Page 33 of Dorchad

He lifted him off the ground, holding him dangling in the air. “Why did you come here? To run away and hide from your master?” When he said nothing he gave him a hard shake. “Shall I smash your other knee, so you must crawl the rest of your miserable days?”

“’Tis for the–” The man’s voice abruptly cut off, and his eyes bulged as he clutched at his throat.

Putting him down, Cath told his men to move away from the thieves. The hideous iciness of dark magic crawled from his fingers back onto the man’s gaping, choking mouth, which it sealed along with his nostrils. The same suffocating spell had struck the other seven men, cutting off their air.

“Dinnae attempt such, lad,” he told one of patrollers who had drawn a dagger and knelt down beside one of the writhing thieves. “’Twill do naught to save them. They’ve triggered a killing spell cast over them, and ’twill seal their mouths and noses the moment after you open them again.”

Cath knelt down and cast the only healing spell he knew over the dying men, but whoever had cursed them had been extremely powerful. A few moments later all eight men lay dead on the ground, their faces mottled blue and purple from suffocation. The very thing he’d come on this hunt to prevent had happened, but not because he’d released the dark magic that dwelled in his own cursed hide. Cath knew of only one other type of power that could kill so swiftly, and turned the thief over to brush his snarled hair away from the back of his neck.

Five claw-shaped crescents glowed with a faint but still malevolent red-green, a mark he knew only too well from his life in Elphyne. ’Tis the doing of the dark Fae queen’s hunter.

“Do you ken what did thus to them, War Master?” the patroller asked as he sheathed his dagger again.

“’Twas dark Fae sent by the queen.” He closed his eyes for a moment, trying to work out what the thief had done. Dark Fae wouldnae wipe their boots on the carcasses of these thieves. Why should one recruit them to come to Gealladh? As spies?

Cath ordered the men to return the bodies to the cave where they had been hiding. As laird and ruler over the island, Tair would have to decide what to do with the remains.

“I shall return to the stronghold and gather our trackers,” he told the men. “Block the entry after you stow the remains inside.”

Leaving the patrollers there to deal with the dead mortals, Cath headed back in the direction of Gealladh. Once out of sight of the men, however, he climbed up a towering fir tree, scaling up to the highest branch that would hold his weight before he wrapped his forearm with one end of his tartan and extended his fist. The words he murmured weren’t a spell, but an old, simple call to one of the creatures in the mortal realm known to be sympathetic to all Fae.

The white and black-flecked predator came gliding out of the canopy, as silent as its namesake, its bright golden eyes wide as it landed with its feathered talons on Cath’s arm.

Unlike the other avians that made their home on the island, the snowy owl did not sleep away the day. It regarded him with the usual long-suffering patience of a creature annoyed by humans and yet long accustomed to the strangeness of the war master and the clan. In turn Cath politely averted his own gaze to give the bird time to once more grow comfortable with being so close to him. When the owl’s grip on his arm eased a fraction, he took out a charm, holding the stone near his lips as he began to speak softly.

“I ken I’ve disturbed you, but you’re the eyes and ears of the loch, old friend.” He nodded in the direction of the troll’s ha. “Something no’ of the mortal realm placed a death curse on eight thieves. Do you ken if the caster hides on the island?”

The owl flapped its wings, and made a sound like a large dog barking. At the same time, in Cath’s head he heard a deep voice say ’Tisnae on your side of the waters.

That meant it was somewhere in the area. “Will you come and warn me if you spot it during one of your hunts?”

The owl made a high-pitched sound like a shriek – Aye – and then flew off.

He climbed down, relieved and worried all at once. At least here on the island the clan might have hunted and captured the dark Fae that had used and cursed the thieves. On the mainland he might use more hapless mortals unable to elude him and his death magic. The dullahan was long dead, but during its long life it had spawned more of its kind. Amanda had been the only mortal to survive being taken by the dreaded hunter, but saving her had not been an act of kindness by Cath. Never before or again had he done something so selfish or dangerous, and it had cost him almost everything that mattered.

Never shall I regret freeing her.

Cath went to the garrison hall to summon the best trackers in the clan, and plan the hunt for the creature that might prove more deadly than any the MacRune had ever faced.

Kiamh hesitated before approaching the outer curtain wall gates of Dun Maor. He hoped that Fifer MacAlen would be worried about him if he delayed his return, as causing that concern was part of his scheme. Until now he’d dallied too long with the laird, and needed to advance his plans quickly, before the MacAlen found a reason to be rid of him.

I shall do as I must. Why care what he suffers?

When Fifer had rescued him from the cage in the slaver’s camp he’d had no idea that Kiamh had already escaped his captor during the earlier raid, which also allowed him to assess the astonishing strengths of the MacRune Clan. After the renegade clan had left with the rest of the captives, he’d intended to kill all the slavers left locked in the cages. Then Fifer and his men had approached, offering a more valuable opportunity. Quickly concealing himself and playing the wounded victim had allowed Kiamh to speak with the MacAlen laird so he could begin to spin the intricate web of lies necessary to start a war between the two clans. That was going quite well for a time, with Fifer seemingly growing quite smitten with him.

Until I moved too swiftly, and panicked him. Absently he rubbed his aching shoulder. I must take care so I may make him mine.

Adding a deliberate hitch in his steps Kiamh approached the gate, stopping and waiting for the guards to raise the portcullis for him. On the other side of the grate stood the black-haired Ivor, the clan’s war master, who looked him over with narrowed eyes. This MacAlen still treated him like an unwelcome intruder, and had better instincts than any other member of the clan.

It would serve Kiamh better to seduce and then end him, but the war master also seemed immune to his charms.

Ivor finally nodded at the guard, and the barrier rose.

Kiamh gave him a grateful smile, at the same time imagining him tied to a tree in the forest and being gutted by wolves.

“Why did you send away the guards that escorted you to the docks?” Ivor demanded. “Do you wish to be captured by slavers a second time?”

“Forgive me, War Master.” Anger lent a tremor to his voice that would sound like fear to the other man. “I worried the MacRune might grow angry if I brought with me members of your clan. The islanders, they’ve no respect or regard for the MacAlen.”