Chapter 18
Three days later, Calum descended the spiraling staircase at Moy, a nagging dread dogging every step. He could not shake the sense that something terrible was about to happen.
His pleas to Hector—and to every man of the Shield—that his father had only meant to help had met with nothing but outrage.
To explain why his father had done the unthinkable meant recounting the centuries-old feud within Jura, Somerled’s takeover, the fractured lines of Picts and Norse.
Each attempt left him sounding like a madman delivering some tangled, tedious lecture.
Even he did not fully understand it. Only Murdoch, who had lived on Jura and seen it with his own eyes, had stood beside him.
And then, last night, everything had turned worse.
At the end of yet another fruitless argument—Calum begging them to reconsider turning his father and Freya over to the king—a rider came from Ardtornish with a sealed missive.
King John was dead. And had been dead more than two weeks.
The kingdom had not passed to the rightful heir, John Mór, but had been stolen in an act of treachery by Dómhnall, the younger and more unpredictable son.
His first decree struck like a hammer: Hector stripped of his command as war chief, the armies of the Isles stood down, the Shield disbanded forever, and Hector himself banished from the Council.
At the bottom came the final warning—any further act of war against the Stewarts would be judged high treason, punishable by death.
Feeling unsteady, Calum walked the long corridor beside the great hall and halted before the heavy oak door carved with an axe flanked by laurel and cypress, the mark of Hector.
He studied the emblem and whispered a prayer that God would protect them, restore the mission they had fought for three long years, and soften his team’s anger toward his father and Freya.
He needed them now, if not to fight the Wolf, then to hunt the fiend stalking his wife.
A gust of icy wind slipped through the lancet window, lifting the furs and stinging his face. With a hard knot in his gut, he rapped once on the door.
Hector’s deep, growling brogue spoke from the other side of the door. “Enter.”
The members of the Shield gathered around the large table in Hector’s solar all in various degrees of lingering depression. Every man looked haunted, all too familiar with what the Wolf could accomplish unchecked. This wasn’t just a setback, it was disastrous.
From his position between Hector and Léo, John Mór looked like a child dwarfed by two giants, yet he sat with the same grace and noble bearing of his father. His expression grim, but not hopeless.
“Tànaiste MacLean,” Mór said, giving him a nod. “Thank you for joining us.”
Calum nodded. “I’m sorry I’m late, I was at the treasury. My father asked for a count of the clan’s funds from harvest.”
It was busy work. The kind of task that would keep him occupied and away from everyone else on the team.
He could hardly meet the eyes of his comrades, outrage simmering that in his hour of need they had refused him.
How many times had he ridden into battle for them?
How often had he taken on a mission without hesitation or question?
Could they not grant him the same courtesy now?
He scanned the table, weary of yet another fruitless fight with his team. Only Birdy met his eyes with a smile, fingers flicking a small sign—Can we talk later, Lightning?
He yanked his chair out and answered with a brief sign of his own. Fine.
Mór cleared his throat, picking up where Calum had interrupted.
“Mhairi sent word weeks ago that Father was ill, but the rider claimed he was lost on the road to Scone. By the time I arrived, Father had been dead nearly a fortnight. I’ve been banned from Ardtornish and Findlugan.
My lands seized. If not for Mhairi and Lachlan, I’d have no roof over my head.
Dómhnall is as crafty as he’s ever been. ”
Hector slid a missive across the table. “I drafted this last night. Can we call the chiefs to meet in secret? If we pledge our fealty to you as the true king, the Shield may yet stand. Dómhnall has withdrawn all forces from the Isle of Man and the surrounding waters. The Wolf will move the moment he can. We are in danger.”
Mór dragged a hand through his dark hair. “Four clans have already pledged to my brother. That is half the council. They are weary—the cost, the casualties. That is how Dómhnall took the throne. He wants no war with Scotland. From this point, raids, patrols, any operation at all are forbidden.”
David gave a low grunt. “First time I’ve been glad to be in Scotland instead of the Isles. Highlanders would never stomach that rot.”
Mór looked amused. “Not beholden when the King of Scotland instructs you?”
