Moon Shadows (30 page)

Suddenly she turned to Ingram. “Summon Lochaber at once.”

“Aye, my lady.” Puzzled, the lad darted into the fortress, returning minutes later with the old warrior.

“You wish to see me, my lady?” Lochaber stood as straight and tall as his tired bones would permit.

“Look at that army of warriors, Lochaber. What do you see?”

“Warriors resting in the grass.”

“As do I. But I see something else.” She lowered her voice. “This is an army that has recently murdered men, women, and children in the village of Dunhill. Surely they have much to fear on this night, from the souls of those they have slaughtered. Where will they take shelter before darkness falls in order to escape the wrath of the walking dead?”

The old man's expression changed as the truth dawned. “This fortress is their closest shelter.”

She nodded. “Aye. And once they enter these walls, all here are doomed.”

“You believe then that Laird Rothwick's man lied?”

“I do.”

“Will we take up arms, my lady?”

She shook her head. “Without Royce, we have no chance of stopping them. Prepare all within these walls to travel. We leave within the hour.”

“Is it wise to leave now for the Lowlands, my lady, with the day half gone? We'll not reach our destination before darkness overtakes us.”

Hearing this, the lads glanced from one to the other with matching looks of horror.

“We will be out after dark?” Jeremy asked.

“Aye.” Alana took in a long, deep breath. “I would prefer the justice of the walking dead over the justice meted out by Rothwick's warriors. But we journey not to the Lowlands. We follow my father to Laird Rothwick's fortress.”

“I gave my word to your father . . .” the old man began.

“And now I give you another order, Lochaber.”

“My lady,” the old man sputtered, “how can we hope to pass by an army of that size without being seen?”

“We know something they do not. We can safely take a route through the forest as we journey around them. Now that we know the secret of the Dark Angel, we know we have nothing to fear in his forest.”

“I see the wisdom of what you say, my lady. But I am an old man. How can I see to so many women and children on such a long and perilous journey?”

She gave a firm shake of her head. “This is not the time to think of ourselves as old or young, man or woman. This day we are all Highlanders and warriors. We will stand or fall together.”

She watched the spark that came into the old man's eyes and knew she'd touched a chord in his warrior's heart.

He stood tall and proud as he hurried inside the fortress, shouting orders.

T
HE
fortress of Reginald Rothwick had been carved out of a mountainside. With its jagged peaks rising on three sides, it afforded protection from any surprise attack. The only entrance was a narrow trail between a rushing waterfall on one side and rock-strewn wilderness on the other. Lining the trail were horsemen with swords at the ready.

As they approached the courtyard, Rothwick's man swung down from his mount and shouted for Laird Lamont and his man-at-arms to throw down their weapons.

They did as they were told, and then were forced to submit to a search of their person by one of Rothwick's warriors. The man tore Royce's cloak aside and boldly moved his hands over his waist, his hips, before ordering him to remove his boots.

Satisfied that they possessed no hidden weapons, they were ordered to follow Rothwick's man into the fortress. Inside the Great Hall, Royce studied the faces of the old lairds who, like Malcolm Lamont, had been given no choice but to submit to this latest affront to their authority.

Fires blazed at either end of the Great Hall, but they offered no warmth to the men who stood morosely in small groups, or sat glumly at long wooden tables, lifting tankards in an effort to fortify themselves for what was to come.

As the sun slowly sank below the horizon, the last of Rothwick's warriors hurried inside, loath to be left in the dark. As the crowd swelled, a hush seemed to fall over those assembled.

The whisper went from man to man, table to table. Woe to any who were without shelter on this night of All Hallows Eve. For they would surely face the wrath of the walking dead.

 

“S
TAY
close.” Alana's voice was little more than a whisper, but it was easily heard by the others, who had lapsed into an ominous silence as evening shadows began to fall.

Alana walked in front, keeping to the path that had been drawn in the sand by old Lochaber before they'd left the fortress. She recognized the narrow peaks of the mountains in the distance which he had described and could already hear the sound of the waterfall that signaled the entrance to Rothwick's fortress.

Because of their fear of being separated in the darkness, each of the women and older lads had been assigned to the care of one child. Ingram carried little Meara on his back. Lochaber took up the rear, sword at the ready.

Each call of a night bird, every hoot of an owl, had them looking around with expressions of terror. When a hawk glided low overhead, many of them dropped to their knees and covered their heads, awaiting the appearance of a ghost.

