Chapter 4 #3
Knowing the spell trap’s enchantment would swiftly heal any wound he inflicted on the wee beauty did nothing to calm Darro, for just the notion that he would cause any lass pain horrified him.
Nor had he ever harmed a lover. He’d never used his size or strength to harm anyone but an enemy intent on slaying him; he’d first run himself through with his blade before becoming a brute indifferent to the suffering of others.
Yet what had he been thinking when he’d shoved her against a wall as he had?
Yet what else could it be but fear of his own loss of control?
’Twill come to me.
Still at odds with himself, he stalked into the kitchens. He wouldn’t permit himself to visit the guest chamber where the lady likely slept now. Esme remained oblivious to his struggle, and he would keep it that way. His pride and dignity demanded that.
“You’ve no’ yet sought your bed, Chieftain?” Doon, the clan’s cook, came into the kitchens where he stood and went to build a fire in the big hearth. She turned her head to squint at him. “Ah, you’re in a mood, then. Need you a calming brew?”
“My thanks, but no. I but chafe over waiting to report to the laird.” He looked at the tall, middle-aged woman who in the past had shared his bed several times.
Doon was a generous lover, frank and earthy, and he’d wholly enjoyed every night he’d spent with her.
She never dallied long with any clansman, however, and of late had been keeping to her own chamber at night.
“I shall leave you to your work, my lady.”
“Ever kind to a fault with your former bed wenches.” She smiled. “I’ve time for you, Chieftain. Come and sit.”
Darro hesitated, and then dragged his manners out of the back of his mind and bowed respectfully to her before sitting down beside her work table. Doon took down a jug and poured a measure of cool water into two mugs before handing him one.
“Slake one of your thirsts, Chieftain.” Her stern face softened with affection. “You ever and always deny yourself, lad.”
The cook had an uncanny ability to read men as if they were but unfurled scrolls, which made many uncomfortable.
Darro had always appreciated her candor, which he suspected she used to protect a tender, lonely heart.
She would also return to his arms if he invited her, although not for long.
She did not wish to become attached to anyone, she’d told him once, just as he had always strived in his affairs.
Could he speak of such matters to a female?
“Ask me,” the cook urged.
Darro knew whatever he said that Doon would keep the matter between them, and that decided it for him. “When you shared my bed, my lady, did I please you properly?”
She smiled. “Och, aye, and then some. ’Tis the reason I’m ever willing to come to you when you desire me, Chieftain. Even now, should you wish.”
“’Tisnae why I ask, but you’ve my thanks.” The moment he said that he realized how stupit it sounded, and added, “I’m much occupied with attending to the laird and offering what help I may to our senior men.”
“Make time for yourself, lad, and court the lady you desire,” Doon told him. “’Tis tormenting you but to speak of such.”
That was the other oddity—he’d never tortured himself over a female in all the years since the clan had been cursed. If he had a lover, he appreciated her. If none desired him, he slept alone with no regret. How had a wee lass like Esme Martinez tied him in such knots?
“I dinnae desire any female at the moment.” He wasn’t sure if that was truth or a lie, so he added quickly, “I only wished ken that I pleased you. I’ve no time for a lover at the moment.”
“Aye, right.” She smiled. “I expect you shall enjoy more sleepless nights, then. ’Tis your choice.”
“You didnae choose a husband at the binding ceremony,” Darro said as he watched her take out a number of cloth-covered basins from a nearby cabinet. “Shall you ever?”
“I’ve two of your brothers to keep me warm at night now, Chieftain, and they prefer my bed, so we all sleep together in my chamber.
” She uncovered the basins, peering into them and then dumping the mound of dough from one on her worktable.
“I’m spoiled for mere mortals now, you ken.
Since I’m too big for most of them to love with comfort, ’tis worked out nicely.
” She eyed him. “’Tis no’ a worry you alone possess. ”
That reminded him. “What of Elspeth and her men?”
Doon grimaced as she floured her hands. “Those fiendish creatures took the healer and hunter before the ceremony. To hold with tradition they must wait until the next to accept her offer to wed, if she makes such again. ’Tis causing the lass much worry, I reckon, but ’tis our way.”
