Once a Warrior (2 page)

For that, Ariella would never forgive him. Although she had not known his reasons, his failure to fulfill Alpin’s vision was too awful to be pardoned. She had raged at Alpin that it did not matter if he ever came, for she wanted nothing to do with him.

Unfortunately, Alpin saw things differently.

The Clan MacKendrick was isolated and without a laird, which put it in a dangerously vulnerable position. For one hundred years they had been at peace. Consequently, the ways of warfare had been lost. Instead of building fortifications and training for battle, the clan had cultivated its skills in the arts. This enabled them to amass a splendid collection of rich silverware and carvings, tapestries and jewelry, fine furniture and fabrics. The MacKendricks viewed these objects as a part of everyday life. But Roderic had taught them that others were not so casual in their attitude. To an outsider these objects were worth a fortune. Which meant when Roderic’s men spread tales of what they had found there, others would come, seeking to steal from them as well.

And then, of course, there was the sword.

She did not know how Roderic had learned of its existence. She could not bring herself to believe that one of her people would betray the clan. But Roderic had known of it, and he knew she was the only one with the ability to give it to him. No one actually understood the extent of the sword’s powers, for it had not been wielded in battle for over a century. But legend said he who was granted the power of the sword could walk without fear into the bloodiest of battles. The weapon could not fell an entire army, but it would protect its master. Unfortunately, after generations of peace, the sword had come to be revered as a sacred, ceremonial object, and her father did not keep it with him, did not even store it within the walls of the castle. That was why it had not been able to protect him that day. Because her father had died without a male heir, it was now Ariella’s duty to find the next bearer of the sword, who would become laird of the Clan MacKendrick, taking their name. If she chose well, her clan would continue to prosper in peace. But if she chose unwisely, death and destruction would come to her people and swiftly spread throughout the Highlands. It was an awesome responsibility. When she had refused to give Roderic the sword, he had locked her in the tower, swearing to slaughter her clansmen one by one until she relented. She’d had no doubt he was evil enough to fulfill his promise.

Which was why Ariella MacKendrick had to die.

Once he was convinced she had perished in the fire, Roderic had angrily decided there was nothing more there for him. He and his men had taken all they could carry and left, bitterly disappointed that he had not procured the one object he lusted for above all else. But Ariella knew it was only a matter of time before Roderic, or another like him, attacked her clan again. Stories would travel of the riches they had found, and the legend of the sword, and the weakness of the Clan MacKendrick. Her people were in danger, and it was her duty to protect them. This was why Alpin had instructed her to find the Black Wolf and grant him the power of the sword. With that solemn charge he had sent her off to seek out this mighty warrior and bring him and his great army home.

As she had faced that foul, drunken, crippled shell of a man today, she had not known whether to rage or weep.

“You must eat something, Ariella,” ordered Duncan gently, interrupting her thoughts. He seated himself on the ground and offered her a morsel of roasted rabbit. “Here.”

She sank her hand into the filthy, tangled nest of her hair and shook her head. “I am not hungry.”

Andrew stopped plucking the strings of his small harp and regarded her with concern. “We have a long journey ahead of us. If you fall ill, Alpin will be displeased.”

“He will be more displeased by the fact that we have failed to bring back the mighty Black Wolf,” pointed out Ariella bitterly.

“The man we saw today could not have been the one in Alpin’s vision,” argued Duncan. “Either Alpin’s sight is failing, or we tracked down the wrong man. Perhaps some other warrior has acquired the title the Black Wolf,” he suggested hopefully.

“Alpin said it was the one known as MacFane,” countered Ariella. “That was the man we saw today. Even though he has been cast out by his clan and no longer goes by that name.”

“Then Alpin’s vision must be flawed,” Andrew concluded, his fingers strumming lightly over his instrument. “Because that poor, drunken fellow could never defend himself, never mind lead and defend an entire clan.”

“I know,” sighed Ariella. “But Alpin was so adamant we bring him back, I had to try, even when I saw how vile and pathetic he was. It was just as well he refused us.” She prodded the fire with a slender twig. “When we get home, I will explain to Alpin and the council why MacFane is not the one. Perhaps Alpin will have another vision. Until then we must try to train ourselves, so we can be better prepared against another attack.”

