Forged in Dreams and Magick (Highland Legends, Book 1) (27 page)

“Velloc, you’ve a feisty woman there.”

Velloc smiled and placed his hand on my thigh, squeezing gently. “Yes, I do. Now you see why I want to please her. Trust me .
 . . she more than satisfies me.”

I clenched my teeth to stop my jaw from falling. Locker-room talk belonged elsewhere .
 . . like
in a locker room.

Drust chortled. Then his face grew serious again. He appraised us with narrowed eyes and a clenched jaw as if weighing his options.

I’d shown up to the chess game fully prepared to win. Not only had I shown bravery in standing up to the fearsome leader, I’d also used tactical leverage to get what I wanted.

In my carefully worded statement, I’d changed Drust from demanding my obedience into showing me the respect of a worthy adversary. I smiled. The battle he wanted to win on the field first mandated my win of our negotiations.

Drust smirked, arching a brow as he looked pointedly at me. “You’ll hear the story tonight.” Then he glanced at Velloc, “Whenever you find the box, I have no doubt you will return it to me.”

The man’s confidence in our actions irritated me .
 . . but also piqued my interest.

CHAPTER Twenty-six

Over a thousand gathered in a natural amphitheater skirting their community. The grass-covered ground sloped upward, providing ample seating for those in attendance, which happened to be only a fraction of the entire tribe. From our patch of earth, fires still burning in the village allowed me to watch people moving between dwellings while we waited for their oral recitation of myth and legend to begin.

Velloc leaned in close to me, speaking low. “You were very brave today.”

I put my head on his shoulder, laughing softly. “Brave had nothing to do with my outburst. My anger got the better of me; I got stupid.”

He put his hand on the side of my head, smoothing my hair. Gentle lips kissed my forehead. “Sometimes our emotions rule us. How we handle the consequences . . . defines us.”

How profound.
The man had the wisdom of several lifetimes. No wonder Velloc’s people had elevated him to their leader without hesitation. Great men are revered by those who seek their inspiration.

At the focal point of the earthen funnel where we sat, Drust stepped forward. A fire burned between where the chieftain stood and the audience awaiting his narrative.

I zeroed in on him, my breath catching. He stood commandingly tall, wearing a black cloak with a hood drawn over his head that hid his face. Before I got over my déjà vu, Drust began regaling the crowd. The acoustical topography projected his booming voice to everyone on the hillside as clearly as if he’d spoken through a megaphone.

“We are born of a people who have been graced by a god. On black wing he descended from the sky.” Drust flared the side of his cloak out, spinning hard to one side. “The creature spoke our language, understood our plight, and loved our tribe. His ancient form shifted to a human body bearing a great gift.” He turned hard, fanning out the other side of his cloak. “Our great leader took the metallic box from him and, with it, received infinite knowledge, fertility of the land and animals, and a love like he’d never known.”

The wind kicked up. Dark, churning storm clouds flashed spider-webbed lightning across a black backdrop above the ocean. A sudden downdraft extinguished the fire at his feet, and murmurs erupted around us with the sudden darkness.

The air had a cold bite that even my thick fur didn’t banish, and a violent shiver racked my body. Velloc leaned closer, wrapping his arm around my shoulders, and I nestled into his side for warmth.

A blinding, fiery bolt struck from ground to sky directly from the fire pit, lighting it with renewed fury. The charge lasted only a few seconds, but in that brief time, I saw everything.

A second dark figure shimmered into existence. My eyes had difficulty focusing on its form. What appeared to be a black hooded cloak on its back lifted and stretched wider, like the wings of a bird. Its head turned, and a mane of midnight hair flew about the beautiful face of a man. He looked straight at me, his sparkling, iridescent eyes piercing my soul for the merest second. While I was captivated by those mesmerizing eyes, the man handed Drust a box .
 . .
the box.

Had Drust known all along that the box would come back to him?