“Why did the vassals decide they might do thus only once a year?” Their rituals usually proved simple enough, but the long wait to marry seemed cruel to him. “In our time they could wed whenever they wished.”
“Aye, and had their pick of males and females from across the breadth of the highlands.” She began kneading the dough in a rolling, folding motion.
“Here we’ve the same folk and no’ enough females, so we must act with care.
Once married a husband and wife need time to grow accustomed to each other.
Then, too, the clansmen suffer even more, for they cannae wed.
Should we hold the ceremony more than once a cycle, ’twould be cruel to those who cannae ever expect a marriage. ”
He saw the way she glanced at him. “Never I’ve wished to wed.”
“You guard your heart as you serve your brother.” Doon shaped the kneaded dough into a loaf, covered it and placed it on a board before she emptied a second basin.
“Love, ’tisnae like fire, you ken. ’Tis surely heat of a different kind, passion.
” A soft smile played on her lips. “I reckon ’tis the loveliest manner in which to burn. ”
The sound of a watcher’s horn made Darro rise and bow to her quickly before he hurried out into the gardens.
There he drew his sword and scanned the bailey, and saw Benedict ushering Elspeth back into the stronghold.
Hunter Ulf came to him with a handful of spears retrieved from a nearby cache, and handed him one before eyeing the men running along the inner wall.
Tasgall joined them. “The MacBren’s no’ due to attack us until late autumn,” he muttered.
“This cycle, ’tis gone amiss from the very beginning,” Ulf told him.
“Aye,” Darro said, nodding toward the stronghold. “I saw an old man through the barrier not an hour past.”
Although Ulf glanced at him, Tasgall pointed at two interior guards who’d just rushed into the gardens.
“You there,” he called out. “Get the vassals to safety.” He turned back to Darro and glanced at the spears he and Ulf carried.
“We must speak later. Take those weapons to the battlements while I make safe the keepe.”
As Tasgall rushed to the stronghold, Darro and Ulf ran to the stairs. At the top, they joined the watchers.
“Shall I bring more men and weapons, Chieftain?” Ulf asked.
“Aye, fetch both from the garrison hall, and then rouse Rory if he’s abed and bid him open the armory.” He took the spears from him and glanced back at the stronghold. “I must stay and aid Alec, for he’s yet night deaf. Would you bid Elspeth and Doon take our ladies down to the dungeons as well?”
Ulf nodded and ran back down the stairs, leaving Darro to look for Alec, who came from the far end of the wall toward him. Once they met, the watch captain joined them, his expression troubled.
“’Tis men gathering outside the outer curtain wall, Chieftain.” He pointed in the direction of the gates. “We cannae count exact as to how many, for the darkness of the forest illusion, ’tis helping conceal them.” He gave the war master a pained look. “Forgive me, I should speak more slowly.”
“I understand you. My lady wife and I practice mouth reading.” Alec regarded Darro. “The MacBren didnae siege Dun Talamh from the front. ’Tis another event come too soon. Since Lady MacBren came to plead with the laird earlier, what should come next?”
That the war master had to ask puzzled Darro.
“You ken ’tis...” He stopped and rubbed his temple, for he couldn’t remember what would follow the lady’s visit. He eyed the captain. “Do you recall what ’tis the next?”
The watcher shook his head. “I’ve asked my men. None do.”
“If we all forget the sequence, then ’tis another alteration—that of memory.” To the captain he said, “Go and report such to the laird. Beg him see if anyone in the stronghold may recollect the men outside the wall.” He then repeated everything slowly so Alec could read his lip movements.
As he did that Darro couldn’t help looking over at the window of the guest chamber, where he saw a slight, dark figure silhouetted in the flickering light from within.
He wished nothing more than to go to the lady and explain all to her, and assure her all would be well, but he could not leave Alec to deal with the situation alone.
A part of him also quaked at the thought of going to her.
“Shall we walk down to the gates?” he suggested to the war master, gesturing below. “We may see more of what’s outside there.”
The war master nodded, and accompanied him down the stairs and across the outer bailey to the gates in the first curtain wall.
Men lined the battlements with their spears and long bows held ready, and he could see the glint of arrowheads inside the murder holes in the walls of the gate house and the portcullis.
