Page 22 of Highland Warlord
The wind screamed that bone-chilling evil sound and the brewing storm unleashed its rage upon them.
Scooping Morgana into his arms, Bael ignored the intense burning in his palms and the stinging lash of the deluge as he bolted into the trees. Never in his life has he run from a battle, but these spectral witches had no blood with which to spill. No bones to break. No hearts to stop.
Just elements.
And blood magick. The darkest and most potent kind.
We’re coming for you.A crone’s whisper drifted through the scream of the wind, kissing his spine with ice and dread, though he knew the threat was directed less at him and more at the precious woman he carried in his arms.We’re coming for the Grimoire.
Prepare for the end.
The last word fractured against dying branches and echoed about the forest with eerie force as though coming from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“Babd,” Morgana’s frightened exclamation vibrated against his skin. “She’s air. There’s no escaping her!”
“She won’t get to you,” Bael vowed, and doubled his speed, careful to keep his mate’s limbs from finding an errant branch as he plowed through the forest, desperately forming a plan of action.
A tree root nearly tripped him, and Bael could have sworn he’d seen it lift. Taking more care with his footing, he noticed the ground beneath his boots growing softer as the wind began to die away. More roots and tree limbs conspired to steal his footing, though the ground seemed to want to hold him into one place.
What fresh sorcery was this?
In three more steps Bael struggled against roots, vines and branches. For each one he broke, two took their place, latching to his limbs and locking them down. His axe was stolen from his back, his neck lashed with willow cords.
He fought them, clenching his little mate tighter, his enraged roars drowning her protestations.
A blade nicked the nape of his neck from behind, all flora tightening enough to choke his very bones.
The dark voice that pierced the forest resembled nothing of the three Wyrd sisters from which they fled, but was masculine and heavily accented even though every word was annunciated with lethal clarity.
“Take. Yer filthy.Vikinghands.Offmy sister.”
Chapter 11
“Where is he?” Morgana demanded, blocking the Pictish King, Malcolm de Moray’s intent scrutiny of the blaze illuminating Moray Castle’s great hall.
Her brother’s cold green eyes slid to her, and a flicker of what might have been affection touched them. “If ye’re referring to yer Berserker, he’s in the dungeon.”
“Don’t let him fool you,” she cautioned. “Berserkers cannot be bound by chains.”
“I reinforced the chains with magic, until I can figure out how best to kill him.”
Morgana gasped, fighting the childish urge to yank on his wildly auburn hair, the exact same shade as hers. “You’ll do no such thing!” She wagged a finger at him. “I forbid it.”
“Ye forbid yer king?” A russet eyebrow crawled up his broad, noble forehead toward a crown of gold shaped with short spikes fashioned to look like young Elk antlers.
“You’re not my king, you’re my brother,” she snapped.
That produced a short sound of amusement from her otherwise stoic brother’s throat. “He seemed to be under the impression that I was duty bound to end his life,” Malcolmobserved, leaning forward in his throne until his royal robe fell from his wide shoulders. “Really, sister, warn a fellow before pledging my hand at murder next time. And be happy I allowed ye to waste yer magic healing his burned hands before we arrived home.”
“He used those hands to save my life.” Morgana studied her brother, worrying the skirts of her clean frock, wondering at the change in him. He’d been a handsome, sparkly-eyed youth with a quick temper and an even quicker wit. His hair had been wild and wind-blown like hers instead of slicked back into this tight queue. She’d liked the way his smile smoothed the calculating sharpness of his features and made him seem so young.
That was before Macbeth. Before they’d been taken prisoner and banished from their father’s kingdom. Before the battle Malcolm had waged to win his throne back.
Before Kenna disappeared.
He didn’t look so young anymore. He looked like a dominant man who carried more weight than even a Berserker could hold. Malcolm de Moray wielded unimaginable power, and yet something about him was broken.
Morgana was starting to think that she’d gotten the better bargain in her exile with the English King. Something had happened to Malcolm. Macbeth and his insane bitch of a wife had irrevocably harmed him, somehow.
