Chapter 14 #2
“We’ve defeated the bastarts, thanks to your whirlwind, my lord.
” He told Tair how the tornado had danced through the camp, striking only the enemy while going around the MacRune men.
He gave Lucy an appraising look. “’Twas never summoned on a raid before, but ’twas welcome.
” He nodded at the cages. “The men shall take all the captives to the village. They’ve carts waiting there to take them to our friends in the west, who shall help them return home. ”
“Good. Go to the village and assure they’re treated well,” Tair told him. As soon as Cath left he regarded Lucy. “You shall wed me at once. This night.”
“Like this? Of course not. I need a bath and some of that wound salve Sgathan gives the kitchen maids,” she said, relieved that he hadn’t noticed her wound.
“Wait.” She moved her shoulders. “That’s strange.
” She reached for the place on her hip where the lash wound had ended, but only found the tears in her tunic and cloak. “Is this all another dream?”
“Dinnae toy with me, wench,” Tair warned as he circled around her. “I’m no young lad set to bow at your feet and beg for your favor. If you come to me–”
Lucy hurled herself into his arms. “Shut up,” she said before she hoisted herself up by his shoulders and kissed him. She dropped back to the ground and turned around. “That slaver hit me with a whip. Have I stopped bleeding?”
“There’s blood on your garments.” His fingers parted the tear in her cloak and the tunic beneath it. “The wound, ’tis gone.” He embraced her from behind. “I should beat you for disobeying my orders.”
“You’re not the boss of me. We’re partners now.” She turned around and hugged him. “Let’s go home.”
W hen word came of an attack in the forest, Fifer summoned his best fighters and rode from Dun Maor.
The smell of smoke led him and his men to a ruined encampment where heavy fighting had taken place.
There were also signs that a whirlwind had come through the area, knocking down trees and leaving the forest littered with debris.
“No slaves or horses,” Ivor reported to him. “They’ve been stolen by whoever did that.” He nodded at the wounded, unconscious men locked in the slave cages.
One heavy fellow who had only one eye came to the front of his cage and jerked at the door. “Release us. We must track the raiders and get back the goods they stole.”
“What manner of goods? Helpless women? Beardless lads? Bairns?” As the man shrank back Fifer regarded Ivor. “What of the slaves?”
The war master gestured toward the forest to the east. “Our scouts found some signs left by the raiders’ horses.
They took the slaves away on horseback, but destroyed tracks so no one could follow.
” He spat on the ground. “By dawn they’ll be sold to a new master, likely in the west. These midnight raiders never keep their captives long. ”
Fifer shook his head. “We shall search nevertheless. Send a dove to the midlands magistrate. In twoday we shall deliver these men to him for his justice.”
“Aye, my lord.” The war master gestured toward the last, empty cage. “’Twas one they didnae take.”
Fifer walked down to the cage, where he saw a small, huddled figure under a torn, soiled cloak. It seemed at first glance a young bairn. When he wrenched open the door and crouched to draw back the cloak, a young lad curled like a sprouting fern looked up at him with terror in his clear blue eyes.
Gael.
“Dinnae fear.” He knew at once the boy could not be his long lost friend, and yet everything about him brought back too many memories. Busying himself by helping the lad to his feet, he said, “Why didnae the raiders take you with the others?”
“I cannae walk well from a beating I took.” He looked down. “They feared I might hinder them.”
Fifer swore under his breath as he saw the broken, bloodied condition of the lad’s feet, and lifted him into his arms like a wee bairn. “Dinnae struggle, lad. You’re too hurt.” He turned his head to call for the healer.
The master flautist trotted over, took one look at the boy’s feet and shook his head. “His bones, they’re surely broken, my lord. We must take him to the village in a cart.”
The thought of the lad being turned over to the villagers made Fifer’s gut clench. If he’d been taken in the midlands, he was not well enough to make a journey.
“We must attend to him at Dun Maor.” He looked down at the boy, who was watching him with pain-filled eyes. “What’s your name, lad, and where may we find your kin?”
