Page 55 of Tair

My master, he’s searching for me. He’s become immortal, and shall do anything to take me back so I may grant his wishes. Beware him, Tair MacRune. Naught shall ever satisfy him, and very soon he shall become so enraged he shall use me to end all that exists.

The gray void turned back into the night forest, although now everything had gone still. All of the slaver’s guards lay unconscious on the ground, and the battered raiders were dragging them over to the slave cages. Cath trotted over and bowed.

“We’ve defeated the bastarts, thanks to your whirlwind, my lord.” He told Tair how the tornado had danced through the camp, striking only the enemy while going around the MacRune men. He gave Lucy an appraising look. “’Twas never summoned on a raid before, but ’twas welcome.” He nodded at the cages. “The men shall take all the captives to the village. They’ve carts waiting there to take them to our friends in the west, who shall help them return home.”

“Good. Go to the village and assure they’re treated well,” Tair told him. As soon as Cath left he regarded Lucy. “You shall wed me at once. This night.”

“Like this? Of course not. I need a bath and some of that wound salve Sgathan gives the kitchen maids,” she said, relieved that he hadn’t noticed her wound. “Wait.” She moved her shoulders. “That’s strange.” She reached for the place on her hip where the lash wound had ended, but only found the tears in her tunic and cloak. “Is this all another dream?”

“Dinnae toy with me, wench,” Tair warned as he circled around her. “I’m no young lad set to bow at your feet and beg for your favor. If you come to me–”

Lucy hurled herself into his arms. “Shut up,” she said before she hoisted herself up by his shoulders and kissed him. She dropped back to the ground and turned around. “That slaver hit me with a whip. Have I stopped bleeding?”

“There’s blood on your garments.” His fingers parted the tear in her cloak and the tunic beneath it. “The wound, ’tis gone.” He embraced her from behind. “I should beat you for disobeying my orders.”

“You’re not the boss of me. We’re partners now.” She turned around and hugged him. “Let’s go home.”

When word came of an attack in the forest, Fifer summoned his best fighters and rode from Dun Maor. The smell of smoke led him and his men to a ruined encampment where heavy fighting had taken place. There were also signs that a whirlwind had come through the area, knocking down trees and leaving the forest littered with debris.

“No slaves or horses,” Ivor reported to him. “They’ve been stolen by whoever did that.” He nodded at the wounded, unconscious men locked in the slave cages.

One heavy fellow who had only one eye came to the front of his cage and jerked at the door. “Release us. We must track the raiders and get back the goods they stole.”

“What manner of goods? Helpless women? Beardless lads? Bairns?” As the man shrank back Fifer regarded Ivor. “What of the slaves?”

The war master gestured toward the forest to the east. “Our scouts found some signs left by the raiders’ horses. They took the slaves away on horseback, but destroyed tracks so no one could follow.” He spat on the ground. “By dawn they’ll be sold to a new master, likely in the west. These midnight raiders never keep their captives long.”

Fifer shook his head. “We shall search nevertheless. Send a dove to the midlands magistrate. In twoday we shall deliver these men to him for his justice.”

“Aye, my lord.” The war master gestured toward the last, empty cage. “’Twas one they didnae take.”

Fifer walked down to the cage, where he saw a small, huddled figure under a torn, soiled cloak. It seemed at first glance a young bairn. When he wrenched open the door and crouched to draw back the cloak, a young lad curled like a sprouting fern looked up at him with terror in his clear blue eyes.

Gael.

“Dinnae fear.” He knew at once the boy could not be his long lost friend, and yet everything about him brought back too many memories. Busying himself by helping the lad to his feet, he said, “Why didnae the raiders take you with the others?”

“I cannae walk well from a beating I took.” He looked down. “They feared I might hinder them.”

Fifer swore under his breath as he saw the broken, bloodied condition of the lad’s feet, and lifted him into his arms like a wee bairn. “Dinnae struggle, lad. You’re too hurt.” He turned his head to call for the healer.

The master flautist trotted over, took one look at the boy’s feet and shook his head. “His bones, they’re surely broken, my lord. We must take him to the village in a cart.”

The thought of the lad being turned over to the villagers made Fifer’s gut clench. If he’d been taken in the midlands, he was not well enough to make a journey.

“We must attend to him at Dun Maor.” He looked down at the boy, who was watching him with pain-filled eyes. “What’s your name, lad, and where may we find your kin?”

“I’m Kiamh, my lord,” he said, his voice growing thready. “I cannae remember my kind, or where they dwell...” His head slumped against Fifer’s shoulder, and his body went limp.

“Fack, that the brutes would batter someone so young,” the healer said, reaching for the lad.

“I shall attend to him,” Fifer said, cradling the thin body against his chest.

Tears burned at the back of his eyes as he recalled carrying Gael this way from the charnel house. How thin and wasted the pestilence had left him, so that he barely weighed more than a feather-stuffed cushion. This lad had likely been starved near unto death.

“I shall return to the stronghold so he may rest there. Go and see if any others need your skills.” He regarded Ivor. “Bind well these slavers and bring them to Dun Maor. I want them all alive.”

“Aye, my lord.” The healer and the war master bowed.