Dragon Knight's Axe (22 page)

“They should have stayed away. They were cursed! Now, they sit on their mighty thrones.” He grabbed her arm where she was holding the blade, his fingers biting into her gown. “For all I ken, they have killed Adam, and I shall do the same with Alastair. Aye, his death will come slowly.”

When he rubbed his face over hers, Fiona’s stomach lurched. His mouth covered hers. It was an invasion she was unprepared for, and she tried to twist free. When he drove his tongue inside, she bit down.

He quickly released her, howling in pain. “Bloody hell, ye bitch!”

Shaking, she took a few steps backwards. “Don’t you dare touch me again.”

“No woman tells me what to do,” he snarled, stalking over to her. He slapped her so hard she fell back against the table. Instantly, he was on her ripping at her gown. The hilt of the blade dug into her palm, but she couldn’t move under his weight. She was absolutely helpless.

“Ye sent for me,” said a man standing at the doorway.

“Leave us,” rasped Michael.

“I did not realize rape was one of your pleasures,
Brother
.”

Fiona could see the other man glaring at Michael, his arms crossed over his chest. Shoving himself off her, he walked over to the man. Seizing the opportunity, she quickly scrambled away from the table and pulled her torn gown up over her shoulders.

“I am your
laird
and ’tis my right. Ye have forgotten your place, Patrick.”

Patrick frowned and waved a hand about. “This is not ye,
my laird
. Do ye want war with the MacKay?”

“We are at war!” he roared.

Patrick stormed over to the table, grabbing the axe. “For this? Do ye honor the old ways, Michael? If so, ye will have incurred the wrath of the Fae. If not, what the bloody hell is happening to ye?”

Michael grasped his head as if in pain. “Nae, too many voices.” He stumbled toward the table and poured more wine into his mug.

Fiona stared at him.
He’s mad.

“Take her to the dungeon,” he ordered, his sight never leaving the contents of his mug.

Fiona flinched when Patrick took her arm. Yet, for a brief moment, she thought he gave her a small smile. Hope flared inside of her as he led her out of the chamber.

“Have someone bring the laird food and more wine,” demanded Patrick to the man outside.

As they made their way through the passageway, Patrick took a quick glance over his shoulder and ducked into a small alcove. Fear seized her again, and Fiona was about ready to shove the blade anywhere in him when he placed a finger to her lips.

“No harm will befall ye, lass. I give ye my word.”

Tears threatened to spill forth from relief, but she held them back. “Thank you.” She could only glimpse a shadow of his face from the flickering torches.

“What is your name?” he asked quietly.

“Fiona. Fiona O’Quinlan. Are you taking me to the dungeon?”

“Aye, I fear I must.”

She swallowed. “Then take me to Alastair.”

As he took her arm, she watched as he looked out of the alcove and then ducked his head back in. “For now, Fiona, tuck your
sgian dubh
away.”

Her eyes went wide in shock. “You knew?”

“I noticed it back in my brother’s chambers. Ye were fortunate he did not see it, for he would have killed ye.”

She only nodded.

He looked out again and then proceeded to the dungeon. There were far too many steps and passageways for Fiona to try to remember the direction he led in case they had any hope of escaping.

She stumbled once again, and Patrick gently helped her to her feet. “We are almost there.”

As they descended, Fiona’s thoughts were now of Alastair. Pushing aside the dark, dank atmosphere of the dungeon, she noticed a large iron door.

Patrick held out his hand to the guard for the keys. “She will be staying with the MacKay. Go fetch some water and bread.”

Fiona noticed the guard hesitate, but then he grunted a response and left.

Once inside, she had to fight the fear of being in almost complete darkness. “Alastair?”

“Fiona?” he rasped out.

Hearing movement to the right, she reached out and immediately was drawn into his massive arms. Feeling the tears finally slip down her cheek, she clung to him gently, not knowing the full extent of his injuries.

“Are ye…did he hurt ye?” His voice soft against her hair.

“No,” she choked out.

“I interrupted his intentions,” interrupted Patrick, stepping forward with a torch. “Good God, MacKay.”

Fiona looked up at Alastair. His face was mottled with bruises and blood caked his flesh. One eye remained swollen shut and the other partially open. “Do you have any healing herbs, Patrick?”

