Chapter 6 #3
He kept chopping as the pair walked back to the fire pit to add the wood to the flames.
He didn’t have to watch as the fire flared suddenly, catching alight the splits the men held as well as the sleeves of their tunics.
Kiamh stopped only when he heard them scream to watch them run about, colliding with each other and the slave cages as they slapped their burning garments.
Unable to extinguish the flames, both ran in the direction of the stream.
’Tisnae wrong to defend myself against such bastarts, Kiamh thought, grimacing at the stench of burning wool and scorched flesh.
The man who had threatened him fell and struck his head on a stone as the flames spread across his belly and down the front of his trews, which possessed a large wet patch of urine.
The one-eyed man hastened to him and used a toilet bucket to put out the fire, but the guard didn’t move or breathe again.
The stink became noxious as the slaver went over to the cages and released a handful of the older prisoners.
“Dig a hole for that one,” he told the slaves, pointing to the corpse. He then trudged off in the direction of the stream.
By the time Kiamh had finished chopping the wood, the dead guard had been unceremoniously buried in a shallow grave, and the other taken inside the woodcutter’s shelter.
From the frequency of his wails and the trace of unpleasant odors that drifted to him, he guessed the one-eyed slaver was using whiskey mixed with horse dung to treat the burns.
If the guard survived the day, the burns would fester and kill him before they reached the highlands.
“You did that, didnae you?” a querulous voice muttered from behind him.
He glanced at the skinny crone who had helped to bury the dead guard.
She had bruises all over her wrinkled face, and split lips that had scabbed.
He’d watched her join the caravan from her village on the same day he’d been captured; her own kin had sold her to the slavers so they could use the coin to buy a milk goat.
The crone had sobbed and begged them not to abandon her so cruelly, but her kin had left without once glancing back.
“Their sloppiness set them alight, no’ me.” Although her fate could only be called wretched, he couldn’t summon any pity for her.
“You cursed them to burn. ’Tis said you’re an outcast because of your evil.” She pointed toward the shelter. “What more could do such but dark magic?”
Kiamh began stacking the splits. “Why do you ask, cailleach ? Hoping to learn the spells I ken for yourself? ’Twillnae save you.”
She drew back, her care worn features twisting with revulsion, and made an old gesture of protection over herself. “Using dark magic to take lives ever damns your spirit to oblivion. The Gods, they shallnae forgive you.”
Before Kiamh could argue the point the old woman scuttled away to rejoin the others by her cage.
She would go meekly to her new master, doubtless some fiend who would buy her for a coin or two and then starve or work her to death by winter.
Her kin had already forgotten her. By the next thaw no one would recall her name, her time in the mortal realm, or anything she had ever done. She might as well have never been born.
The Gods may do as they please, only they shallnae forget me.
After carrying the chopped wood to the fire pit Kiamh stopped by the shelter to look in on the surviving guard, who lay covered in the whiskey-infused dung.
Half his face and most of his body had been burned, and since no one in the camp had any healing skills he would be dead within a matter of hours.
“I thirst,” the guard whispered through his blistered lips.
“Go and fetch water,” the one-eyed slaver said, shoving an empty bucket in his hands.
Kiamh walked down to the banks of the thin, muddy stream and crouched down to fill the bucket.
As he did the scabbed weals on his back stretched, some cracking.
The warm dribbles that trickled down his bruised skin told him he would have to attend to himself when the slavers weren’t looking.
A sudden, stabbing pain from his shriveled belly made him lose his grip on the bucket, which floated away, and then the terrible guilt swept over him.
Why cannae I stop? Kiamh hunched over, closing his eyes and resting his brow against his knees.
“Here, now, lad, dinnae weep,” a kind voice said.
Kiamh looked up at the stranger, whose head was surrounded by a beautiful halo of light from the sun.
For a moment he thought he saw his long, copper-red locks glow as if flame instead of hair, but it turned out to be a trick of the light.
The stranger had luxurious dark brown hair and a face so handsome it made his breath catch in his throat.
He held the bucket, now brimming with water.
In the man’s warm, kind eyes he saw two tiny reflections of himself, his tunic spotted with blood over his spine, his light brown curls tangled and filthy.
He couldn’t bear that this man had touched him with those long, clean hands.
“My thanks.” As he rose the weight of the filled bucket made him stumble against the stranger, who caught him and provided the steadying support of his arms as he regained his balance. “You neednae hold me. ”
“I cannae help myself.” The stranger looked all over his dirty face. “Would you care to leave this place with me?”
Shame rose up as if to choke him from within before he could answer. This glorious being wanted to take him from here? “Why?”
“I’m in dire need of a friend,” the other man admitted, “and I’m sure you don’t wish to stay among these swine. Permit me to aid you.”
No one had ever spoken to Kiamh like this, as if he had worth.
His parents had turned their backs on him and left their settlement to travel before he could walk.
Those they had entrusted with his care neglected or ignored him.
He had always fended for himself rather than seek the aid of others, something the elders had considered unseemly and arrogant.
By the time he’d reached manhood all the other lads in the tribe had feared him as much as their parents did.
’Tis something wrong with you, his first love had told him after refusing his affections. Your heart, ’tis empty.
Since being made an outcast no one had taken his side, or even cared that he lived or died. It humbled him to realize that before this moment he had been no different than the old crone; that his short life would have ended miserably and no one would ever again think of him.
