Warrior Untamed (6 page)

“Wonder what
he’s
up to?” Dobbie craned his neck, peering off into the distance, bringing Mathew back to the here and now.

Ahead of them, a horse and rider blocked the trail.

“He’s new to these parts,” Dobbie murmured. “I dinna think I’ve ever seen him before.”

Dobbie might not have seen him before, but Mathew had. At Tordenet. The man was one of Laird MacDowylt’s warriors. And not just any ordinary warrior, but clearly a favorite of the laird.

He was also one of the two men who’d visited the Tinkler camp the day before they’d suddenly packed up their wagons and left Tordenet with Bridget MacCulloch as a secret passenger.

Whether the big man waited on the trail ahead to seek his revenge because Hugo had returned to Tordenet to warn the MacDowylt of the MacCulloch woman’s escape, or because of the items Mathew had taken from the castle, Mathew felt sure his being there couldn’t be a good thing.

He considered turning back on the path, but the feelings that had warned him out of the forest were doubly strong from the direction he’d already traveled.

“Best you let me handle this,” Dobbie whispered. “I’ve a way with strangers, just you watch.”

“As you wish.”

Mathew doubted Dobbie’s ability to “handle” the big warrior, but perhaps the boy’s intervention
might give him time to steal away if it became necessary. Slowly, he reached to his saddle and untied one of the bags he carried there. He slipped the leather strings over his shoulder and let the bag nestle against his back. No time to remove the one from the other side. They were too close for him to make the change without his actions being obvious.

“Aho,” Dobbie called as they drew close enough to clearly make out the features on the big man’s face. “A fair gift it is to see a fellow traveler on the road! I’m Dobbie Caskie and this is Master MacFalny.”

The churning in Mathew’s stomach grew stronger, along with his need to climb up into the saddle of his horse and ride for all he was worth in the opposite direction. But that would be foolish. The animal he led beside him would be no match for the mighty black warhorse waiting ahead of them. The best he could hope for was a chance to make his way to the other side of his mount to retrieve the second bag.

“I know who you are, Dobbie Caskie. And I know what you’ve done. I believe you have a horse that belongs to a friend of mine. And you, young Mathew MacFalny”—the big man turned his piercing blue gaze toward Mathew—“you’ve taken something much more dangerous than another man’s horse.”

So it was the treasure that had led MacDowylt’s man to find him.

“Be on your way, warrior,” Mathew ordered, the cracking of his voice belying his fear. “I’ve
taken nothing from Tordenet Castle that dinna belong to me.”

“No?” The big man laughed and lifted a hand to point in Mathew’s direction. “Did I make any mention of Tordenet? Don’t be foolish, boy. Next you’ll be telling me that sword you wear across your heart is your own.”

Mathew’s fingers tightened around Dream Guardian’s hilt. It
was
his own. This sword was all that stood between him and the evil that stalked his dreams. He’d never give it up.

H
ALL COULD SEE
why Bridget had expressed concern for Mathew. He was a gangly lad, all long arms and legs, as much a boy as Dobbie Caskie.

Both he and Dobbie appeared ready to bolt at any second, and that would do Hall no good at all.

Hall continued to move forward, holding his horse to a slow and measured step. He didn’t wish to harm either of the boys, though he’d dearly love to bring the Caskie lad back to Castle MacGahan, to answer to Eric for the animal he’d stolen. Still, should they break and run, it was Mathew and the sword strapped to his chest that Hall would follow.

He was within one horse’s length when he heard the pounding upon the earth.

Hoofbeats. Four horses, he guessed, from the sound of it. Riding hard, headed in this direction. Only the distraction of the boys had kept him from recognizing the sound much earlier.

“Off the road!” he ordered, and Dobbie dove for the cover of the trees, needing no further encouragement.

Mathew froze where he stood, his eyes rounded with his fear.

“By the gods! Move, boy!”

Hall reined his horse in front of Mathew, placing himself in between the boy and the approaching men. Four riders, just as he’d thought. Torquil’s men, from the looks of them, charging forward at full gallop, swords drawn.

