Page 23 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

But just as Niven was ready to make the final stretch, Dughall, who had been riding swiftly on behind, just caught him up. Neck to neck with the gray-haired counselor, Niven could no longer pretend not to see him. Reluctantly, he slowed a little.

“Sir,” beseeched Dughall with a slight cough. Irritated, Niven turned around. What now?

The look on the counselor’s face said it all. He seemed to have grown older in the last thirty seconds, his brow furrowing.

Snippily, Niven looked away. “There’s nae time, we need to get there, afore it’s too late…”

Then, he stopped as a thought came to him.

“It’s nae too late, already, is it? Dinnae say they’ve already done the tournament?”

Winds gushed through his head, leathering him senseless. It had only been a week, the competition wasn’t due to start until today, was it?

“Nae, sir, it’s just that there is something ye should see…”

Impatiently, Niven resisted an urge to simply bat him out of the way and ride even faster. Of course, he did not.

Something in his tone was serious. Abruptly, Niven slowed to a trot.

“What is it, Dughall?” he said, following the counselor’s eyes as he gazed into the horizon.

Dughall did not say anything. He simply looked to the distance and then pointed.

By now, Niven was just close enough to the field to make out some faces better.

To his horror, Niven could see the horses entering the jousting field. Whether or not the other rounds had been completed, Niven was not sure.

But one thing was for sure, it looked like the tournament was under way.

And that was not all.

There, in the center of the field, preparing to ride into the tournament, was a knight, head to toe in chain mail and armor. Niven was almost about to ignore him when he saw the yellow and blue tartan on his horse.

He stopped dead.

It was the Macaulay tartan.

And it could only belong to one other person.

The knight completed his circuit of the field to the appreciation of the crowd. Bowing to their applause, the man cocked his helmet, briefly opening it for all to see.

A cold hand squeezed Niven’s heart as he recognized the face in the armor.

Grinning at him was a pale-faced, red-haired young man.

His brother, Fingal.

Chapter Seven

“Deva? Deva? Get here noo, there’s a gentleman I want ye to meet…!”

MacLean’s voice cut through the throng in the field as Deva watched morosely from her position by the gate. Her father, just a little way ahead, beckoned to her.

He was standing just a short way ahead of her, pushing through the crowds to get to the front. Everyone from miles around had crammed into their field. And when Deva looked around, it felt like the whole of the Highlands had assembled.

The tournament was about to begin. The field was packed out, and dotted in and out were servants, carrying impossibly large flagons of ale. In short, everyone was excited, and no-one more so than her father.

“Look! They’re here now! It’ll nae do for the host to be late!” he barked, indicating the nobles’ stand at the top of the field, “So, look sharp or else!”