Dragon Knight's Axe (6 page)

Chapter Seven

“Once upon a time, a Knight took chains and encased his heart within the steel forever sealing out any hope for love.”

The clouds loomed dark in the distance, but Alastair had no fear. They would reach their destination by evening. Following the northern coastline, their vessel moved swiftly through the water with help from a light breeze.

Taking a quick glance over his shoulder, he saw the grim looks on his men. Each had taken a beating from yesterday’s lesson in the lists, and it showed on their faces. Even his face bore the bruising left there by Ivar. They would all be happy with a few days of rest, drinking, and wenching.

“Dunnyneill,” stated Gunnar, nodding toward the island.

“Aye,” he muttered. It was not his first choice. In truth, Alastair despised the trading port. They specialized in slavery—something he was firmly against. He would barter for any goods, but not for a life.

Jumping down, he motioned to Steiner. “Bring us around.”

Steiner gave a quick nod to the others, and the men shifted their oars effortlessly—a smooth, steady motion.

Alastair rubbed a hand across his face, watching as the coastline drew closer. Always alert, he scanned the coast and along the inland. Trouble was always brewing in these parts.

He waved his hand outwards. “Take her to the northern end of the island.”

Gunnar wandered nearby. “I see the Norman is here.”

“Aye, I noticed. He can trade his weak brandy. We have far better to trade in whisky, rum, and mead.”

“And wool,” snorted Gunnar.

Alastair glanced sideways at him. “He does not want our wool. He barters for slaves.”

Gunnar spat out into the sea, giving a disgusted look as they passed the Norman’s ship.

Realizing Gunnar’s ancestors once kept slaves, Alastair was relieved his crew held contempt for those who bartered for them. It was one of the reasons he chose this group of men—that and their fighting ability.

Slowing their pace, they drifted past larger ships anchored along the coast. They were fortunate their ship was small enough to travel up and along the entrance to the island. This would give them the advantage of offloading their goods on the dock. The other ships had to do so onto smaller vessels and then transport them to the island.

Already the sounds of revelry echoed back to them. Teasing and taunting them. His men responded with raucous laughter and shouts.

“Give me
two
women, and I’ll show you how to service them,” shouted Alrek.

“Aye!” yelled the others.

“I will take three!” boasted another.

And so it went, each besting the other in their prowess of endurance. By the time they made it to the dock, several had taken to betting on who could last all night.

Alastair rolled his eyes as he jumped off the ship. “Gunnar, check in with the harbor master.” Tossing him a small bag of coins, he added, “Inquire about the recent trading and any further information we seek.”

Gunnar nodded once.

“And Gunnar…find out what the Norman is actually trading.”

He gave Alastair a smirk, understanding his meaning.

Alastair would avoid the man, but first, he required the knowledge of why he had returned so soon. He long suspected he was a spy, trading with you one moment, and then placing a knife in your back the next. Was it for his king? Alastair wished no conflict with
any
king. He despised them all, save one—King William.

His thoughts drifted back to those of his homeland.

Scotland. Urquhart. His brothers
.

For a brief moment, he let himself reflect before he shook his head, shutting out those memories and burying them behind a steel door within his mind and heart.

He blew out a soft curse and turned to help his men off load some of their goods. Several barrels of mead were set aside to barter with the local innkeeper who always delivered a promise of good food and a warm bed—preferably one with a woman in it.

Yet, first, business needed to be conducted. Pleasure for him would have to wait until tomorrow.

“Hand me my bag, Steiner. Those who are not on the first watch may take their leave.”

“Where can we find you?” asked Ivar.

“Where else…the house of the Kelly. We have a chess game to finish.”

All the men let out a groan.

Ivar slapped him hard across the back as he passed by. “Stay away from the mead, MacKay.”

“Drink only ale,” shouted another.

“Piss off,” Alastair growled, “or I will be forced to teach ye another lesson.”

He continued to walk down the plank, hesitating briefly before he stepped onto land. Clenching his jaw, he quickly made his way through the crowds. A group was gathered on the right, bartering for slaves. He hissed out a curse as he passed. People scattered as he stormed down the pathway. With his height and scar, they feared him. As it should be, he thought. Once, someone had called him a demon. Alastair had thanked the man and then broke his nose.

