Highlander Enchanted(72)
Seated atop a horse with his wrists tied to the saddle, he was surrounded by armed men from Laird Duncan’s clan. They feared him, even when he was barely strong enough to keep himself upright on the horse.
He was in no state to fight, and cold despair slithered through him, provoking his unseillie magic. He reminded himself over and over he had a weapon of sudden tempests, and it was not only a sword he required to combat the men hunting his clan.
The betrayal of his fevered body, however, angered him. He struggled to contain the mad unseillie sorcery, wasting his energy to control the madness when he needed it to protect his kin.
Cade assessed the war party. They were waiting for the first light of dawn to crest the hill before them. Camp had broken up earlier and the men positioned themselves behind a long hill running parallel to the ocean. Logic told him there was likely a valley beyond it, however shallow, and he had seen the second ridge of hills and bluffs edging the ocean. This part of the country was sparse in terms of forest, though his seillie magic imparted that there was one near.
Too weak to sense his kind or know what they planned, he twisted the ropes binding his hands in frustration. He was not accustomed to feeling helpless. He had faith in his cousins, in John, in Laird Macdonald and the clans. But faith was rarely a match for a sword.
One hand slipped free of its bonds, aided by the blood from wrists rubbed raw. The new pain helped push away the addled thoughts stemming from his fever.
One of the warriors near him muttered about the never-ending tempest, and Cade smiled. He was saving the thunder and lightning, but the steady rain had ruined the morning meal of Laird Duncan’s men and soaked them through before they left the camp.
It was a small victory, along with the desertion of over half of Richard’s knights the night before. The proud English noble was at the head of his men, resolution on his features despite it being common knowledge his men had abandoned him.
A cry rang out from one end of the narrow dirt road running alongside the hill.
Cade’s stomach jolted as he realized the moment for attack had come. He whispered to the clouds and touched the two medallions he wore at his neck, beside the black crystal meant to drive away evil.
He discreetly hastened freeing his second wrist from the bonds. His hands were unsteady and his skin hot despite the cold rain. Delirium had not yet claimed him – though his senses were dulled.
It was soon light enough for Laird Duncan to give the final command for attack. The first lines of warriors began racing up the hill, most on foot, some on horses, swords raised and shouting. The bearded chieftain trotted towards Cade and the loose ring of his guards.
“Doona let him free,” he command. “Take ‘im t’the hilltop.”
The warrior with his reins was the first to move. Cade gripped the horse with his thighs, twisting his hand free of the rope. They loped up the hill at an angle, apart from the brunt of Laird Duncan’s forces and safe from arrows and swords. Laird Duncan soon joined him. Lord Richard was close behind, accompanied by a seasoned man Cade took to be the knight’s master-at-arms and a young squire. Several other men, each in a different tartan, climbed the hill to stand beside Laird Duncan.
In the shallow valley, smoke rose from bonfires outside a thatch of forest and campfires inside the forest. The trees had created shelter for his people, and meat roasted on one of the spits near the woods. Blankets were strewn up as walls, horses gathered in a makeshift corral, and the belongings of his clan covered by oiled canvas. The valley was surrounded on three sides by hills.
On the surface, his people appeared to be hiding in the forest. His cousins would never leave them in a valley to be crushed, and he studied the sight before him once more.
His destrier was not among those in the corral. Those of his cousins, and the handful of other warriors in the clan, were also missing.
The seillie magic of dawn was strong despite his physical weakness. He closed his eyes and waited, searching the area with his instincts. A spark of seillie magic lit inside him and connected with the gentle magic of nature. The thrum of sorcery was heavy in the air over the valley, and the forest and earth whispered their secrets to the seillie leader.
The valley was littered with magical traps – and not one seillie was present.
“Give the command,” Laird Duncan ordered.
The sound of hoof beats pounding away drew Cade from his inner world. He dwelt over Father Adam’s confidence that unleashing the Black Cade side of him would not endanger his own people. He did not feel this confidence, not when he recalled too clearly what he had done in the Crusades. He had slaughtered villages of women and children whose men were away at battle, and he had done so without control or mercy.
But if his cousins and their magic were unable to stop Laird Duncan, Cade did not have to question what he would do. It would not be a choice, for he could never allow anyone to harm his own. Relieved to know his cousins had reached the clans seeking refuge here, he tested his strength and brought the storm closer without unleashing its power quite yet. He had some sense of how far he could push himself without snapping. He only prayed he was strong enough to control the grey area between doing what he had to in order to protect his clan – and not toppling into madness.
Laird Duncan’s warriors began to spill down the hill into the valley. Mud made the journey slow and treacherous, with several horses going down before they reached the valley and quite a few more foot soldiers being overrun by men or thrown by mounts.