“Aye. I will return with the healer, too.”

“Dinnae worry. I heal quickly, though the broken ribs will take longer.”

Patrick glanced over his shoulder before turning back again. “For the moment, ye must remain here in the dungeon. But I swear I will find a way to free ye both. Michael is not himself these days.”

Alastair frowned, and she saw him grimace from the effort. “Why are ye helping, MacFhearguis? Is this a trick?”

“I do not have much time, the guard is approaching. When I come to fetch ye, we must leave quickly. I will explain all in time.” Patrick took a step closer. “Alex and I are working with your brothers to stop this evil that has spread across our lands. That is all I can say for now.” He took a step back outside the cell.

“Here is some bread and water. I shall return when I can.”

The door closed with a loud clang, and Fiona gave a shudder. “He is our only hope at the moment, Alastair. Strange, don’t you think?”

“Aye,
leannan
. A MacFhearguis helping a MacKay? Against his laird?” He sighed deeply, “I would verra much like to hear what has been happening since my absence.”

Chapter Twenty-Nine

“Sometimes a storm can be started with a simple thought.”

Four days passed without any sign of Patrick, and Fiona could sense the unease flowing from Alastair. Like her, he did not appreciate their situation. At least they were given some bread, hard cheese, and stale water. The place reeked of urine and other bodily fluids, but what bothered her most were the critters scampering past them. She would drift in and out of sleep only to be awakened by one of them brushing against her legs. After crying out several times, Alastair propped her legs on his lap.

“Tell me about the chess pieces you were working on?” urged Fiona, as she curled up tighter against Alastair trying to stay warm.

He rubbed a hand down her arm, but remained quiet for a moment before answering. “I enjoy the game and carving relaxes my mind. The pieces are in memory of my sister, for she loved the game as well. I ken ye have seen the dragon pieces. They represent the king and queen and are set with amber. The others are of various gods and heroes.”

“Is it almost completed?”

“One more dragon to finish the set.”

“I would enjoy playing a game with you when you’re done.”

He chuckled softly. “So ye can play?”

“Of course. I was taught the game at a young age.”

“Are ye challenging me, Fiona O’Quinlan?”

“I do love a good game of chess with a worthy opponent.”

“And what would ye wager,
leannan
?”

Now it was her turn to laugh. “Anything you want, Alastair.”

“Och, Fiona, how ye tease me. When we are free from this hell, I fear I cannae wait for a chess game to take ye.”

The words were on the tip of her tongue, but her fear kept them lodged in her throat.
If only you knew how much I love you, Alastair MacKay. You already have my heart.
In the end all she could say was, “And I you.”

He shifted slightly. “A mighty adventure for ye, aye?”

“Don’t you mean
crazy
adventure?” She snorted. Then her voice took on an edge of concern. “What do you think Patrick meant by the evil on your lands?”

She could feel him shrug. “’Tis possible that the night Margaret died, the wounds from the battle could have spread across the land wreaking havoc and chaos.”

“Kevan said that you were all cursed. However, Duncan and Stephen have walked the path of redemption.”

“There should be no salvation for what we have done,” he uttered harshly.

She placed her hand against his cheek. “Yet, the truth is they have, Alastair.”

He briefly kissed her palm and then stood. “I cannot claim that, Fiona. I betrayed her. I betrayed them both. She would still be alive had I not gone to Angus. Did ye ken that she trusted me with her secret?”

“Secret?”

His laugh was one of bitterness. “Meggie told me of her love for Adam MacFhearguis when I came upon them one morning. I almost put my axe into him.”

“Oh my God! Now I remember.”

“What is that?”

“For the longest time, I couldn’t place the name of MacFhearguis. Not until you said Adam’s name, and I recalled the story Rory told me.”

“Ye would have to mention the Fenian warrior,” he snarled.

“Forget about him. You were saying Marg…
Meggie
shared her secret.”

“Aye,” he said in a weary tone. “She told me many moons before. We had been verra close and shared a great deal. Yet, I would not listen to her pleas to keep silent. I could no longer keep her secret, and I sought out Angus.”

“And all hell broke loose,” interjected Fiona.

