ROMANCE: PARANORMAL ROMANCE: Coveted by the Werewolves (Paranormal MMF Bisexual Menage Romance) (New Adult Shifter Romance Short Stories) (146 page)

              “I’m not sure. My mother died two months ago-”

              “I’m saddened to hear this. I wasn’t told.”

              She nodded. “It was hard at first, but we knew it was coming. She’d been ill for some time before being called to be in God’s presence. It was not becoming I should live with my father, so I am here for now. There are other relatives I may impose upon if need be. I don’t wish to overstay my welcome.”

              “You are most welcome among us.” Fingall said. “I’m sure I can speak for my brother in this matter.”

              She smiled. “The loch is quite lovely. It reminds me of Loch Ness near my own old home. I used to go on long walks there with mother before she grew sick.”

              The walked for a long time, discussing how they’d grown up, their hopes and dreams for the future. As the shadows grew longer, they at last returned to Dhugall and Murron’s home.

              It was an idyllic walk home for Fingall, and he had to admit to himself that life was looking the brighter. With hopes of a positive outcome in his land dispute the next day, he returned to his cottage in high spirits.

              By the next evening, he would realize how wrong he’d been to live in hope of better days ahead.

###

              The two rivals stood across from one another in the field, close to blows as the discussions were winding down. Colin McIntosh had his burly arms folded before him, his blonde, full beard jutting out as the man sneered down his nose at Fingall. For Fingall’s part, he fantasized about running a sword through the man and kicking his lifeless body over a cliff. Fingall wasn’t a violent man, but he couldn’t deny that his neighbor brought out the worst in him.

              “It’s my right to graze this land.” Colin told the clan elders, who were standing nearby and between them, discussing the matter. “It’s been my family’s right for generations, and no MacAllarran can say otherwise.”

              “Men of Bodhuvan village,” Fingall declared, stamping his feet from impatience and a desire to see the matter resolved. “Every inch of this land has been MacAllarran since ancient times. In the name of neighborliness, I have tolerated McIntosh’s gradual crossing over into my lands for grazing for some years. Each year, he presses his grazing further beyond the bounds. This blackthorn-” he declared, motioning to a nearby dead tree, “has been the boundary as far as that copse of trees beyond my outlying buildings. Yet McIntosh would have you believe it is that hazel, much further beyond. My brother will bear witness to the ancient marker.”

              “I will,’ Dhugall agreed, stepping forward. “And there are four others among us, each man here, who can attest to the boundary as recognized in my childhood, by my father, and by his father before him. I will stake my honor and my family name upon this claim.”

              “I too have observed this marker,” one of the elders remarked. He was an ancient, white-bearded figure with a bent back and he required a cane to stay upright. “I do recall this very blackthorn, withered though its boughs may be now as my own limbs have become, as being the marker when I was a child. It was shown to me by the MacAllarrans.”

              “These are lies!” McIntosh shouted, and he spat on the ground. “MacAllarran and his kin have bought these proceedings.”

              This accusation drew outrage from the gathered men. The elders took only a moment to confer. “Your intemperate disposition does you no credit, Colin McIntosh.” The leader of their village said. “Leod McFarland is an honest man, and we can’t agree to your rash complaint. The decision goes to Fingall MacAllarran. You will cease to graze upon his lands and you will gift him one fat heifer of his choice.”

              The man turned brilliant scarlet and held up his clenched fist at Fingall. “You’ll try to take one of my cattle and I’ll run cold steel through your gut!”

              “It is a decision of the clan.” The village leader reminded him coldly. “If you fail to pay, you are an outlaw.”

              McIntosh snarled. “I’ll abide by the law then. One of you lot may take the heifer. If that fool steps foot upon my property, I’ll kill him.”

              “You’d be wise to take your rotten carcass off my land, McIntosh, while you can still walk.”

              The men fumed at one another, but when their backs turned, Fingall couldn’t resist a wide grin. His brother clapped him on the back as they headed back to the house.

              They had gone some distance towards the house when Mártainn approached them from the direction of the village. His face was set, the visage of a man on a mission.

              “We bring great tidings, blacksmith!” Dhugall announced. When he saw the man’s face, his attitude shifted. “What is it? You bring word to us as well?”

              “I do.” He shook his head. “The man who travelled with your cousin-”

              “My wife’s cousin.” Dhugall corrected.

              “Yes. He let slip his message as I was shoeing his horse. It seems we are to go to war after all. Donald is moving across Ross from the Isles and expects to reach Inverness in two days. He’s pledged to burn Aberdeen.”

              A long-simmering threat of war over rival claims to the lands of Clan Ross were about to be unleashed. On the one side stood Donald, Lord of the Isles, whom the clan supported. On the other, Lord Albany and his force of Lowlanders.

              Fingall cursed. “Then we go to war.”

###

              The rush of battle swirled around Fingall, and he was beginning to feel exhaustion running raw through his swinging arm. His wool-padded jacket, an aketon, was drenched in blood; so too was his two-handed axe. Dhugall’s own axe was coated as well, though he wielded a smaller one paired with a round shield. So far, the shield had saved his life from two arrows that had nearly cut him down in the field of battle. Fingall had been fortunate and merely been missed.