“But as long as Roderic believes you are dead, he will not return,” insisted Andrew. “Without you there is no sword, and that is what he was after.”

“If not Roderic, then another like him,” Ariella replied grimly. “His warriors will spread the tale of our supposed riches, and how easy we were to vanquish. And though they may report my death, the legend of the sword could become distorted, so another might think he can force the clan to turn the weapon over.”

“Do not torment yourself with such thoughts,” soothed Duncan. “You will find the next laird before that happens, and he will ensure we are safe.”

“In a few days we will be home and you will be able to wash and put on a gown again,” added Andrew, trying to cheer her. “I must say, I have all but forgotten what you look like beneath that filth.”

“So have I,” she muttered, wiping self-consciously at her grubby cheek. “Although this disguise has been effective in discouraging attention, I find myself longing for a bath and the modesty of a gown.”

“After this journey you can put young Rob away for a while,” said Duncan. “You will have to become him again only if a stranger comes to the clan. Until we find a new laird, no outsider can know you survived the fire, lest that information find its way to Roderic.”

Andrew strummed a chord on his harp and began to sing. “There once was a maiden, slender and fair, who wore plaid for a gown, and ashes in her hair….”

“She darkened her skin, and rode through the trees,” continued Duncan, “and struggled to cover her pale little knees!”

“Duncan!” exclaimed Ariella, mortified that they had noticed her knees, or any other part of her legs that her woefully short plaid failed to cover. She leaned over to playfully strike his shoulder.

An arrow split the air where her head had been.

“Don’t move!” snarled a voice through the darkness. “Or ye’re all dead.”

Four figures emerged from the trees around them. Three of them brandished heavy swords, while the fourth held an arrow against the taut string of his bow. As they moved into the soft aura of the fire, Ariella could see they were a filthy, shaggy group, with thick beards and worn, tattered shirts and plaids. Incongruous to their threadbare attire, each sported an impressive array of gemstudded jewelry. A delicately wrought lady’s chain and pendant were draped around the thick, beefy neck of one, while the others had several gleaming silver brooches pinned to the plaids flung on their shoulders.
Thieves,
Ariella realized, her stomach clenching with fear. She quickly scanned the campsite, searching for her bow. It lay with her blanket on the other side of the fire, hopelessly out of reach.

“Up with ye now,” ordered the burliest of the group, waving his sword in front of him, “and throw down yer weapons and yer valuables.”

Too shocked to argue, Duncan and Andrew instantly removed their brooches and tossed them onto the ground. Then they withdrew their dirks and dropped them as well. Ariella hesitantly began to unfasten her brooch, desperately trying to think of some way to keep her dirk obscured from view.

“Hurry up there, lad,” said the heavyset thief impatiently. “Let’s have that dirk at yer waist.”

Realizing she had no way of keeping it, she reluctantly added her weapon to the pile.

“Get their horses,” the thief instructed his cohorts.

Ariella’s heart sank as she watched the men move to their horses and begin to untie them. It was a three-day ride back to their castle. She did not know how they would make it home without horses, weapons, or provisions.

“Those are fine-lookin’ boots ye’re wearin’,” observed the thief standing guard over them. “We’ll be takin’ those as well.”

Andrew and Duncan immediately knelt and began to unlace their boots.

“But you are already stealing our horses,” protested Ariella, appalled at the thought of being left barefoot. “If you take our boots and our mounts, we will never get home.”

The thief lifted his bushy brows in astonishment. It was clear he was unaccustomed to having his victims complain about their treatment. “I’m thinkin’ ye’re right, lad,” he agreed, pensively stroking his beard. “Since ye cannot get home barefoot, and since we’re takin’ yer food and weapons, I suppose we should be merciful. Duff, Calum, and Giles will be happy to slit yer throats for ye before we go.” He broke into a loud, rasping guffaw.

“Here are my boots,” offered Duncan hastily. “I am quite sure I can manage without them.”

“And mine as well,” added Andrew. “Wear them in good health.”

“That’s right generous of ye,” said the thief, chuckling, “but ye won’t be needin’ them where ye’re goin’.” His gaze focused on Ariella. “Hurry now, laddie. I’m not of a mind to be standin’ here holdin’ this sword over ye all night.”

