Awaiting the Wolf Killer Highlander by Alisa Adams

2

The next day, Sorcha roused herself from the chair that had become a kind of prison for her. Her back and legs were terribly sore from being seated for so long, to the point where she actually groaned in pain, hearing her joints creak and snap despite her tender years.

She gave Aodh a kiss on his forehead, still disturbed by the heat radiating from his skin. For a brief moment, she considered remaining by his side after all, just for one more day, she told herself, in case his condition changed. Surely the townsfolk could wait another day to see her?

Except she knew they could not. They had waited long enough, and by all accounts, they had grown restless and angry.

Sorcha touched the sides of her hair to make sure the flowers had stayed in place during the night. Satisfied that they had, she summoned Amelia and asked her to draw a bath and prepare fresh clothes for her.

As she bathed and dressed, Sorcha thought about how a mere two years ago, her dastardly uncle Ronald had been laird over the clan. She had been held in the fortress of another clan during that time (along with her younger sister Freya), but from all she had heard, Ronald had been a cruel tyrant who had forced peasants and nobles alike to work in the fields from dawn to dusk like slaves. It had gone on for years.

Yet, there had been no uprising then. The members of the clan had accepted their fate as placidly as cattle being led to market for slaughter.

Could it be that they had reached their breaking point? That they would turn on her when they had given her vile uncle free rein for so long?

The thought was inconceivable to her that she might be even more hated than he was, her position as clan leader more tenuous. But Edmund had expressed concern, and that was more than enough for her to take the situation seriously.

She had the remaining castle healers meet her at the gates, along with Edmund. Together, they walked toward the village, each one steeling themselves against the horrors and miseries they might encounter when they reached it.

“Are you quite certain we should not bring some of the guards along with us?” Sorcha asked.

Edmund shook his head. “‘Twould send the wrong message, my lady. You are here on a mission of mercy to your subjects, not to intimidate them or make them believe you are frightened of them.”

Those words made her heart feel like a heavy stone had been tied to it. Was she afraid of the members of her own clan? She had not allowed herself to fully consider it before now.

She was not certain that she could, even now.

As they entered the town from one side, a man from another land came to it from the other, whistling a jaunty tune to himself and grandly bidding greetings to every hare and hedgehog that crossed his path. He was called Malcolm Haldane, and he felt it suited him right enough, though he had certainly been known by plenty of other names during his years of wandering.

Over that rather extensive period of time, he had come to fancy himself attuned to the very roads and byways he trod. Each path, every piece of land, every village and farm, seemed to tell its own silent story to those who would only listen—or so he chose to believe. As such, there was always that certain moment when he could feel that he had crossed the invisible threshold from one place to another.

When he did, he performed a small, comforting ritual: He checked to see that his purse was hanging from its accustomed place on his belt (it was, though it was not nearly so heavy as he might have wished); he briefly clutched the tiny leather charm bag that hung from a length of string around his neck, bestowed upon him so long ago; and he wrapped his hand around the handle of the sword at his side.

“Let me be welcomed here,” he murmured to whoever might hear his prayer.

Then he took a deep breath, smiled, and took his first big step into this new place.

The smile faded almost instantly, for the spirit of this town seemed oddly dismal and unquiet. The hour had the unsettling chill of midnight to it despite the summer sun and cloudless blue sky above, and he shivered, pulling his traveling cloak tighter around him. The shadows in the windows and doorways of the cottages seemed darker and deeper than normal.

The streets were mostly vacant. The shops were closed and shuttered.

A slow dread crept through him, and he knew that the wisest course of action would be to obey his instincts and turn away and find another village that did not make his skin crawl thus.

Except that there was something deeper within him that insisted he must not leave. That this was where he was meant to be at that moment, for reasons that were currently beyond his understanding…but would not remain hidden from him for long.

And besides that, he was in dire need of money.

He doubted he would even have enough to afford both lodging for the night and a decent meal in this place. He had hoped to find some employment here—serving in a tavern, perhaps, or assisting a blacksmith, or working a field or a fishing net. He had done all of these things for income in the past and a dozen more. His strength, skills, experience, and resourcefulness had allowed him to find a job fairly quickly wherever he went and had kept him comfortable until he’d inevitably grown restless and chosen to move on to someplace else.

Looking around, though, his heart sank. How could he find work if no one was open for business?

Ah, but there’s a castle right enough, he thought, observing the towers of the structure a short distance away. And castles almost always need guards for their gates and their dungeons. If I go there, perhaps I might find work…and perhaps I might also learn why this village feels like a damned necropolis.

As he started in that direction, though, he noticed a group of four people approaching. Two of them—a man and a woman—were wearing the finery of nobles. The other two were women, and from the frocks they wore and the handcarts they pushed, he could easily see that they were healers.

He found himself especially struck by the exquisite beauty of the noblewoman.

She was tall, with the long limbs and halting gait of a colt. Her auburn hair was long and straight and threaded with tiny blue flowers, which brought out the striking teal of her eyes. In her fitted white dress with the flowing sleeves and hems, she resembled nothing so much as a porcelain-skinned angel descended from the heavens.

So these people are from the castle, then, he surmised. That’s a stroke of luck, for starters! I can make my inquiries with them.

