Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (11 page)

Macrath smiled and tore into the bread. Perhaps it was a good thing they’d chosen the goose after all, for it showed just how little he and Ceana could trust them, and just how much they’d been saved by such a valiant animal.

He needed to have words with Cook. Either she was a traitor, or she had a snake in her midst. An investigation needed to be launched immediately into who helped poison the goose, or lace its meat with poison. They could not eat another meal until they knew.

When the repast was complete, Macrath pushed back his chair and held out his hand to Ceana. Beatrice and her flock sputtered.

“Where are you going? We’ve not yet discussed your plans for the future.”

Macrath grinned, knowing that his pleasantness would only infuriate them more. “The princess and I have not yet had a chance to discuss amongst ourselves exactly what our plan for our land is. ’Twould be unfair of us to waste your time without coming to the map room with a thorough strategy.”

“But we are your council, we can help you,” Leonard whined.

Macrath smiled indulgently. “As our council, it is your position to advise us. But that is where your duty ends. We must decide for ourselves. We will find you if we need you. But for now, you are dismissed.”

“We bid you good night,” Ceana added.

Macrath took her cue and led her to the door, nodding to his guards to follow them out. But he couldn’t resist one last barb.

“I’d not yet had goose since arriving. My guess is Cook isn’t preparing it well since none of you ate it. ’Haps we can strike it from the menu?”

He watched all of their mouths fall open except Beatrice. She only grinned back—an evil smile that sent a shiver of dread up his spine.

Once he was beyond the door, and six paces down the corridor, the sound of Beatrice’s bellow, followed by the outraged shouts of her men as they argued in the map room, brought a very pleased smile to his lips.

“We have won that game, I’d say.” Macrath gently squeezed Ceana’s fingers.

“Aye, but did you see it going any other way? We do not know how to lose.”

Chapter Twelve

’TWAS dark.

Cold. Mist surrounded Ceana. Dressed only in her nightrail, she shivered. Her feet were bare, sinking into the marshy ground. Why was she outside?

From somewhere far off she could hear shouts and screams. People were terrified. People were getting hurt.

“Where am I?” Her voice sounded frightened and far away. “Macrath?”

But there was no answer.

She took tentative steps forward, her toes squishing in the earth. Hands outstretched, she parted the mist like a curtain as she continued to go forward.

Why
was she outside?

A swift wind blew up the back of her nightrail, chilling her to the bone. But even a gust as harsh as that did not make the mist vanish. Nor give her the answers she sought.

“Macrath!” she called again. “Where are you?”

But once more, there was no answer.

Had something happened to him? Had they been attacked in their beds? Had the council indeed managed to poison their supper and then come into their rooms, disrobed them and tossed them outside?

She wouldn’t put it past the churlish bunch.

But what were the sounds? The sounds of men and women fighting.

Why were they fighting?

Was Sìtheil under attack, too?

Ceana stopped and patted herself, seeking the knife she kept strapped to her leg. But it was gone. Just her bare thigh.

And she was so cold.

She rubbed her arms. The only way to get warm was to keep moving. To get back to the castle.

Even if they were under attack. She had to get a weapon. Had to help.

Ceana listened for the sounds of the screams. They were in front of her. She started to run, keeping her hands outstretched for protection. But when she’d gone several dozen paces, it sounded as though the screams and voices were coming from behind.

Without thinking she ran back toward the direction she’d come.

Then the voices were to her right. To her left. In front. Behind.

She was running in circles and the fog that shrouded the entire moors had not lifted. A misty darkness consumed her on all sides. Tears filled her eyes.

“Macrath!” she bellowed. “Help!”

She needed him. Gods, but she needed him.

Ceana whirled in a circle. The shouts and screams were practically on top of her now. She pressed her hands to her temple.

“Stop,” she whispered, shaking her head.

What kind of hell had they put her in? What kind of poison had been in her food?

Her hands dropped to her sides. That was it, wasn’t it? She’d been poisoned. She was dead.