Though Alana's own heart was thundering, she continued walking toward the towering fortress in the distance. Already she could make out the glow of torches set into niches along the walls and turrets.

Lochaber had warned her that there would be warriors guarding the path. Seeing no one about, she realized that they, too, had fled their posts to seek refuge inside the laird's fortress.

She paused and waited for the others to catch up with her. Weary beyond belief, the women and children dropped to the grass while Alana conferred with her father's old man-at-arms.

“Fate smiles upon us, Lochaber. There are no guards to bar our entrance.”

He frowned as he stared up at the towering fortress. “Aye, my lady. But 'twill not be a simple matter to gain entrance. The doors will be barred. And even if we should find a way inside, Rothwick's men will be everywhere.”

“Not everywhere. I have mulled this while we journeyed here. Surely they will be expected to protect their laird in the Great Hall. But there is one place within the fortress that a company such as ours will not be noticed.”

When the old man merely looked at her, she smiled. “It will take many women and children to serve so great a gathering. We must find a way to gain entry to the refectory. After that it will be a simple matter to mingle with the other serving wenches.”

“And what of me, my lady?” The old man looked perplexed.

She pointed to a cart, abandoned alongside the trail. It still contained several live geese in a pen. “It would seem the good farmer was too afraid of the dark to continue his journey and fled in terror. His misfortune shall be our good fortune, Lochaber.”

The old man sheathed his sword and began pushing the cart around the fortress, with the women and children following close behind. They made their way past the courtyard, where many horses were tethered, until they passed through a garden and came to the back door. Inside could be heard the frantic sounds of cooks shouting and serving wenches giggling.

“You must act as though you belong here,” Alana whispered as she took a firm grasp on Meara's hand and led the way inside.

Nobody bothered to look up as she and the others picked up trays laden with fish or fowl and made their way toward the Great Hall.

Lochaber unloaded the pen from the cart and handed it over to one of the cooks. She accepted it without a word, while another woman waved him toward an inner doorway.

“Ye can take shelter with the others in there, until morning light.”

The old man nodded and walked away. When he realized that nobody was watching, he made his way along the hallway, following Alana and the others toward the Great Hall.

 

T
HE
tables groaned under the weight of platters piled high with fish and fowl, loaves of bread, jugs of ale. It was an impressive amount of food and drink, and the Highlanders seated at table knew it was intended as one more insult. While their people were starving, the man who had enslaved them grew fat and prosperous at their expense.

Rothwick sat at the very front of the Great Hall, his table elevated so that all could see him. His most trusted warriors sat around him, their swords and knives glinting in the light of the hundreds of candles that hung in the chandeliers overhead.

Royce, seated beside Malcolm Lamont, forced himself to look at the face of the man who had left him for dead. The lean, cruelly handsome face, the yellow hair and feral cat's eyes, all had been seared into his memory. Reflexively his hand went to his waist, until he remembered that his sword had been relinquished. No matter. If his only weapon be his hands, they would serve him well, choking off the very breath of the hated Rothwick.

His old enemy got to his feet and smiled almost benignly at the faces looking up at him. “You have partaken of my generosity. Now you will repay me by pledging your fealty to me.”

His warriors moved around the room, shepherding the lairds of the various clans toward Rothwick's table. As a frail old laird was dragged forward and forced to kneel, Royce could feel his temper snap.

“Nay.” Royce leapt onto a table, so that his voice could be heard above the din. “It is not enough that he has stolen our freedom and murdered our people. Now this cruel tyrant seeks the respect accorded our greatest leaders. He would set
himself up as an equal with the great kings of Scots: Kenneth MacAlpin and Donald Ban and Ramsay MacLish. In truth, Reginald Rothwick is not worthy to lick their boots.”

Rothwick's eyes blazed with fury. Pointing a finger, he shouted, “Bring that man to me at once. I'll make an example of him for all to see.”

With swords at the ready, his warriors pushed and shoved their way through the crowd, until a dozen hands dragged Royce toward the laird's table.

Rothwick faced his accuser. “What is your name, insolent cur?”

“I am Royce, of the clan MacLish.”

At that, a stunned hush fell over the crowd.

“This man lies.” Rothwick looked out over the faces of the men he needed to name him laird of lairds. “The clan MacLish is no more. The one named Royce is dead. I saw him die.”

“You thought you'd killed me. But I did not die. I have always known that my life was spared for this.”

