MacAlister’s Hope (Kilmartin Glen)

THE DEVIL OF KILMARTIN - EXCERPT

The Devil of Kilmartin

Excerpt

Southwestern Highlands, Scotland

Spring 1307

Madness clawed at Symon MacLachlan's soul. He battled it back with every breath his burning lungs could steal. The skirl of a wounded animal burst from his parched lips. His horse broke into a gallop. Pain pounded through Symon’s skull in time with the beat of the animal's hooves. His stomach lurched and dipped, threatening to empty itself. Purging, purifying wind battered his disloyal body and desperate mind.

Symon slowed the horse as he tried to grasp where he was. He glanced about at the moonlit forest searching for some clue as to why he was here. All of a sudden the trees around him bowed, as if in deference to his passing. His stomach roiled. He closed his eyes and willed the grove to right itself, willed the madness away. He swayed in the saddle and a low, feral, growl escaped him.

He would not let this blasted madness win!

Symon concentrated on the things he could feel — the warm, sweat-covered hide of the tired beast beneath him, the familiar texture of his plaid, bunched at his shoulder and about his waist, the chill wash of an early spring breeze against his fevered skin. He gathered his senses and slowly opened his eyes.

Blessedly, the trees were upright, their leaves rustling above where they belonged, silhouetted against the moon-bright sky.

It was a bloody awful way to live, never knowing when the madness would crash over him.

The horse stopped suddenly, nearly unseating him. It moved neither forward nor back, but rather danced nervously in place, shifting from one foot to another as if unsure which way to go. Symon nudged it forward, but it halted once more after only a few unwilling steps. Standing directly in their path was the dark outline of an ancient stone circle. His mount shied, snorting and shaking its head, as if denying the sight.

Symon calmed the animal, sharing its dislike for the silent, pensive circle, hunkered here at the edge of the glen. He wished to deny the sight as well. But that was impossible. He knew this cursed place. He knew the madness had led him back here.

The stones stood silently in their primeval ring as if standing in judgment of him. All the ills that had befallen his clan these past six months, even his own hated reputation, had started here, in this circle, on that fateful day of his father's death. Symon clenched his shaking hands. The past could not be changed.

But it could be faced.

It was madness to enter the circle again, but madness was his near-constant companion. What more harm could come from this place than the death of his father and the torment his life had become these past months? Symon would not let his weakness get in his way. Something had brought him here, and he was determined to face his fate. Perhaps then he would find a way free of his curse. If he did not, he would lose all that he had ever worked for in life: his position, his honor. It had already stolen his self-respect.

Symon slid from the horse. As he tied it to a tree, a hound bayed in the distance and was quickly answered by another, adding to the horse's already nervous shifting. It pulled at its lead, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast.

"Shh," Symon said, grateful that his voice obeyed him. He scratched the horse’s cheek for a moment, quieting the animal and himself.

Finally Symon took a deep breath and moved toward the accursed rocks, drawn by the circle as a lodestone draws iron. The hounds bayed again, the sound echoing off the stones, warning him away. The hair at the base of his neck prickled in response.

"'Tis only a ring of mighty rocks." The sound of his own voice, though gravelly as always after the madness, calmed him.

Determined to meet his fate, he strode between two of the tall rocky sentries and into the circle.

A bare pace within, he stopped.

Gone was the clear air of spring, nor was the remembered blood-stink of battle present in the circle. It was like walking into warm, thick water. Sounds were muffled and the smells of a moment ago, damp, boggy earth and sharp, dusty rock, were muted here, more like the memory of a smell than the actual smell itself.

Mist began to rise about his feet, swirling up from the ground, reaching out and embracing the huge moss- and lichen-clad stones. Damp wisps of reflected moonlight filled the gaps between them with a transparent wall of white moonglow.

Hounds bayed once again, closer, accompanied now by a long wailing cry. The stallion stamped the ground.

Symon remembered to breathe.

It was only a trick of the wind, that wailing. It was only the remnants of madness that made that wail sound human.

Symon rolled his shoulders, noting the weight of his claymore high against his back, and the lesser weight of his dudgeon dagger tucked at his belt. At least his affliction did not extend to leaving himself weaponless.

A branch cracked. Symon whirled in the direction of the noise. Something hurtled from the mist and threw itself at him, hitting hard enough to force the breath from him. He staggered and his arms encircled the all-too-solid form of a woman.

Long-fingered hands gripped his tunic. Leaf-tangled hair caught in the stubble on his chin even as a peacefulness he no longer believed possible washed over him. Calm, like a healing salve on weather-raw skin, pushed the lingering confusion and pain from him. He felt clear-headed, balanced, and strong as he hadn't since the madness had first come over him in this very place.

Hounds bayed just beyond the mist, and the stallion snorted its misgivings. The unearthly wailing sounded again, this time from just under his chin. The woman pushed away from him, stumbling when he released her.

Peace deserted him.

He reached for her again, grabbing a bony wrist. Peace stole up his arm and briefly fluttered in his chest. She tried to stumble backward, her eyes fixed over his shoulder.

"Help me, I beg of you!" Desperation at odds with the peace he felt colored her low voice.

His decision was made in an instant. He drew his dagger and spun in one smooth, practiced motion to face the direction she had come from.

Huge, gray wolfhounds strained at the edge of the mist-shrouded circle, slavering like the hounds of hell, but they did not enter. Symon heard scrabbling as the woman moved to the far side of the circle. There she could easily slip into the mist and away from the hounds while Symon held their attention.

The easiest thing would be to let the hounds continue their hunt, but Symon had never been one to take the easy road.

So he would dispatch the dogs, and the keeper he was sure followed them. He would dispatch them by word or by blade, it mattered not, and retrieve the woman himself. Then he would regain that momentary peace. A peace he was suddenly determined to have.

He sheathed his dagger and drew forth his claymore, feeling calmer with the massive sword in his hands. Any reprieve from his own private hell was worth a fight. Even a fight in this circle. Especially a fight in this circle.

He planted his feet, balancing his stance, his claymore at the ready. A muttered curse came out of the mist, quieting the dogs, and sending them skirting the edge of the circle. A shaggy-haired man stepped between the stones, his dagger glinting in the moonlight, his heavily bearded face cast in shadows.

"Where is she?" the stranger demanded.

The voice was almost familiar, teasing his memory as if he should know it.

Symon said nothing as he moved slowly toward the man.

"'Twas a lass ran this way. I will have her back."

Still Symon did not answer. Something about the rumble, the thick burr, not entirely of these parts, picked at him, but he couldn't call the memory forward.

"I saw her come this way." The other man's voice grew threatening. "The hounds tracked her. I'll have her back!"

Symon took in the man's stance, the way he shifted slightly foot to foot, his dagger hand swaying back and forth as if he was unsure which way Symon would come at him.

"Just point the way she went," the man said, "and I'll leave you be."

Symon took another step toward him. The stranger stepped back deeper into the shadows.

"I'm after the lass."

"You are on MacLachlan land. If you do not leave now, you will die on MacLachlan land."

"Where I die is between the devil and myself, you bloody bastard."

"As you wish," Symon said.