Page 9 of Edge of Yesterday

The sword beating now thrummed a slow, steady rhythm, eerie and primal. Others joined in, knocking fists or knife hilts on the long tables. Valdar turned his face toward the smoke-blackened ceiling rafters as if seeing the ancients peering down at him. After a long moment, he lowered his gaze and pointed the tip of his dagger at the Blooding Stone.

“We need a hero. A man willing to shed his blood for Heatheredge.”

Cailean jarred. What? Shed blood? Modern Highlanders didn’t perform human sacrifices. Yet Valdar’s expression remained as grave as any pagan priest he could have imagined.

“A quick cut to the arm is all we ask.” Valdar’s words echoed in the stillness.

“A quick cut?” Cailean whispered.

Valdar’s voice droned on, answering almost as if the great man had heard him, “A few drops of shed blood to nourish the stone and honor the memories of the long line of Heatheredge heroes who surrendered their lives as in distant times.”

“Thought he wanted a real sacrifice, eh?” Red-beard whispered.

Cailean looked at him. “I did wonder.”

Now, however, he was tempted to volunteer. What an honor to have your blood splattered across the Heatheredge Blooding Stone—to know that such an intrinsic part of yourself helped stain the rock, a forever bond with this exceptional place.

“Who will come forth?” Val’s gaze found his, but slipped away as quickly to light on others as he swept the teeming hall. “Who will heed the call of the ancients?”

The silence turned heavy, the sense of anticipation so thick Cailean would’ve sworn he could see the smoke haze quivering. He wanted this, badly. Dare he stand?

“Cailean!” shouted a man in the low hall.

Cailean jerked his head in the direction of the shout.

“Cailean,” yelled another, then another.

Red-Beard lifted his ale cup and joined in, “Cailean.”

Other voices rose. Men leapt to their feet, rattling swords or pumping fists in the air. The deafening ruckus swelled to a thunderous roar. Anticipation rammed through Cailean. He pushed back his chair and walked around the high table. Each man clapped him on the arm or back as he passed. He descended the dais steps and strode toward Valdar.

The great man spread his arms as Cailean halted in front of him. “Behold Cailean Ross, our champion.” He faced Cailean. “Kneel, if you willingly give your blood to answer the ancient call.”

Heart hammering, Cailean knelt on one knee. A bullhorn sounded and the hall fell silent. The horn wailed two more times, then a young, white-robed lad darted forward and gripped Cailean’s arm. Quick as lightning, he shoved up Cailean’s sleeve and positioned his arm across the flat surface of the stone.

Dagger gripped in his right hand, Val spoke a strange litany that sounded like Gaelic mixed with something more ancient. Cailean couldn’t tear his eyes from the dagger. Val’s words faded, as if spoken from a distance. The blade gleamed, then seemed to lengthen. Cailean’s heart pounded. The shining blade writhed like a snake. He fought an urge to touch the apparition.

The blur of a downward slash startled him from the trance. Bright light flared in his vision then he registered the red trail of blood on his forearm. He watched in fascination as the glistening rivulet trickled down the side of his arm and slowly seeped into the ancient crevasses etched in the stone. A wave of dizziness swept over him, then vanished when strong fingers gripped his arm. He snapped his head up as Valdar pulled him to his feet. The great hall erupted in shouts. One of the joy-women rushed to his side and deftly bandaged his arm.

“It is a small cut, my lord.” She tied off the bandage. “You may not even have a scar.”

Cailean grinned. “That would be a shame.” He glanced at Val who cleaned his blade with a silvered cloth.

Val smiled as he returned his dagger to its sheath. “You have just entered into Heatheredge’s history.”

~*~

Dressed in full plate, mail, and a plumed helm, Cailean rode alongside his friend Alan McMahon, known on the tourney circuit as Sir Alan—and slated as Cailean’s tiltyard opponent. Cailean kept his gaze on Val Ross and the other Heatheredge dignitaries riding in front of him on the High Street. Heatheredge’s award-winning pipe and drum band led them, but the crowd’s joyous shouts of ‘To the Edge!’ nearly drowned out the instruments. Cailean kept his eyes forward. If he glimpsed the crowd’s shining faces, the sea of flags and pennants they waved, he half feared he’d wake in his bed back in Cumbernauld to find Heatheredge had been no more than a dream.

Late morning sun warmed his face through his helmet’s open visor. He relaxed in the saddle, glad for the solid muscle of the heavily caparisoned charger he rode. Aptly named Hercules, the beast had been the luck-of-the-draw. Literally. Yet another Heatheredge tradition. At the ceremonial breakfast of champions, jousters pulled the names of their steeds from Val Ross’ silver helm. Cailean had chosen last. Hercules had been meant for him.

Cailean patted the charger’s neck. Like him, Hercules was a champion and Cailean intended to maintain his winning streak. After five days and seven trophies, Cailean held the highest scores. He planned to witness Valdar and Elizabeth’s dramatic encounter moment-by-moment as a participant. Living history—the reason he was here. But Otto had informed him of an unspoken tradition. No matter how many wins a knight held, no knight who lost today’s joust had ever been honored with a role in the night’s Elizabeth-Valdar reenactment.

Alan waved to the crowd. His roguish smile and showy black-and-gold enameled armor made him a favorite with the ladies, especially the sword chasers. Something about his shaved head, gold earring, and neatly-trimmed black beard attracted lassies who appreciated ‘bad boys.’ Alan was a friend, but that wouldn’t stop Cailean from knocking him on his arse in the joust.

Through the gates ahead, Cailean spotted a twin row of kilted warriors with raised spears and swords. His heart began to pound. The gaily-festooned gate led to the tiltyard where the jousting competition would take place.

“To the Edge! To the Edge!” shouted the crowd.