Plight of the Highlander (The MacLomain Series: Next Generation Book 5) (24 page)

“Just swim hard and fast,”
Naðr said.
“The motion will propel your body up enough so that your wings will take hold.”

Not overthinking, she did exactly as instructed and crested the water, launching just enough so that she could flap her wings once. The tip of one wing splashed in the water and she nearly lost her balance. But then she flapped hard again and soon gained altitude.

“Well done,”
Naðr said.

The wind shear was growing stronger and stronger, but Torra managed, determined to save Colin and her clan. The bulk of the MacLomains and their allies had amassed just beyond the first drawbridge. All knelt with shields up as arrows rained down.

Grant hung back just out of range, his eyes to the sky.

Torra swooped down low and released the Viking sword. Grant deftly caught it by the hilt and ran to join his brethren. All the while the MacLeod was drawing his warriors away from the main gate. As he did so, the binding magic around Keir Hamilton was fast fading.

They were running out of time.

No wizard could down the likes of Keir’s black magic bound portcullises.

Except a dragon.

Torra landed in front of the MacLomains, ignored the arrows pelting off her scales and slammed her shoulder against the first portcullis. It gave way after two hard thumps. With a quick flap of her wings, she leapt over it then landed in front of the second one. She felt Colin’s fear that for the briefest of moments the delicate underside of her wings was exposed to incoming arrows.

Again, she slammed against the portcullis. This one took four good thumps before it crashed down. As every second ticked by, Keir was working to break free from his bonds. So Torra stormed forward and released a long roar of fire against the main gate.

Even Keir’s barrels of oil were protected by black magic as they crashed open over and around her. Torra kept her wings down and continued breathing fire on the gates. Fire-lit arrows rained down and flames exploded not only around but over her. While it stung a wee bit, it was by no means lethal. Thick plumes of smoke rose but didn’t block her superior vision.

“I’m coming,”
Torra roared in her mind and ran forward, crashing the heavy weight of her body up against the weakened gate.

Once, twice then fiery splinters shot inward.

The gate had fallen.

Not only the MacLomain but MacLeod and Hamilton war cries resounded behind her. The prisoners had been rallied. As the men rushed over the bridge behind her, Torra sensed the confusion and fear as those within the courtyard realized their own clans were rushing forward to fight.

She felt Colin’s distress when he turned a grim eye and raised sword against those he’d rallied over the past few days. “Fight
with
me not against. Your brethren now fight
against
Keir Hamilton! Ye see who the dragon fights for!”

But the air had become so rent with smoke and the sound of fighting so loud that few likely heard him. Still, Colin never stopped yelling at them. Soon enough, Grant joined him and yelled the same thing.

Yet so many were brainwashed and frightened by Keir Hamilton so continued fighting against them. Torra could do little to help the actual fighting for fear she might trample one of her own. Most of her loved ones were in the thick of battle now. They fought in the courtyard, moat, on the wall walks, everywhere.

Too much blood spilled.

Her brothers slashed their swords viciously alongside one another.

Clang. Clang. Clang.

Even the Broun women fought, making good use of their daggers.

Interestingly enough, Malcolm took up rank beside Colin MacLeod. They had a similar berserker attitude toward fighting so made a formidable team. Yet even Malcolm tried to sway his enemies from fighting him before he cut them down.

In fact, just about every MacLomain, Hamilton, and MacLeod were doing the same, pleading with those they fought to throw down their weapons…that they were friend, not foe.

It had to be the most peculiar battle in history.

But still it raged.

Torra felt the last binding tether of magic from the black leather start to slip away and she launched into the air. She should have already had Keir in her claws by now. But it was too late. She had only just risen above the castle when the Hamilton ripped free from the binding magic.

“Bloody hell,”
Colin said into her mind.
“Leave this place while ye can, lass. Save yourself!”

“Never would I leave any of you,”
she returned and swooped down and around. Icy wind whipped her face and her surroundings grew more and more turbulent. Pockets of displaced air sometimes shifted her body so that she’d drop in an instant only to once more gain a steady enough flight.

Enraged, Keir thrust up his arms and black magic poured from him in a black waspish whip that twirled up into the sky like a massive tornado. Torra swung down and released a huge gust of fire at him.

But his magic deflected it easily.

Torra made a wide arc and came at him again but before she could release more fire, he whipped his hand forward and the deadly black trail whiplashed across the sky. She released another roar as it snaked around her ankle. Though she tried to flap her wings and free herself, it was impossible.

Keir yanked back harshly and her body jerked. Instead of reeling her in, he’d caused her to flip back and lose control. Another whip lassoed around her, effectually trapping her wings against her body.

Sickened, she had one last moment to look down at the courtyard full of clansmen.

She knew what Keir meant to do.

Her great body started to free fall, flipping over and over.

This wasn’t how this was supposed to go. Not at all.

“Torra!”
Colin cried.

But she could barely think let alone communicate as the ground rushed toward her. She prayed that everyone got out of the way. Alongside the endless sounds of battle, alarmed screams rent the air from below as she fell. Over and over the world continued to whirl by. Then just as soon as it started, it ended and pain ripped through her as she crashed down into the courtyard.

Unable to stop herself, Torra thrashed her tail out of reflex and heard more screams.

Still, though her vision blurred, she knew Colin was there, standing by her head, his soft words murmured into her mind.
“Shh, lass. Dinnae struggle. You’re not alone. We’re all here.”

Yet she knew Keir was as well.

They only had one chance now and there was little she could do to assist.

As her vision cleared, she was helpless to do anything but watch.

Under the influence of Keir’s unnatural ability to slow time, all in the courtyard froze. Well, more like barely moved as the air thickened around their bodies. The Hamilton Laird came down from the battlement.

