Romancing the Rogue (182 page)

Cairn

Archaean Highlands

Late Spring

“Pass me that last bit of thatch, will you?” Marek asked Ronan, busy repairing leaks in the roof of Murron’s croft.

Ronan scaled the ladder two rungs at a time to toss an armful of thatch to Marek. Tucking in a few stray strands, Ronan lingered on the ladder. “There has been talk of moving the village. Have you heard this, brother?”

“Aye, I have,” Marek replied, indifferent.

“Well, what are your thoughts?”

“Honestly, I think it unwise. Combining forces — now
that
would be a wise decision. Leaving a village that has already been raided and taking it to a village due for one is not. I have been meaning to talk to you and the lads about riding over to Cairn to see about putting an end to these raids. I’ve heard about its vulnerability.” Wiping the sweat from his brow, Marek finished the roof and descended the ladder after his brother. “What say you?”

“Marek, I don’t think we should leave our people unprotected.”

“It will be three days, four at the most. They have soldiers — strong men ready to fight. Come with me. We can end this. I need you on my right, Ronan.”

“I’ll talk to the lads — see what news has been roaming the village.”

Marek clasped his brother tight. “I’ll find you later. I have something I must do.”

Strolling under a rare spring sun, Marek let out a shrill whistle, calling the only one happy to see his face as of late — his faithful friend and battle comrade, Arran. Within moments, his mount cantered from the far end of the fenced-in pasture with ears perked. Inquisitive eyes peered over the railing. Swatting away a pesky fly, Marek apologized for not visiting as much as he should have. “I’m sorry, my friend. I’ve been troubled lately.”

Arran nickered, nuzzling his nose beneath his master’s cloak, seeking a treat.

Marek playfully pushed the insistent mouth aside. “What did you find?”

Arran persistently investigated a certain spot on Marek’s chest. A glint of sunlight reflected off the silver charm. The horse took it lightly in his lips, decided it wasn’t food, and released it with a snort.