This was a purgatory of her own making. Dark. Misty. Surrounded by the sounds of death and pain. She was reliving the games, only now she had no way to help anyone, nor a way to save herself. They’d taken her sight.

All at once, the mist cleared, though the darkness lurked. In the sky, the moon was bright and silver and bigger than she’d ever seen it. She reached up, feeling like she was almost close enough to touch it.

Its light shone on the fields around her.

Her mouth fell open in a silent, horrified scream.

Bodies.

A lot of bodies.

They surrounded her. Women. Men. Lads and lasses. Horses. Wolves. All dead. She could not move or she’d step on one of them. The grass had been removed and replaced with a carpet of the slain.

Ceana’s lip trembled. A feral-sounding moan escaped her. Her knees shook, knocking hard into each other. She swayed on her feet, stepping backward, her heel crunching against cold, lifeless fingers. She leapt forward, silent screams burning her throat.

How was she going to escape this place?

What happened? How had she slept through the massacre of her people?

“Macrath,” she whimpered.

Was he dead, too?

“
Mo chreach
,” she mumbled as she carefully tiptoed on the thin spaces she could find between limbs. “Have mercy on me.”

Tears blurred her vision. Bile rose in her throat. She stopped, hands to her knees, breathing hard. The stench was overpowering, as though the bodies had been dead for days, weeks, and ripened in the summer sun.

There was no help for it, the contents of her belly rushed up and spewed out. She wretched, over and over. She purged so hard the muscles of her back, chest and belly burned from the exertion.

“Do not look down,” she said to herself. “Do not look down.”

Ceana forced herself to stand. Forced herself to keep her eyes ahead as she stepped forward, her feet mostly finding ground to tread upon. When she did happen to step on a hand, thigh or belly, she pretended otherwise, but she couldn’t look down.

Couldn’t look down to see who these people were. Couldn’t look down to see if she knew them.

It seemed as though the gods themselves had descended and taken the matter of Sìtheil into their own hands. They were not happy. They were not pleased with her and Macrath’s rule.

But she and he had tried. They’d worked so hard to free the people. To bring justice to the victims. But they could have done more if given the chance.

Now that chance had been taken away.

A loud sob echoed in the midnight air. She whirled to see where the sound had come from, only to realize it had been from herself.

That was not what she needed. Hot tears rolled down her cheeks, where they froze, forming a slick, stinging, icy path on her skin.

“Ceana…”

She stilled, hearing her name on the wind. Was it her husband?

“Macrath!” she called. But she could see nothing beyond the bodies, and the mist was starting to roll back in again, covering the deceased in a shroud of sadness.

“Ceana…” There it was again.

She was certain it was him. But his voice was so far away.

“Where are you?” she called out.

“Come back to me,” he was saying. “Come back, Ceana.”

But where was he? And why would he think that she’d left him?

“Macrath, I am here!” she called.

Drumbeats began. They rolled in with the mist, so close they made her bones pulse and the ground tremble beneath her feet. Slow. The deathly rhythms beat in time with her heart.

Bump-bump. Bump-bump. Bump-bump
.

Ceana swiped angrily at the tears on her face, feeling the pain as the frozen tracks cut into her skin. The drumbeats grew louder. Close enough she thought she could just reach out to touch a drummer.

And she did reach out, expecting to press her hand against a man’s arm or back, but all she felt was a cold wind.

Her hands quavered, but she’d managed to gain control of her knocking knees. She had to keep pressing forward. To stay was to prove she was a coward.

“I am coming,” she said, not certain if Macrath heard her, or if her mind had made up the sound of his calls.

Marching forward, she was surprised when her feet no longer landed on the departed, but instead on slick grass.

The mist cleared once more, the moon as big as a fortress just over her head shining its blinding light down on her feet.

Her feet were covered in blood. The bodies no longer shielded the ground, but instead their life’s essences soaked into the grass.

A shuddering breath left her. What magic was this?

Were the gods playing tricks on her?

A weight settled on her shoulders, her chest. She gasped over and over, trying to inhale without success. Just like it had been in the woods. She felt like she was going to drown on earth. Like the air had been taken and there was nothing left to breathe.

