Page 18 of Highland Warrior
The question is, will you?
The words were not spoken, and yet Malcolm heard them clear as day.
Death lifted a finger, and pointed to the edge of Malcolm’s land, where Dun Moray’s keep was buffeted by craggy Highland peaks. At first Malcolm saw nothing. Then a shimmer of disturbance in the air around his wards caught his eye the moment before lightning flashed, and two women straddling broomsticks flew through the air and pierced the protection of his magick.
“Nay,” he growled. “How is this possible?”
“The Grimoire!” Morgana pointed. “They have it.”
Thathadto be how they got through the wards. Cradled under Badb’s left arm was the book filled with all the secrets of his Druid family since the beginning of time.
We’re after you both now…Badb’s eerie voice brushed past his ear on a chilling breeze. Even as he watched her hag’s robes draping below her as she circled his keep on her broomstick, it was as though she whispered right next to him.
Fear sliced through him, followed quickly by a cold fury the likes of which he’d never before felt. Moray Village, full of innocent souls, separated the space between his walls and the castle. Could he get to them in time?
A sister for a sister…Badb’s cruel winds hissed. With a deafening crash, she called down a silver fork of lightning. It struck his parapets and half the roof of Dun Moray gave a great shudder, and then collapsed.
With a harsh sound of strain and rage, Malcolm did all he could to keep the stones from crushing any of the inhabitants of the castle, but knew that from this distance, he had to have failed.
Come to us and we’ll let the wee Moray babes and their mothers live...
Malcolm hesitated, though his heart bled. Of course it was a trap. One that if sprung, could seal the fate of the entire world. And yet, what of his people? How could they make him choose between those whom he loved most dear, and—everyone who was or would ever be?
Bring Morgana, and we’ll give you what you want, or should I saywhoyou want…
Vían.
The thought of her locked away in their hellish void nearly drove him to his knees. The sounds of the battle receded into the background. Though Vían had been the one imprisoned all these decades, Malcolm felt as though it washimthat had found deliverance in her presence. He’d felt more wealthy in that hovel in the forest than he ever had in the halls of his own castle. A chance to be who he truly was. No pretenses, no expectations, and no barriers. He wanted nothing more from this life then to be given the chance to show her the same kind of freedom.
A love that never bound, but liberated.
Cursing the prophecy, the Fates, the Wyrd Sisters and thefuckinggods, he turned to his beloved sister, a void of his own opening inside his heart.
“Keep me strong,” he ground out a command and a plea in one breath.
She met his gaze with her soft blue eyes, clarity and determination sparking in their depths. “Nay,” she murmured.
Malcolm flinched, and then glared a warning at her. “What are ye saying?”
Grasping his elbow, Morgana turned them both toward his keep, where Badb and Nemain touched down on the flagstones of his home. Lightning sheeted across the Highland sky, warning that their time was running out.
“We take the fight to them, Malcolm,” Morgana said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his shoulder as though gathering strength.
Gritting his teeth, Malcolm nodded, lowering them to the ground on his piece of earth. “It’s time we end this,” he agreed. “One way or another.”
“I’m going with you,” Kenna announced, taking a moment to break from the line of archers. “Lower me down.”
“Nay,” Malcolm held his hand out to her. “Ye stay where ye are and help the Berserkers fend off the attack. They need yer fire.”
Kenna stood upon the wall, her amber skirts flapping against her legs in the increasingly violent winds. “I know you could have loved her.” Her eyes glowed with the fire of prophecy. “I’m sorry that you could not keep Vían and also your word as a Druid. But your decisions today will echo for millennia, one way or the other.”
Her words affected Malcolm more than he could ever have expected. So much so that all he could summon for her was a nod before he turned with his sister toward Dun Moray. It wasn’t sadness that welled up inside him as he stalked the thoroughfare of Moray Village toward where Badb stood, clutching her broom in one hand and the book in the other.
Rage. A helpless, impotent fury Malcolm had never had to grapple with in his entire life. He was a de Moray. The King of the Highland people. His family had held off the Vikings, the Romans, and the English with their might and magick.
How was it that this one crone and her coven were more dangerous than all the sword-wielding warriors who’d been after this isle since the beginning? How could it be possible that no matter which side won the day, the ultimate loss would be his? He’d always done everything required of him. Respected the earth. Studied his craft. Learned herbs, potions, incantations, leadership, justice, and mercy. Some of those lessons had been hard-won. Others had come easily.
But after decades of sacrifice for his people and his Goddess, he was denied the only thing that truly mattered in this world. The one thing that would strengthen and solidify his power and allow him to become the man, theKing, he was meant to be.