The pathway narrowed, bending upward and away from the main part of the town. Those who remained on the island built small cottages nestled among trees over the hill. One side of the island was used for trade, the other to live, which boasted a view of the mainland away from the sea.

When Alastair finally made his way to the top, he halted. Sunlight and warm breezes cleared the stench of the harbor clinging to him. He welcomed it, although briefly. Scanning the area, he spotted Joseph Kelly standing at the entrance of his cottage. Word traveled fast of his arrival here on the island.

Striding forward, he greeted Joseph. “So which of your spies declared our arrival?”

Joseph smiled broadly, displaying a mouth with few teeth. “Och, I have nae spies.”

“Might he be the young lad up on the hill?” Alastair jerked his head in the boy’s direction.

Joseph gave a full belly laugh, smacking Alastair hard across the back. “Ye always did ken my spies, MacKay. That be the lad, Jamie.”

“Humph!” grumbled Alastair.

“Are ye ready to finish our game and lose?” His host turned to enter the cottage.

“Ye are mighty sure of yourself, Kelly,” responded Alastair, stepping in behind him. Dropping his bag, he went to sit at the table where the chess game was set up exactly as it had been when he left several moons ago. He rubbed his jaw and peered closely at the table.

“Ye wound me, MacKay. Do ye think I would cheat?”

“Aye,” smirked Alastair.

“And coming from the mouth of a smuggler.”

“Now ye wound me. We are
traders.
”

Joseph grumbled something under his breath and placed a mug in front of Alastair. “And here I am giving ye my best mead.”

Remembering the words of his men, Alastair laughed. Taking a sip, he held the mug upwards. “’Tis a fine one, indeed.” Wiping the back of his mouth with his hand, he motioned for Joseph to take his place.

“Anxious to lose, are ye?”

“I will not go down without a fight, old man.”

They sat in respective silence for the next few hours, each focused on the game. When only a few pieces remained on the board, Alastair spoke. “What have your spies told ye about the Norman?”

Joseph rubbed at his chin. “Are ye trying to disturb my thoughts with mention of that scum?”

“As I can see, ye have only a few more moves before I take your king.”

“Always so sure of yourself, MacKay.” Joseph stood and walked over to a table, bringing back a pitcher to refill their mugs. “I will take your queen now.”

“She is no longer important to me.” Alastair chuckled. “I told ye I would win this one when I left moons ago.”

“Ye have not won, yet,” snapped Joseph.

Alastair made his move, and then reached for his mug. He realized he had to be patient for any knowledge he could glean from Joseph. It was always thus with the old man.

Moments passed before Joseph made his move. He scowled when Alastair quickly maneuvered his rook into a killing position to capture Joseph’s king.

Joseph tipped his king over in surrender. “Ye may have won this time, but I reckon it will be the last. Let me see the pieces ye are working on.”

Alastair went to retrieve his sack. Removing a black velvet bag, he drew forth a few chess pieces.

Joseph held them up to the light, running his gnarled fingers over the carvings. “And the queen?”

“She still has work to be done,” he said, handing it to him.

“Ahh…a dragon—a beauty, she is. Is this where ye will place the amber?”

“Aye.” Alastair sat back and watched as Joseph inspected his work. There were only a few who knew of his carvings.

He handed the piece back to Alastair. “The scum is a double spy. Some say he’s working with John de Courcy.”

“Why would FitzGodebert be in league with de Courcy? He was banished and living on the Isle of Man.”

“Ye are not thinking clearly, MacKay. John de Courcy is planning an invasion to oust Hugh de Lacy. He wants his land and castles back.”

Alastair folded his arms across his chest. “And who would be brave enough to assist him?”

“Norse soldiers from the Isle of Man. Ye forget he is married to the daughter of King Godred.”

“Lugh’s balls! War…again.” He drained his mug and set it back down. “How soon?”

Joseph shrugged. “Cannot say. The seas will be brutal, though.”

