He was almost there when the pain shot up his leg, through his stomach, and into his shoulder. Cillian stumbled and fell face first into the dirt, the dagger flying from his hand. His head knocked against a hard patch of ground and the light danced around.
Dominic was there by his side, helping him up and shouting something unintelligible. Cillian wondered if he had been deafened, the pain pulsing loudly inside. The world came back into focus, and he tried to shout out his commands, but could only wince and scream. Dominic was pointing, not for Cillian’s benefit, but for the men around him.
“Get him off the battlefield,” Dominic ordered.
Cillian looked down at his shin, and the pain came into focus when he saw the arrow sticking out of his leg. He reached down, moving his hand away from Dominic’s. He could feel the splintered bone beneath the skin, the mangled muscle, and the ever-present pain. He had every intention of pulling the arrow out, but the pain caused him to black out as soon as he touched the arrow.
“Where’s me sword?” demanded Cillian as he came to again.
“Get him out of here, now!” shouted Dominic.
Cillian could see more of the enemy soldiers approaching, Dominic whirling around to face them and keep his Laird safe.
“Nae!” shouted Cillian. One more time, he tried to stand up, reaching out for his broadsword that lay on the ground only a few feet from him. The pain was unbearable, and the darkness came once again, blinking in and out of reality.
He darted his hand out, but he was pulled in another direction. His head moved from side to side, rolling on his neck, not quite sure what was happening, a soldier on either side of him.
Nae! Nae! Take me back!
He tried to force the words out, but he could not, or he did, but he could not hear them. The Laird of MacPherson Castle was sucked backward, pulled against his will but unable to do anything else, the blood pumping through his ears, his heart beat slowing. Then the crow. It had flown down in front of his face. He batted at it, but could not catch the bird nor move it, the flapping black wings obscuring his vision.
Behind the creature, he could barely make out Dominic, who was on his knees, or was he the one fighting? Cillian could not be sure. Then a stab and a cry of pain, a cry that he had heard before when he and Dominic were children and his friend had fallen on a rock. The cry came again and turned into the cawing of the crow as the wings flapped faster, and the bird came straight for him.
Cillian could not move this time, could not defend himself as the crow attacked, the darkness encompassing him. He took one final breath and gave into the darkness.
Ambushed
Carsten, Scotland, 1645
The inn was rowdy, Maeve could hear it from up in her small room, but she did not want to go down even though she had a hunger in her belly. Her need to be alone overcame her need for food. Albie curled up in the corner, unperturbed by the noise and making gentle purring noises as he dreamed.
Maeve’s stomach rumbled, and she thought about brewing up her herbs into a tea to give her stomach some flavor in an attempt to fool her insides into thinking that they were being fed. If the smell had not penetrated the simple wooden door, she would not have opened it. When she did, the aroma hit her in the face. It was a moment before she noticed that Albie had snuck out.
“Albie!” hissed Maeve. She looked behind her to make sure that it was her cat and not someone else’s, and she found an empty cat-shaped space there, confirming her fears. As Maeve stepped out of her room, Albie made a run for it, persuaded by the cooking smells to go downstairs and investigate more.
“Albie, come back here!” hissed Maeve to no avail. Maeve followed him quickly, going downstairs with dreams of food in her mind. She had enough money for one more meal, perhaps two.
The inn was rowdy and noisy, but there was a more somber tone to the place. Maeve scanned the room, finding the only thing out of the ordinary were the three soldiers who sat at the table in the center of the room. She had not been out of her village much, but she had seen some soldiers pass close to the village, marching off to war, or marching back from it. The plain-tan trews and white shirts with tartan plaid were a giveaway in themselves, and the weapons laying on the table confirmed the deduction. The three of them were both rowdy and somber at the same time.
“Supper?” asked Agnes, the tavern owner, appearing from nowhere.
Maeve fingered the purse hanging inside the belt of her skirt and felt the two coins, the same two that she had stared at earlier in the evening. “Nay, nae tonight.” She had enough to get her through a couple more days and would make the decision in the morning whether to stay or to go.
“Who are the soldiers?” asked Maeve.
“Fresh from a skirmish with some bandits,” replied Agnes. “On their way back to their Castle. Well, two of them are; the one in the middle is a ghost.”
“A ghost?”
“Aye, as good as. He took a wound to the side, and he’s nae long for this world.”
Maeve looked at the three men and could see that the man in the middle had a slight sickly-green tinge to his color. All three were getting drunk, and the alcohol was obviously hitting the wounded man more.
“Givin’ him a send-off,” continued Agnes. “Bad for him, God rest his soul, but good for business.”
Maeve was not listening anymore,
