Incarnate: The Moray Druids #3 (Highland Historical) (6 page)

Sunset turned the Berserker knights and their Viking comrades into dark silhouettes against the flaming sky.  Loch Fyne glimmered like a lake of fire as it buffeted against the western side of the castle.  Thirteen men, including Bael and Niall, stood bravely in front of the fence of wooden stakes, angled to impale an advancing enemy. Across the expanse of the Moray Valley, a vast army crested the rough Highland peaks and began a syncopated march down toward Dun Moray and the village. 

Ingmar—a general of Niall’s who would have been a jester but for his voracious bloodlust—turned to address Malcolm and his small garrison of kilted countrymen as they approached the Vikings from behind.  “You should stay behind your wards, King Malcolm, and let
us
battle your enemies,” he said smugly.  “You’ve marched to the front lines with no armor, flanked by women and mostly naked men, which, in my opinion, should be the other way around.”  He hit his leather jerkin with his shield.  “Leave us the glory of plunging into battle and bloodying our armor.”

“I believe we shall,” Malcolm replied absently, as he scanned the approaching army for the Wyrd Sisters.  They were yet too far away to make out distinct features, but Malcolm knew they were out there. The distinct stench of evil flowed on the Highland breezes, and demoralizing threats whispered on the chill winds. 

“Who are they, Colm?”  Morgana touched his elbow and squinted into the gathering shadows that seemed to follow the endless swarm of the advancing enemy.  “They wear no colors.”

“I think it’s an army of the damned,” Kenna drew up to his other side.  “Badb said that she had countless souls at her disposal.  I think she’s unleashed them all upon us at once.”

Souls like Vían.
  Some innocent.  Some malevolent.  All desperate to do whatever it took for the promise of redemption.  Or maybe just for the release of death. 

“Do you think she’s out there?” Morgana whispered, the compassion in her eyes cutting Malcolm to the quick. 

He knew to whom his sister was referring.

“Nay.  The Wyrd Sisters know Vían wouldna march against me. ‘Tis why they took her from me.” Malcolm fought to keep his composure, and reminded himself that a village full of women and children relied on his protection.

The future of humanity, itself, relied on the strength of his principle and power. 

How would they feel if they knew he was tempted to sacrifice it all for
her
?

“I expect the village bard will be writing lyrics to our valor and ingenuity,” Ingmar was still taunting them. 

“I told ye not to touch my castle grounds weeks ago.  Not to cut down trees to make yer fences,” Malcolm said slowly.

Niall turned, ignoring the warning look from Kenna. “What would your people have done without our fortifications?”

“What if the army breaks through the line?” Ingmar asked smugly.  “Not that it’s likely,” he added.  “But Dun Moray would have been defenseless if not for us.”

Malcolm made a slight gesture to his men, and the forty archers spread out, making enough space between them to reach the edge of the loch. 

With a whispered spell, Malcolm stretched his arms out, palms up, and lifted them from his sides.  As he did, the earth trembled beneath them, and then separated, lifting him, Morgana, Kenna, and the entire line of archers above the slack-jawed Vikings, and their wooden fortifications, on an impenetrable rock wall thrice as high as Bael, the tallest Berserker.

Standing on the corner of the wall, he wrapped the structure of stone around the village, using the edge of his wards for a guide. 

As preoccupied as he was with Vían, with revenge, and with the inevitable battle, Malcolm enjoyed a victorious moment over the Viking’s rare, awe-struck silence.  “You see.” He lifted an eyebrow.  “Your fortifications were not needed.  And I would
never
leave my people unprotected.”

“I’d like it to be noted that
I
never doubted you.”  Bael twirled his axe and winked at Morgana, his dark eyes glittering with anticipation of bloodshed.

The army of souls began to run forward as they reached the edge of the loch, their weapons raised.  The Vikings drew their own weapons and clustered into a shield formation. Bael and Niall growled their pleasure as
Berserkergang
overtook their bodies, their eyes turning into black voids, promising a quick death to their enemies. 

If they were lucky.

“I can feel the Grimoire,” Malcolm told the Druids on either side of him. 

“It’s close,” Kenna agreed.  “They’re close, but I can’t see them.”

