Page 69 of The Beast's Bride
Chapter Thirty
Blooded
THE VALE OF Hamra Rinner lay in the cleft between two craggy peaks. A dark forest of pine and fir covered the lower slopes of the mountains, framing a wide meadow, where a burn wended its way over a bed of grey stones.
It was a lonely spot, far from the nearest village. The Fraser stronghold at Talasgair lay much farther south, upon the isle’s western coast. Despite that this was MacLeod territory, the vale had always been the favorite hunting spot of both clans.
The MacLeod war party drew to a halt at the far northern end of the valley, tethering their horses amongst the trees. They would engage the enemy on foot, for it was cumbersome for the warriors wielding two-handed Claidheamh-mor blades to fight on horseback.
It had just gone noon; they’d ridden hard to reach the vale by the appointed hour. Would they find the enemy waiting for them?
Rhona followed the others out into the valley. The sun still hadn’t shown its face. She glanced up at the pale sky and spied an eagle circling overhead. She’d never traveled to Hamra Rinner before. The resinous scent of pine filled the air. Up ahead, a stag bounded across the vale before disappearing into the trees carpeting the eastern slopes of the meadow.
“Remember all I taught ye,” Taran said as they walked side-by-side. “Go for the throat, the belly, and the groin. Get in close so a man with a long reach can’t use it to his advantage.”
Rhona nodded, her stomach twisting as the reality of what was coming finally hit her. She was going to have to kill.
Part of her wondered if she was capable of it. What if she let everyone, herself included, down?
But she had no time to voice her worries, for it was then that she caught a flash of color to the south: the distinctive red, blue, and green of the Fraser plaid. Their pennants snapped in the wind.
Malcolm MacLeod raised his hand, signaling for them to halt. “There’s that bastard,” he growled. “Here to take what’s mine.”
“He won’t, Da,” Iain interjected. “We’ll slaughter them all.”
“That’s the spirit, lad.” Malcolm MacLeod tore his gaze from the fluttering pennants and glanced over at his son. His gaze narrowed. “Be careful with that sword today … it’s too big for ye.”
Rhona watched her brother’s cheeks flush. “I’m fine,” he muttered.
Beside Rhona, Taran shifted. “I tried to warn him.”
Gordon snorted. “Hope he impales himself on it.” His comment was murmured, but Rhona heard it nonetheless. It didn’t surprise or offend her; Iain might have been her brother, but he was growing into an unpleasant young man.
To the south the Fraser war band approached. At first Rhona could only see their banners, and then she caught sight of the men: rows of warriors clad in chainmail. Some wore helms that gleamed despite the dull day, while others went bareheaded.
When the two bands were a furlong apart, a tall, helmeted figure stepped out from the Fraser ranks.
Morgan Fraser strode out toward them, a cloak of plaid bearing the Fraser colors rippling from his broad shoulders. Rhona studied him with interest; he was the same height as her father but much leaner. Despite the heavy armor he wore, the man stalked rather than walked.
Malcolm MacLeod left the ranks of his men and lumbered forward. Unlike the Fraser chief he wore no helmet. Rhona knew he found them cumbersome and complained that they limited his vision.
The two men stopped around five yards apart.
“MacLeod,” Morgan Fraser’s voice was a deep boom in the now silent vale. “We meet at last.”
In response, Malcolm MacLeod spat on the ground between them. “Aye, Fraser. Ye have got what ye wanted all along.”
“I knew I’d rile ye if I took yer land.”
“Well, ye did.”
“What’s wrong? Don’t ye like it when someone takes from ye something ye treasure?” The bitterness in the Fraser chief’s tone cut the air.
MacLeod threw back his head and laughed, the noise rumbling like an approaching storm. “The lady chose the better man … ye can’t blame her for that.”
“Thatladywas my wife, MacLeod.”
Rhona heaved in a deep breath and spared a glance in Taran’s direction. He was watching the exchange, his brow furrowed. Only blood would appease Morgan Fraser’s wounded pride.
