The Warrior Trainer (2 page)

   As Ian approached the wrought-iron gate, the soft sounds of voices and the lowing of cattle could be heard. "Greetings
,
" he called. He was about to shout again when a thin old man, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled toward him from the gatehouse.

   "What do ye want?" The man peered up at Ian through the iron bars with hazy, watery eyes.

   Ian's frown deepened. "I seek the Trainer."

   "What's that ye say?"

   "I seek the Trainer," Ian shouted, enunciating each word.

   The man pulled back and stared at Ian with a mixture of surprise and irritation. "No need t
ae
shout, laddie. I'm no' deaf."

   Ian bit back an annoyed reply. "Please," he said. "My need is urgent."

   The old man hobbled away and soon the bellow of a horn cut through the air. Moments later, shuffling sounds came to Ian from the battlements as fresh-faced youths with arrows and swords peered over the ramparts, their attention focused on him. And yet he did not feel threatened by their presence. Instead, he felt an odd sense of relief that there was someone, no matter how young, protecting the castle and the mythical Trainer.

   The rattling of chains and the creaking of wood sounded as the gate slowly lifted from the ground. As soon as he was able, Ian slipped under the portcullis, then moved to the old man's side to help him lower it again. "Where can I find the Trainer?" he asked.

   "She be in the keep."

   So she was real after all. "I must see her."

   A puzzled expression moved across the old man's face. He sighed as he waved Ian toward the keep.

   Ian offered his thanks, then hurried across what appeared to be a seldom used outer bailey and into the inner courtyard. Servants carried pitchforks filled with hay toward the stables, where cattle awaited their meal. The bang and rattle of a hammer striking iron punctuated the air with a constant beat. Women strolled across the expansive courtyard carrying loaves of fragrant, yeasty bread from a brick oven near the kitchen shed.

   As he strode past, he could almost feel the gazes upon him like fingers—some urging him forward, others holding him back. He ignored them with the same skills he had developed against his own clan when they stared at him. He was accustomed to being an outsider. When he made it to the great door, he gave it a confident rap with his gauntlet-covered fist. "I have come to see the Trainer," he announced, and instantly a hush fell over the courtyard.

   "Put yer weapon down if ye want t
ae
enter here," a man ordered from behind the door.

   Ian narrowed his gaze. "I
sha
ll see the Trainer before I give up my weapon."

   "Then ye'll not see the Trainer this day."

   Give up his weapon? "What kind of warrior will only see unarmed men?"

   " 'Tis my rule, not hers. Now put yer weapon down or go away."

   He just wanted to get this task over and done with. Once he fulfilled his obligation to his father, he could hunt down the Four Horsemen and exact his revenge. Family honor demanded no less.

   With a grunt of frustration, Ian drew his claymore from the scabbard at his back and set the weapon at his feet. "I am unarmed."

   The door creaked open and a wizened old man with white hair stared at Ian from beneath bushy white eyebrows. "Yer dagger, too."

   Ian complied, but kept his gaze trained on the ancient creature before him. He might be disarmed, but he was far from defenseless. "I must see her now."

   The stooped man moved aside and signaled for Ian to enter. He searched the cavernous space before him. Except for the fire that crackled in the hearth at the far side of the chamber, the room was empty.

   "What purpose have ye here?" The wizened man stared up into Ian's face as though he were searching for something.

   Ian fixed his attention on his adversary, revealing nothing in his calm, steady gaze. He had no secrets to share with anyone here.

   Yet he could not help wondering what secrets the legendary warrior had hidden in her keep. For she must have a truly dark reason for staying so concealed. All Scotland had assumed she'd died twelve years ago when the Four Horsemen had ravaged their country and conquered the Abbey of Scone.

   Then three months ago, news of her survival began to circulate among the clans. He had heard the tale and dismissed it as wishful thinking, some fantastic story fabricated to bring the clans hope for survival from the chaos the Four Horsemen created. Fantasy or reality, that hope had driven him here, to her.

   But Ian had no time to ponder the Trainer's mysteries. He had come to train quickly, then leave. He tamped down his growing irritation at the delay. "I have no time to waste. I shall see the Trainer now."

   The man's expression instantly darkened. "So ye've come t
ae
fight."

   "Aye."

   "Another fool then," the old man muttered as he turned away, walking toward the hearth. "If ye must see the Trainer, come this way."

   Ian followed the old man through a doorway at the side of the great hall and into another chamber. A single candle stood in the center of the room, leaving a ring of dark shadows everywhere he looked.

   "Wait here."

   Frowning at the further delay, Ian turned to demand entrance, but the old man had disappeared into the shadows. Even so, Ian sensed he was not alone in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a shape hidden in the shadows at the top of the stairs. All his senses sharpened, alert to the danger. "Show yourself."

