Page 36 of Darach

“You dinnae suppose killing with a single strike. You practice.” He removed a wooden dagger from the bundle and offered it to her. “Close your eyes. Remember him as he hurt you. How he moved, and what he did. Look at the target again.”

She opened her eyes, and could almost see the killer’s chilling smirk on the blank straw head. “Now what?”

“As he struck you, he left parts of himself unguarded. ’Tis where you shall strike him.” He waited another moment, and then said, “The bastart’s come for you, woman. He means to carve you up, the butcher. Shall you allow him do as he pleases?”

His taunt made others emerge from her memory, all framed with the killer’s high-pitched laugh.

Are you still trying to hide from me?

A hunter always knows where to find his prey.

Must you force me hurt you so much, precious?

Charlotte gripped the hilt of the wooden blade as she rushed at the target. She drove the point into the side of his scrawny neck. Straw scratched her fist as she yanked out the practice weapon and rammed it into his side. She kept stabbing the form over and over, in the lower belly and the thighs and then in the upper part of the head where his beady eyes would be.

At last her arm jerked as the dagger caught on something, and she couldn’t free it. Panting, she released the hilt and stepped back. Not much was left of the target; the straw she had yanked out lay on the ground around the base of the pole. Seeing it made her swallow hard. She also had white marks all over the front of the dark tunic Emery had lent her to wear.

“No attacker stands still. As you strike, so would he,” Camdyn told her, and held up his chunk of chalk. “I marked where you left yourself unguarded, and you didnae once see my hand as I did thus. A blade buried in any of these places, ’twould end you.”

Charlotte wiped some sweat from her upper lip and took a deep breath to dispel the nausea. “You didn’t warn me to be on my guard.”

“’Tis why he hurt you in your time. Ever and always must you guard yourself.” The armorer pulled the straw away from her practice dagger. “That, ’tis what I must teach you. I reckon you already ken how to kill.”

She saw the split in the pole where the blunt tip of the wooden dagger had lodged. “I did that?”

“Aye.” He tugged the practice blade free and frowned at the splintered end. “’Twould seem I must make you another before the next lesson. I shall fetch you on the morrow at sunset.” He reached out and plucked a piece of straw from her sleeve. “Until then, think on what I’ve told you, Charlotte.”

Although dismay and shame twisted inside her she made herself look him in the eyes. “Thank you, Camdyn.”

After he left, Charlotte bent down to gather the stuffing she’d hacked out of the form. If she had been fighting a real man the straw would be blood and body parts, and her own ferocity horrified her. Since she had decided to become an artist she had immersed herself in endless daydreams of magical places and amazing characters; she’d also actively avoided anything dark or depressing. The negative energy from such things, one of her teachers had told her, could be toxic to a creative spirit. That was how Charlotte had always viewed herself, as a woman who only saw beauty, and painted her dreams.

I’ll never be that woman again.

* * *

A gust of wind made the window’s covering flap against Fyn’s face, rousing him from a long and happy dream of hunts past. At first he resisted waking, as he wished to remain with all the creatures he stalked. Opening his eyes, he bit back a curse as he realized he had fallen asleep in the granary, where any of the MacRoss vassals might have found him. He looked out through the window to see the tall, pale-haired wench from the future kneeling on the ground and gathering up loose straw.

They’ve left her unguarded. This was his chance; he would end her now.

Fyn lifted his crossbow and aimed his bolt at the back of her neck, only to have his target blocked by the broad back of the man who stood in front of the granary’s window, only a few inches from Fyn. A nearby torch cast enough light on him to reveal the paleness of his flesh, and the wooden cloak pin he wore.

Taveon, the MacRoss war master––an even greater prize than that slut.

Reaching for his dagger, Fyn knew he could kill both and still escape. He’d stab Taveon in the back through the window, and when he dropped he’d shoot Charlotte Walsh. Another gust of wind swept Taveon’s hair to one side, but the biting cold of it stung Fyn’s eyes and carried a cold dampness that settled against him.

Slowly the hunter released his dagger, biting down on his tongue to stop the howls rising in his throat.

Wee piglet, you’re caught in your own trap. Athdara Martin’s ghost appeared beside him, her transparent fingers reaching out through the window to play with the edge of the war master’s tartan. What shall you do now?

Fyn could not say anything in return to her; his voice would give away his presence in the granary. His hand shook as he reached for the pouch of salt he kept on his belt.

Do you reckon that shall drive me away? Athdara’s bitter laughter echoed inside his skull. ’Tisnae the place I died, and you didnae kill me.

Fyn sank to his knees, tasting blood in his mouth as his teeth cut into his tongue.

Dinnae despair, wee piglet. Her misty arms came around him, hugging him with an icy embrace. I shall ever and always be at your side now. You may never escape. Why didnae you bring Prince Kaer’s sain to me?

“You shouldnae be here,” a low, melodic voice said, making Fyn jerk.