Thank the gods all who mattered most stood around her.

The next generation of MacLomain men as well as their Broun lasses. Even several of the original MacLomain wizards stood by, including Coira, William, and Ferchar. Yet despite so many of the enemy and the massive dragon that he had so long wanted to possess, Keir’s attention was solely focused on one person.

His son, Valan.

Pain and fury ravaged Keir’s face as he narrowed in. “Ye are no trick of the eye but alive.”

Clearly not caught in the unnatural black magic, Valan narrowed his eyes as well. “Aye, and I fight amongst your enemies.”

Pain fled as coldness settled in Keir’s eyes. “Too little too late, however. Because of your own actions I have at last achieved all I set out to accomplish. So in the end, son, ye can be sure the enemy will no longer have use of ye.” He paused, an evil smile slithering onto his face. “Nor will yer own clan.”

Valan shook his head and kept his voice loud. “The Hamiltons are no more yours than they are mine. Ye are not their natural laird. Nay, he’s long been dead at your hands and generations removed.”

A quickly masked flicker of surprise entered Keir’s eyes as Valan said his final words. “I’m your blood son and a warlock. Did ye think ye could hide such from me? Ye were son to Innis MacGilleEathain of the Dalriada clan. We’re not of the Scots but of the Irish.”

Keir shrugged. “It doesnae matter in the least. The Hamiltons belong to me as does the dragon. I am now the most powerful chieftain in Scotland.”

Apparently done with the conversation, his gaze narrowed on Grant then Colin and black fury ebbed around him. “All along ye meant to betray me.” He spoke through clenched teeth as he strode toward Colin. “Yet how did I not see it in your mind?”

Torra growled as sharp fear rose for Colin.

“Och, nay,” Grant ground out as he used the dark magic Keir had taught him to free himself from the otherworldly slowing of time.

Then everything happened very quickly.

Grant swung the Viking sword over his head and chanted. Magic whipped out and instantly freed all those who were allies from Keir’s magic.

Bradon moved fast and swiped his blade across Keir’s side. Because of its origin it was the one sword that could cause the Hamilton a small amount of injury where all others couldn’t. After all, a Celtic sword had great power over a Celtic warlock. If that wasn’t enough, Kynan, Malcolm’s wolf, lunged out of nowhere and locked onto the back of Keir’s leg.

Keir swore in fury as the slash to his side and the wolf slowed him down just enough. Grant alongside all his MacLomain brethren touched the dragon while their Broun lasses put their stones against their partner’s tattoos. Even McKayla was here which meant for the first time they were harnessing the power of all four stones and all four tattoos.

Last but not least, Valan touched Torra, his warlock blood ensuring his father would be trapped within their magic.

Immense power started to ripple around the dragon as her scales ignited.

Gold, copper, silver and sparkling white.

Grant laid the blunt edge of his blade against Torra’s side and started to once more chant.

“
Qui subveherent ex omnibus sociis sit MacLomain castri ad me. Oblitus hostis subvertens ut cito captus.
Transport all allies who be to the MacLomain castle with me. Forget my enemy naught, so that he soon might be caught.”

Keir roared with blasphemous rage as magic swamped all and everything shifted.

The Hamilton’s black, oily whips vanished but even so she was weakened to the point that Torra had no choice but to shift into her human form. This way she would at least have strength to hopefully help.

After a quick few blinks, their surroundings changed.

Now all stood not in the Hamilton’s courtyard but the MacLomain’s.

The moment the magic lifted, the men attacked Keir.

Bradon slashed his Celtic sword first, muttering, “Ye bloody bastard. That’s for ripping Torra’s soul in half.”

Weakened, Keir cringed, his magic sputtering within his aura.

Malcolm landed three solid punches. One to his face. Two to his gut. “For all the pain ye’ve caused Torra and my clan.” Then he spun past and drove the blunt end of his axe into the Hamilton’s kidney before he hit him on the back of his head so hard Keir fell to his knees. But Malcolm wasn’t finished. He landed ten consecutive punches to Keir’s face then four more to his gut. “Those were for all fourteen winters ye kept my brother prisoner.”

Though a bloody mess, Keir’s magic quickly started to regenerate.

So Bradon slashed him again with the Celtic blade and weakened him some more.

Next came her brother, Colin. He twisted his hand into Keir’s hair and yanked him to his feet. Then he wrapped a hand around the Hamilton’s throat and squeezed tight until Keir gasped for air and was within an inch of his life. “This is for trying to take my sister from me ye bloody piece of shit.”

When he tossed him aside, Keir coughed and sputtered but stayed afoot, his lecherous eyes narrowed on all, magic flaring. But he didn’t have long to glare before Bradon slashed him again then Colin MacLeod got a hold of him and drove him back against the castle wall. He slammed his forearm under the Hamilton’s chin, locked him in place and brought a dagger against his groin.

“Ye cannae kill him, my love,”
Torra whispered into his mind and at last showed him what must happen to Keir.

Colin gave no response, his sole focus on the Hamilton as he shook with rage. Eyes narrowed and face within inches of Keir’s, he said, “Though I’d like to spend days torturing ye there isnae time. Still.” A maniacal grin came to the MacLeod’s lips. “You’re bound to like my retribution the least, Hamilton. This is not only for all the lasses ye stole and made whores of but for my sister Nessa and my wee lass, Torra, who will
never
be yours.”

Torra barely flinched when Colin swiped his blade and removed Keir’s manhood.

The Hamilton roared in pain not only from the action but from Colin’s fiery magic which he used to cauterize the wound so Keir wouldn’t bleed out. Still holding the dark overlord in position, Colin arched a brow over his shoulder at Torra. “Would ye like to have a go at him, lass?”