had at least done something to deserve their ritual murder.

  “Both. We give a sacrifice of blood and body to the goddess, but we sacrifice those that have wronged us. Our enemies. Our criminals. The goddess of the underworld doesn’t care who we send to her, only that we do it in her name.”

  So they were criminals. Okay, she could maybe live with that. The man on the platform staring out into the crowd with resignation in his eyes was probably a murderer, or a rapist, or something even worse. His arms were tied above him, and his tunic had been sliced from his body so that it hung in tatters around his waist. The man with the knife stepped forward, held it up to the sky, and repeated the chant. As the crowd answered, he turned and drove the blade into the center of the man’s chest, drawing it down, sawing with effort through the cartilage of his ribs. The crowd chanted louder, and the knife was withdrawn, replaced with hands that were shoved into the chest, spreading it open wider. Luckily, the victim was unconscious, or even dead, by the time his lungs were drawn out of the opening.

  “Is that the Blood Eagle? Oh god, I thought only the Vikings did that.” She cursed the tremble in her voice that made her seem weak. In truth, she was surprised she was still standing and hadn’t yet vomited. I’m stronger than I ever thought I was. The revelation actually bolstered her spirits a little and gave her a bit of hope that she would get out of this whole thing alive. If she could stand here and take in this horror and not faint or heave her guts out, she could do anything.

  “Who are these Vikings? The old man speaks of them too.”

  He wouldn’t know, she supposed. The Vikings wouldn’t arrive in this part of Scotland for a while yet. “No one, just a tribe I heard of once. From the far North”, she said numbly.

  She watched as they cut down the dead man, his lifeless body falling with a dull thud onto the wooden platform, causing blood to spatter on anyone standing near enough. She said a silent prayer for his soul, to no god in particular, but whichever one
was listening. “What did he do?” It must have been terrible, whatever it was.

  “The man was a horse thief.”

  Only a horse thief? God—he must have had one heck of a career. “How…how many horses?”

  “One.”

  “Only one? That’s the punishment for stealing one horse?”

  “Our horses are sacred to us, more valuable than gold. To steal one is to take part of a man’s soul. What is the difference if he stole one horse, or a thousand?”

  Bridei marveled at the wide-eyed innocence of this woman. It was as if she had truly never seen a fire ceremony to honor the Earth with the blood of man. Perhaps she had been cosseted and sheltered all her life. And yet, she was no weak and whimpering lass, lost without the safety of some inner sanctum. He saw how she took everything in, her gaze moving from person to person, her intelligent eyes missing nothing. It was either all new to her, or she was seeking out something in particular. At last, it all seemed to all catch up with her, and she swayed a little beside him. He quickly caught her by the elbow, steadying her.

  “I think…I think I might faint.” The lass leaned her cheek against his chest for support, and his hand moved to touch her hair, taking advantage of her nearness to find out for himself if it was as soft and thick as sable, as he had thought it might be. It wasn’t though…it was even softer.

  “I’m sorry”, she said, recovering herself and pulling away. “It’s been a long day. I’m tired. And I don’t faint—ever.”

  Bridei had watched her face carefully during the sacrifices for the slightest sign of her guilt, and the longer he looked at her, the more difficult it became to stop. She was beautiful, to be sure, but it was more than that. There was a light about her, as if she glowed softly from within. And something about her made his cock hard and his stomach feel as if it were dropping from a cliff every time he laid eyes on her. He hoped to all the gods that she was not an enemy, because it would be a shame to have to snuff out that light and waste such beauty.

  The ceremonies tonight took less time than usual—it had been a good moon, with little crime, or perhaps it was just his increased vigilance of late—and so he gripped the lass’s arm and steered her back to the broch. He’d have to bind her with the ropes again, because until he knew the truth, she couldn’t be trusted. He wouldn’t have her escaping or trying to kill him while he slept.

  As they passed the kitchen, a large wooden building near the back entrance of the broch, he paused.

  “Are you hungry?” he asked her. She must be, he couldn’t recall telling anyone to feed her today.

  She nodded, looking down at her feet, which were still clad in those strange straps of leather. “I am.”

  He leaned into the doorway of the kitchen. “Seecha! Bring food for the lass, please.” He turned and looked at Nessa, letting his gaze slowly rake over her from head to toe. There was a strange sensation in the pit of his stomach as he did so; a kind of fluttering he had never felt before, but it reminded him of the way his body was on edge and ready just before a battle. He considered for a moment bringing her to another building for the night, but no, the broch was far more secure and easily guarded. He would sleep elsewhere. Not because he needed to avoid temptation; he was above that. But he did not need the rumors and gossip that would follow should he share his room with a woman, enemy or not.

  “To my chamber.”