“You miss her, eh? I do, too.” Marek continued his guilty conversation with his faithful steed. “I know I told you no more battles, but what do you say to one more? For Ewan and Nya. You were her favorite, you know,” he teased. “One last fight and I promise you can live out your days making many more little Arrans.” The animal gave up his search then turned to rejoin the herd at the far end of the pasture. “I’ll take that as you care nothing for me and my thoughts.” Marek fastened his cloak. “It seems nobody gives a damn these days.”

~~~~

As word spread about Marek’s pending plans to head to Cairn to seek out a handful of willful warriors, a meeting was called by the elders. Marek sat beside his brother in the shadows, quietly taking in his environment.

“If we go, the village is left to fend for itself. We are small in numbers as it is. Take away our best warriors, and we will be annihilated for sure this time!” one man argued, raising his voice above the chatter.

“Aye!” another agreed. “We have done our share. We need to continue rebuilding, not fight someone else’s battle!”

“Until they come back, looking for more,” called Marek. “How long are we to wait before this Engel is tired of his women and wants fresh bodies? How many more of our sons have to die trying to defend their mothers? How many times are we going to rebuild while that Engel parades up and down our lands looking to take whatever he can get his filthy hands on? Are we supposed to sit idly by while he preys on our own? If so, then why do we not just give ourselves to him? Let him cut our throats? Hell, I will let him use my own knife!”

“Marek is right, lads,” added Ronan. “We need to show this Lord Westmore that we are not going to let him take our people and destroy our homes any longer.”

“I say we gather some fighters and intercept the Engel… show him what Archaeans are
really
made of, and that he will not win against warriors blessed by the gods! He may be able to defeat a village filled with women and children only because he has yet to face true Archaean warriors!”

With much convincing, the villagers finally allowed Marek to take a group of warriors and ride to Cairn to speak with their elders.

The very next morning, eleven men rode against the rising sun to the costal stronghold of Cairn. After a long and hard ride, they arrived as the sun descended. Villagers paused only momentarily at the sight of their arrival before hurrying to finish the day’s work. Cairn seemed to be in a steady decline. The village elder, Connell, cared more for his stronghold than he did his own people. He was glorified in battle as a young man, adopting the mindset of being impenetrable, slaughtering his enemy with the power of the gods.

Marek wondered how such a man could be so ignorant as he passed the crumbling wall surrounding the stronghold.

Marek and his men were directed to the common room where they were greeted with food and wine. Many chatted about current events and old pastimes, it having been many years since the two clans had mingled. But still, the two clans kept a wary distance. Marek and his men had been greeted with smiling faces, but the tension could be felt by all.

It was Connell who finally spoke above the thick curtain of unease. “You are a man now, my boy. If I didn’t believe my eyes, I would swear on my soul your father sat before me. A great man, your father. It was my honor to fight beside him in the battle where he fell.” Connell embraced Marek as if he were an old friend and poured him a mug of wine. “So tell me what this is all about, lad. Why have you brought so many fine warriors into my home at such a late hour?”

“I’m not going to pitter around the reason I am here. I want command of your warriors, Connell.”

Connell sputtered on his wine. “What would a boy like you do with my warriors? I suppose lead them into some great battle?” He gulped from his mug, still chuckling.

“I know you have word of these raids. My village was burned to the ground by Westmore, and I aim to put an end to it — to him — but I need men. Strong men. Men willing to fight. Our village is on the verge of decimation as we speak.”

“I have no quarrel with this Engel. I am saddened to hear of your village, but my—”

“Enough!” Anger filled Marek. “Do not tell me how invincible you are. I have seen what destruction this man brings, and I have seen your crumbling walls. Your people won’t stand a chance against his army. He recruits Archaeans to fight for him, promising those who join him lands and more women than their arms can hold. Promises like that are quite hard to refuse. And those who don’t follow…” His voice quieted as his mind uncontrollably drifted to his wife and son.

“This army does not pose a threat to us. Taking
this
—” Connell boisterously grinned, outstretching his arms to show off the wealth that surrounded him. “—would be quite impossible.”

Marek slammed his fist on the table. “You are not listening, Connell! I beg you, give me some men — any men. We will ride out and intercept this Engel before he has the opportunity to spill more Archaean blood. Our people needlessly die because of men like you, who won’t stand up and fight for his own people!”

“Now listen here, boy.” Connell’s voice turned sour.

Rising to his feet with his fists clenched, Marek gritted his teeth and addressed the rest of the men. “How many more tears must be shed over the graves of too many who have died? How many more of our children have to fall? Listen to me, brothers. I know ruin lies before you. There is nothing but bloodshed if you don’t act now, while there is still a fighting chance!”

“Sit down, Marek! There will be no warriors and there will be no raiding party! I will offer you and your men shelter this night, but there will be not a word more spoken about this nonsense. Is that understood?”

With a quick side glance to his brother, who nodded in approval, Marek snapped, “Aye.”

“I shall have someone escort you to the lodgings. Eat what you like, lads, for I am off to bed.” Connell gave Marek a firm pat on his shoulder and muttered, “I like your spirit. You remind me so much of your father. Save that fight in you for another day. We won’t be needing it here.”

Marek couldn’t settle in the terribly small lodging that he, Ronan, Aiden and Gavin shared for the night. The one-room shelter was lit with a single lantern and devious shadows danced along the walls. While his men entertained themselves with stories and a rowdy game of dice, Marek traced his finger along the lines of Brynn’s charm, trying to envision her radiant smile to warm his chilling body and calm his ill-fated temper. A memory of her laughing at one of his Engel-speaking mistakes came to mind and he smiled, imagining it over and over again, clinging to it as if his very existence depended on it. He wondered if she ever recalled his face just as he so often did hers. Alone, his mind was as restless as it had ever been. What a wandering soul he had become.

“Marek…” Ronan’s hushed voice stirred him, bringing him back to the present dark hour. In barely more than a whisper, Ronan breathed, “Did you hear that?”

