Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (20 page)

Mary’s eyes were warm as she regarded Ceana. “You have a very giving and caring nature, my lady. I will not, for I believe in you, and the prince. I believe you can help make a change. I dream of the day we can walk freely without fear of retribution. Sìtheil will be well with your rule.”

Ceana squeezed Mary’s hand. Helping Mary, and knowing they would help the others, she felt her spirit lighten. All the dark that had crowded inside her chest was slowly being whittled away, allowing something close to peace to sneak inside. But it was still so far from being whole and carefree. “All of Sìtheil will thrive”—including herself—“and I pray it is soon.”

Chapter Twenty-One

THEY’D found Beatrice’s torture chamber.

Lit by a single torch beside the main door, the chamber smelled of utter despair. ’Twas thick, choking Macrath. Flashes of being chained to the wall as Beatrice beat him, touched him… When he’d not done as she’d asked, when his body and mind refused to respond, she’d raped him. He could barely stomach the memory of it. His entire body ached at the remembrance of her assault.

Stepping forward, he reached down toward the rush mat where dark droplets lay.

Fresh blood.

The chains connected to the wall above it were also bloody. Various instruments of torture hung on the walls. Chains dangled high and low, empty of victims, but waiting nevertheless. An iron maiden lurked in the corner. He was almost afraid to open it—fearing what he’d find. But open it he did, carefully. The inside smelled like death, but there was no body to accompany the stench. All he could do was thank the gods he’d not been tossed inside, pierced by the wicked spikes. Macrath’s torment had been measurably less than whoever had last occupied the gruesome tomb.

“They are gone.” Marrec stated the obvious, turning in a circle, his face pale.

Macrath pinched the wick of a blown-out candle. “Still warm,” he said. “They’ve not been gone long.”

There were no windows in the room, but there was a door. He walked cautiously toward it and put his ear to the wooden panels to listen. A faint tapping sounded from the other side, perhaps the sound of running steps growing farther and farther away.

He whipped open the door and walked out into the corridor, looking up and down the length of it, but it was dark. Too dark to see anyone.

Mo chreach.
The Corridors of the Ancients.

He sniffed the air. It reeked of mustiness and ghastly, unspeakable things. Repulsive. Beyond the stench, there was a faint tinge of smoke—like that of a torch. In the dark, would Beatrice have a carried a light? Or did she know these halls by heart? From the scent of burning oil coming from his right, he was willing to bet she’d not taken flight blind.

“Grab that torch,” he ordered Marrec, pointing to one left hanging on the wall inside the chamber. Whoever had been in this room had heard them above and run. “She can’t get far.”

He was glad that, before breaking into the secret room, they’d carried Rhona to the chamber across the hall. Certain there were no trapdoors, they’d instructed her to bar her door and open it for no one else but them, Tobin or Ceana. They didn’t want to take a chance that Beatrice would circle behind them and harm the poor lass even more.

With swords drawn and the space around them filled with the light of their torch, Macrath examined the passageway. Cobwebs hung in waves along the ceiling, falling down in places that he knew would touch his face as he walked. The walls were moist with lichen growing in the mortar.

“This way,” he said.

He and Marrec took off in the direction they thought Beatrice might have gone. This was an old, unused part of the castle he’d never seen before. The wood-plank floors were weak and rotted in spots, creaking beneath his and Marrec’s weight.

“Ballocks!” Marrec shouted.

Macrath turned in time to see his guard pulling his foot from where it had crashed through the floor.

“Careful,” Macrath said, leaping out of the way as the rotted wood beneath his own feet gave way. They were careful with each step after avoiding the near catastrophe, and lucky not to land on another rotted plank. This, he could only surmise, was the help of the gods and the ancients who wanted to see them win.

Light filtered from an open chamber a dozen paces away. They picked up speed, only to come to a complete stop right outside Beatrice’s torture chamber.

“Bloody hell,” Macrath growled. The corridor must have been circular. He glanced back up and down the passageway, not for any other reason than hoping for a sign. “There has to be a door out of this place along one of the walls,” Macrath said. “We just have to find it.”