   "What murdering deed brings ye here?" The female voice sounded old and gruff, not what he had expected from the Warrior Trainer.

   He had no intention of murdering anyone except the Four Horsemen, and they would feel his justice, painful and swift, for attacking his clan and murdering his brother Malcolm. He would seek justice against the man responsible as soon as he satisfied his duty to his father.

   "Step into the light," Ian ordered as he moved closer to the stairs, trying to make out the shape above him. A robust silhouette reflected against the hazy gray of the room.

   "The darkness serves my purpose," the figure replied in a low, almost imperceptible tone.

   Seconds clicked by and silence hovered in the room. Ian's body tightened, intuition flared. Something was amiss. His hand moved to his sword only to come away empty, and he remembered too late that his weapons remained outside. "Why should a woman fabled to be the greatest fighter in all the land have to hide in the darkness against an unarmed man?" he asked, seeking the shadows in the room for an answer.

   "I'll ask the questions here."

   The voice quavered ever so slightly. Why?

   "What is yer purpose here?" she said. "To fight like all the rest?"

   The faint glow of a candle lit the room from behind Ian, but he did not turn around to see where it came from. Instead, he could only stare at the illuminated vision before him. An aged female with stark white hair stared back at him in fear.

   Ian relaxed at the lack of threat. " 'Tis not possible. An ancient woman . . . the Trainer?" he said.

   "Were ye expectin' someone else?" The creature, the Trainer, appraised him warily.

   There must be a logical explanation. This stooped crone could not teach him any skills he did not already possess. Yet his father had been convinced the woman could teach him special fighting techniques from foreign lands—ways of moving his body, anticipating his foe, of wielding a sword that would help to defend himself and his clan against the Four Horsemen. Martial arts, his father had called her ways. Ian was still skeptical.

   "Why are ye here?" she repeated, remaining where she stood.

   "To train with the Warrior."

   Her face brightened. "To train? Not to fight?"

   "Aye," Ian drawled out the word as he narrowed his gaze. What manner of deception existed here? The woman wore her steel breast plate on her back and a back plate on her breast. A
couter
covered her right elbow, but not her left. A gauntlet covered her left hand, yet she held her sword in her right. Either she had dressed in haste, or she was not who she claimed to be.

   "Are you the Train—"

   "Burke, cease!"

   Ian turned to see a black object hurling toward him. Pain exploded against the side of his head and a sickening thud reverberated in his skull. Ian gaped at the grinning old man who clutched an iron kettle.

   That vision stayed with him as the light receded and darkness swallowed him.

Chapter Two

   "I told ye to halt!" Maisie exclaimed as the huge man slumped to the floor. If her instincts were right, he was the one they'd been waiting for. As promised, Abbus had finally sent him, a warrior worthy of continuing the lineage of Scotland.

   "I tried, but the kettle was already swingin'," Burke said, offering her an apologetic shrug.

   "Did ye have to use the kettle?" Maisie marched down the stairs, her hastily donned armor rattling with each step. When she reached the downed man's side, she frowned at her stooped helper, who was no taller than her shoulder. "Scotia might not like him if his head is bashed in on one side."

   "
'Twas the only thing I could find t
ae
hit him with," Burke replied.

   Maisie tsk'd. "Never send a man to do a woman's job— at least not in this castle." She bent down beside the big and well-muscled man. He was dressed in a plaid of red and green and blue and white—definitely a MacKinnon, as had been agreed upon years ago between Abbus MacKinnon and Scotia's mother. It had been many years since she'd seen the likes of the clan MacKinnon near Loch Glencarron. She poked a finger into the large muscle on his upper arm, then smiled when it did not yield to her assault. "He's a bonny lad, and the first to come knockin' on our door in search of real trainin' in a fair long time."

   "He could be here to deceive us, like the last one who came askin' for trainin'." Burke shuddered as he set the iron kettle on the ground and knelt beside their prize. "I say we throw him out."

   "Faugh! This young man is here to help us, not harm us, ye fool. He'll do just fine. Or have ye forgotten how many moons have passed since our girl came into her twenty-fifth year? She must fulfill her duty and produce a girl-child soon to follow her as the Warrior Trainer, or we'll have failed her mother and all of Scotland."

   Burke released a heavy sigh. "The man who fathers her child should be her choice, Maisie, not ours, and not her mother's." A look of regret settled in his tired gray eyes. "We have manipulated her life for far too long. She deserves the freedom t
ae
make her own decisions."

   "Doona ye have even a wee bit of the Scottish soul in ye? 'Tis not her choice, but her duty to continue the line of trainers as her ancestors did before her. Scotia must submit to this man as 'twas arranged by their parents years ago. And to ensure she takes this lad to her bed, we will help her." She rubbed her gnarled hands together in excitement. "We must plan carefully."