Page 2

"Come on, come on," he muttered, urging his horse ahead with hands and knees. "Run, ye bastard! Now!"

Over the rise of the hills they flew, toward the outcropping of stone standing at the edge of the moor. Alistair veered around it to his right, following the tracks. More tracks now, leading from behind the outcropping, joining with the others.

He pulled up and listened hard. "Ian!" he shouted, his voice muffled by the fog. "Answer me! Where are ye, man?"

It was then he saw the first drops of blood, like rubies scattered in the snow. He looked up sharply at the sound of hooves and from out of the mist appeared a riderless horse heading back to Ravenspur at a panicked gallop, reins trailing loose behind it. Alistair kicked his mount and raced ahead, drawn sword in his hand. As he reached the open moor he could just make out the shadowy forms of men on horses vanishing toward the border.

But which men? The ones Alistair had watched riding out of Ravenspur? Or the ones who had lain in wait beyond the rock?

But he knew already. Even before he saw the bodies crumpled on the blood-soaked moor, he knew the ambush had succeeded. Eight, he counted swiftly. Or no, not eight. Nine. Every one of them. There, a little apart from the rest, was Ian, his blue cloak unmistakable.

As Alistair dropped to his knees beside his foster brother, Ian stirred. He was alive then, Alistair thought with an uprush of relief so strong it left him dizzy. Of course he was. Ian couldn't die, not here, not like this. Not for a herd of cows.

When Alistair touched his arm, Ian opened his eyes and grinned. A weak grin, to be sure, but still Ian's. He could not be wounded so badly, then. Nothing that could not be mended.

"'Twas Darnley—I never expected him to come himself—the bastard! I should have—waited—for you—"

Alistair pulled back Ian's cloak, searching vainly for a wound. At first glance he did not seem to be marked at all. Yet there was blood. So much blood, rivers of it, soaking Ian's quilted gambeson, staining the snow beneath him.

Backstabbed, Alistair realized numbly. And even he, who had hated Lord John Darnley all his life, was shocked that the Englishman was capable of such a deed.

"Christ, Ian," he said, "we have to get ye home."

But when he tried to lift him, Ian gave a terrible cry of pain and gripped his arm. "Too late—ah, God, Alistair, I'm sorry."

Of course he was. Ian was always sorry afterward. Well, this time he wouldn't find it so easy to get around Alistair with a shrug and a sheepish grin. From now on things would be different. The next time Ian came up with one of his mad schemes, Alistair would make damn sure he listened to reason.

For there would be a next time. There had to be. Ian couldn't possibly be wounded so badly as all that. There was no reason, none at all, to think Ian would not be fine. But, oh, God, there was so much blood.

"Alistair—"

Ian's hand slipped from Alistair's arm and fell to the ground. The high color had faded from his cheeks and his skin was ashen, tinged with a greenish-white that Alistair had seen before. But he refused to acknowledge what it meant.

"Quiet," he ordered. "Save your strength."

He swung the cloak from his own shoulders and draped it over Ian, over the blood-soaked gambeson and scarlet snow. Think, he ordered himself sternly. What is the best way, the quickest way to get him home? But for some unaccountable reason, his mind, usually so obedient, refused to work at all.

"No—no time," Ian said, stuttering a little with cold and shock. "S-say that it's all right, say that you—"

"I forgive ye, all right?" Alistair snapped. "Is that what ye want to hear? Now shut up and let me think."

"Malcolm." Ian's voice was strangely choked as he said his son's name. He tried to clear his throat, then managed a hoarse whisper. "Watch over him."

"Like my own son," Alistair promised, blinking hard against a sudden stinging in his eyes. The wind, he thought. That must be it. The wind was strong and very chill. "But you'll be there, too," he added heartily. "We'll get ye home and—"

Ian coughed sharply and Alistair stared in disbelief at the bright blood gushing from his mouth. He lifted Ian in his arms, holding him as his foster-brother's body arched in agony, his mind refusing to accept what was happening even as Ian fought and lost the last terrible struggle against death.

Laird Gawyn Kirallen woke to the sound of the bell tolling in the chapel. When it paused, he heard soft sobs coming from his bedside. Malcolm, he thought. 'Tis Malcolm. Why is he here? What is wrong? Then he began to remember bits and pieces of the day.

Alistair stumbling into the hall, Ian held before him, both of them covered in blood. Malcolm's cry as he leaped from his seat and ran forward. His own shout of anguish as Alistair laid Ian's lifeless form on the trestle... An ambush. That was it. And all Ian's men, those poor lads, were lying dead upon the moor... My heart, Gawyn thought, remembering the shaft of white-hot pain that had lanced through his chest before everything went black. He felt no pain now, only a great weariness. But he had to wake. For Malcolm. There was no one else. Poor boy, his father was dead and now he was an orphan...

"Whisht," a deep voice said. "Here, now, 'tis all right, just lay your head down, lad..."

Thank God, Gawyn thought, relaxing back into his pillow. Alistair is here. It will be all right now, everything will be well. So long as Alistair is here...

When Gawyn woke again there was silence in the chamber, though far off, behind the door, he could hear women's voices raised in a keening wail. The entire manor must be filled with mourning tonight. Filled with death. And Darnley was responsible.

This time Darnley—sly and sleekit coward that he was—would be forced to take a stand. It would mean open war between the families, such as had not been seen for many years. With terrible clarity Gawyn remembered the devastating cost of war. Through the years, as far back as memory reached, Kirallen had fought Darnley, years of unrest that periodically flared into open conflict. The last time they had gone to battle, Gawyn had lost his father and his brother. Now that ancient hatred had reached out to take his son.