“Do you think they can die?” Morgana worried.  “This army of souls?”

Malcolm watched them advance, his hand clenched around the staff made from the sacred Ash, a relic of the de Moray Earth Druids that transcended written history.  He drew strength from it, the strength of patience, and the strength of survival.  “We’re about to find out.”

Kenna called for a torch that was handed to her by an awaiting warrior.  With a flare of her powers, the flame rippled across the line of archers, igniting their arrows.  “We are they who repelled the Romans,” she said in their Gaelic tongue.  “Protect the Viking army with your arrows, and slay our enemies.”  Upon her order, they let loose their first barrage, dropping the first line of the Army of Souls and igniting the flames of war. 

“Malcolm, look!” Morgana pointed east, to the crest of the hill opposite the loch.

Four silhouettes appeared as statues atop their magnificent horses.  The rise was far off, but the figures were unmistakable.  They neither advanced nor retreated, but stood as sentinels, witnesses to the most important battle humanity had faced thus far.

The Four Horseman.  Conquest, War, Pestilence, and Death.

They’d come to watch him battle for the salvation of the world.

Malcolm sent a silent prayer to the heavens.  It was a heavy thing to think that the fate of the eternities rested on the outcome of the day. 

Malcolm found himself wondering which side The Horsemen were on.  Did they want to bring about the Apocalypse? Were they expecting him to fail?

If so, they would be sorely disappointed. 

Now was not the time.  Not like this, by dark measures and blood Magick.  The prophecy said that four de Morays would wield behind one gate and the Seals would be broken. Malcolm had always interpreted that to mean that four de Moray’s would be born to
one
generation.  He could not let the Wyrd sisters force the End of Days for their personal gain.  There was still so much life left to be lived.  So much progress and enlightenment and invention to discover.  How could it end now when, it seemed, that the world was still so young?

A prickling of the fine hairs of his body heralded the notice of the Four honing in on him, even as the Army of Souls broke upon the Viking frontlines, and the fighting began in earnest. 

Though the souls were neither alive nor dead, but some macabre version of
in between
, they still bled when Bael’s axe culled a dozen down in one mighty sweep.  They still screamed, and writhed when Niall’s sword cut them navel to throat before kicking them off into the red-stained field.  Their flesh sizzled and stunk as flaming arrows and bolts of Kenna’s magickal fire decimated and illuminated the carnage.  

Malcolm mourned for his lush valley, and for the souls of those he claimed as he used his magick to pull the black, sharp boulders from the earth and roll them through the advancing horde.  The crunch was sickening, but the tactic effective, cutting neat swaths of blood and bone.

And still foes spilled from the gathering shadows of the night as new waves of enemies broke upon his walls. 

“I cannot see the Wyrd Sisters, Malcolm.”  Morgana grasped his elbow. “Something’s not right.  Where are they?”

Turning to search, Malcolm noticed the Four Horsemen had begun a slow and steady advance down into his valley until they stood at the edge of the battle.

Apart from it, and yet an inevitable part
of
it.

Conquest, with his white stallion and silver armor looked like an arc angel sent by a vengeful god.  Whereas War, with his horse almost the same color as his blood-red breastplate resembled some kind of Hell spawn.

Next to them, Pestilence, his visage hidden in dark robes, perched atop his nightmare steed more regally than Malcolm would have imagined.  And Death, his horse pale and dappled, his armor dark and antiquated, surveyed the carnage with a relentless power that could only belong to an immortal such as him.

“Ye will not have this day,” Malcolm vowed at them, in a voice too low for anyone but him to hear.

Death’s head turned slowly toward him, far enough away that Malcolm barely marked the movement. 

The question is, will you?

The words were not spoken, and yet Malcolm heard them clear as day. 

Death lifted a finger, and pointed to the edge of Malcolm’s land, where Dun Moray’s keep was buffeted by craggy Highland peaks.  At first Malcolm saw nothing.  Then a shimmer of disturbance in the air around his wards caught his eye the moment before lightning flashed, and two women straddling broomsticks flew through the air and pierced the protection of his magick.

“Nay,” he growled.  “How is this possible?”

“The Grimoire!”  Morgana pointed.  “They have it.”