“He can suggest what he likes. My duty is to my clan and the people under my protection.”
Birdy signed to Mór, her blond eyebrows raising as she gesticulated. Léo made a face and scratched the back of his neck with a finger. “She says there’s no reason for us to stop our observation of the Wolf’s movements.”
Mór shook his head. “I admire the courage. But think what happens if you’re caught slipping through enemy camps. What lesson would Dómhnall teach your husband’s clan then? Fingon still lives, and Dómhnall never misses a chance to make an example.”
Birdy’s aqua eyes iced over. She signed a sharp retort without mouthing the words, and a few of the men snorted into their cups. Hector scowled, shaking his head at her.
Mór frowned. “What did she say?”
Léo cleared his throat. “Something unladylike.”
Birdy crossed her arms and dropped into her chair beside Iain, the two of them snapping signs back and forth like sparks.
To Calum’s right, Aoife slid a flagon of ale toward Murdoch. He caught her hand under the table, and gave it a squeeze. Her smile flickered, quick and bright.
At least someone in the room wasn’t having a miserable night.
David slammed his fist on the table. “Without patrols, we’re at the Wolf’s mercy. We had him cornered on Man, ready to submit. Now all the blood, all the years—it’s for nothing. He knows the crown’s tied our hands. He’ll come fast, and hard, for retribution.”
Angus made a sound so deep it silenced the hall.
Rarely did Shadow speak, and only when it mattered.
He leaned toward Calum, his voice low and deliberate.
“The blasted stories from Jura. Freya and Tyr stirred him up. He’ll come for our clans first, once he learns who we are.
I’ve been attacked sixteen times in three years.
My people are weary. I want consequences, Hector. That was reckless.”
Calum stiffened, hackles up. “I’ve told you, they meant no harm—”
Angus cut him off. “For the love of the saints, what does that matter? Your father leaked dispatches. He handed them to a minstrel. I want justice. They should answer for it.”
Calum was on his feet before he knew it, Angus rising with him, their chests colliding. “And what do you suggest? That I turn my wife and father over for punishment?”
“Aye. Strip your father of the chieftainship. Lock them both in Morvern until the tales die out.”
Rage shook Calum’s frame. “Over my dead body.”
Léo rose, his face hard. “Not prison, Angus. Think of what you’re saying.”
“I ken my own mind, I’m no’ an idiot.”
Hector slammed his fist on the table, the flagons rattling. “Sit down. All of you.”
Léo sat, but neither Angus nor Calum moved.
Angus jabbed a finger across the table. “I’m not the only one who think gaol a fitting punishment. Iain. David. They agree.”
Betrayal stung as Calum’s gaze found Iain staring into his cup. Beside Hector, David sat with arms crossed, unrepentant.
Hector’s spectral eyes fixed on Calum. “I told you to sit.”
Birdy signed quickly. Sit, Calum. We just need to sort this out. Angus is only upset because—
“I can speak for myself, Birdy,” Angus snapped.
His voice cut like an axe. “I’m the only one here who’s buried kin because of his wife.
Six from my clan in the past three months on midnight raids.
Dead. Do you no’ understand that? They’re gone.
Likely gone because she spun reckless tales—and because your father spread them. ”
Stripped of gentleness, he felt a heathen urge to tear Angus apart for trespassing into his territory and daring to slander his wife.
He leaned in, every muscle taut, ready to strike.
“How have you lived so long in a world at war and still only see absolutes? We dinnae ken what caused those attacks. But even if they did, how many more were spared because her stories rallied the clans and brought men to fight beside us?”
Angus stepped closer, his face a mask of fury. “Wrong is wrong. Tyr deceived us all. If your father had any honor, he’d step down as chieftain.”
Calum’s breath came hard and fast, a primal lust for vengeance flooding him.
He was seconds from drawing blood, from casting off the measured ways of the coigreach and answering as the savage Juran he was.
Barely holding his temper, he wrenched the door open and stormed into the hall. “I’m finished.”
“Sit down. I said SIT DOWN!” Hector’s bellow rattled the doorframe, but Calum didn’t slow.
