Ruthless

RUTHLESS

Book 3 of the Raptor Castle
Series

SOPHIA JOHNSON

Slowly, Muriele rose to her feet. Magnus did
not move. Just stared at her. His eyes narrowed to cold slits.
Promising something. What? The room became deadly quiet. No one
moved. The dancer stood still, her eyes studying them.

Muriele took a step, then two. She didn't
dare look behind her. When she reached the doorway, the sound of
his footsteps matched her own.

When she started up the stairwell, she
grabbed her skirts above her knees and ran up the stone steps like
all the wolves in the forest nipped at her heels. When she turned a
corner, she hesitated. Listened.

Had Sir Magnus returned to the great hall?
Nay!

He slowly climbed.

Each booted step rang an ominous warning.

Muriele burst out onto the landing. She
rushed past the torch flickering in its wall bracket, her eye on
the doorway, her hand outstretched far ahead of time

She chanced a quick glance behind her. Oh,
Saints! She wished she had not.

He stepped out of the gloom into the light as
he stalked her, his steps measured, his lips set in a grim line.
His large hands clenched and relaxed as if they longed to wrap
themselves around her neck.

The length and tempo of his stride quickened,
eating up the distance between them. Her heart thudded. She reached
the door. Frantic knowing he was so close, she fumbled with the
latch. With all her might, she shoved the door until it was open
enough for her to squeeze through. Turning, she pushed with both
hands, her feet anchored to the floor. It near closed. With a
sharp, loud noise, his boot slammed against the outside edge. She
was but a finger's width away from latching it.

Relax and let your imagination take you into
this tale of love through the ages.

Copyright 2012 by June J. Ulrich

Smashwords Edition

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be
reproduced in any form or by any means without the prior written
consent of the Author, excepting brief quotes used in reviews.

The book is a work of fiction. Names, characters,
places and incidents are the product of the author's imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events,
localities, or persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

Electronic books or eBooks are not transferable. They
cannot be sold, shared or given away as it is an infringement on
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Cover design by Delle Jacobs

http://www.dellejacobs.blogspot.com

Visit the author's website at
www.sophiajohnson.net

Loch Rimsdale, Scotland, 1124 A.D.

Magnus of Clibrick Castle stood tall and
unflinching, his shoulders squared, his back stiff as he dipped his
fingers in the pewter bowl and painted the left side of his face.
He must hurry, for as blood cooled, it made his task more
difficult.

His chest tightened, awaiting the fiery stab
of an arrow sent flying from the army of warriors facing him. At
first sight, their appearance was much as he would expect them to
have been when Vikings first raided Scotland.

Taking a calming breath, he steeled himself
to swirl his fingertips in the thickening blood twice more afore he
completed the task. Finally, he nodded.

Though he could not see what he had done,
'twas like peering into a square of polished steel for Feradoch,
son of Olaf of Kinbrace Castle, stood across from him copying his
every move. Blood covered the left side of their faces while blue
woad painted the right. Thunder rumbled in the distance while they
traced a bloody line below their Adam's apple as if a blade had
slashed there. They chanted the vow, each using the other's name,
which bound them, heart and soul for the remainder of their
lives.

"The sun shall light my deeds for all to
see I mean no harm to Feradoch, son of Olaf of Kinbrace. No action
by me will bring harm upon him or those of his blood, nor by
inaction will I allow harm to befall him.

Should my brother be felled by treachery,
I am honor bound to hunt his attacker and deliver justice. All
shall ken I will fulfill my vow. This I swear to ye."

Their fathers handed each a pewter horn and
nodded. Magnus held his breath and steadied his hand as he raised
the horn to his lips and drank his own and Feradoch's blood thinned
with red wine. Though he felt the need to shudder, his muscles
tensed iron-hard to prevent it.

Once done, Magnus pressed his lips tightly
together to stifle any disgraceful sounds of sorrow or regret from
passing through.

He was seven years old.

o0o

The Morgan and Gunn clans faced each other
beside the cold waters of Loch Rimsdale, a spot chosen for its
equal distance between their castles. Behind each Chief, long rows
of warriors sat astride their horses, their restless hands
fingering their weapons. Their mounts sensed the tension of their
riders, making them stomp and sidle, anxious to spring into
action.

The two clans had been mortal enemies for
centuries.

Angus of Clibrick Castle, Chief of the Morgan
Clan, stood beside his eldest son Magnus. When the boy reached his
prime, he would be his father's image. Angus was taller than most
men, trim of body with thick black hair, dark brown eyes, firm lips
and an iron jaw. Temples streaked with silver were the only signs
of aging.

Prepared for treachery, Angus wore a claymore
slung across the forest green, black and blue wool covering his
back. A short sword hung from a sheath on his belt. Strapped to his
thigh, a dagger peeked beneath the bunched wool at his knees. A
round leather shield protected his chest. He stared at the Chief of
Clan Gunn, knowing this harsh man would be raising Magnus.
Swallowing his regrets, his voice was cold, the words uncaring when
he spoke.

"We are pledged then, Olaf?"

"Aye! For better or worse."

Olaf of Kinbrace Castle was equally as large
with hair a reddish-blond worn long and shaggy. A heavy beard hid
his lower face, making his blue eyes startling. Animal pelts
covered his shoulders and a thick leather belt decorated with
pointed iron studs held the heavy skins around his waist. Brown
boots covered stocky legs up to his knees. Turned down at the top,
they exposed the soft fur inside.