The outer wall watch captain and two of the archers came to meet them, and all three men appeared confused.
“Chieftain, War Master.” He bowed and then faced Alec as he spoke slowly for his benefit. “’Tis a large party assembling some distance outside the gates in the forest illusion. We’ve counted ten men and twice as many shadows. They’ve yet to approach or attack.”
As Alec issued orders on how to better position the defenders, Darro walked up to peer through the heavy iron slats of the gate.
The night had begun to thin with the coming dawn, and while they had no sun or moon here, the sky would soon lighten enough to illuminate the blurry forest illusion that crowded around the curtain wall.
The MacBren’s men would not have come to launch an attack by their own volition; they would either be accompanied by their laird or they did not belong to him.
None of their direct attacks had ever before occurred after first light.
Was this yet another alteration to the cycle of events?
Something whizzed through the air past Darro’s face, compelling him to step behind the protection of the wall.
He watched an arrow bury itself at the base of the inner wall, and looked up to see the clan’s archers now firing upon the forest illusion.
Seizing the rope that raised the portcullis from the top of the wall, he cut it free and held on as it coiled up, taking him up in a few moments.
He swung off the rope and darted behind one of the battlements, glancing around it before he turned and threw his spear toward the shadow of a man in one of the trees.
The weapon impaled the attacker before he could dodge it, and he fell to the ground, rolling toward the outside of the gates.
More men fell from the trees as the McKeran archers fired on the forest illusion.
Darro peered over the side and saw the attacker had no face, only a smooth oval of skin, and his garments and tartan were solid black.
The dead man then sank into a layer of black liquid that abruptly vanished into the ground illusion.
“Stay low.” Alec came to crouch beside him. “Every one of them we hit falls, melts like thin pitch and then disappears.” He pulled a kerchief out and began tying it around his bleeding hand. “Their weapons, they’re real enough.”
“The dawn comes now.” Darro pointed to the sky, which was turning from black to the light green color it was during the day, which triggered the reset of everything inside the spell trap.
Countless tiny white lights drifted from the walls of the castle to alight on plants and objects that had been used during the day and restored them to how they had been when the clan had first been cursed.
The gardens bloomed with flowers, berries and veg; the empty grain sacks left outside the kitchens plumped up as they were refilled.
Wood that had been chopped into splits and carried off to feed the stronghold’s hearths stacked itself by the axes embedded in the cutting stumps.
Every torch that had burned all day became as new wood; every wilted blade of grass bent under passing feet sprang up bright and green.
Any injuries suffered by the clan or the mortals in Dun Talamh would now heal entirely.
Darro half-hoped the renewal of dawn would take away the emotions that warred inside him, but his desire for and fear of Esme Martinez remained like an open, bleeding wound that no one else could see.
“Fack me. I wish I had any other mortal weakness.” The war master removed the bloody handkerchief as the lights flitted across his hand, erasing the wound and leaving a thin pink scar. “My hearing, ’tis returned. Do you see any more of them in the trees?”
Darro glanced around the stone, but the shadows of the attackers had vanished. “None.” Cautiously he stood and looked over the wall, but saw none of the fallen bodies. “Those you saw, had they faces?”
“No, just skin, like birth cauls.” Alec waved a hand over his face. “And all wore dark garments and solid black tartans, if ’tis such a weave.”
“More illusions, I reckon.” He knew he would have to report right away to the laird, but he was reluctant to leave the wall until they were certain the attack was over. “Shall we send a runner to inform our lord of what’s happened?”
“Aye.” Alec gestured toward the men trotting across both baileys. “I shall advise the chieftain of the watch and the senior men. Go to the garrison hall and speak to our captains. Bid them increase the patrols as well.”
Darro touched his shoulder before he went downstairs.
He couldn’t help returning to the gates and taking one last look at the place on the ground where his faceless enemy had fallen.
Some white lights now occupied the spot, forming a man-shaped silhouette of light.
For a moment he thought they turned red, but then they, too, faded from sight.
The faintest smell of burnt meat came to his nose.
How may we fight an enemy that appears and disappears as the enchantment chooses?