“I’m Kiamh, my lord,” he said, his voice growing thready. “I cannae remember my kind, or where they dwell...” His head slumped against Fifer’s shoulder, and his body went limp .
“Fack, that the brutes would batter someone so young,” the healer said, reaching for the lad.
“I shall attend to him,” Fifer said, cradling the thin body against his chest.
Tears burned at the back of his eyes as he recalled carrying Gael this way from the charnel house. How thin and wasted the pestilence had left him, so that he barely weighed more than a feather-stuffed cushion. This lad had likely been starved near unto death.
“I shall return to the stronghold so he may rest there. Go and see if any others need your skills.” He regarded Ivor. “Bind well these slavers and bring them to Dun Maor. I want them all alive.”
“Aye, my lord.” The healer and the war master bowed.
Fifer carried the boy to his mount, but as he placed him on the saddle and swung up behind him the lad suddenly jolted awake.
“No, please, Master, dinnae beat me again,” he begged, shaking violently as he tried to cover his head. “I shall do as you wish. You neednae give me food. Just a ladle of water, I beg you...”
Fifer turned the lad around so he could hold him against his chest. “Be still now, lad. You’ve been freed, and soon you shall have as much food and drink as you wish. I shall protect you henceforth.”
“May the Gods shower you with joy and luck for your kindness, my lord.” The boy tucked his narrow face against Fifer’s neck, still trembling.
He rode back to Dun Maor as quickly as he dared, murmuring to the lad as he did.
He told him of the music of the morning harps he would hear when he woke, and the skill of the master flautist who would heal him, and the wondrous paths through the forest that even now were becoming carpeted in wildflowers that they could walk together.
Indeed, he babbled on like a fool as he dismounted, leaving his horse in the care of his stablemaster so he could carry the boy inside the keepe.
Ignoring his astonished guards, Fifer went directly to his own bed chamber, where he placed Kiamh’s battered body on his bed.
“My lord, permit us to look after the lad,” Ivor said from behind him.
Fifer shook his head. “He doesnae ken anyone here. Send up a maid with warm water, salve and bandages. Food and drink as well. He’s near starved to death.”
Kiamh’s eyes opened a little, and a sweet smile curved his mouth before he sighed and fell back to sleep.
Fifer watched him as he removed his tartan and tunic, and quickly washed the grime and blood from his torso before pulling on a clean leine.
He then refilled the basin and brought it over to the bedside table, and soaked a linen in it before squeezing out the excess water and placing the cloth over the lad’s feverish brow.
Memories poured through his thoughts as he tended to the boy, all welcome and yet unwelcome.
When he’d returned to his village to find those he loved dead in the charnel house, he’d gone mad.
His former neighbors had stood by helplessly as Fifer had carried both his mother and friend out into the sunlight, placing them on the ground and kneeling between them, trying to shake them awake.
He recalled clouting the village headman when he’d come to insist on burning them to prevent the spread of pestilence.
Fifer had wrapped and carried their bodies to the dunes, where he dug their unmarked graves deep in the white sands.
In time the tide would reclaim their remains, taking their bones out to sea.
From whence we came, so we must return.
His fledgling clan had arrived and silently helped as he buried his first and last loves.
All knew well that Gael wasn’t blood kin.
Still not one man asked about him, or why the lad mattered so much to Fifer.
Their unwavering and unquestioning loyalty to a man they barely knew had given him new purpose to pull him out of his grief.
Instead of joining those he had lost, he forged ahead and created a new life with the kin who had found him.
In time they gathered more of their brothers and built Dun Maor, a stronghold to protect them and the vassals that so loyally served them.
In time they had chosen him as their laird, and that trust made Fifer place their needs forever before his own.
“You’re safe here, I promise you,” Fifer assured the lad in a low, soothing tone.
At the sound of his voice, Kiamh’s long lashes fluttered, and he looked up at him as if dazed. “My thanks, my lord. My life, ’tis yours.”