Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (48 page)

Quick as a snake's strike, Cormac leaned forward and snatched a handful of her abundant hair. He yanked her toward him so fast that she cried out and stumbled backward. In that flashing instant, Sebastien had no chance to grab her or to use his sword before Cormac swooped his long dirk blade under her chin.

She was within arm's grasp, but the steel edge at her throat changed all. Sebastien could not pull her back at the risk of her life. Cormac held her in a fierce grip and glared at him over the top of her head.

"Now," he said, "I will have what I want."

"Let her go," Sebastien rasped, waving his sword lightly, menacingly, in the air. "Your dispute is with me, not her."

"Tell the elders to get back," Cormac hissed.

Behind Sebastien, every man had stepped forward, Lome, Ruari, and Giric in the lead. Sebastien held up a hand in command, and they halted.

Alainna pulled at Cormac's arm. "Let me go," she gasped.

"First I will get what I want of this," Cormac said. "MacWilliam! Put yourself into the custody of my brother, Struan. We will ride to Dunfermline today."

Sebastien put up a hand toward Ruari. "Do not," he growled.

"Ruari, do not," Alainna echoed. She dragged on Cormac's arm, tight around her throat.

Lome came toward Cormac and faced him. "Let the girl go."

"She is my hostage and my prize," Cormac said.

"Listen, now," Lome said. "What Alainna said is right. The whole of your kinsmen, from your father to his father, to the great Aodh son of Conn, and back to Nechtan of the Battles, not one of them, fine men all, would do what you do today. Make them proud, and let her go."

"Be gone from here, bard," Cormac said. "You are no warrior to interfere in this. She is chief of her clan, and my hostage, and I want payment. Stand back."

"Cormac," Lorne said. "Remember what happened on the banks of this loch seven hundred years ago this day, so the legend goes. A man of Clan Nechtan harmed a woman of Clan Laren. Would you begin the feud again?"

Cormac gaped, then frowned. "There are no faeries here to curse us," he said, but Sebastien heard the doubt in his voice.

"There are," Lorne said. He moved closer, his voice deep and resonant. "They are always about, though we cannot see them. They watch us even now. Let the woman of Clan Laren go, and they will thank you. Hold her, and you will anger them, and endanger your clan for another seven hundred years."

Cormac stepped back, pulling Alainna with him. "The spell is ended for the Stone Maiden and for my clan!"

"Then why invite the curse again?" Lorne moved forward, still reaching out. "The magic is powerful, Cormac MacNechtan, and well you know it. Let her go now, and spare generations of your kin the sorrow of more feuding."

Cormac stared at him. Calmly, surely, Lorne took Alainna's hand. Sebastien tensed, ready to strike, and watched in amazement as Cormac loosened his grip. Alainna moved toward Lorne, hands outstretched.

Then Cormac bellowed a protest, as if realizing what he had done. He lunged to reclaim Alainna. She screamed and fell upon Lorne when Cormac leaped at her. Lorne turned with her, and Sebastien whirled, grabbing Alainna's arm to pull her out of the way. He stepped between her and Cormac.

In that instant, he saw Lorne crumple to his knees, his chest bright with blood, saw the glistening red tip of Cormac's dirk. Lorne fell forward, and Alainna cried out and dropped to her knees beside him.

Sebastien felt a deep, sudden wrench of anguish. He lunged toward Cormac, who stumbled backward.

"You!"
Sebastien roared, pointing at Cormac with the tip of his extended sword. "You and I have a dispute, and no one else! Your men stay back, and my men stay back! We will settle this here and now!"

He strode in a sunwise circle around Cormac as he shouted. Anger surged through him like fire, like some dark magic, giving him a power and purpose and fury unlike anything he had ever felt before.

He tipped the blade to the earth and stood, feet planted apart, glowering at Cormac. "Here and now! A fair combat, without treachery, with no other lives put at risk!"

Chapter 30

"Here and now, then," Cormac answered, breath heaving. He glanced back at his kinsmen. Struan came forward with a claymore, which Cormac snatched by the great hilt. "Remove your armor, Norman. I have no such protection. A Highland man needs nothing but his
claidheamh mor
and his will."

With fast, furious movements, Sebastien unlatched the thongs that tied his chain mail hood to the hauberk, stripped off his plaid mantle, sword belt, and green surcoat, and flung them aside. Etienne and Giric came over to help him tug free of the heavy, long-sleeved chain mail hauberk and the padded gambeson beneath it. He rebuckled the sword belt over his brown serge tunic, feeling lighter, stronger, more capable.

As he turned to face Cormac, he saw Alainna kneeling beside Lorne. Una bent over her husband as Esa and Morag quickly bandaged Lome's chest.

Sebastien did not know if Lorne was alive or dead, but the wide, dark stain on the old man's shirt and the limp sag of his noble head alarmed him. His own heart nearly stopped then.

Alainna stared up at him, her face pale, her eyes filled with fear. He held her gaze steadily, then turned away.

Without a word, he led Cormac to the level, grassy turf that spread between the Stone Maiden and the stony beach. A crowd gathered in a wide circle around them, the pillar towering over all like a calm giantess.

Alainna remained with Lorne and the women. Once the ring of onlookers closed up, Sebastien could no longer see her.

Cormac circled him, dragging the point of the claymore on the ground, his gaze dark and angry. Sebastien spun warily, his heartbeat strong in his own ears, his balance shifting from one foot to the other.

With a sudden roar, Cormac rushed toward him, lifting the huge sword over his head, slashing it downward. Easily sidestepping him, Sebastien turned while Cormac regained his balance and whirled to strike again. He could see from those wide, wild blows that Cormac's skill was less than the man's strength and his rage, which were considerable.