As the lightning flashed its last and brightest pulse, the apparition vanished along with the charge into the atmosphere. The collective gasp from Drust’s people gave good indication that storytime had never been so unique.

Blown didn’t even begin to describe my state of mind.

Modern-day scientists gave no literal credence to the gods of ancient mythology. Cultures spanning the globe—Greek, Roman, Scottish, Japanese, and Native American to name a few—paid homage to deities. Our analytical minds downgraded visits from their gods as spiritual representations rather than actual occurrences.

Shocked numb by my thoughts, I stared at the box Drust held in utter disbelief. There’d been no trap doors or hidden panels in the—now two—instances that I’d witnessed the guardian of the box disappear into thin air—David Copperfield had nothing on the phenomenon. Unless another explanation presented itself, the
being
flashing in and out of our world was either extraterrestrial, interdimensional, or a time traveler who’d already mastered his craft.

Drust recited their lineage beginning with how the box found a mate for their first leader. When that chieftain’s son came of age, a perfect match had been obtained for the son. On down the family tree he went, detailing battle successes and major events along the way. In the span of less than thirty minutes, I’d been given an auditory history lesson on their tribe.

He lifted the newly reclaimed artifact high into the air, bellowing deeply as his voice carried over the wind. “I am Drust, son of Bruide, born into this world from a woman whom our god had deemed worthy, and matched to a woman whose sons and daughters will bring our tribe great prosperity.” He lowered his arms, tucking the box into his side. “May tonight remind you all of our noble history, fill you with pride of our past, and grant you hope for our future.”

Shouts, whistles, and animal cries marked the end of his talk. The animated crowd dispersed into the darkness, chatting about the miracle they’d witnessed.

I stood and raced down toward Drust, drawn to the artifact. Velloc rushed to my side as I crossed the twenty or so yards in a few seconds.

Drust held the box in his two hands as he met my bewildered gaze. He smirked and turned, calling back. “Follow. See where
our
box is housed.” He paused midgait, glancing over his shoulder. “I trust you’ll leave it to remain there in
its rightful home.
”

Well, that presented a problem, didn’t it? For me to fly from Velloc’s world, I’d have to commute from our village to the nearest airport—a full day’s ride by horseback. And I’d have to stay in the good graces of the air traffic controller. No FAA existed in Drust’s world to which I could vent my grievances.

One challenge at a time, Isobel.

In appreciation of having a gateway back to Iain, I decided to worry about logistics another time. Drust wanted information about the enemy encroaching on their lands. I would share what little information the Roman accountings and my memory could provide.

Drust went into the heart of his village, past the line of fires, and stepped into a circular, stacked-stone dwelling that was so small, only three people could comfortably stand inside without the necessity of a group hug. My claustrophobic nature had me watch from outside while Drust stepped through the uncovered doorway. He placed the box atop a gray stone pedestal carved into the shape of a raven. The gleaming box adorned the depicted god’s head like an ornate crown.

I stared at the box after Drust left the structure. Only Velloc’s tug on my arm pulled me away from my visual trance. I accompanied both men with my thoughts jumbled. Right when I believed I’d gotten a solid grasp on my transformed reality, one more surprise demonstrated I understood nothing at all, testing the boundaries of my already split-wide-open mind.

“I’ve shown you all I know about the box.” Drust stopped, turning to me. “Now you reveal all you know about our enemy.”

Unable to worry about divulging too much and altering future events, I inhaled deeply and dove off the cliff. I trusted that the forces orchestrating my masterpiece would allow me to soar after the plunge and cast my gaze unto a world as it should be .
 . . ordained by powers beyond my control.

“You already know the number of men they claimed to have brought against your people. That number was their entire army—including their reserves—but the total was estimated, not confirmed. Agricola, the Roman governor, claimed they were outnumbered by your people, whom they called Caledonians, but were only able to engage you in open battle after threatening your granaries, which had been recently filled from a bountiful harvest.”

