Prologue
Caden Mac Swein seized his grandfather’s halberd from its brace upon the wall and stepped back to swing the heavy weapon, recalibrating its weight. “How many?”
“Fifty, near as we can see,” Alec said.
Caden swung the halberd again, cursing roundly beneath this breath.
Made of sturdy ash wood, the haft of the great axe was more than four feet long.
The blade was a solid thirty-three inches of black iron edged with fine steel.
As a whole, the weapon measured six feet long and weighed more than two stone.
Only a man of Caden’s size and strength could ever hope to wield it, and anyone within arm’s length of his swing could attest to his prowess with the weapon.
If they still had a head to speak.
He ran his fingers across the blade. Far more than the great sword, the Viking relic was his weapon of choice, for it once belonged to his great, great-grandsire, Swein of the North, whose aim was always true.
The Beast, it was called, and once he set The Beast in motion, it unerringly met its mark.
Just then, Wee Davie rushed in, bearing their father’s great sword. At thirteen, Wee Davie was petite for his age, and the length of the claymore was nearly as tall as him. “They’re gatherin’ near the Giant’s Cave,” he announced. “Let’s go smite them from our land!”
Caden’s brow furrowed. The Giant’s Cave was a natural sea cave, with a ceiling so high it formed an echo.
It was, in fact, deep enough to conceal at least fifty men.
If any were hiding within, their numbers could easily be misjudged, and it was critical they know precisely how many men they would face today.
So soon after the last raid, he had fewer able bodied men to join the fray.
“Have they gone inside?” he asked his brother, realizing that Davie probably spied them from the tower.
Built by the ancients, Dunrònaigh Keep was “laird of the Minch.” Its enduring presence defied even the storm kelpies—the Blue Men—who ruled the waters of Scotland’s Firth.
His people, his land, his tower, were guardians of the Minch, the tempestuous sea his ancestors once called Skotlandsfjore.
“Nay,” his brother said.
“Good.” Caden nodded. To their good fortune, that cave by the shore was haunted and cursed.
Most living souls would never venture inside, where bones of hapless men and women still clung to stalagmites near the ceiling.
Trapped by the rising sea, their bodies had been borne too high to retrieve them.
Now, clinging to their berths, even in death, they awaited with shivering bones for the sea to return and claim them.
And claim them it would, for the Minch was a vengeful sea.
No man who’d traversed the fjord could claim the kelpies weren’t the fiercest of foes.
The Scots of the Western Isles feared them, though not enough to keep their filthy feet off Caden’s island.
And likely because he who controlled Rònaigh and Dunrònaigh, also controlled the trade between.
“I am ready!” Davie announced, but then he struggled to lift up their father’s great sword.
Eying his youngest brother with displeasure, Caden said, “Nay ye’re no’, Davie.”
The boy’s helm fell over wide blue eyes.
“Aye, Caden, I am,” he argued. “Ye canna keep me from it! No’ this time!
” He cast a glance at Alec, hoping to win the captain’s aid, knowing full well he was the only man Caden might listen to, but Alec wisely turned away.
“I will fight like a mon aside my brethren!” Davie maintained.
Caden softened his voice. “Nay, Davie boy. Ye’re of better use to me here.”
Inside the keep. Away from so many bloodthirsty blades.
Once upon a time, Caden had been the second of five strapping sons, but only he and Wee Davie now remained.
Their forefather, Conn Cétchathach of the Hundred Wars, had been a high king of Erin, but Wee Davie was little more than a boy.
Already, during his scant years, they’d seen a quarter of the battles Conn had, and one of them—either Caden or Davie—must survive to see the end of these days with all their limbs and head intact. Caden aimed to see it would be Davie.
The youth pouted, his jaw set firmly in a freckled face.
“Davie,” Caden reasoned. “One of us must stay and guard the keep.”
“Gonadh! ’Tis a woman’s job ye would leave me to,” Davie complained, his voice cracking.
Caden laid a hand upon his shoulder. “To guard the chieftain’s seat? Nay, my brother. ’Tis a task befitting only a chief.”
Unconvinced, Wee Davie screwed his face. “Then do it yourself!”
Caden’s fingers tightened about his brother’s shoulder. “One of us must lead this fight, and until the day ye can wield this halberd in my hand, ye’ll no’ be the one to do so. D’ y’ hear me?”
Wee Davie lifted his chin. “Please,” he begged. “Please, Caden. I’m a mon now!”
“A mon need never say he’s a mon, Davie. My resolve remains.” By the eyes of Conn, there were not even women remaining of their blood to strengthen alliances. This decision was not open to discussion. His brother would not fight today. He would remain safely within the keep.
He and Davie met eye to eye. To make his point, Caden handed the Viking halberd to his brother and it dropped with a thud to the floor, the iron spikes chipping the stone beneath. It barely missed Davie’s foot, and the clatter it made rivaled the echo in the Giant’s Cave.
