Warrior Reborn (6 page)

Chase slowed to a stop, looking over his shoulder at the metal grate sliding back into place behind them. The bizarre events of the last few days must finally be taking their toll. Either that, or he was headed down the batshit-crazy trail.

“This is where I need to be,” he whispered, reminding himself that there was a reason for everything. His father had promised him as a child that one day the Fae would send him to his destiny, and
since this was where they had sent him, this was obviously where he belonged. And if he was where he belonged, perhaps
she
was here—the woman he’d waited his whole life to find.

“What is it that troubles you, my friend?” Halldor’s footsteps had ceased as well, his expression more serious than Chase had seen it before.

“Nothing. Weird vibe to this place, that’s all.”

They both began to move forward again, their steps a bit slower than they had been. With the grate clanking down behind them, they were committed to their forward course.

“This ‘vibe’ you speak of, is it a feeling that crawls upon your skin?”

Chase nodded, glancing up at his friend. Halldor’s eyes were fixed ahead of him on their destination. If Chase was on the batshit-crazy trail, at least he wasn’t marching down it alone.

Armed warriors ringed the entrance as they emerged from the tunnel. One of their number stepped forward, his hand on the sword at his side.

“I am Ulfr, captain of the MacDowylt’s personal guard. Your names?”

“I am Halldor O’Donar and this . . .” Halldor paused, one corner of his mouth twitching up as he glanced in Chase’s direction. “This is my brother Chase.”

Only years of training allowed Chase to school his expression. Whatever reason his friend had for
introducing him as such, he’d honor it. Halldor had given him no cause to doubt him.

“O’Donar, eh?” Ulfr asked, strutting back and forth in front of them, reminding Chase of a shooting-gallery duck. Or maybe a peacock on parade. “Irish, are you? What brings you to Scotland?”

“I did indeed cross the sea from the island,” Halldor agreed. “To find my brother.” He slapped Chase on the back, his usual big grin returned to his face.

“And now you’ve come to Tordenet to join us in service to our laird.” Ulfr spoke as if their reason for being here was a foregone conclusion. “Orwen will show you to yer quarters in the—”

“Not so fast, Ulfr, captain of the guard,” Halldor interrupted. “I would bargain for the price of our service before we commit ourselves. I would meet the man to whom we offer our weapons.”

“Impossible,” Ulfr huffed. “It is not done in that way at Tordenet.”

“Nevertheless, this is the way I do it,” Halldor replied, his determination on display with every word. “I would have this laird of yours come out to meet with us. I would look him in the eye to judge the cut of his cloth before we pledge our swords to him.”

Surprise danced across Ulfr’s expression before he turned away to focus his gaze upward. In the tallest tower, a face peered down at them from a large window. Ulfr lifted an arm and the face withdrew.

“Our laird will join us momentarily.”

They waited, surrounded by a contingent of men with their swords drawn. Waited in a silence so uncomfortable Chase wondered that Halldor didn’t draw his own sword. Apparently even ancient warriors understood the importance of not letting them see you sweat.

At last a man appeared at the top of the huge staircase at the castle entrance.

He was tall, close to Chase’s own height and build, with blond hair similar in color to Chase’s. There the similarity ended. This guy was pretty-boy blond, with hair down around his shoulders. After a closer look, Chase saw that two odd white streaks shot through his hair, one on either side of his head.

The assembled men all dropped to one knee as he approached.

“Ah,” Halldor breathed. “It would appear, little brother, that we have both found the place we need to be.”

S
even

T
ORQUIL STOOD IN
the center of his tower chamber, as he had since before the first light of day broke through the open window: hands pressed together in front of him, eyes closed, back straight. His mind fought to overcome the human weakness he’d yet to eliminate from his soul.

Until he found a way to push aside that small piece of him that had not come from Odin, he wouldn’t have the ability to master the spell from the ancient scroll he’d found hidden in his father’s things.

His jaw tightened as a wave of anger shimmered through his mind.

As if his father thought he’d never find those things.