Drust interrupted. “If they take the granaries, our people will starve this winter.”

I nodded. “They employed the tactic to lure you onto the field. Your people had been attacking in smaller ambushes that their army was unable to defend against or prevent.”

As I talked and walked, we approached several larger structures that were built in the same dry-stacked-stone style as the rest of the permanent dwellings. Drust inclined his head toward the entrance of the smaller of the two, and I followed Velloc inside.

A torch in an iron sconce lit the room with an orange flickering glow. Basic furniture filled a space that was easily three times larger than Velloc’s home. Wooden chairs surrounded a square table. A pallet covered in folded blankets and a fur lay on the floor next to a wall. Drust took one of the seats at the table. We joined him, sitting in two other chairs.

“Tell me more,” Drust said.

“Agricola stated two prebattle speeches occurred: one given by him to the Roman army; and the other given by the Caledonian leader, Calgacus, to the Caledonians.”

Drust scowled and shook his head. “There is no tribal leader named Calgacus. That Roman name leaves a bitter taste on my tongue.”

I glanced at Velloc, and he nodded and tipped his head toward Drust. I continued. “Modern-day historians have questioned Agricola’s account, which was documented by a revered Roman historian named Tacitus. The number of casualties that Tacitus claimed the Caledonians suffered compared to the Romans cast doubt on his recounting of the event.”

“How many did he say we lost?” Drust asked.

“Around ten thousand. He alleged the Romans lost only a few hundred.”

Both men broke into rumbling laughter. “This Agricola tells lies to inflate his standing before his people. Our warriors are swift and cunning. Many more Romans would die than Picts.”

I nodded, impressed with their quick perceptiveness; in seconds, the men saw through the deceit of another leader’s ego. I continued, “The Roman army is comprised of Romans, Britons, Gauls, and Germans. In his speech, ‘Calgacus’ supposedly stated the Caledonians had an advantage with the moral support of their women and parents, whereas the Roman army—comprised of conquered and indentured men from countless countries far from their home—would be easy to defeat once discouraged.”

A hard stare from Drust made me pause, and I glanced at three golden goblets filled with liquid that sat on the table. I grasped mine with both hands, raised the cup to my lips, and swallowed the bitter wine down. Velloc did the same. Drust pounded a fist on the table so hard the third goblet jumped, caught on its bottom edge, and toppled, spilling its contents across the table in a dark stain.

He growled, “No enemy will put words into our mouths or declare our victory would only be due to their less loyal, unmotivated ranks. We defeat an adversary with our skill, strength, and courage. The true reason for our victory will be nothing less than our total superiority.”

I righted the cup and said, “Many experts have called Agricola’s account false. The narrator biases the record; Tacitus was Agricola’s son-in-law and never even traveled to Scotland. The battle was recorded based on Agricola’s accounting to Tacitus alone. Unfortunately, history is too often accepted as fact based on one side’s skewed observations, motivations, and opinions.”

Drust calmed to a degree. “Where and when did this falsely documented battle supposedly take place?”

“I don’t know. There’s uncertainty with the exact location of the battle. Named the Battle of Mons Graupius, the title was given in the late-fifteenth century. The accounting said your people fought from the high ground of a mountain, then retreated back into the cover of forest. The Grampian Mountains are a great mountain chain on your lands. The battle could have occurred anywhere along the eastern slopes. When it occurred is also vague: historians say it was in AD 83 or 84.”

Drust rose, scraping back his chair with his legs. “Enough talk for tonight. I have much to think about, and the hour is late.”

Velloc and I both stood, watching his departure. Tense silence filled the air.

I leaned into Velloc’s side, seeking comfort from the man I loved on our last night together before my journey back. His expert hands sought my flesh, discarding clothing articles along the way. Hungry kisses consumed any worry I might’ve had into a scorching need to become one with him. We stumbled back down to the pallet, naked by the time we hit the mattress, absorbed in an animalistic mating within seconds.