Legacy of the Mist Clans Box Set (25 page)

Catriona fled up the stairs, her heart screaming Branan’s name in agony.

Unleashed

B
ranan slammed into the hard stone floor and lay still for a moment. Blinding pain cut through his skull and blood streamed into his eyes. Heavy manacles bound his wrists with a length of chain between them. He could not find the strength to lift his hands and wipe it away. Branan blinked rapidly, fighting to clear his vision. His captors had removed his armor and inar, leaving him only in his trews and boots. With each breath, fire burned in his right side from the sword wound. It bled copiously, soaking his trews. The barb of the crossbow bolt remained embedded in his shoulder. Three gashes, about the size of the span of his hand, angled across his chest and also bled heavily. Someone grabbed the chain linking Branan’s manacles together and dragged him across the floor. He groaned as the action sent new waves of pain through him.

He tried to pull his wits together. The chain on his manacles was heavy and about twice as long as he was tall, with a ring sliding over the links. A soldier yanked the ring over Branan’s head, hauling violently on his arms. A second man took a heavy sledge, a spiked hook in his left hand, and pounded the hook with the ring into the mortar of the stone wall.

“You’re awake,” a voice growled. A booted foot slammed into Branan’s jaw, snapping his head back. Stars exploded in his vision and darkness hazed the edges of his sight.

“Cease,” a voice barked. “I need him conscious for this.”

Branan fought back the blackness, still trying to blink his vision clear. Slowly, he focused on someone standing a few paces away. Strickland watched him, his lip curled into a sneer, his dark eyes glittering with hatred. Next to him stood a short man: his bastard heir. David’s body was squat and thick, but by no means fat. Branan had discovered that fact when the bull had charged and tackled him, taking Branan out of the fight completely.

His awareness expanded, acknowledging his surroundings. Strickland walked to a chair at the high table and sat—in a chair with Branan’s heraldic device. Branan blinked, certain his eyes deceived him. This was not the great hall in Penrith Castle. Horror blazed a mindless path through Branan. This was the great hall at Brackenburgh.

He managed to haul himself to his knees and gradually to his feet. The chain rattled, sliding through the ring on the wall. It allowed him some movement, but not much, and certainly not enough to reach Strickland.

Branan’s gaze frantically searched the hall. Brackenburgh’s servants cowered in dark corners, trying not to draw Strickland’s attention.

“Wine!” Strickland bellowed.

One brave lad sprinted for the kitchens and quickly returned with a cup. He handed it to Strickland, bowed, then scurried out of reach. But Strickland ignored the servant, his attention riveted on Branan.

Branan’s gaze slid over the soldiers loitering in the hall. Strickland did not have as many men as he expected. Strickland must have attacked Brackenburgh at the same time he set the trap for Branan. Considering the lack of damage, the castle gates must have been open and those at Brackenburgh taken by surprise.

Several of Strickland’s guards hovered over knots of people. Branan saw not only those who worked at Brackenburgh, but several mercenaries as well. Most were wounded, but he only saw two that appeared seriously so. His gaze stopped on two forms and his heart rattled in his chest. A soldier stood guard over Gavin, also chained and on his knees. His wounds were not bound. He swayed slightly and Branan wondered if he was truly coherent. Beside him lay Jamie, unconscious. Blood soaked through his plaid, pooling on the floor. The lad still breathed, but Branan feared it wouldn’t be for much longer.

Where was—

Her scream, filled with rage, flayed Branan’s heart.

A soldier dragged her down the stairs, his hand locked on her arm like a vice. Catriona fought and kicked, but she was no match for the man. The soldier hauled her before Strickland. Catriona spotted Branan and her face turned ashen. “Nay!” she lunged for him, but the soldier stopped her flight.

Branan hit the end of the chains and snarled.

Strickland laughed and Catriona spun to face him, terror glazing her eyes.

“Aye,” Strickland purred, rising from Branan’s chair. “Now the little hellcat knows she is defeated.” He looked to Branan still straining against his chains. “You are too dangerous to leave alive for any length of time. But I will stay my hand just long enough for you to witness my complete victory. David, teach your future wife the meaning of obedience.”

