Page 17 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
There was a whooshing of cool air over her spine as the ghost followed her. “That’s not verra kind of ye. I want to stay.”
“Who said I had to be kind to ye? I dinnawantye to stay.” She waved her hand at him as if she could simply cut through the mist of his form, cause him to evaporate.
“No one decreed it, of course. Just thought ye might be. Manners, that sort of thing.” The ghost played with his long, vaporous beard.
Elle considered rapping on the door and demanding she be brought more wine. “I willna shoot the messenger, your lairdship. But ye were the bearer of bad news and so I am obliged by nature to reject ye.”
“Still holding a grudge, I see.”
“Wouldn’t ye?” She narrowed her eyes. “Why do ye not go and haunt the one who killed ye?”
He shrugged. “Perhaps I will.” His hazy form faded in and out. “Ah, I must be off.”
“Where are ye going?” Was he going to listen to her? Go and haunt that Viking bastard?
“I feel a pull. I think I must go with my son.”
And then, just as quickly as he’d appeared, the ghost was once more gone, leaving Elle with more questions than answers.
*
They owned themoors, riding hard over the tall grasses and tamped down roads. Easily climbed the mountains and forded the winding rivers that separated Beiste’s lands from Castle Gloom. The warriors rode through the evening and, finally, in the dead of night, they were upon the fortress, staring down over the moonlit castle.
All was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not even a torch lit upon the ramparts.
Beiste narrowed his eyes, his skin prickling. What in bloody hell was going on? For a castle that had been besieged by the enemy, the place looked deserted. Abandoned. Not the site of a siege or massacre.
“None escaped?” Beiste asked Gunnar who’d led the elite out into the field to take care of their enemies camped outside his own walls before they’d left.
“None, my laird. And no scouts that we could make out.”
If none had escaped, then there was no way the Vikings who’d attacked Dunstaffnage could have gotten word back to Castle Gloom regarding his impending arrival. So what was happening? Was it a trap? Had the Vikings known all along? Perhaps guessed that once he’d defeated the men set upon his own castle that his next move would be Castle Gloom?
Was the lass sent as a lure? Had no massacre ever taken place except for the one that had killed his own father? The unsettling images that played didn’t sit well with him. He didn’t think that was the case. He didn’t know why, and he was probably mad because of it, but there was a large part of Beiste that trusted Elle Cam’béal.
“Bloody hell,” Beiste growled, contemplating retreat. But he’d not be the man he was, the leader he aspired to be, if he simply left without at least investigating. He whistled for his scouts who nudged their horses toward him. “This could be an ambush. I want you to scout the surrounding area for signs of a trap and report back to me. Do not engage should ye catch sight of any foe, unless they attack ye first.”
“Aye, my laird.”
The men rode out and Beiste settled into the saddle to wait. He and the warriors that waited with him would not dismount. They’d not take their eyes and ears away from the surrounding area in case his suspicions were correct, which he prayed they weren’t.
Not much later, his scouts returned.
“My laird, the place is deserted.” Calum, one of the scouts, looked just as confused as Beiste felt. “Not a soul in sight, my laird. Not even a trap set out.”
The wind blew ominously through the forest and prickles rose along Beiste’s spine. He felt as though he were being watched. A thousand eyes on him, or perhaps only a pair, but it was enough to put him on edge. Even his mount twitched his ears and shuffled from side to side.
“We are not alone,” Beiste murmured. Even as the words came out, he sensed an otherworldly presence. Prickles along his neck, his skin chilling. He shook his head. Nay, there had to be a human explanation for what he sensed.
His men nodded, all of them looking cautiously around.
Was it his imagination or was there a mist rolling on the ground around their mounts’ hooves that had not been there before?
Beiste withdrew his sword, his men following suit. They moved to form a circle, their warhorses’ rears bumping into each other as they gave each other their backs, a form of defense should the enemy present itself from any side.