              “Stay near to me, brother!” He warned Dhugall, then saw a pair of Lowland men rushing the distance between themselves and him. “To me! Men of Bodhuvan, to me!” He shouted, and took a strong defensive stance.

              The first man to rush towards him he simply side-stepped and planted his axe into. The man stumbled and fell, dead. Others took his place, but by then Fingall’s kin were at his side and defending him. The enemy fell, quickly overwhelmed by the Bodhuvan fighters.

              A break in the battle on their flank gave Fingall a chance to assess things. Their numbers were far superior to the men of Albany and the south. But as he watched, he saw some of the men of Ross and the Isles giving up ground. Hundreds of dead lay about him. It was horrifying.

              His own village, from a quick glance, had suffered a few losses and casualties. Mártainn had suffered a severe blow to his head, but was up and still fighting. Colin McIntosh and his brother were missing, which didn’t trouble Fingall much. He’d seen at least three young men felled by arrows and a fourth cut down by the wall of warriors that had attacked them. However, by standing strong and working closely together, their men had managed to come through most of their battles well enough.

              But just as it had seemed Donald of Islay was on the edge of destroying Aberdeen as he’d promised, the Highlanders were now facing a tough battle in a little place called Harlaw. The bodies, body parts, and blood ruined the field, making the place look less green and more red.

              He felt miserable. Fingall had no desire to sack and destroy Aberdeen, a place he’d never laid eyes on. The killing was nothing more than a necessary evil, the requirement of serving his clan and protecting his kin. Had his voice been heard in such matters, the entire village would have stayed home, limiting war to actual attacks on their lands. The great lords quarrelled over land that rightly belonged to the clans solely for greed. They didn’t work the land; they didn’t appreciate hard work and an honest living.

              None of that mattered on the field of battle, though. His first duty was to his kin, his second to walking away as unscathed as possible. That was all that mattered.

              “Dhugall!” He shouted to his brother across the distance between them once again. The man had been scanning the field for enemies a short distance away, but ran to Fingall when he was called.

              “Aye, brother?”

              “Take Keddy and Tavish and look for the McIntoshs.” He said, mentioning a pair of decent fighters.

              His brother looked confused by the instruction, but had always listened to Fingall in battle as he would a superior. All of the village did. “Surely they’ve fallen. Are you sure?”

              “We need every man to defend this position. The enemy is regrouping. Hurry! Hurry back!”

              Dhugall did as he was bid. Fingall ran over to Mártainn. “Your head isn’t broken, is it?”

              “They’ll have to hit this old skull a lot harder to get the better of me, Fingall MacAllarran!” He had a good-natured grin plastered to his face. He was clearly enjoying the battle.

              “Fingall! They’re coming this way!” A man called out. Fingall looked over just in time to see the man warning him felled by a thrown axe.

              Without having to utter a word, Fingall and his kin were in position on the front line of the battle and bashing Albany’s men into surrender. The battle was pitched between the fighters and as he squared off against a particularly large, foul-smelling man, Fingall felt his remaining strength waning. Still, he and his men managed to best the offense and he killed his opponent with a desperate lunge, cutting the man off at the legs.. He tried looking about for his brother, but didn’t spot him. He apparently hadn’t returned yet.

              What he did see, though, was the center of the wedge representing the Highland forces, retreating. As the tactical retreat sped up, he was given orders to withdraw as well.

              Some of the men of the village were unhappy with the decision, but he wasn’t in any mood to argue. Even had he wanted to remain, it would have been pointless with the rest of the force withdrawing. They’d have been quickly overrun.

              “Go! Pull back!” He shouted, and at his word they did as he said. The force pulled away and he could hear Albany and Mar’s men cheering. There weren’t enough to pursue and do serious damage, though they did try to harass them. Fingall saw a man he’d known since childhood struck in the back by an arrow, falling in a heap before him. He had to leap to avoid tripping over the body.

              It was a long, difficult retreat. Eventually, the remaining forces pulled away to a distance that leaders felt to be appropriate. For every 10 men that had been among them, at least one had died- possibly. Maybe less than that, Fingall thought. But at the same time, he was quite certain he’d seen far more of the enemy die. The retreat, to his mind, seemed tactically bizarre. It was as though Donald of Islay had suddenly lost all appetite for fighting.

              When the last of the stragglers had arrived, Fingall called for the survivors to account for themselves. When he saw his kin and neighbors gathered, he felt a rising sense of alarm.

              “Has anyone seen Dhugall? Tavish? Keddy? Where have they gone?”

              None could speak up. Embarrassed looks passed among the men.

              There could be little doubt, but Fingall couldn’t accept it. “He’s here. They have to be here.”

              “Fingall, there are thousands among us. We can search the camp.” Mártainn suggested.

              Searchers were sent out to inquire among the camp. A man came back with them.

              “I saw the men as described.” He explained. “They approached a pair of men who had fought Albany with our group, and I took them to be our own. But they may not have recognized who they were, for the pair- they looked so much alike, I thought them to be brothers- for they turned and slew two of the men on sight. The third man, the red-haired man, fought ably. He managed to slay one of the men, but the other killed him. I wondered on it, but we were so caught up in the fight with the enemy, there was nothing to be done. I don’t know what became of the survivor.” Further description confirmed that the surviving McIntosh was Colin.