That
had
to be how they got through the wards.  Cradled under Badb’s left arm was the book filled with all the secrets of his Druid family since the beginning of time.

We’re after you both now…
  Badb’s eerie voice brushed past his ear on a chilling breeze.  Even as he watched her hag’s robes draping below her as she circled his keep on her broomstick, it was as though she whispered right next to him.

Fear sliced through him, followed quickly by a cold fury the likes of which he’d never before felt.  Moray Village, full of innocent souls, separated the space between his walls and the castle. Could he get to them in time?

A sister for a sister…
Badb’s cruel winds hissed.  With a deafening crash, she called down a silver fork of lightning.  It struck his parapets and half the roof of Dun Moray gave a great shudder, and then collapsed.

With a harsh sound of strain and rage, Malcolm did all he could to keep the stones from crushing any of the inhabitants of the castle, but knew that from this distance, he had to have failed. 

Come to us and we’ll let the wee Moray babes and their mothers live...

Malcolm hesitated, though his heart bled.  Of course it was a trap.  One that if sprung, could seal the fate of the entire world.  And yet, what of his people?  How could they make him choose between those whom he loved most dear, and—everyone who was or would ever be?

Bring Morgana, and we’ll give you what you want, or should I say
who
you want
…

Vían.

The thought of her locked away in their hellish void nearly drove him to his knees.  The sounds of the battle receded into the background.  Though Vían had been the one imprisoned all these decades, Malcolm felt as though it was
him
that had found deliverance in her presence.  He’d felt more wealthy in that hovel in the forest than he ever had in the halls of his own castle.  A chance to be who he truly was.  No pretenses, no expectations, and no barriers.  He wanted nothing more from this life then to be given the chance to show her the same kind of freedom. 

A love that never bound, but liberated. 

Cursing the prophecy, the Fates, the Wyrd Sisters and the
fucking
gods, he turned to his beloved sister, a void of his own opening inside his heart.

“Keep me strong,” he ground out a command and a plea in one breath. 

She met his gaze with her soft blue eyes, clarity and determination sparking in their depths.  “Nay,” she murmured.

Malcolm flinched, and then glared a warning at her.  “What are ye saying?”

Grasping his elbow, Morgana turned them both toward his keep, where Badb and Nemain touched down on the flagstones of his home.  Lightning sheeted across the Highland sky, warning that their time was running out. 

“We take the fight to them, Malcolm,” Morgana said, closing her eyes and pressing her forehead against his shoulder as though gathering strength. 

Gritting his teeth, Malcolm nodded, lowering them to the ground on his piece of earth.  “It’s time we end this,” he agreed.  “One way or another.”

“I’m going with you,” Kenna announced, taking a moment to break from the line of archers. “Lower me down.”

“Nay,” Malcolm held his hand out to her.  “Ye stay where ye are and help the Berserkers fend off the attack.  They need yer fire.”

Kenna stood upon the wall, her amber skirts flapping against her legs in the increasingly violent winds.  “I know you could have loved her.”  Her eyes glowed with the fire of prophecy.  “I’m sorry that you could not keep Vían and also your word as a Druid.  But your decisions today will echo for millennia, one way or the other.”

Her words affected Malcolm more than he could ever have expected.  So much so that all he could summon for her was a nod before he turned with his sister toward Dun Moray.  It wasn’t sadness that welled up inside him as he stalked the thoroughfare of Moray Village toward where Badb stood, clutching her broom in one hand and the book in the other.

Rage.  A helpless, impotent fury Malcolm had never had to grapple with in his entire life.  He was a de Moray.  The King of the Highland people.  His family had held off the Vikings, the Romans, and the English with their might and magick. 

How was it that this one crone and her coven were more dangerous than all the sword-wielding warriors who’d been after this isle since the beginning?  How could it be possible that no matter which side won the day, the ultimate loss would be his?  He’d always done everything required of him.  Respected the earth.  Studied his craft.  Learned herbs, potions, incantations, leadership, justice, and mercy.  Some of those lessons had been hard-won.  Others had come easily. 

But after decades of sacrifice for his people and his Goddess, he was denied the only thing that truly mattered in this world.  The one thing that would strengthen and solidify his power and allow him to become the man, the
King
, he was meant to be.