Feradoch in no way resembled his father. Long
blond hair fell to his shoulders framing a face as pale as his
Danish ancestors. Where the father appeared crude, the son bore
himself with grace.

'Twas only when Olaf took their family's
ancient Norse helmet from his own head and placed it on Magnus'
that Feradoch showed any expression.

Feradoch's lips flirted with a sneer; hate
flashed from angelic blue eyes.

Surely, Magnus had not seen aright.

Blackbriar Castle, Southeast of Kinbrace, 1141
A.D.

Sweat streamed from beneath the ancient
helmet to trail down his forehead, burning the warrior's eyes and
blurring his vision. By the time Blackbriar fell, Magnus would not
be inclined to be lenient.

A sennight earlier, he had disregarded safety
and ridden Odin, his great white warhorse, within shouting distance
of the castle's barbican tower. Lord Baldor stood in a crenelation
above the barbican gate holding an oblong shield to protect his
chest.

"Baldor!"

Magnus' bellow was so earsplitting even a man
who had lost his hearing must have felt the vibrations of his
voice.

"Devil's spawn! Tuck yer tail betwixt yer
legs and hie back to Kinbrace like the mangy hound ye are!" As his
temper mounted, spittle flew like a rain shower from Lord Baldor's
lips.

"Yield now and I will spare all but the men
who butchered our villagers and patrols," Magnus demanded.

"Fool! I'll see ye in Hades first!"

"Ye leave me no choice. Concede defeat within
three days. If ye dinna, ye will condemn every man at Blackbriar.
Yer own life will flow into the river of their blood when I break
through yer walls."

He waited for the space of three heartbeats.
Frost could have formed from the breath of each word he next
spoke.

"I will give no quarter.
"

Magnus sensed someone watched his every move.
'Twas not the eyes of a man or warrior. He was used to their
stares. As his gaze swept the parapet, a woman stepped behind a
merlon on the corner tower.

Lord Baldor's response was a whistling shower
of arrows, which fell short. Some struck the ground with enough
force they quivered back and forth. Others flew with little speed,
falling like leafless branches blown from small trees during a
summer storm. Magnus had expected Baldor's wordless reply. He
waited calmly until the last arrow struck the earth then brought
Odin up on his hind legs and wheeled him to gallop away.

o0o

Muriele of Blackbriar studied the man who
rode the huge warhorse up to the barbican. In the weak sunlight,
his helmet flashed with a blue tint. The rounded helm and cheek
flaps protected his head down to above his lips. Two rounded
sections were open through which his eyes could see in all
directions.

Ancient Norse designs and patterns decorated
the intricate gold-plated bands dividing the two sides of the helm
from the back and up over his head and down to his nose. Another
rounded the helm above his eyes. A veil of riveted mail hung from
the rear of the helmet and protected his neck while leather ties on
the cheek flaps shielded his jaws.

All she saw of his face was the flash of
cold, black eyes, firm lips and a chin and jaw, which appeared
rock-hard. She shivered and rubbed her hands on her upper arms,
chasing the chill bumps there.

'Twas the man known as Magnus the
Ruthless.

She sensed he had earned the name. He was
relentless and powerful when he issued his ultimatum. Her
stepfather was a fool not to heed him. And he would pay with his
life. 'Twas right that he should.

Muriele would not waste one tear mourning his
death!

She'd thank God instead.

When she straightened her shoulders, she
winced with pain and steeled herself to walk tall and straight to
where her mother and the women of the castle waited.

"I have seen this Magnus. He has given Baldor
three days to yield," she told them when she slipped back inside
the solar.

Her mother's sad gaze swept over the women in
the room. "Do you think he will kill us all?"

Some women bit their lips or clasped their
hands over them to keep from crying out, others wailed with
despair.

"He has said he will spare all but the men
who rightly deserve to die for killing his villagers and their
families."

"Baldor willna yield. He is so bloated with
self-worth he can not believe he could fail." Her mother shook her
head in frustration.

"Then, this Magnus will give no quarter."
Muriele sighed. "I canna believe a man who would go to battle to
avenge the killing of his village's women and children would put to
death more innocents."

"Aye. He may spare the women and children,
but I dinna think
we
will be with them." Her mother
gripped her hands in her lap and closed her eyes as if seeing
something too horrible to endure. "He will put to death anyone
related to Baldor."

Muriele swallowed and nodded.

o0o

The women listened to all Muriele and her
mother said about Sir Magnus the Ruthless and clung to the hope he
would be merciful.

Old Grunda, the spaewife and healer from the
village, was the first to speak up. "Even though Sir Magnus may
spare the women and children, as our lady said, he will be honor
bound to put to death anyone related to Lord Baldor."

"Have you seen this in one of your visions?"
The cobbler's wife asked.

"Nay. Since fostering with the Chief of the
Gunn's, he has learned their ways of an eye for an eye, a tooth for
a tooth."

A young maiden cried out, "But both ladies
are related by marriage only."

Cook's helper, wearing an apron streaked with
soot and mud from slipping in puddles in her haste to reach the
safety of the room added, "Aye. But a short six months ago!"

Muriele shook her head. "Fury and revenge may
shatter all reasoning in his mind."

"But if he canna find ye, 'tis naught he can
do," Grunda added.

She went to the corner of the room where she
had stored her basket of medicines, concoctions and many other
mysterious things. After hunting through it, she brought several
things over to the washstand.

"They know our lady and her daughter have an
unusual hair color." She busily measured and stirred an ugly
mixture together. "By the time I am through with this oak bark,
'tis a muddy brown their locks will be."