“Again!” barked Alastair. He rubbed the back of his neck in frustration. He and his men had managed to steer away from the violent attacks over disputed lands. Over time, the Normans conquered many of the kings of Ireland. With another attack coming from the Isle of Man, it would land them in the middle of a battle they wanted no part of.

He hated the Normans almost as much as he hated the English.

The mead soured in his gut.

“Some turnip stew?” asked Joseph.

Alastair snapped out of his thoughts. “Nae, more mead.”

Chapter Eight

“Beware the shimmer of the stones, for only those prepared will travel between the worlds.”

He couldn’t do this! It wasn’t fair! All my hard work for nothing?

“Idiots,” Fiona hissed. She was not prone to violence, but after the news from the professor, she wanted to rake someone’s eyes out.

Josh, her supposed co-worker and friend—well somewhat friend, had taken her reports and claimed them as his own. He also stated she was not pulling her weight. His claim was her only contribution was the Gaelic, which anyone could have deciphered.

She shoved a fist into the air toward the professor’s office. “I’ll show you. Just wait until I find more information on this Dragon Knight. And Josh Matthews, you can go straight to hell!”

Storming down the walkway, Fiona collided with Rory as he turned the corner of the building. She literally bounced off the man as if he was made of stone.

Rory grasped both of her arms to keep her from falling backwards. “In a hurry, Fiona?”

She couldn’t even look at him. “Let me go.” Her voice came out in a strangled shriek.

Instead of releasing her, he tipped her face up to meet his. “What’s wrong?”

Her anger came out in a rush of words. “I’ve just been told I am no longer the lead on
my
project—one
I
started. It seems someone else has taken over
my
notes and claimed them as
his
! My work! My time! My translation!” She wrenched free, flinging her hands out. “Poof! Gone!”

Rory folded his arms across his chest. “Who?”

Fiona looked away, tapping her foot in anger.

“I can always go ask the professor.”

She snapped her head around and glared at him. “No, you won’t.”

He arched a brow in response.

“Josh Matthews,” she snapped.

“Dung beetle!”

Fiona eyes went wide, and then she burst out laughing.

Rory stood silent as her wave of hysteria passed.

Wiping a lone tear, which had escaped, she leaned against the wall. “That was a good one. Thanks, Rory.”

He shrugged. “It’s the truth. What are your plans now?”

She closed her eyes and sighed. “Don’t really know. Part of me wants to finish it on my own. I still have my original notes. All I wanted to do was research this Dragon Knight.”

“What about the rest of the week at the dig?”

Fiona blinked in surprise. “Can I…do you mean?” she stammered.

“Of course, Fiona. That has not changed. Besides, I am in charge, remember?”

“Thanks, Rory. I really appreciate it.”

“No problem. If you agree to stay on, I might share
one
of the stories about the Dragon Knights.”

She narrowed her eyes at him. “
Knights
? The tablet only mentions one.”

Rory picked up her backpack from the ground, handing it to her. “It’s just one of several tales, and the one I know best.”

Fiona watched as he walked away, completely forgetting about her recent meeting with the professor. Hadn’t she already asked him about the Dragon Knight? Yes!
So, what other secrets are you keeping, Rory MacGregor?

“Ummm…wait up, Rory,” she called out, running after him.

****

The heat from the summer sun blazed down on Fiona’s back. She swatted at a fly, brushing away dirt and weeds from a protruding piece of metal. Having no idea if it was ancient or just present day scrap, she treated it with respect. Laying down her tools, Fiona tried to budge it gently to see if she could pry it loose. Getting no results, she resumed her task.

Rory promised her a story
after
she worked on her site. At first, she grumbled, calling him names in Latin she didn’t think he would understand. She should have known better, for he translated their meaning, causing her to immediately clamp her mouth shut and heat to rush to her face.

Sitting in the dirt digging gave Fiona time to think. Why did she care so much about this tablet? It was no different from the rest of her work. Or was it?

Monsters, dragons, and a knight. What did it mean? A story told by a bard?
“My ancestors were famous for their storytelling,” she chuckled, wiping away bits of rock.

A shadow loomed over her, and she quickly looked up. Rory had a frown across his face. “What?” Glancing back down at her hands, she thought perhaps she had done something wrong. “Did I use the wrong tool?”