His eyes opened and he allowed his arms to drop to his sides. Pain lanced through the muscles held in position for so many hours but he ignored it, envisioning himself scooping the pain into a large wooden chest and slamming the lid shut.

That, he had mastered. That and a million other
little feats of Magic. But those amazing abilities spoken of in the scroll, ah, those were passed down from the ancient
seid,
from the darkest corners of Svartálfheim. The words written on those scrolls represented a dark power. The True power. To be able to disappear in one place and materialize in another excited his imagination in a way none of the other powers had for a very long time.

And that power
would
be his, no matter how long it took him to master it.

“But not, it appears, on this day.”

Once the anger slithered into his mind, it robbed him of his concentration. And without concentration, he had no chance at mastering the ancient Magic.

He walked across to the table and ran his hand over the yellowed parchment before lovingly rolling it into its former cylindrical shape and replacing it in the jeweled case where it belonged—right next to its twin and their deadly companion, the Sword of the Ancients.

It was as if his father had planned this misery for his son long before his untimely death. As if the old man had hidden the scrolls for the purpose of taunting Torquil, after he himself was no longer able to, knowing that the act would trigger his son’s anger. Knowing that Torquil’s anger would prevent his mastering that which he wanted more than anything.

“More’s the pity I waited so long to send you
where you belong, Father.” He spoke to the sky but he had no doubt his father’s spirit was not there. After the way his father had contaminated their ancient bloodline by taking that filthy Tinkler for his second wife, there was no way the gods would have allowed him to spend his eternity anywhere but in the agony of Hela’s domain.

Below him, in the courtyard, movement caught his eye. Two strangers stood encircled by his guards.

Likely more new recruits. Strangers had been trickling in to augment his forces for weeks now. Ulfr had returned yesterday bringing several new faces with him, and others had been dispatched to hire as many men as they could find. Come spring, Malcolm would taste the fruits of his revenge when he marched his army south on Castle MacGahan. When he finished with them there would be nothing left behind, and no one to remember his brother had ever existed.

Something about the little gathering below snagged his attention again and held it. Something odd in Ulfr’s manner as he dealt with the newcomers. When his captain turned to face his direction and raised his arm, Torquil felt quite strongly that his presence was needed in the courtyard. Perhaps because he’d recently mastered the ability to call Ulfr to him when he chose to do so.

He returned the jeweled case to its hiding spot behind the stones above the fireplace. No one would
dare enter his tower chamber without his permission, but neither the scroll nor the sword was an item he’d want falling into the wrong hands.

He made his way to the main entrance of the castle and paused at the top of the staircase to eye the newcomers. He liked what he saw well enough to descend the stairs and approach the gathering of men.

Not the toothless vermin his men usually dragged back to serve him. These two had the look of breeding about them. Both appeared strong and well fed. Though the younger of the two dressed oddly, these were the types of warriors he wanted to fill the ranks of his army.

“My lord.” Ulfr rose from his knee, eyes still averted. “These Irish wish to . . .” He paused, looking uncomfortable. “They wish to bargain with you for their service.”

“Bargain with me?” Laughter crawled up Torquil’s throat, but he swallowed it. He’d rarely heard such a foolhardy request. “Bargain away, warriors. What would you have of me for the use of your swords?”

The larger of the two men stepped forward, ignoring the ring of steel as Ulfr drew his weapon. Supreme confidence. Torquil liked that in a man. Especially in a man who served him.

“My brother was set upon by thieves along the road. He needs proper clothing and a good weapon to replace that which was taken from him, along
with a suitable mount. I assume you have a healer. We need access to her skills as well, or at least to her supply of herbs.” The big Irishman leaned forward, grinning as the tip of Ulfr’s sword touched his chest. “And silver, of course. We’ll both be wanting plenty of silver for our efforts, good sir.”

“And are you worth such a large investment on my part?”

“We are,” the younger man answered. “All that he asked for, and more.”

The laughter in Torquil’s throat burst forth. What grand audacity these Irish brothers showed! They amused him as none had in a very long time.