Sebastien caught the blade with his own steel edge, the impact jarring him. He shoved, then dipped low and skimmed sideways as Cormac brought the blade around to lash at him again.

Circling slowly, Sebastien noted that the Highlander was like a bull or a boar; large, fierce, determined, armed with a mighty weapon, he lacked finesse and cleverness. For all that, Cormac was not a fool. Sebastien saw the calculating look in his dark eyes.

The claymore had a longer reach than his own blade, and its heavier blows could do more damage to flesh and bone. Cormac wielded it with hacking strength, striking relentlessly. The one-handed, shorter broadsword gave Sebastien the advantage of a weapon that was easier to handle. He was leaner and more agile, better able to turn and dance away, continually avoiding the savage bite of the larger blade. That only made Cormac angrier, and increased the force and frequency of his blows.

The sound of steel ringing hard on steel was deafening, the slamming tremors along his arm and hand numbing, and the breath burned in his throat and lungs. Sebastien fought on, advancing, circling, lunging, blocking, as he had done so many times here.

He knew the ground around the Stone Maiden, knew its dips and runnels and rises. On more than one pass, he scarcely had to look to avoid a small tufted hollow in the earth that could have caught his foot. By instinct he kept his back to the sun where the morning light angled across the loch. Cormac repeatedly squinted as the light flared on the water, and Sebastien led him into that position again and again.

Every move he made had an eerie familiarity, as if he had practiced for this very challenge many times. A strange sense of calm and confidence filled him. He let go of thought, let his ability and his cool, hard rage take over the task of fighting.

He saw an opening and made a lightning strike that caught Cormac's arm and sent a spray of blood over both of them. Cormac faltered, and Sebastien's downward stroke sliced into his opponent's iron-hewn thigh. Cormac, chillingly undisturbed by the injuries, raised his sword and brought it down in a move that, had Sebastien not shuffled aside, would have broken his skull.

Cormac wheeled and brought the claymore in a wide arc. As Sebastien parried on a downward swing, the tip of his blade touched earth. Cormac struck into the blade, snapping it neatly.

Lifting his broken weapon, Sebastien stepped backward, breath heaving, watching Cormac's grinning advance. He ducked to avoid the swing of the claymore, rolled over the ground and lay on his back, knees raised, about to spring up as Cormac lunged at him with a roar.

Someone shouted his name, and a sharp and shining edge appeared near his foot. He scooped up the long hilt of the claymore that slid toward him, and straightened to his feet. Now he held a blade the equal of the other, with a skill that was far superior. He hoped that would be enough, for Cormac was a relentless opponent; he never even saw him pause to breathe.

Accustomed by his practices to the weight and length of the claymore, Sebastien wrapped two hands around the cold leather hilt and felt a surge of power and assurance. He spared no thought for Lorne or Alainna, but he felt their presences nearby, and he felt his own anger flare brighter on their behalf. He advanced with cool control, his gaze steady as a rock, his fury a torch. Cormac retreated, weapon waving.

Sebastien created a wicked pattern of forceful, rapid looping strokes, punctuated with blow after blow against steel. Cormac backed away, slashing repeatedly as he went, his blows falling short, his thrusts weakening.

Sebastien blocked every strike, every arc, his muscles burning, aching, his inner core white hot with purpose. The healing wound in his side pulled and ached, but did not deter him. Neither did he feel any hindrance from the scar along his left eyelid, for fighting with claymores required brute strength and wide, sweeping blows, honest and bold, without subtlety.

They neared the granite pillar, and the crowd moved back. Cormac howled and lunged, and Sebastien skipped away, bringing the flat of his sword smacking against Cormac's uplifted blade.

The angle was awkward, and Sebastien could not hold Cormac's blade at bay for long before it began to force his downward. He stumbled back, and his heel struck the stone pillar. Arms uplifting, body straining to keep the opposing blade from severing a limb, he leaned his shoulders against cold, massive granite.

Cormac's claymore pressed down on his own, until he could smell cold steel inches from his face, and felt the smooth skin of the stone along his back. He strained, still resisting, and drew a breath, determined not to surrender. Then, on the next inhale, a sense of new strength surged through him, as if the Maiden herself breathed her power into him.

He pushed outward almost easily, forcing Cormac back, and stepped sideways, skimming his shoulders along the stone to slide out from under Cormac's pressing advance.

The Highlander overbalanced and stumbled against the face of the stone, pushing off in an effort to whirl. Sebastien waited, ready, blade upright, feet widely planted.

Cormac lunged like a roaring, raging boar, head down, blade outstretched. Sebastien took the brunt on the flat of the sword and threw Cormac backward again. The other man fell back, his foot catching in the same hollow that Sebastien had avoided before, and went down.

His head slammed into the pillar stone with such staggering force that Sebastien knew, even before Cormac slumped to the ground, that he was dead.

Breath heaving painfully in his chest, he leaned on the sword planted upright in the earth. No one moved, and he did not look at them. The silence was as deafening as the ringing of steel had been just moments before.

He swiped his forearm across his sweat-coated face and wrenched the great sword out of the ground, then turned to walk away. The crowd parted at his approach, some of them drifting toward Cormac. He saw Struan and the other MacNechtans go to their fallen kinsman, but he did not stop to speak to them, nor did they stop him, though their expressions were dark and troubled.

He looked up. Alainna stood alone, straight as a pillar, head high, watching him. He did not know when she had left her post beside Lome, but he knew, from the deep, haunted blue of her eyes, that she had seen much of the struggle.