“True. He locked her in her room for days until she promised she would no longer see Adam. She lied to Angus, and she never spoke to me again.” He slammed a fist against the stone.

Fiona went over to him and put her arms around his waist, laying her head against his back.

“I broke her trust and by doing so forced her to take action by fleeing with Adam. When Hamish came forth telling us of her leaving with him, Duncan was the first to take up a sword and leave. We were all angry that night, fueled by the thought of her with the enemy.”

“It was Duncan’s sword, right?” she asked softly.

“Aye. She reached out toward me, fearing I had been injured.” He turned around, cupping her face. “My brothers may have found their peace, but I will never seek mine.”

“You must forgive yourself.”

He shook his head. “Never. The one person I would ask forgiveness from is dead.”

Fiona jumped at the sound of a key in the door lock. Saying a silent prayer it was Patrick, she started to move forward only to have Alastair push her behind him. Light flooded the room from the torch, and they both shielded their eyes.

“Ye, MacKay, out,” snapped the guard.

“I will not leave her,” stated Alastair.

The guard snickered. “The laird thought ye might say something foolish. He told me if ye do not obey, I am to take the woman to him for his pleasure.”

Noticing Alastair’s fists, she placed her hand over his clenched fingers. “I will be fine. Go.”

Half-turning, he placed a kiss along her brow. “Ye have what ye need?”

“Safely tucked away,” she whispered, understanding that he meant her
sgian dubh
.

Alastair took a few steps forward, hesitated briefly, and then strode back to her. Grasping her head, he kissed her fully. Releasing her, he walked out, and the iron door closed loudly.

Her hand shook as she brought it to her lips. “I love you, Alastair MacKay.”

****

No sooner had he exited the dungeon than two guards came forward and bound his hands together. By the Gods, he wished he could use his power to shake the ground. Yet, if he did, the stones would collapse on them, crushing Fiona deep within the dungeon.

When they arrived at Michael’s chamber, the guards shoved him inside, slamming the door shut. Michael stood facing the window. Alastair quickly scanned the area, noticing his axe on the table. If he moved fast…

“Tempting, is it not?” asked Michael, turning around.

“What do ye want, MacFhearguis?”

He cocked his head to the side as if listening to someone or something. “Your head. Nae, your blood.” He shrugged indifference. “I will be happy with your power. Can ye give that to me?”

“It is not something I can grant.”

Michael gazed past him. “If I bleed ye, will the power pass into me?”

The man is insane
, thought Alastair.

“No answer? Hmmm…for one who used to boast of his looks, ye are now a wretched sight. Wine?” He proceeded to walk over to the table and pour some into two mugs. “Or is it mead ye prefer?”

“Neither,” he clipped out.

“Pity, ’tis fine wine, indeed.” Pointing the mug at him, he added, “Where did ye get the scar? I would verra much like to cheer the man responsible for altering your looks.”

Alastair fought the urge to rip the man’s tongue out of his head. “Unless ye care to visit him in hell, which I can arrange, ’tis best to hold onto those praises.”

He watched as his unwanted host drained the mug and refilled it again. Casually placing his hand over the axe, Michael lifted the weapon. “The Fae have crafted a stunning piece. I can almost imagine the power when I hold it in my hand. What does it feel like? This power?”

How could he reason with a man who was mad? And where was Patrick?

Slowly, Michael walked over to him. “Ye have not answered my questions, and they grow tired of your unwillingness to cooperate.”

“
They
?” questioned Alastair.

Michael ignored his question, twirling the axe, and Alastair feared that reasoning with the man would only provoke him. This was not the MacFhearguis he knew, for his mind was surely twisted.

Dropping the axe on the table, the laird walked back over to the window. “I take it by your silence that ye will not make known your power?”

Alastair shifted his stance, praying for some resolution out of the madness. “My powers cannot be given. ’Tis my heritage.” He nodded toward the axe. “Ye may possess the axe, but ye will not have the power to wield it.”

Michael whirled around, pointing a finger at him. “The dark one will bleed it out of ye. Guard!”

The guard entered, his hand resting on his sword.

“Take him to the lists and strip his shirt off. Bind him to the post. I shall be there shortly.”