No more need be said. Davie scowled, but allowed Caden to lift the halberd from the floor. He was still glaring as Caden turned and made for the door.
His captain hurried to keep step beside him. Only once they’d quit the hall, Caden turned and said, “See that he remains safe.”
“I will try.”
“Nay!” Caden said, his voice snapping like thunder. “You will do it. If my brother comes to harm today, I will take your head.”
It was a bold threat, one Caden Mac Swein would never carry out on his most trusted friend, but Alec understood his laird’s resolve better than most. At all costs, he would protect his youngest remaining sibling from the evils of this war.
He, himself, might bear a dozen scars from chin to toes, but rather Caden should bear them than Wee Davie.
In the end, it would be Davie Mac Swein who’d lead their clan, and Caden wouldn’t bear the loss of yet another brother.
Outside, their ancient standard whipped in the breeze from Dunrònaigh’s single tower—a tiger rampant ermine holding an arrow. The cat’s powerful jowls snapped, and the wind was a roar from its toothy grin.
Down by the sea cave, a throng of usurpers waited to be ousted, their steely weapons glinting maliciously against a waning sun. Three more boats navigated the foaming surf, their numbers growing by the hour. It was better not to wait. Their advantage today would be a swift course of action.
“Di’ ye spy their banner?”
“None.”
“Greedy buggers,” Caden said. “I warrant tis Angus Macleod again. He craves this island more than he does his firstborn son.”
“Who would want that fork-tongued eegit anyhow?”
Seventy of Caden’s men awaited outside the keep. He raised his grandfather’s halberd to the heavens. “For Dunrònaigh!” he cried.
“For Dunrònaigh!” they returned, and together they marched down the hill, toward the beach. The sky was blue, and the sea churned with a ferocity born of the North wind. Caden shed his cloak, and with it, the last vestiges of his civility.
His men all followed suit, wanting nought to impede their movements in battle. Like their Viking predecessors, they welcomed the berserker lurking deep in their souls, each man prepared to defend this land and their people until their dying breath.
As they marched, they shouted war cries, and cut their weapons through the air, calling down the fury of the Blue Men of the Minch.
Their every step was made easier by the pitch of the land, spilling them down and down the hill, like a deadly flow of silver.
From the highest vantage point, atop Dunrònaigh Keep, it appeared as though a human wave plunged toward the sea.
By contrast, the usurpers came trudging up the hillside, weighted in their every step, but greed and blood lust fueled their march. “For Dunrònaigh!” Caden shouted one more time.
“For Dunrònaigh!” his men returned.
The sun glinted off helms and swords as the two forces collided on the hill.
The battle engaged. The roar was deafening, the clang of metal relentless. Blood sprayed the land, a macabre rain that covered every new blade of grass and turned the hillside red.
Battling tirelessly, Caden deflected incoming blades, swinging his halberd like a man possessed, felling all who came within his reach. The battle raged until all who remained were the fiercest of the lot.
Caden fought until his arms grew heavy, until he felt cold metal slice through his shoulder. Pain shot like lightning through his brain. Black rage overtook him. If he failed today, Wee Davie would be the one to pay. He would not fail his brother.
When he might have taken yet another blow, Alec came to save the day. The tip of Alec’s sword entered the base of the man’s skull, protruding through his nostrils. The man fell lifeless to the ground, his blood mingling with those who fell before him.
Caden roared his vengeance, raising his halberd yet again, finding strength in his brother’s fate. By God, they would cut him down limb for limb before he stopped. And yet, even as he fought, two more long boats arrived upon his shore. Warriors trampled up the hillside to join the battle.
Realizing how swiftly the tide could turn against them, Caden renewed himself, strengthening his resolve. With a war cry to the heavens, he moved through the melee, striking wherever he could, aiding his men one by one, and each life he took fed his madness.
Blood ran in rivulets down his arms, oiling his grip, but Caden embraced the axe as an extension of his being, swinging with all his fury and all his might. He felt another stab at his calf, and stumbled forward, howling in pain. The halberd turned before him, alive with a vengeance of its own.
The sun shone down, glinting off the metal of a helm, blinding him, but the halberd swept a deadly path before him, cutting flesh and bone. He heard a sound that gave him pause, his brother’s voice, but he was not quick enough to ken from whence it came.
Davie’s blue eyes met his for the briefest instant—prideful in his accomplishment.
He’d felled the man who’d pierced Caden’s leg.
He’d stabbed him through the breast with their father’s great sword, and the man fell short of his intended aim—Caden’s heart.
But Caden’s halberd had no understanding of this.
His brother stood before him, grinning, waiting for Caden’s blessing…
waiting for him to see that he was, indeed, now a man grown. Waiting.
Precious seconds passed in slow motion. Davie did not ken to step aside.
Caden could not top the fateful swing of his axe.
Once more, his halberd crushed through flesh and bone, severing Wee Davie’s head in one fell swoop.
The boy’s body folded to the grass. His head flew.