Chapter 26 #2
But he ran through the smoke, consumed by fire.
The crowd pressed together, clinging to one another, faces white with shock.
Men straightened. Women covered their mouths in horror.
They waited for the usual bend in the tale, the twist that ballads sometimes made toward joyful resolution.
Lightning’s eyes found Rock, who swept a knuckle beneath his eye. It wasn’t coming.
Poet sank to her knees, her arms open and falling limp at her sides, her head bowing in grief. A cry of anguish tearing from her throat before rising with the ballad’s most heartbreaking verse.
“Broken, he howled for his lost lass,
Grief bitter and deep, time could not surpass.
By God and by cross, he swore vengeance to keep,
No rest, no peace, until justice was complete.”
Poet got to her feet, fist raised, her voice burning, mimicking the motions of battle.
“Years slipped by, steady as the tide,
His heart still aflame, with revenge as his guide.
Yet the call of King Dómhnall pulled him from the fight,
And Chattan’s banners fell, undone by royal might.
“Morven…my sweet, bonnie Morven,” he cried,
Her name echoing through glens wide.
Studying her unseen sword, she shook her head in anguish, tossing it at her feet. Two tears slid from her eyes, carrying charcoal down her cheeks.
O hear the rivers o’er hills run red with her name,
And winds of the glen whisper sorrow and shame.
The tale drifted away with the last notes of the flute.
No one applauded. People were openly weeping, arms wrapped around each other, and a lump rose in Lightning’s throat.
He had often wondered about Rock—his long absences from the Highlands, his crumbling marriage, the way he seemed to love Hector and Leo’s children more than the others.
Three years ago it had puzzled him that, out of all the clans in the Isles, a chief from the mainland had agreed without hesitation to join a reckless mission for an island clan.
Now he understood. Rock’s only child, just seven summers, had been locked within an abbey the Wolf razed in vengeance after he refused to yield the lands of Chattan.
Cota Liath studied Poet, his gaze narrowed, fingers stroking the point of his beard.
Poet stood before them, holding the crowd in the palm of her hand. She crossed a hand over her breast in the Juran salute and bowed her head.
“So ends the true tale of bonnie Morven MacKenzie—daughter of High Chief David MacKenzie, a child stolen by the Wolf of Badenoch, predator in human form. Our armies nearly brought him down, yet King Dómhnall let him slip away—unscathed, even rewarded with Ardtornish. Is this what the Isles will be remembered for? Yielding our children for slaughter, our families and homes to be cut down by his caterans?”
Her words ignited the crowd. Cries of outrage whipped through the courtyard.
From the gate, a guard in the MacDonald plaid shouted, “What’s that? Did you hear what she’s saying?”
Poet squared her shoulders, every bit the warrior, and shouted, “I said—THE PRETENDER KING! He disbanded our armies, left us unprotected, invited this monster to prey on us with his sniveling weakness! He turns a blind eye to the merciless slaughter of our clans!” She struck her breast. “Our people. The people we cherish!”
The crowd erupted, screaming their indignation, drowning out the guard’s response.
Lightning’s stomach dropped, his chest locking tight. She had hurled the mission past its fragile limits, and every guard in the courtyard narrowed on her. Cold panic tore through him; she was in danger now, real and immediate.
His eyes snapped to the walls. Birdy was waving frantically. Six guards—heavily armed. Three more guards closing from the southwest. GO! NOW! THROUGH THE NORTH GATE.
He spun to Shadow. “Hurry!”
Lightning shoved him forward, forcing a path through the crowd. They had to reach Poet—fast.
From between the gathered people, he saw her draw back, chin raised, eyes pinning the stunned crowd.
“Remember, good people—when a throne is built on injustice, it trembles not from swords but from the whispers of those who dare speak. From those who must speak, of Morven, of the people in the Great Glen, Badenoch, Strathspey, Moray, Aberdeen, Lochbuie, of Sanaigmore, Islay, Barra, Uist, Benbecula, Harris, Inverlussa, and Inverness—how many more shall I name? Thousands of our homes terrorized! How many of our children will continue to die before this Wolf is cut down?”
