Page 29 of Darach

As Duine accompanied the laird’s wife up to the guest chamber he became somewhat nervous at the prospect of facing another woman from the future. Emery herself had always been sharp-eyed and intelligent, and she often noticed things that even Luthias missed. Her comfort in speaking about subjects unseemly for a woman regularly intimidated him. At the same time he took some encouragement from their presence. At least Emery and this new lady proved that mortal kind had continued on for at least seven centuries, which surely meant his efforts to protect life would prevail in the end.

“I confess, I’ve yet to meet Mistress Walsh,” he said. “What think you of her, my lady?”

“Don’t worry, Master Duine, you’ll like her,” Emery said, patting his arm. “Charlotte is Canadian, and they’re just about the nicest people who live in my time. She’s not at all brazen and ill-mannered like me.”

He coughed to cover the laugh she startled out of him. “Who should call you such, my lady?”

“Except you and Luthias, I’m pretty sure everyone in the fourteenth century does.” The laird’s wife winked at him as she stopped in front of a door and knocked. “Hey, Charlotte, it’s Emery again.” She waited a moment for a reply, and then said, “Are you all right? Can I come in?”

Duine listened, and shook his head. “Mayhap she yet sleeps.”

“This late in the day?” Emery opened the door and peeked inside before closing it and frowning. “That’s odd. She’s gone.”

* * *

Fyn glanced down at the gardener’s garb he had donned, which smelled of lye soap and sunshine, and then pulled his broad-brimmed straw hat lower on his brow to hide his features. The master had told him to keep to the back of the gardens, where he would not be noticed. That would give him access to the granary, the windows of which lay directly across from those of the garrison hall. There, his master promised, he could remove the hindrance to their plans.

Do as I’ve told you, and finally we shall prevail over the MacRoss.

While spying on Darach, Fyn had caught glimpses of Charlotte Walsh, the wench the Fire sword had brought back from the future. She stood taller than him, and had the look of a Norsewoman. He had spent many nights imagining her as she would look in the sanctorum’s cage, naked and terrified as he plied his blade for her. No one would hear her screams; they had never once heard Athdara Martin while she had been imprisoned there. Perhaps when he had finished questioning her the master would allow him a night alone with Mistress Walsh. Fyn had discovered of late that he enjoyed playing with mortals even more than animal prey.

We shall ken such fun together.

Fyn lifted the hatch and crawled out of the tunnel into the bean patch that concealed it. He had to drag the grain sack he’d brought with him, which proved heavier than he realized, and made a loud scraping sound on the ground. For a moment he lay still and listened before he dared to lift his head to look around him. Once he’d assured no vassal could see him he stood and walked behind the thickest part of the gardens, where the tall stalks of ripening beans provided sparse but adequate cover. At the same time he took hold of the cloaking charm he wore around his neck, which his master had given to him long ago.

Wear this always, my lad, and when you wish to invoke the spell, clutch it and think yourself a shadow. ’Twill cause anyone who beholds you see only darkness.

Using the cloaking charm in broad daylight came with great risk, Fyn knew. Nightfall or moving through the forest made his shadow blend in with the rest of the surrounding darkness; sunlight in an open place would show the black patch that shrouded him moving on its own. The darkness that covered him only lasted as long as he held the charm in his hand; the moment he released it he would reveal himself. That was why he slowed his steps and kept watching for the MacRoss’s gardeners and servants, so that he might go still if he encountered them.

“Hey, there,” a cheerful voice called, making him freeze.

Fyn looked over to see Emery Parker walking straight toward him. Had the charm failed? He looked down to see the shadow that enveloped him still intact, and drew his dagger. Do I take the slut as my next kill? Shall he praise me for ending her? He knew the master particularly despised Luthias’s filthy hoor for ruining his last scheme.

A tall, skinny young vassal suddenly stepped in front of Fyn, blocking his view of Emery.

“Fair morning, my lady,” the lad said. “You wished speak with me?”

Fyn wanted nothing more in that moment than to bury his blade in the boy’s spine, but as the pair talked about garments his temper subsided. The master would grow very angry if he again strayed from his task, and he feared his punishments.

Serve me, wee piglet, Athdara Martin’s ghost whispered in his head. Steal Prince Kaer’s sain and you shall rule the mortal realm at my side.

“I just need one pair,” Emery said to the boy, and walked back into the stronghold with him.

Fyn closed his eyes, sheathing his dagger as he pushed Athdara from his thoughts. Go back to the shadow realm, demon hoor.

Once he’s finished using you, the master shall send you here to me, she said, her laughter filling his skull before fading away.

His belly shrank, and a sour taste filled his mouth. He could not boak here, where the gardeners might hear him retching. To calm himself Fyn silently repeated the assurances he had been given.

The master needs me at his side. I’m his chieftain as well as his hunter. When we prevail, I shall be named laird of the Carack. He cannae destroy the MacRoss without me.

The litany allowed him to move past the terror and continue his work. Once he slipped inside the granary Fyn released the charm, set down the sack and went over to the window slits to pull down the covering slat and peer outside. For most of his life he had been sneaking onto MacRoss land, but never before had he dared breach the stronghold. Walking about directly under the noses of Luthias’s guards made him strong and confident in ways his furtive poaching and spying never had.

I may do whatever I wish and they shall never stop me.

As he watched the men entering and leaving the garrison hall Fyn took the crossbow out of the grain sack and loaded it with a bolt. He should have insisted they do this from the beginning. He had known that hiding and rigging the first bow to fire by itself would likely fail, but since the suicide scheme had gone wrong his master had been acting with an overabundance of caution.

If you’re caught by the MacRoss, they shall chain you in the dungeons and torture you until you tell them all.