Page 20 of Darach

The Fire sword brought another wench from the future to Dun Lasair last night. She’s tall, pale haired and wounded. Bring her to the sacrarium before the full moon, and put her in the holding place. Dinnae fail me, my son.

To keep from shrieking with joy Fyn bit his tongue, and then took out his firesteel to set the parchment alight. Watching the note burn to a curl of ash, he imagined all the ways in which he might play with the new wench. The master would first do things to her, of course, to make her confess her secrets, but watching that was almost as much fun as taking his turn.

She’ll tell you naught, you scabby gowk. Aye, for her laughter shallnae permit her speak.

The sound of the dead hoor’s whisper made Fyn draw his blade and turn around slowly. He knew she could not be there––he’d watched her corpse burn––but lately he had been hearing her voice taunting him from the shadows. He’d sown salt all over his chamber, which kept her out so he could sleep, but he’d used the last of it in the sacrarium after finishing his latest tasks for the master.

“Come out, you slut,” he muttered, peering into the dark end of the tunnel. “I dinnae fear you. Struan himself scattered your ashes. You cannae hurt me again.”

You reckon you’re safe? A cackle of bitter laughter came from the opposite direction. I wish I’d done more than kick your skinny arse. Dinnae you fear your master shall bring me back from the shadow realm to hunt you, you wee piglet?

Icy sweat trickled down the sides of Fyn’s face. “’Twasnae my desire to end you. I didnae wish you dead. I…I gave you aid, didnae I?”

You caged me, and starved me, and made me watch you night after night while you spewed all that filth in my ears about your hunts. Then you brought me to the shearing barn, and watched him drown me in the dub. You even carried my body to the river so Callum would find what ’twas left of me.

At one time Fyn had been convinced he’d loved her, which was why he had pleaded with the master to spare her.

“Forgive me, please.” His hand shook as he sheathed his dagger. “I didnae wish you to die, nor Callum to burn. ’Twas the master’s doing, and I cannae go against him, for you ken what he’ll do to me.”

His voice echoed around him in the empty tunnel, and for a moment Fyn thought she might have gone. Then he heard her again, this time inside his skull.

I shall haunt you forever unless you do as I told you. Give the wench to him, but find the sain.

“Any Carack who touches the Fire sword shall die,” Fyn protested.

No’ the facking blade, Athdara Martin said. The other sain. The one made by Prince Kaer.

Chapter Five

Darach sent his senior captains to oversee the men training in the lists, and then looked over at Charlotte, who sat listening to the laird. After speaking with Camdyn she still looked too pale, and during the night the bruise on her cut cheek had spread up to her eye. He wanted to carry her back to his chamber and put her to bed, and spend the rest of the day pampering and watching over her. He also wanted very much to go to their dolt of an armorer, drag him out the lists and pound him into the straw-strewn dirt.

Yet for the first time since the two of them had begun clashing as lads he wondered if it would end with only a beating.

“Camdyn meant no harm, Chieftain,” a deep voice said. “And ’twould appear that the lady can well look after herself.”

Darach regarded Taveon. “You didnae see the lady last night when she fell from the sky, her face bloodied and that facking sword in her trembling hand.”

The war master glanced over at Charlotte. “She no longer trembles, Brother, nor does she cower when threatened, as now we ken.” He smiled a little. “Although from what I saw she cannae hope to match you now for quickness. That clout you gave Cam, ’twas mayhap a boon from the Fire sword?”

“Aye. When I took the blade from Charlotte an enchantment swept over me. Now when I move”––he lowered his voice––“I wonder if I’ll blink and end up in a loch.”

“We need test the bounds of your boon, then.” Taveon nodded toward the arch leading down to the castle’s lower levels. “Come down with me to my training chamber.”

“I dinnae wish to leave the lady alone for long,” he warned.

“Our Emery shall keep her ears filled with chatter all morning.” His mouth hitched. “Or should you rather learn how powerful you’ve become the next time you reach for Mistress Walsh, and instead knock her through a wall?”

Darach followed the war master down the stairs and past the dungeons to the big room he used for his own weapons practice. Because Taveon’s weakness left him unable to touch metal, everything inside had been fashioned of wood, leather or stone. Two corded bundles of straw on poles provided targets for his solitary practices, and from the mounds of shorn hay on the floor he likely didn’t often miss.

“Toss a dagger at the form,” the war master suggested.

Darach pulled his shortest blade from his boot, and threw it at the straw target. It moved so fast it blurred, and yet pierced the center as it would any other time.

“Catch.” Taveon hurled something at his face, and smiled as he snatched the whetstone out of the air. “So you’ve grown faster, yet no’ especially stronger. An interesting boon.” He tossed him a wooden staff. “Disarm and we shall spar.”

As he pulled off his tartan and set aside his weapons, Darach wondered if Taveon meant to do more than simply test him.

“If you’re angry with me for hitting Camdyn,” he said as he stepped into the circle chalked on the stone floor, “you may bring him out to the lists tonight. ’Tis long past time we settled our differences.”