Sorcha’s eyes were wide, and her face was deathly pale as she walked with Edmund and the healers, feeling the black waves of illness and heartache emanating from every home they passed.

“Which home should we visit first?” she asked hoarsely.

“You may as well choose one at random and begin there,” Edmund replied. “I am sorry to say that almost every home contains at least one person who has been afflicted.”

Slowly, people were emerging from their houses to gaze and point at Sorcha and calling for their neighbors to do likewise. Within moments, half the townsfolk stood in the streets, muttering to each other, which was quite an inconvenience for Malcolm, as he now had to shoulder her way through them to get to the nobles.

Suddenly, a gruff voice cut through the murmur sharply: “Well now, look who has come to grace us with her presence at last!”

Ryan McKenna strode through the crowd, his figure short yet imposing. He was a stout and stolid man, his iron-gray sideburns braided thickly and tied beneath his wide chin. As usual, he was flanked by Carr and Currie, two other wealthy landowners like himself.

“Lady Sorcha has been at her brother’s bedside, as you well know,” Edmund retorted archly. “Her family has been blighted by this illness, like many others here.”

“Ah, but not quite ‘like many others here,’ eh?” Ryan observed nastily. “For alas, these good people do not have the wherewithal to retain a pair of healers to live in their houses and be on hand day and night, now do they?”

“You see I have brought them with me now,” Sorcha said, trying to keep the anger from her voice. She was already so deeply frustrated and fatigued from seeing the illness devour her brother that her nerves were frayed.

“You have brought them with you now. I see.” McKenna turned to Carr. “Tell me, how many of our clan have perished in the past two days, Carr?”

“About a dozen,” Carr replied.

McKenna nodded. “There you have it, then. Twelve good men, women, and children who died for want of proper healing, as you selfishly kept the services of these two ladies for your own kin.” He turned to the crowd, raising his voice. “Say what you might about old Ronald, but he knew that the blood and sweat of a commoner was worth no less than that of a noble! He treated rich and poor as equals!”

A rumble of agreement went through the mass of people.

Sorcha could not believe her ears. These same townsfolk had cheered upon their liberation from the tyrannies of Ronald…and now they were cheering his memory?

“Very well,” she said. Her voice was trembling now, no matter how hard she tried to control it. “To cure this malady is not within my power as the head of this clan. I have brought more healers, more supplies. I have come in person to assess the extent of the outbreak, and to see firsthand what more I might offer in aid of my people. Tell me: What more, then, do you ask of me?”

“Do you hear her, my kinsmen?” McKenna sneered to the crowd. “She acts as though she deserves showers of golden praise for carrying out the barest minimum of her duties to her clan, and when we dare to ask her for greater effort on our behalf, she demands: ‘What would you do, then? How would you lead?’ This is no fit behavior for a true leader—as a man in her position would know.”

“So now you blame her for being a woman?” Edmund asked sardonically. “Do you also blame hens for not being cockerels? The last male heir of the clan is indisposed, and she is the eldest Campbell daughter. It follows, then—”

“Perhaps a Campbell is not the answer, then, eh?” Currie offered with a toothy grin. “Perhaps a man from another noble house might take up the reins of leadership while Aodh remains ill. Or longer, if he does not recover.”

“I would wager that your list of nominations for such a fellow consists of a single name, Currie,” Edmund growled, “and that name belongs to Ryan McKenna.”

“And why not?” Carr demanded. “He has always served our clan with nobility and distinction, has he not? What has her family given us all these years hence, except for ignominy and disaster? Ronald, who slew his own kin? Dand, who lived the life of a brigand and fled to marry a servant girl? Now a plague-stricken child and his feckless sister are to guide us? This instability threatens to tear our clan apart! You must step aside, Sorcha Campbell, and let another lead—one with more wisdom and years, one who will save us from this plight!”

The mood of the crowd was becoming surly and ominous. Sorcha was beginning to grow fearful, and wished that she had insisted on bringing guards with them after all. But how could she have possibly predicted that her own people would turn on her so quickly and spitefully?

Someone in the mob threw an old turnip, which narrowly missed her head.

Another tossed a clod of dirt, which hit her lovely dress, staining it with soil.

Then a stone was launched in her direction. And another. And another.

Before any of these dangerous projectiles could connect with her, though, a tall wooden cart was pushed in front of her and the others who had accompanied her, blocking the thrown rocks and keeping her safe.

Confused, she looked to see who had shoved the cart into place, and when she saw the man responsible, her heart felt as though it had sprouted wings and taken flight.

He was magnificently handsome.

His frame was tall and solid, his shoulders wide and muscular. His high brow and prominent cheekbones were framed by short dark hair and a neatly groomed beard, and his emerald eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief.

“I take it your sightseeing has concluded for the day, my lady,” he said, “and that you intend to return to the castle? If so, I suspect you might welcome an escort!”

“I would,” she replied gratefully. Then she turned to the healers. “You remain here. They will not harm you, and you might be able to do some good.”

“We shall do our best, my lady,” one of the healers replied. “Go in safety and in peace.”

“Neither seems very likely at the moment,” Edmund observed dryly as the green-eyed man pushed the cart, and they crept along beside it.