“Then let it be so,” he said as his laughter subsided. “Ulfr, take them to my sister and then provide them with whatever they need.”

Turning from them, he strode back toward the staircase that would lead him inside Tordenet, feeling well pleased. With such bravado, he’d have high expectations for them. They were certainly different from any he’d yet seen enter his—

His foot skidded to a stop and he turned to stare after the men being led to his sister’s tower.

They
were
different.

What was it Christiana had said about her Vision of the man who would determine the outcome of his plans? That he would be somehow different from all the others. That he would have interaction with her.

Access to the healer was among the first requests
these men had made. And even now they were on their way to Christiana’s tower.

These two would bear watching. One of them could very well be the man he’d searched for.

Torquil smiled. His plans seemed to be progressing even more quickly than he had hoped. Now he must do his part to be ready.

All the more reason to continue his efforts to master the Magic of the ancient scroll.

E
ight

C
HRISTIANA RUMMAGED THROUGH
her jars of herbs, looking for the exact ones she wanted. So many of them were either close to empty or completely gone. Soon she’d need to seek Torquil’s permission to visit Orabilis to restock her supplies. Although, after what had happened the last time she’d received permission for a trip to see the wise woman, he might well decide to forbid her ever going again.

She pushed away the thought. Her stomach already tumbled with nerves gone strangely awry this day. A good, hot tisane of all her favorite herbs was exactly what she needed to rid her of this unexplained sense of disquiet.

A bit of lavender, a pinch of balm, some periwinkle.

“No,” she groaned, turning the little pottery jar she held upside down in hopes there might be some small shreds stuck to the bottom. Empty. Completely empty. There would be no periwinkle in her tisane this day. She’d have to settle for a little chamomile and betony instead.

“Oh, bollocks!” she fumed, finding the betony jar down to less than a quarter of its leaves and crumbles.

This was one of herbs she used most, for everything from headaches to wounds. With her supply so low, she couldn’t afford to waste it on herself simply because she was feeling jumpy. She’d have to do without its aid this day. She’d be doing without
most
of her favorites for a while, with her stock so low.

The alternative was marching across the bailey and demanding to speak with Torquil.

With a snort, she put the stopper back on the betony jar and crossed the room to place her little pot of water over the fire.

When she considered it in those terms, it was an easy enough choice. She’d rather drink lukewarm water running straight off the muck in the goat pens than face Torquil unnecessarily.

She’d just retrieved her favorite mug when a knock at her door served as the final straw for her jittery nerves. The clay mug tumbled from her fingers, shattering on the hard floor.

Visitors to her tower were infrequent, consisting only of those needing help with a wound or sickness or the men her brother sent when he summoned her.

Taking a moment to compose herself, she brushed a few loose strands of hair from her face and then opened the door to find Ulfr waiting there, accompanied by two men she’d never seen before.
Warriors, from the looks of them. From their massive builds to their sharp expressions, they radiated strength and confidence.

Christiana stepped back into her room, extending an arm to invite them in. It was preferable to having them push her aside when they entered, which they would do if Torquil had sent them, regardless of whether or not she offered invitation.

Her concern waned a bit when the strangers dipped their heads courteously as they entered, a sure sign they were new to Tordenet. Once they observed her place at the bottom of the pecking order, they’d treat her with the same indifference everyone else did.

“These men have requested the assistance of a healer. Our lord has commanded me to bring them to you.” Ulfr’s gaze wandered around the room while he spoke, as if he hoped to find some sign of illicit behavior that he might report to his master.

“What troubles you?” she asked, looking from one of the newcomers to the other.

Weariness rode their shoulders, evidence they had traveled long and hard to reach their destination. Both men had hair in shades of gold, but there the similarities stopped. The larger of the two wore a neatly trimmed beard, his hair hanging loose around his shoulders, and he dressed in finely made clothing, while the smaller man wore what appeared to be oversize castoffs, and his hair barely brushed his shoulders.