Tucking away the charm, Marek cocked his head to the side and listened to the stillness of night. Under the thick blanket of darkness a sharp whistling flitted over the thatched roof. “Night arrows.” Of all nights to pick, the night they were actually in Cairn to warn them of impending doom, an attack was occurring. What bloody luck.

The men gathered their gear and armor as another shower of arrows flew over their dilapidated shelter. A few landed in the thinning thatch above their heads, the arrows lodging dangerously close in the rafters above them. “And the bastard wouldn’t listen,” Marek grumbled as shouts from neighboring buildings rose at an alarming rate. “If that fool gets me killed, there will be hell to pay!” he roared while jutting through the doorframe to survey his surroundings. “Stay put for a while, lads, let them waste their arrows. Gavin and Ronan, gather the others. Aiden, you and I need to find a fire.”

The men split up, going their separate ways to accomplish their tasks. Marek and Aiden searched for an extinguished fire pit. Finding one relatively close by, they risked themselves to the naked open to scoop up as much soot and coals as they could hold before the next round of arrows fell.

An arrow cut through the air pummeling into the soft soil only inches from Aiden’s boot, spitting small rocks and debris onto his exposed skin. “Holy hell,” he gasped. He had narrowly missed death. “That will wake a man up.”

Marek exhaled, staring at the arrow.

“Let’s get the hell out of here, aye?” Aiden dug his hand in the fire pit for one last bit of ash as another shower of arrows sliced through the sky.

“Don’t have to ask me twice.” Marek followed Aiden back to the lodging, crouching low in the long grasses. That was all he needed — to be picked off like a mangy wolf near the sheep’s field.

“Here, lads, cover yourselves.” Marek passed the ash to Aiden. “Let Connell take care of the foot soldiers. Spare as many Archaeans as you can, slaughter any Engels, but most importantly…” A smile lingered on his lips. “Don’t get dead.”

Marek found it difficult to ignore the screams of innocents as they dashed past him, intent on reaching the stronghold for safety. Women clutched babes to their breasts as they wailed to the gods to spare them, terrified for their lives. Those blood-curdling screams — the ones that never left a warrior’s mind — they were the worst kind of all.

They edged their way to the tree line and watched as the raiding party descended from the darkness swarming over the land like wild beasts, devouring anything in their path. Marek encountered minimal resistance along the way, keeping to the shadows. The warriors crept up beside unsuspecting guards, slashing their throats in one swift movement. Body after body slumped to the ground as Marek forged his own path closer to Westmore.

He hit a snag before reaching his intended target, his position spotted by a wounded Engel before being thoroughly silenced. Within moments, a horde of fighters was upon them, hurling swords and death blows in their direction.

Realizing his chance to reach Lord Westmore was slipping through his grasp, Marek jumped at the chance to battle him. With his protectors engaged, Westmore was alone. Vulnerable. Marek sprinted between battling warriors, using his sword to clear his way when possible. Ignoring the burning in his legs, he jumped the corpse of a fallen comrade and drove himself faster up a small grassy incline. Two arrows snapped dirt at his feet.

He was close.

Marek gritted his teeth, readjusted his sword, and pressed forward across the raging battlefield. From his left, he heard Ronan’s shouts of encouragement. His breath burst from his lungs. Another arrow cut the air near his head. Pain slashed across his neck, bluntly knocking him back. His palm rose to cover the sting. A warm gush oozed through his fingers. He was still breathing — it couldn’t be that bad. Shrugging off the injury, Marek regained his footing and darted to the side to avoid a charging horse. Veering back on course, he wiped his neck, ignoring the alarming amount of blood, and scanned the area for the Engel. The scene that lay before him was of absolute chaos and he stood in its midst for a moment, trying to rationalize it. Soaring fires stretched toward the opalescent moon. Arrows set aflame arched over thatched roofs, their flames drowning out the screams of those caught in the slaughter.

So many people… so much death.

When would it end?

Rage consumed him and he funneled his hatred into his sword. Hidden by a cloak of soot, Marek charged Westmore’s mount and rendered it useless with one swift upstroke of his blade. As the horse shrieked and reared, Westmore fell beside it, narrowly escaping the crushing weight of the animal. “To your feet!” Marek demanded, eager to begin the battle.

“My my, a gentleman to his enemy even though you have so brutally slain his horse?” Slow to rise, Westmore drew the thin sword hanging by his side. Glancing back at his twitching mount, he frowned. “I rather liked that horse. Choose your enemies wisely, for you have a chance to live this night.”

Marek circled his opponent. “I wish I could offer you the same.” The shrill scream of a woman was silenced close by, momentarily drawing his attention.

“Your village doesn’t have to burn. Join me, and the rest of your people will be saved.”

“You have already burned
my
village!” Raising his sword, Marek swung at the Engel, testing him. Westmore easily blocked the blow and thrust back with precision. Clearly, this Engel wasn’t the opponent he’d expected. Trained military — there was no doubt about it. Marek swung low, fully engaging himself in the duel. Steel scraped against steel. White sparks danced from one heated blade to the other as the men circled, playing an eerie death song in tune with the rage surging around them.

“You aim to kill me, boy?”

“Aye, I do.”

“And why might that be? Other than the obvious reason that I am… well,
me
.” Westmore gave a small courtly bow as if he were inviting a lady to dance.

“You above all deserve death, not the poor women and children you have slaughtered!” Marek swung with unparalleled speed. The blade connected with Westmore’s thigh, forcing the Engel to the ground.

Westmore roared in pain, falling to his knees. His palm covered the wound as he scrambled for his discarded sword.

“Pick it up!” spat Marek, kicking the weapon closer to his opponent.

“You really do wish me dead, Archaean.” Reaching for his sword with caution, Westmore moved as if he would grasp it and rise.

Marek gripped his own sword and eagerly waited in his battle stance for the duel to continue.

Westmore shuffled his feet as if trying to stand and drifted his concealed hand to his middle, clutching the handle of a dagger as Marek raised his sword to strike. In an instant, the blade flew from Westmore’s trembling fingers, missing its intended target and planting deep inside the shoulder of Marek’s strongest arm, too close to his ferociously beating heart.