Poorly trained, the lot of them, to Hall’s way of thinking. They strung themselves out one after another with long gaps in between them rather than forming a close, tight line to ride against him. That was a mistake for which they’d pay.

“If it’s a battle you want,” Hall murmured, dodging to his left as he lifted his arm to deflect the first man’s sword with the flat of his blade. Only a glancing blow. He instantly recovered and twirled his weapon overhead, bringing the edge of his sword crashing down to catch his opponent across the back of his neck.

The man’s head lolled forward as his horse kept running and Hall gave him no more thought, his attention already intent upon the next two men drawing close.

To his side, he caught sight of Mathew moving forward. The boy gripped the Sword of the Ancients
with both hands, obviously struggling with its weight to hold it out in front of him.

“Get back,” Hall barked. “Keep low and out of range.”

The second man attacked, his sword meeting Hall’s with a ring of steel.

His blade would be dulled after this, but he had little choice. His shield was of no use to him, hanging where he’d tied it, covering his mount’s left flank.

The boy beside him yelled and fell backward as Hall’s opponent’s horse swung his head in Mathew’s direction. Hall turned in his saddle to see that Mathew was unharmed and, momentarily distracted, very nearly missed blocking the next attack.

The blow caught him high, driving his blade back toward his head and knocking him from his saddle. He landed in a squat and surged to his feet, collecting his wits as the two closest riders circled, one coming at him from either direction.

They might be poorly trained, but they were quick learners, having changed their tactic after seeing their companion’s demise.

“Surrender the thief to us,” one of them ordered, his voice mechanical and without emotion. “Or die with him.”

“I think not,” Hall countered, and reached out to grasp the leather thong securing his shield. One quick twist and the lashing gave way, dropping the shield into his grasp.

Let them come now. Two puny men, even on horseback, were hardly a match for Hall O’Donar.

He roared his challenge as they descended upon him and, lifting his shield high for cover, he slashed up at the closest man. His weapon struck home, slicing into muscle and sinew as the rider screamed and fell from his mount. One downward thrust and only two opponents remained, one headed toward him, one hanging back.

Once again, based on what they’d seen, they’d changed their battle tactic.

Hall waited until the last possible second to evade his attacker’s charge, bringing his weapon down in a mighty arc as he twirled out of the warrior’s path. His sword severed flesh and bone below the man’s knee. In response to the mercenary’s screams, his mount reared and unseated him, throwing him to the ground at Hall’s feet. Even wounded as he was, the soldier swung his sword toward Hall like a man possessed, driving Hall backward a step before he lunged in. From the corner of his eye, he noted the last man starting toward him as he made quick work of the soldier on the ground.

Beside him, Mathew rushed forward, roaring in a pale imitation of Hall’s challenge, his voice cracking, as is the bane of many a young man.

Before Hall could order the boy back, he felt the air around him thicken and heard an unusual sound he knew to be metal slicing through the solid air.

The sword in Mathew’s hands, so precariously
held, swiped against Hall’s arm, slicing through the cloth of his shirt to graze along the skin of his shoulder.

Only a scratch and yet it took him to his knees as the pain of a thousand fires consumed his shoulder and a great roaring filled his ears.

Only a scratch.

Unable to believe his own eyes, Hall looked up from the thin red line of the wound to the boy.

Mathew clasped the sword to his chest and clamped one hand over his ears, a look of horror distorting his features. When the boy turned to run, Hall realized the world around him had slowed, stretching out, as if time itself had turned to deep water.

“Not so brave now, are you, big man?”

Hall swung his head back around to find the last of Torquil’s men walking toward him.

“You should have left when we warned you. But, no, you had to involve yerself where you had no business being. And now what do you have to show for yer mischief, eh?”

Like the rest of his body, Hall’s lips refused to work. He could produce no sound other than a weak grunt.

“I’ll tell you what you’ve got. You’ve got yerself killed, that’s what. Perhaps in yer next life, you’ll have learned to mind yer own business and do as yer told.”

Unable to move, Hall prepared himself for what
was to come as the warrior drew back his sword, waiting for the sound of metal striking bone to send him to his reward in Valhalla.