Hands pressed to her throat, squeezing.

They were hers.

She was choking herself.

Ceana dropped down to her knees, her white nightrail soaking up the red of the blood. Slowly it rose, climbing up the fabric until it reached her breasts. She clawed at her gown, ripping it from her body and not caring that she was naked in the bloody field.

She had to get away from here.

“Help me!” she cried out.

Terror filled her. She was dead. Doomed to live an eternity in this night terror of the dead, blood, and phantom calls. All alone.

Night terror
…

“Please, gods, let this be a night terror.” She pushed to her feet and started to run, slipping in the cold, slick blood, and then catching her balance and running again.

“Wake up!” she shouted to herself. She pinched her arms. Slapped her face.

The call echoed in her mind, sounding like it was coming from above, and then she bounced off an invisible force, falling backward. But she didn’t hit the ground. She just kept falling.

Back and back and back, through a whirling darkness that made her dizzy and sick and she wretched as she fell. Tumbling in summersaults.

Thud
. She hit the ground with a resounding smack that echoed. The darkness lifted, replaced by fire, burning bright all around her.

People ran this way and that. Women screamed. Men battled. Horses clawed the air.

A wolf approached, stopping just above her. It growled down at her, its saliva dripping in long webbed streams from its jowls. Teeth bared, there was still some blood on its fangs from its last victim.

Her breath caught. She couldn’t scream. Couldn’t move. Her legs were numb. Heavy. Pinned to the ground.

Her worst nightmare. A beast just like this one had killed her father. Had tried to kill her in the forest before Macrath saved her.

But Macrath was not here now. And chaos reigned all around her. No one would come to her aid. The wolf’s face dipped closer, warm spittle hitting her cheek. It licked its bared teeth and growled again, almost as if to say,
you’re dead
.

Ceana didn’t want to die. Not yet. She still had so much to live for. A loving husband. Loyal people. A castle to defend. A council to defeat. Her people back in MacRae country to protect.

To die now without having accomplished anything would mean that joining the games was all in vain, for she’d done nothing with it. Winning had meant nothing, for now she’d simply die like the rest of the entrants. She’d join the field of bodies. Those who lived would mourn her for a time, but they’d soon forget, or simply move on, and all she’d be was bones and dust in a mass grave.

Ceana thrust her hand up, gripped the animal’s neck.

’Twas warm. Thick and furry. Strong.

The wolf growled louder, shook its head to rid itself of her grip, but she pressed harder. Grabbed hold with her other hand.

No one would come to her rescue. She had to find the strength to be her own champion now. She had to save herself if she wanted to move forward and live.

With every last ounce of strength she had, she squeezed the wolf’s neck, finding the delicate cartilage. The wolf did not appear fazed, but that didn’t stop her. It snapped its teeth, moved its paws onto her chest, pressing her down. Claws digging into her breasts. Her arms had to stretch to keep her hold on its neck, but she did.

She wasn’t going to let go. Wasn’t going to lose this fight.

Her growls of frustration and exertion blended with the wolf’s angry snarls. Its tooth caught the side of her cheek, slicing into her skin. Paws shoved harder against her. It had tasted her blood and wanted more.

“You cannot have me!” she bellowed.

Ceana managed to bend her legs up under the wolf and pressed her feet to its abdomen. With a mighty shove she managed to knock the wolf away a few feet, giving her enough time to stand. The beast circled her as she turned, its haunches up, teeth still bared and growling. The wolf would pounce on her any second and the force of it would send her sprawling naked to the ground. If it did, she’d likely lose the fight, the wind knocked from her.

She needed a weapon. In the firelight, a great sword glinted, beckoning her.

“You can do this…” Macrath’s voice was distant but clear.

Ceana scrambled for the weapon, reaching it just as the wolf pounced. As the beast soared through the air, paws stretched toward her, it exposed its chest. She lifted the sword just in time, feeling the blade sink sickeningly deep as she struck it in the heart.

As the animal fell to the ground with a mighty yowl, Ceana realized the sword was Macrath’s.

And she was still alive.