“For this?” Rothwick threw back his head and gave a mirthless laugh. “So that you could die by my sword a second time?” He turned to his man-at-arms. “Give me your weapon.”

As the man handed over his sword, Rothwick shouted, “Hold him while I show him what happens to those who dare to defy their laird.”

“My laird Royce . . .” At Lochaber's voice, Royce looked up to see the old man pushing his way through the crowd, his sword lifted as if to strike.

“Seize the old fool,” Rothwick shouted.

At once half a dozen men had hold of Lochaber. Before they could disarm him, Alana flung her tray of fish into their midst and used the distraction to snatch the old man's sword from his hand.

While she raced toward Royce, the lads, Ingram, Jeremy, and Dudley formed a circle around her, hoping to protect her from the warriors who were now dashing after them, determined to stop her.

The women and children joined in the fray, their only weapons platters, goblets, food, and drink. Seeing it, the
unarmed lairds at last found their courage and did the same. Though they knew they were helpless against swords and knives, they felt a sudden fierce sense of pride at finally standing tall and fighting back against the oppressor, no matter the price.

Rothwick's face was flushed with anger. “Now will you pay for this act of defiance.” He pointed to Alana. “Seize the woman.”

His warriors took great glee in shoving the lads to the floor and dragging the beautiful young woman to the laird's side.

Her father, Laird Lamont, and the women and children rushed forward, hoping to intervene, but were driven back at sword point by Rothwick's warriors.

Rothwick gave her a long, speculative look before asking. “What is your name?”

“Alana.” She struggled for breath. “ . . . of the clan Lamont.”

“Why did you join in the fight? Does this man mean something to you?”

She lifted her chin and faced Royce, who looked stunned at finding her here. Her tone softened. “Forgive me, my love. I know you asked me to flee, but I could not. I would rather die here with you, than face a future without you. I love you so.”

“Love?” Rothwick's attention sharpened. “And does he return your love?”

“Aye.”

At her haughty tone, Rothwick gave a chilling smile. “What sweet vengeance you have just handed me. I now have the perfect punishment for both of you. Royce MacLish, know that this woman will be passed from warrior to warrior for their pleasure. Alana Lamont, when my men have finished with you, you will beg for death to take you. But first, you may have the pleasure of watching me kill your bold young lover.”

Alana met Royce's eyes and felt a dagger pierce her heart at the look of absolute despair she could read in them. Her own were free of tears. “I am not sorry for standing at your side, my love. All Highlanders will speak your name with reverence because of this day. As you once said, it matters not if we failed. It matters only that we tried.”

“How noble. We shall see if your lover will be equally courageous as he faces the fate I have for you.” Rothwick
lifted his hands to the neck of her gown and tore it from her, until it drifted in tatters around her, still attached at both wrists.

Horrified, old Brin turned to her husband and began to weep. Ingram picked up little Meara and buried her face against his shoulder, so that she couldn't see what was to come. Laird Lamont stood watching in helpless rage, as Rothwick's warriors held them at bay.

Instead of hanging her head in shame, Alana lifted her chin and faced her enemy, as noble as any queen.

“A pretty enough wench.” Rothwick gave an evil leer. “I'm sure she'll bring much pleasure. A pity I can't keep you alive long enough to watch, but the very sight of you offends me.” He drew back his arm, taking aim at Royce's heart.

There was a sound, like a great rushing wind, that filled the hall. Suddenly the sword was wrenched from Rothwick's grasp and tossed to the floor with such force, it shattered into pieces.

Stunned, he whirled to see who had dared to attack him, but there was no one there.

“What trickery is this?” he demanded.

His men grew pale and began glancing around the room with looks that ranged from fear to absolute terror. In the next instant more swords were snatched from his warriors' hands; they flew through the air, landing at the feet of the lairds, who looked as frightened as Rothwick's warriors, before they began timidly picking them up.

“Retrieve your weapons, you cowards,” Rothwick shouted to his men.

“We dare not, for it is the work of the walking dead,” one of his warriors called in a trembling voice. “And this man is one of them. That is why he is among us this night.”

At his words, the men who had been restraining Royce quickly released him and moved away.

“Fools. Do as I say or prepare to die.” The words were no sooner out of Rothwick's mouth than Royce caught him in a fierce stranglehold.

Wrapping his arm around his neck, Royce pressed his face close and hissed out a command. “Tell your men to release the lady at once.”

Instead Rothwick shouted, “No one defies me. I command you to kill the woman.”