  If he’d meant to unbalance her with that dark, hungry look, he had. Little did she know that one day she would come to crave that look with every cell in her body. At this moment, though, it made her more nervous than anything else. She had no way of knowing whether he would force himself on her. She didn’t think he would, but then again, he was known to be ruthless and above the law of the land. He was the law of the land. He could do anything he wanted to her and she would be powerless to stop him. The prospect of rape was slightly better than death, and he had told her he wouldn’t touch her in that way. Suddenly the thought of him touching her at all made Nessa’s stomach flutter and her body flood with heat. She didn’t know what was wrong with her traitorous body, but she decided to chalk it up to her recently acquired fear of dying, and perhaps the after-effects of years of fierce warrior fantasies.

  They were back in the room where she had already spent most of the day tied to a post; a room she now knew was the King’s personal chamber. He had placed the torch he carried in the holder, then lit three others around the perimeter of the room until the entire space flickered with a warm light. The furnishings were sparse, though beautiful. The bed had a wooden headboard elaborately carved with animal figures, and there were several trunk-like wooden boxes against the wall, also carved with intricate designs and inlaid with what appeared to be gold. There was a table and some chairs, and a large tub for bathing, sitting near the cold and ashy hearth. The night was not cold enough that there was need for a fire. She eyed the wooden post in the center of the room warily. The ropes were still hanging from it.

  Bridei was watching her. “I won’t tie you again until you’ve eaten. Sit.”

  He gestured to one of the simple wooden chairs by the fireplace, and she sat. Bridei dragged the small table over next to her. He had left the door open, and moments later a young woman—presumably Seecha—bustled in with a steaming wooden bowl. She placed in on the table and laid a spoon on the side, glancing shyly at Nessa.

  “Thank you”, Nessa said, offering an uncertain smile, and the girl pressed her lips together and nodded. Starving, she picked up the spoon and took a bite. Her taste buds met with a warm, meaty flavor. “This is delicious, what is it?”

  “Lamb stew,” Seecha said, now with a small but proud grin. She was obviously the one who had prepared it and appreciated the complement.

  Nessa stared for a moment at the contents of the bowl in front of her as images of severed, dripping lamb heads in baskets danced through her mind. With a sigh, she shrugged and took another bite. Good thing she’d grown up on a farm.

  “That will be all for now. You may go.”

  Seecha left the room at his command, and Bridei pulled up another chair and sat across from Nessa, watching her eat in stony silence. Or was it thoughtful silence? Either way, his closeness was making her nervous. And when she got nervous, she fought back against whatever was making her anxious. She always had. It had gotten her into trouble more than once as a child. If he wanted to intimidate her with dark looks and the threat of bodily harm, she would show him he didn’t frighten her at all. She was going to enjoy her dinner as if she were in a five-star restaurant.

  Pretending to ignore him, she set about relishing her meal, closing her eyes and savoring each bite, sucking it from the spoon with a small moan of pleasure.

  The King shifted in his chair and glared at her. “What are you doing?”

  She looked up, as if just noticing him there. “Eating. I’m hungry. Starving, actually. I haven’t eaten since breakfast.”

  He crossed his arms, which were bare in his sleeveless leather tunic. “You are lucky I am feeding you at all. You are not a guest here; you are being held on suspicion of spying.”

  Nessa paused with her spoon in midair. So it was official then. “But I’m not a spy. In fact, I would make a horrible spy.”

  “We’ll see. I have ways of knowing for certain, and I will find out, one way or another.”

  She dropped her spoon into the bowl, her brief act of bravado falling away like the illusion it was. “What can I do to prove it to you? I’m lost. I only want to go home.”

  “I thought you said you were going to meet your future husband, to be married.”

  Damn it, this was why she never lied! She tossed up her hands. “I never said I wanted to be married. I’d rather go home.” Tears threatened, burning her eyes, and she picked up her spoon again, sucking another spoonful of stew into her mouth to cover it up. She would have married Nathan in a heartbeat right then if she could only have gotten back to him.

  Bridei abruptly took the bowl and s
poon away from her, and she protested. “Hey! I wasn’t finished!”

  “But I am.” He took her by the arm and pulled her out of the chair. She stood up as he did so, and was wrenched forward, falling solidly against him. Their bodies came into full contact: from where her breasts pressed against the hardness of his chest, to where their thighs met. Even their eyes were locked together. He flinched as if she had burned him, and she heard him inhale sharply.

  Nessa was tired and frightened and uncertain of everything she had ever thought to be true, but for a moment she was reluctant to move away from Bridei. He was warm and solid, and everywhere their bodies touched her skin was tingling. She could smell him; that dark musky scent that made her want to lean in and breath him deeper. Little butterflies escaped from the flock in her stomach, and fluttered through her whole body. Was that his heart beating so fast, or was it hers?

  He stepped away from her suddenly, breaking whatever hazy spell she had fallen under. He kept hold of her arm and dragged her to the post. He seemed angry now, though she didn’t know what she had done to make him so.

  “Sit.”

  She leaned against the smooth wood, sliding slowly down until she was sitting with her back against it. “Do you really have to tie me up again?”

  “Aye. Until I know your truth.”

  He leaned over her, and with curt, jerky movements, reached for the ropes and secured her wrists in knots that she knew from recent experience she wouldn’t be able to loosen no matter how hard she tried.