How far had Beatrice brought him when she’d walked down that one corridor weeks before? It didn’t feel like long at the time, but during the games, time had seemed to stand still, happening more in spurts than anything sequential.

“Hold the torch along the outer wall,” Macrath indicated. “There doesn’t appear to be any doors along this one. All the chambers are in the center. Her exit has to be here somewhere.”

They walked slower this time, examining the wall for signs of a door, cursing as they went. They opened every door in the center, finding one vacant and timeworn chamber after another. At last they found the only exit along the outer wall. It had to be the one they’d been searching for. The door had been charred black, though the stones around it did not seem to be burned at all. If one did not have a light while running through the never-ending corridor, it would be difficult to see the charred wood. Had someone deliberately burned the door in hopes of hiding it from unsuspecting eyes?

A chill of fear wound up Macrath’s spine. How many of Beatrice’s victims had run aimlessly through this corridor, convinced they were trapped in some never-ending circle?

Macrath lifted the handle and shoved. The door was heavy. He gave it another shove with his shoulder and it slid silently ajar. The opening revealed a circular stair—one that looked particularly like the main stairway of his castle. Quietly, they left the Corridors of the Ancients. Already the air was easier to suck in.

“She was right,” Marrec mused more to himself. “Rhona, when she spoke of the castle within the castle. I thought she was mad with shock.”

Macrath nodded, shutting the door behind them. The outside of the door was covered in stone, mortared onto the door, to look like the wall. When closed, it was barely obvious that a door even existed behind it. Especially if one were not looking, and he never had.

“Unbelievable,” Marrec mumbled, taking the words right out of Macrath’s mouth. “I’ve lived here all my life, served in the castle for half of it, and never once saw this.”

“I should burn it down,” he said. “Burn the whole bloody thing to the ground and start new.”

“Aye, my laird. Burn away the madness.”

“Would the clan forgive me?”

“They’d thank you.”

Macrath sighed. Once they won the battle, it would be the first thing he did. “Up one level is Beatrice’s false chamber. Do you think she’d have gone back up, or out?”

Marrec shook his head. “Dragging a prisoner, I wouldn’t doubt she was right behind us in the eerie corridor, just waiting for us to leave.”

“Or that is what she wants us to think. I suspect she is trying to escape the castle altogether.”

Marrec frowned. “She would do something like that. Make you believe one thing only to do the opposite.”

“Has she not done so all along?” Macrath gripped the hilt of his sword harder. “Let’s go to the battlements. We might see better from above.”

There was no way in bloody hell he was going to let Beatrice get away from Sìtheil—ever.

LOUD thunder sounded from outside the castle. From the resonance of it, there would be a huge storm.

Ceana left Mary in the chamber she’d had made up for her, with a guard posted at the door.

The thunder did not rumble and crack before easing off, but instead continued, steady in its pulsing. She walked to the far end of the corridor. The arrow slit window was thin but allowed in the light. It wasn’t dark like it should have been from the sound of the thunder. She peered through the crack, gaining a view of the loch below. The sky was blue, though the air was frigid. Not a cloud appeared in the sky.

“What in the world?” she muttered.

She couldn’t see enough around to make out the sound of the thunder, but then her eyes caught something on the horizon.

Far in the distance on the loch were galleons. Lots of them.

The royal council’s army. They’d arrived in hordes!

She swallowed hard, her stomach plummeting.

But if the galleons were the royal council’s army, where was the thundering noise coming from?

As if in answer, the gate tower warning bell tolled, and there was a collective cry from somewhere below.

With no time to waste, Ceana rushed down the hall, picking up her skirts as she ran, and nearly tumbled down the steps when she made it to the staircase. Taking them as quickly as she could, she rushed up the flights of stairs until she made it to the very top and shoved open the door to the battlements.