Instead, a whining
zing
filled his ears, like some giant summer midge headed in his direction. When he managed to lift his gaze, his attacker teetered over him, eyes vacant. A single trail of blood trickled down between his eyes from a spot on his forehead where a large metal point protruded.

The lifeless body toppled over backward, leaving Hall a clear view of the trail beyond. What he saw set his heart wildly pounding.

The beautiful Valkyrie charging toward him could mean only one of two things: Either the sword that struck him had been tipped with poison and he was hallucinating or, more likely, he was already dead and the Valkyrie rode to carry him to his just reward in Valhalla.

B
OLLOCKS
!”

Brie had spent the better part of the last week fantasizing about how events might play out when she finally caught up with Halldor O’Donar.

This
little scene had been nowhere in any of those fantasies. Halldor on his knees like some helpless puppy, waiting for that great grinning bastard who loomed over him to lop his head off.

Not on her watch.

She and her bow had made easy enough work of that one. But Halldor remained on his knees, slumped to the ground.

No, no, no!
If he thought he could simply up and die on her, after she’d gone to all this trouble to find him, he’d better just think again. She was having none of that.

Brie jumped from her horse the instant she reached him and shoved the body of the man she’d shot to one side before she kneeled to capture Halldor’s cheeks in her hands.

“O’Donar? Can you hear me?”

He blinked repeatedly, as if trying to focus his vision, and grunted something she couldn’t understand.

“Where are you wounded?” she demanded, running her hands over his broad chest and down his arms.

From the looks of his condition, she didn’t have time for a guessing game, but the only thing she could find was one small scratch high on his arm where his tunic had been sliced open.

“Answer me, O’Donar! What have they done to you? Where are you hurt?”

No blood on his clothing, no blood on the ground. Well, none of
his
blood on the ground, though she couldn’t say as much for his opponents.

She grabbed his shoulders and shook until he swung his head back and forth, yet still his eyes continued their slow, confused blinking.

“Not Valkyrie,” he slurred, his voice sounding raw.

“Valkyrie? Me?” She shook her head, capturing his face with her hands again cupping his cheeks. “Hardly. It’s naught but Brie MacCulloch who sits before you now. Have you forgotten?”

What in the name of the Seven had those bastards done to him? Her great, strong warrior, reduced to a grunting half-wit.

“No,” he whispered, closing his eyes. “Not Brie.”

Whether he rejected the idea of her coming to his
aid or simply didn’t recognize her, she couldn’t say. She almost hoped it was the latter.

“Look at me,” she ordered, giving him another gentle shake. “Do you no ken who I am? Surely you canna have forgotten Bridget MacCulloch so soon.”

This time when his eyes opened, recognition shone in them. “A brainless question, that,” he muttered on a deep sigh. “Help me to my feet.”

He laid an arm over her shoulder and she struggled to help him stand. How could she have forgotten what a big man he was? She towered over most men, yet next to this one, she felt almost dainty.

Together, they managed to get to a large tree where he leaned against the trunk, breathing heavily as if he’d run a great distance.

She was more than a little winded herself.

“What’s happened to you, to leave you so weak? I canna find a wound of any consequence upon yer body.”

“It’s of no matter,” he responded, scanning the area around them. “Did you see which way the lads went?”

“Lads? I saw none but the men on the ground as I approached. Them and that grinning fool who thought to take yer head.”

“Ah, yes.” He glanced toward the fallen warrior as something of a smile curved his lips. “Then it would be your arrow that brought him down. It would seem that I am in your debt, my lady.”

Staring at him, she realized with a shock that his beard was gone, his face clean-shaven and ruddy with cold. And that smile! With no whiskers to conceal it, the expression transformed him in a way that made her breath catch oddly in her chest.

“You owe me nothing,” she managed at last, clearing her throat to cover her confusion while she looked away to gather her wits. “Consider it my payment for yer help at Tordenet. We’re even now.”

He grunted and she glanced back up at him, to find him trying to push away from the tree.

“Stay where you are for a bit. Get yer legs well under you. And while yer about it, perhaps you can answer my questions. What lads were you speaking of, and what has happened to you?”