Ariella knelt and began to fumble at her laces. “They’re knotted,” she declared helplessly. “I need my dirk to cut them.”

The thief cast her a knowing smile, revealing a brown row of crooked, rotting teeth. “I have me a better idea, laddie,” he announced, amused by her little ruse. “We’ll cut them with my sword.”

Ariella stood as he moved toward her and lowered himself onto one knee.

“Now, then,” he began, bending his head, “which one is it?”

“This one,” she hissed, smashing her booted foot with all her might into his face.

He let out a bellow of pain and went flying back against the ground. Momentarily stunned, he gingerly raised his hands to his bleeding nose, enabling Ariella to scramble for his sword.

“Don’t move!” she commanded, glaring at Calum, Duff, and Giles as she pressed the tip of the sword into the bushy-browed thief’s throat. “Or I’ll stake him to the ground through his neck!”

The thieves stared at her dumbfounded. Then the one named Calum raised his bow and arrow and calmly aimed it at Andrew. “I’m thinkin’ ye don’t have the ballocks to carve open a man’s throat with his own sword, laddie,” he reflected sardonically. “So give Owen back his sword, before I shoot this arrow clean through yer friend’s quiverin’ heart.”

Ariella hesitated a second, frantically searching her mind for another course of action. Calum raised his weapon slightly higher, and she realized she had no choice. The sword slipped from her grasp and dropped with a thud onto the ground.

“Shoot the wee bastard!” shrieked Owen furiously, his blood-soaked fingers cradling his nose. “He broke my bloody nose!”

Calum obligingly shifted his aim to Ariella and drew back his arrow.

A faint, whispering sound sliced the air.

Ariella lurched, but the arrow did not find its mark. Confused, she raised her eyes to Calum. He was staring in bewilderment at the handle of a dirk lodged firmly in his chest. Frowning, he looked up at Ariella. A shallow whimper leaked from his throat as he collapsed, still clutching the arrow meant for her.

A terrible roar of fury shattered the stunned silence. Ariella watched in disbelief as two riders thundered into the clearing, their heavy swords glinting silver-orange in the firelight. The Black Wolf bore down on Owen, expertly guiding his horse with his legs as he lifted his sword with both arms. A terrified Owen was easily dispatched in one swift, merciless thrust. Then MacFane wheeled his powerful charger about to meet Giles. The thief slashed in wild fear at his approaching executioner and landed a blow to his arm. A bellow of fury filled the air as MacFane raised and felled his sword, driving it with deadly determination into the man’s soft flesh. His friend Gavin, meanwhile, was battling the thief named Duff, who managed a few desperate swings of his weapon before joining his companions on the ground.

Suddenly the clearing was silent except for the snorting and prancing of the horses. Ariella stared blankly at the bodies littering the ground, unable to speak.

“Jesus bloody Christ,” swore Malcolm, dropping his sword so he could clamp his hand over the raw wound in his right forearm. His face contorted with pain, he cast his gaze on Gavin. “Come help me down.”

Gavin swiftly dismounted and moved to assist his friend as he awkwardly swung off his horse. “How bad is it?”

“Not the worst I’ve seen,” replied Malcolm tautly. “But I don’t know how much more this goddamn arm can take.”

The realization that the Black Wolf was injured snapped Ariella out of her trance. “Let me look at it, MacFane,” she offered. “I can stitch it for you.”

The two men regarded her with dubious expressions. “I will take care of it,” Gavin assured her. “When we get home.”

“But it is bleeding badly,” argued Ariella impatiently. “I have medicines in my bag. If it is stitched and bandaged right away, it will stay clean and heal better.”

Malcolm cast her a look of irritation mingled with pain. “What can a stripling like you know about tending wounds?”

Ariella almost shot back that she had many years’ experience in the art of healing. Then she remembered that MacFane was not looking at a woman, but at a filthy young boy named Rob. “My mother taught me about healing,” she replied, scrambling for a plausible explanation. “I was her only child, and she did not want her skills to be lost.”

He studied her a moment, his face creased with discomfort as he held fast to his dripping limb. “Then get your needle,” he relented finally, “and close this cursed arm of mine. You two,” he continued, looking at Duncan and Andrew, “help Gavin move the bodies away from the camp, before the stench of blood attracts wolves.”