The soldier tossed Catriona to David, who seized her arm. But Catriona used her momentum and plowed the heel of her hand into David’s nose. Blood flew, but to Branan’s disappointment she had not broken it. Catriona kicked his shin and clawed his face, screaming in pure rage.

“Bitch!” David cried and lifted his hand.

Branan’s vision tunneled and turned red. He hit the end of his chains, yanking his arms backward, threatening to dislocate his shoulders.

David’s fist descended.

A memory of a fist descending on his mother flashed across Branan’s vision.

David’s fist slammed into Catriona’s face. Her body went limp. She crumpled to the floor and did not move, a red mark on her left temple.

Something snapped in Branan. “Nay!” The black rage possessed him, seizing him in its terrible claws. The madness he had fought for so long erupted, spewing primal fury, destroying his sanity. This time he did not resist.

He embraced it.

An inhuman power filled him. The bloodlust surged through his body obliterating his pain. Branan strained against his chains, his roar echoing through the hall. Red still shaded his vision, but for the first time, his vision sharped with an almost perfect clarity.

David stepped over Catriona, his hand tearing open her over-dress.

Madness seethed within Branan. He grabbed his chains with both hands and hauled on them with all his might. A single link, caught in the ring, stretched and deformed, appearing as molten as the white hot fury coursing within his veins. Branan summoned all of the heartbreak he had known, the agony of watching his mother die, his own pain suffered under Strickland’s fists, the anguish over his murdered father.

David dropped to his knees, pushing the skirt of Catriona’s under-dress up to her waist. He rid himself of his belt and fumbled with the ties of his trews. His eyes burned with a sickening, feral desire.

Branan fed the black demon that resided permanently in his soul, created by Strickland’s hatred, and unleashed it.

The steel link thinned and stretched then snapped.

Terrified screams filled the hall as Branan charged David. He swung the length of chain over his head and cast it outward, just as David looked up, blinking at him in shock. The thick, heavy chain slammed into his head. Blood and gray matter flew, soaking Branan and strengthening the demon.

He kicked David’s body away and stood over Catriona. Branan swung the chain over his head again; it made a strange humming sound as it gained momentum.

“Kill him!” Strickland shrieked.

A soldier drew his sword and charged, with three more close behind. Branan’s growl rumbled in harmony with the hum of the chain.

Another roar sounded. Gavin tackled one of the soldiers, driving him to the ground. They rolled across the floor. Even though the manacles still bound Gavin’s hands in front of him, he managed to gain the advantage. They stopped rolling with Gavin atop the soldier, his hands locked on the man’s throat. His grip tightened and he strangled the sod as he struggled fruitlessly beneath him.

“Cruach Mór!”
Branan bellowed.

His battle cry spurred the mercenaries allied with him and Brackenburgh. Although wounded, many were still able to fight. They turned against their captors.

Branan launched the chain. It wrapped around the neck of the lead soldier. Branan yanked and the man’s neck snapped. He dropped dead on the floor. With another yank, Branan freed the chain and grabbed it in both hands, stretching it taut over his head. He caught the second man’s descending sword blade, and with a quick move, wrapped the chain around it. Branan kicked and the soldier flew backward, losing his grip on his sword. Gavin abruptly appeared, ending the man’s fight just as he had the first. Branan flipped the weapon into the air and caught it by the hilt. Another soldier charged and Branan thrust the blade into his gut.

“Branan, behind you!” Gavin shouted.

He spun, unwilling to move from Catriona’s still unconscious form. Strickland charged him. A huge claymore, with a thistle engraved on its brass hilt and a green emerald on the pommel, descended.

Branan blocked with his stolen sword. The claymore smashed into it, snapping the poorly made weapon in half. But Branan had deflected the blow enough that the claymore’s tip only gouged his shoulder rather than slamming into his neck. He marveled he felt no pain as he gazed down, gaping at the four-inch-long slice in the muscle. Branan curled his lip and looked back at Strickland. “Ye shouldna have done that,” he growled, his voice primitive, barely able to form the words.

Strickland’s eyes widened in horror as he suddenly realized he faced a man possessed.

Branan lunged, turning the black demon in his soul against its creator.