Half a dozen servants froze wide-eyed as the meeting spilled into the corridor. He strode past them, chest heaving, desperate to escape before he did something he couldn’t take back.
Birdy darted after him, clutching his sleeve, her head shaking in frantic refusal.
“I’m not stopping, Birdy. I have a wife to protect, a defense to organize. I’ve wasted three days trying to make Hector—trying to make any of you—see that no harm was meant. The Shield is dissolved. What is the point in staying? Why should I waste another moment when no one listens? This is over.”
Iain hurried alongside, pressing a hand to his chest. “Lightning, mate, just listen—let me explain—”
“Get away from me, Sea.”
From the stairwell, Cara appeared, alarm etched on her face. “What is going on? What’s happened?”
Behind him, Hector’s voice thundered down the corridor. “This is an order, Tànaiste MacLean—STOP.”
Clenching his fists, Calum stopped and turned, rage and betrayal searing hotter than ever. “I will not, under any circumstances, hand my wife or father over to you, Hector.”
Hector rolled his eyes. “Your father and Freya are the least of my concerns. I’ll deal with them—but not today. Not now.”
“Of course you won’t,” Angus burst. “Everyone else matters but the MacKays. As long as we continue to take the brunt of the attacks, what’s the difference—eh?”
It was a step too far. Behind them, Iain muttered a low oath as the berserker stirred.
Hector surged forward, towering over them, and with a roar he seized both men by the cuirass.
With the strength of ten men, he wrenched them clean off their feet, their boots skittering uselessly against the stone floor.
Beneath the arch of the great hall, John Mór froze, gaping like a startled cow, gobsmacked and stupefied. Dangling in Hector’s grip, Calum found himself nose to nose with the battle-hardened monster, his breath stolen by the sheer, humiliating force of it.
Hector’s voice rolled out like the roar of a bloodthirsty lion, shaking them with every word.
“I dinnae ken what’s gotten into either of you, but remember this—no matter what our so-called king says, you are on the same team.
We fight the same mission. Have you forgotten?
To guard the people of the Isles. To stand, not for yourself, but for the good that God himself set in this world. ”
The rage drained from Calum in an instant. He blinked, turning his face aside, unable to meet his commander’s eyes.
“Now, if this has changed for either of you, which I sincerely hope it has not, then walk away now. Leave Lochbuie, and dinnae return.”
Slowly, he lowered them back to their feet. He stepped away, looming, waiting for either man to move. Neither dared.
“Angus, we will deal with the stories and their consequences. But right now, we must be unified and focused on the transition of power. I need time to shape a strategy, to meet with Dómhnall, to decide what he must and must not know. Stripping Tyr of the chieftainship would only deepen the fracture in my clan.”
Angus gave a stiff nod.
Hector turned to Calum. “I have no wish to endanger Freya or disgrace your father. But I must meet with them soon. I need to hear how this began, and why it was allowed to grow unchecked. None of us—not them, not us—are safe.”
Satisfied that Freya and his father were, for the moment, safe, Calum gave a short nod.
Hector straightened his tunic. “Now. Let’s return to my solar and discuss this—”
The door below slammed open. “Chief MacLean! Chief MacLean!”
Boots thundered up the stone steps. A dozen guardsmen crowded the corridor.
Peter, newly appointed commander of the Lochbuie guard, thrust a scrap of vellum into Hector’s hands, the ink still wet and smeared. “The Wolf’s fleet—spotted off Kintyre. He’s forming for attack.”
Angus and Calum exchanged a look, horror rising, knowing the two closest islands to Kintyre.
“They’re moving fast,” Peter gasped. “Massing…off the coast…”
Calum braced against Angus’s shoulder, waiting for the word he dreaded.
Hector’s brow furrowed as he read. “Off the coast of Jura.”
Panic surged. Calum broke into a sprint, racing for Sea’s bìrlinn.
He didn’t stop to weigh the treason of defying Alexander Stewart.
He didn’t stop to consider Jura’s feeble defenses.
He didn’t even ask if the others would follow.
But as his boots pounded stone and wood, he heard the rush of feet behind him.
The Shield was with him, charging into battle once more.