“Why should you befriend me?” he asked, angry that this intruder would even dare to offer. “I’m naught but a slave. I’ve no land, no people...” He ducked his head before he added, “And no honor.”
“You can yet live as you’ve always dreamed.” The stranger took the bucket from him and set it down before he held out his hands. “Permit me to show you how.”
When Kiamh reached for the man, he shimmered and then vanished, making him cry out. The next thing he knew icy water splashed into his face, followed by a hard kick to his ribs from the one-eyed slaver’s boot.
“Get up, you lazy bastart,” he said. “I need another grave dug.”
C ath waited until both Lucy and Beinn had gone their separate ways before he dropped down from where he had wedged himself in the ceiling of the passage.
He had been watching over the outsider ever since Tair had taken her to his bed, assuming his post the moment the laird left her each morning.
She had yet to see him, of course, but thanks to his sire’s training he could remain concealed from her and everyone else in the stronghold as long as he wished .
Sometimes he still considered leaving the island to disappear for good.
While smaller than Elphyne there were many lands in the mortal realm where he could travel to behold their wonders.
In time Tair would forgive him for abandoning the MacRune, and the clan would forget their strange brother with the monsters inked on his hide.
He had naught to live for beyond this island, however, and so he would stay.
“None shall pester Mistress Brooke in the laird’s chamber, War Master,” a mild voice chided from behind him.
Cath turned to face the Night Watch, who had already covered his eyes to prevent the brightness of the morning sun from damaging them. “Why do you come here? Shouldnae you seek your own bed?”
“Och, I’ll break my fast before I do.” Lochran fell into step beside him, making his way through the passage with the same ease as someone with full sight. “She’s settled in quite happily, dinnae you think? Aye, and the lads all seem to dote on her.”
Most of the clan had grown fond of Lucy despite orders to the otherwise from Dorchad.
The Chieftain and his brother had been scheming together to frighten away Lucy, but somehow she always saw through their efforts.
Cath never understood why his half-brothers behaved as they did when they desired a pretty woman.
Chained to a bed, females all looked the same to Cath—except for one.
Why do you put these on me? They’re heavy and cold.
Banishing that unwelcome memory, Cath glanced at Lochran, who was smiling again. “She’s no’ a stray cat, you ken. Doting on her shall only harm her in the end, for she must leave the island before the next raid.”
“Tell that to the laird,” the big man advised him before walking through the arch that led into the great hall.
Cath smelled something that made him think of Elphyne, and followed the scent until it led him out to where the maids hung freshly-washed linens and garments to dry on the bushy plants by the inner curtain wall.
The smell of enchantment lingered for a long moment and then abruptly vanished, indicating the cluet may have been part of the wash before it removed itself.
He had yet to fathom why it had become active on its own; most Fae objects of power had no awareness to act independently of their master.
Something had changed to enable the cluet to make choices of its own, like moving through time to abduct Lucy Brooke—but what?
Cath also couldn’t understand why the treasure had chosen her. Other than her obvious comeliness, Lucy Brooke made no sense as a boon to him. Who would wish for a female that showed little fear and too much audacity? Indeed, she might have been a man for all her boldness.
One of the maids came over with an empty basket, and slid a sly look at him before walking into an archway. To make sure he understood, she glanced over her shoulder at him before going inside.
Following the wench appealed more to him than hovering about Lucy Brooke, so Cath caught up to her as she stowed her basket in a linen storage room. Closing the door behind him, he touched one of the light spheres to activate its amber and blue glow. What was this lass’s name? Sheena? Skena?
“Och, you look fierce today, War Master.” She sidled up to him, and trailed her fingers over the front of his tunic. She had pale brown eyes and tarnished brass colored hair, with only her lush lips relieving the plainness of her features. “Let Sheona give you some relief.”
Cath drew her down to the floor, where he propped her atop him and let her do as she pleased.
Like all the maids she knew better than to remove his garments or kiss him, but guided his hands to her large chebs as she rubbed herself against the front of his trews.
She made all the right sounds, and her eyes lit with pleasure as he fondled her, but his cock remained unmoved.
“Mayhap you’re weary.” Carefully she climbed off him, and started to lace up her bodice.
The pity in her voice and the way she averted her gaze made him pull her back down and put her under him.
“I’m never too weary for our lasses,” Cath told her, tugging up her skirts and putting his hand between her thighs. She had already grown wet and ready for him, and that eagerness sent a surge of hot blood to his groin.
Cath went to work. Facking Sheona until she reached her pleasure took only a short time, and that made him spill.
He then held her as she shook from the shock of finding her bliss, for he knew well that mortal females enjoyed a show of tenderness.
When he helped her to her feet she embraced him, smiled and slipped out.
We’re all selfish bastarts, he thought, shamed by her generosity.
He finally ended up in the garrison hall, where the patrol captains waited to report to him about their nightly duty.
After listening to the usual dull accounts of an uneventful night, he sent the men to their rest, and then went to walk the island’s shoreline in an effort to work up some desire for food.
His sire’s old admonition of you must eat like mortals do here, or you shall dwindle down to a sack of bones no longer frightened him.
He’d wearied of this long and ugly life of his, and if not for his brothers he would have found the means with which to end himself before they’d ever built the stronghold.
Mayhap the cluet reckons the same, Cath thought as he started back toward the great hall. ’Tis made to fulfill wishes. Only why did the thing choose to do thus now, here?
If Lucy Brooke had the answers, he intended to get them.