Strickland, terror in his eyes, tried to sprint away. Branan grabbed the chain in both hands and threw it outward as a loop. It settled over Strickland’s head. The links of the chain bit into his throat. Branan jerked back with such force he lifted Strickland from his feet and slammed him into the ground. Branan quickly moved to stand directly behind Strickland. The muscles in his arms and chest stood out in sharp relief as he tightened the chain around Strickland’s throat.

Strickland choked and gasped, clawing futilely at the chain. His face turned red and then purple as Branan tightened the chain even more. Strickland’s efforts grew more frantic, his eyes bulged in his head, and Branan drew the chain inexorably tighter. Strickland’s eyes glazed, his gasping stopped, and his body twitched violently before falling still.

Branan did not move, maintaining his hold. Only after several heartbeats did he let go of the chain and unwind it from the body.

Branan stood for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps, his entire body shaking. He cast around him, looking for another enemy, but only a few of Strickland’s men remained and they were running for their lives.

He dropped to his knees and picked up the claymore. The emerald in the pommel seemed to glitter with its own light. Branan closed his eyes and held the flat of the blade against his forehead.

Who am I?

All of the questions he had asked himself rose within him. All of the pain surged, pooling deep in Branan’s being. All of the rage, fear, and heartbreak gathered. Abruptly, it broke free, like the bursting of a damn. He was finally able to answer the question that had poisoned his soul.

“I am the son of Raulf MacTavish,” Branan whispered. “Laird of clan MacTavish, Warden of Inglewood. I have reclaimed what is mine.” He paused and drew a deep breath. “Mother...Father...I have avenged ye.”

Now he finally possessed what was his, what he had sought for so long, what had nearly destroyed him heart and soul. The black demon within him faded, leaving only agonizing grief in its wake.

“Branan,” Catriona’s voice cut through him. He leaped to his feet and rushed to her side. But horror possessed him as his gaze fell on the terrible bruise and the memory surged forward as clearly as if it had happened yesterday. Nay! This could not be! He could not lose Catriona, not like this, not like he’d lost his mother. It was all worthless without her. Branan carefully pulled her into his arms, but despite his caution, she gasped in pain and went limp against him.

Terror sunk its claws into his soul. He threw his head back and roared his agony.

HHH

Branan sat with his brat wrapped tightly around his shoulders, shaking with fever chills.

“Branan,” Beth said, feeling his forehead. “Damnation, if you do not get some rest, this fever will kill you.”

He shook his head stubbornly, holding tighter to Catriona’s hand. It had been a full day and night and she had not yet returned to consciousness. “I’ll no’ rest until I ken if she will live or die. If she dies, then I will lay by her side and let the fever claim me.” Branan wondered how this could be happening, how he could win the battle, but still lose everything.

“She won’t die,” Beth said, but he heard the tears in her voice. “She’s too damned stubborn.”

“How are the others?”

“The same.”

They had found Greystoke cut down before the door to his lady’s solar. He bore wounds that by all rights should have been mortal, but he stubbornly clung to life. Gavin and Jamie also fought the blood fever. It was as if Catriona’s soul kept death’s specter at bay, as if all waited to learn of her fate. If she fell, death would run rampant through the keep, claiming more souls than it had a right to.

A soft knock sounded at the door and Duguald entered. He too had been wounded but fared far better than Branan.

“How was Penrith?” Branan asked as Duguald entered.

“Under control. We excused the staff still loyal to Strickland and replaced the guard with more mercenaries. Edmund brings the keep to heel under your banner.”

“Thank ye, Uncle.”

“The lassie...?”

“We dinna ken what her fate shall be.”

Duguald sighed softly. “Branan, while at Penrith, we found something for ye. Something important.”

He frowned, looking up at Duguald. “What mean ye?”

Duguald handed him a small box. Branan’s scowl deepened as he studied it; it looked like MacTavish woodwork and bore his father’s crest.

“On the bottom,” Duguald said, “is yer father’s mark. I believe he made it fer yer mother. Even without his mark, I ken his work when I see it.”

There was no obvious latch, but Branan knew well the MacTavish talent for hiding locks. He felt along the bottom and found the catch. With a small click, it released.

Duguald turned to leave.

“Nay, Uncle, stay please.” Branan gazed up at him. “Ye are my family. I’d no’ have become the man I am without ye.”