The crowd crushed in around him. Lightning shoved his way through, heart in his throat, shouting in Norse, “End it! End It!”
Poet’s head snapped toward his voice. Her hands shot high. “Remember her name—Morven! Bonnie Morven!”
Shadow was almost there. A guard lunged for her. Lightning nearly screamed, ramming people aside in a frantic bid to reach her.
Poet clapped. Black powder burst into the fire—flame roared skyward, crackling. The crowd shrieked and fell back. In that instant, Shadow swept her beneath his cloak and vanished into the chaos.
Lightning lost sight of them, his chest heaving with biting, draining relief.
The guards blinked against the firelight, disoriented. “Where is she? Make way for the King’s guards. Make way or you will be taken into custody!”
Lightning looked up at the walls, spotting the dim outline of Birdy climbing upward before launching onto a nearby roof, following their trail. His heart eased slightly. Poet was out—on her way to Charger and her escape.
In minutes, the festivities had descended into riot. The crowd swarmed the guards, outraged. “Why are you turning against us? Have you no honor? Traitors!”
Adrift in the sea of mobbing people, Cota Liath’s eyes went wide as Thunder and Rock flanked him, dragging him toward the east gate.
Lightning pushed through after them, steady and deliberate, while six guards stormed past, wading into the mêlée.
He fought to stay upright as chaos surged toward the forecourt, then broke free into the quieter streets, shadowing Thunder and Rock until they left Cota Liath before the Great Hall.
The man shook out his cloak, bewildered. “What—wait, where are you going?”
They walked on, heads low.
Lightning slipped a folded paper into his grey surcoat, murmuring as he passed, “A message from the son of Tyr.”
Without looking back, he fell in step with Thunder and Rock. Together they cut past the King’s residence, moving opposite Poet and the others. At the island’s southern tip they slid down the steep embankment to their waiting boat.
Swiftly, Lightning and Thunder flattened beneath a heavy blanket. Rock shoved off, rowing east with steady strokes.
“God keep ye, wherryman!” he called to a passing boat, his whistle light and careless.
“Aye—and Christ keep ye, guid man!” a voice called back.
Minutes later, the hull knocked against a dock.
“Clear,” Rock whispered.
They tore off the blanket and vaulted ashore, sprinting into the woods.
Freya waited beneath the clear moon, her gossamer hair catching its silver glow, glimmering like dragonfly wings. Still dressed as Poet, she laughed softly at something Hector said, her hand drifting over Bog’s head. She nodded at Birdy, lively and warm, while Iain leaned in, teasing.
At the edge of the wood, Calum paused, heart swelling. Love and pride surged through him—she fit, perfectly, among his chosen family.
When she looked up and saw him, her face lit with relief. She sprinted across the beach and leapt into his arms. “Cal! How did I do? Did it work?”
He crushed her close, words faltering. “You were…verra good.”
Doc clapped her shoulder. “Better than good. The place was a riot by the time we left. Lass, you set black powder right under the king’s throne.”
David emerged from the wood, brushing past him and standing in front of Freya. He pushed back his hood, his face raw with emotion, his fist opening and closing. Calum moved protectively to her side, uncertain if David’s emotion was fury or gratitude. The camp fell silent, waiting.
Alarm shivered over Freya’s face. “High Chief Chattan…I hope I did your daughter justice.”
“God save you lass.” He seized her in a trembling embrace. “Thank you. Thank you, lass. Thank you.”
Freya’s eyes squeezed shut as she wrapped her arms around his craggy shoulders. “I’ll never forget her. I promise. The world will remember Morven MacKenzie.”
They lingered in silence until at last he set her gently down, wiping his eyes, his grief unmasked.