A blast of cold air hit her face, momentarily knocking the wind from her. She stumbled forward, almost falling into a pile of large stones that would be tossed using the castle’s catapults, onto a coming enemy.

“Ceana,” Macrath called.

She swiped the tears that had gathered in her eyes from the cold wind and rushed to him, ignoring the chill. There’d been no time to grab a cloak.

He wrapped her hand in his and tugged her toward the crenellations. What she saw over the top took her breath away. Her mouth fell open and her heart simply ceased beating.

Filling the moors behind the bridge were thousands of warriors marching on the castle.

“Gods save us,” she whispered.

Some warriors approached on foot, some on horseback. They appeared to be arriving from different directions, each with clear leaders. How many armies had the council sent for? She and Macrath would not be able to fight against the sheer numbers. They may be able to hold them off for a while, but the armies wouldn’t wait. They’d crush their walls with stones, and dig tunnels to gain entry. They’d would put ladders in the moat and climb up, breaching the ramparts. They’d use a battering ram to break apart Sìtheil’s gate.

Even from here, she could see that the warriors approaching from different directions all wore different colors. Some brown and green. Others brown and blue, and more still with a hint of red. ’Twas very odd. Were they about to relive Olaf the Black’s history?

“They are not from the same army,” she murmured.

“Nay, wife. But they are not all from the council either.”

She squinted to see the banners toting the clans or leaders the armies belonged to, but could not make them out.

Although, that didn’t matter—someone she’d never forget—Boarg, headed the army to the right. Her guard. He sat tall on his horse, his gray hair and beard wafting in the breeze. She’d not seen him since the crowning, as he’d returned to MacRae lands to bring her clan to Sìtheil. He sat atop a horse, surrounded by her clansmen—about half on foot since they didn’t have as many horses as some other clans. All of them appeared armed and ready for battle.

“Those are MacRae men,” she said, pointing to Boarg.

“I thought I recognized their colors.” Macrath gestured toward the center with his chin. “Those are the Earl of Argyll’s men—my father.”

“Whose side do you think they are on?” she asked.

“I do not dare to hope my own.”

“Who are they?” she asked, regarding the group of warriors on horseback to the left—several trebuchets and thick wooden structures in their midst.

“That, I’m assuming, is Beatrice’s army.”

“Then who steers the galleons?” Ceana asked.

Macrath cursed under his breath. “I do not know.”

“Marrec, have you any idea?” Ceana asked.

The man stared over the wall. “I can only guess with a fleet like that it would be King Giric’s men. The flag looks to be that of Scotland.”

“The king? But why?” Ceana asked, surprised. “Has he come to fight for the council? Beatrice did say she’d sent a letter to the king complaining of us.”

Macrath sucked in a breath and murmured to Marrec, “Do you think he would have responded so soon?”

“Responded to what?” Ceana asked, confused.

“I sent him a missive. I meant to tell you, but everything has been so…”

“There is no need to explain. I know now,” Ceana said, not wanting to add to her husband’s distress. “What did you tell him?”

“I informed him of the council’s ill-doings, and that we would fight to the death to protect Sìtheil. That he had our allegiance.”

Ceana looked down at the armies that stood just beyond their bridge. The battle had finally come to their door. A battle they’d known would come—had foreseen in the woods before they were even the victors.

“So we have arrived at the day of judgment,” she whispered.

Macrath put his arm around her and pulled her close. “Not ours, love, for we will prevail. We finished our fortifications of the walls. The portcullis is solid and will hold against any battering ram—if we do not poor pitch and flame on the bridge to burn it down first.”

“What of Beatrice?” Ceana said.

Macrath’s frown turned deadly. Ceana tucked her arm around him, sinking against his warmth. “We do not know where she is, but she will not get far. She could not have left the grounds. Every exit is guarded by men I trust, even the hidden egresses.” Macrath kissed the top of her head.

Ceana turned in his arms. “We’d best put on our armor, husband, and go to greet our guests. I do not know about you, but I’m anxious for the battle to begin, so that we might celebrate our victory all the sooner.”