The warriors closed in, forming a circle around him. One by one, hands touched his shoulders, his back, his arms, even the crown of his bald head—unspoken vows of brotherhood and war. Calum looked at his comrades and felt God near. It would take more than a wolf and a king to break them.
Hector’s eyes shone as he clasped David’s arm. “We will win this war.”
David drew a shuddering breath, eyes on the sky. “It feels impossible, like I’m getting nowhere. Like I’ve broken my promise to her.”
The words pierced Calum. He tightened his grip on David’s shoulder, giving it a firm shake. “We help each other uphold promises. When one falls, another picks him up. None of us are alone in this. We will stand together on the mountaintop when this is over, our vows kept.”
Aileen stepped forward, signing.
Léo interpreted. “She asks, what’s next?”
Calum pulled his plaid tighter. “Have you heard from the other banished council members?”
Hector nodded. “They’re ready. Eoghan secured Rathlin for John Mór—he landed yesterday. We’ll assemble there at Saint Pádraig’s feast to pledge fealty. The O’Donnells will patrol the seas.”
Eoghan nodded. “Speaking of which, we’d best be off before dawn.”
Iain held up the dispatch. “I’ve got the report.”
Angus mounted. “I’ll watch Cota Liath.”
David took Freya’s offered satchel. “I’ll be in Inverness—the Ranalds wish a meeting on Garmoran.” He smiled faintly. “Freya has prepared their reading.”
Aileen signed again.
Léo kissed her. “She and Cara will be at Moy, working on the standard. My men are monitoring Duntulm—I’ll watch for signs of trouble from the MacDonalds.”
Doc clapped Calum’s shoulder. “I’ll be on Jura next week for training.”
Calum took Freya’s hand, leading her toward Fraser’s skiff. “And we’ll be at home. Waiting.” He glanced toward John Mór’s cog, letting out a low whistle. “That’s some ship, Sea.”
Iain grinned. “If Mór thinks he’s getting her back, he’s mad. I’ve christened her.”
Calum chuckled. “Hector’s Bonnie Eyes?”
Hector signed a string of insults before leaping aboard.
Iain shook his head, laughing. “The Leviathan.”
As the ship vanished into the dark sea, hope surged in Calum’s chest. They were back. Moving forward. Even if he never regained the chieftainship, this war would be won.
Freya tugged on his plaid. “Calum?”
“Aye?”
“Did I make ye proud?”
“Oh lass, I—” He froze, looking down. Her eyes roamed over him, her hands following. His mouth went dry as Somerled’s bones. “I couldnae take my eyes off you.”
She smiled, eyes half-lidded as she curled around him. “Nor I you, my braw lad. Though I wish ye’d shave this ridiculous beard.”
He shook his head, voice catching as her fingers brushed his chest, one slipping beneath his beard to stroke the wolfhound etched on his skin. “It’s for cov-cover. It’s verra bad to have an identifying mark the size of a map across…your…neck…”
Her hand slid inside his tunic, stroking his chest. “I like it. Quite a lot.”
“Do—” His voice cracked again. He cleared his throat, wondering who was pursuing whom. “Do you?”
She nodded, rising on her toes, arms winding around his neck. Moonlight shimmered off her bottom lip as she nervously licked it, and his heart skipped as if catching a glint of gold. The air hitched between them, pulling them closer.
And then…Bog sneezed. Once. Twice. A third time.
Freya let go, laughing, her forehead falling to his chest.
Fury flared through him. He shook his fist at the dog. “Och, ye flea-bitten scunner, ye ruin everything! First my wedding night and now—”
As quick as a sword dance, he was silenced. Freya bounced onto her toes, drawing his face down, pressing him into the warm, yielding pillow of her lips. They moved against his mouth with gentle, sliding strokes, and he responded, tightening his arms around her in disbelief.
At long last, Freya MacSorley was kissing him.