Were those the echoes of voices somewhere outside?
Amber opened her eyes. Light came from a single torch in a sconce on the far side of the space. Real fire, no electricity.
Hmm.
She pushed herself up and sat. Sìneag was nowhere to be seen.
“’Tis ancient Pictish magic. It opens a tunnel through time.”
Yeah, right. Pictish magic my ass. Though, she had experienced the strangest sensation of falling through the stone. But that could have been anything. Maybe Sìneag had hypnotized her or something.
Good news was there were no police here.
Amber looked around, and her body chilled. Thanks to the light, she could see she was in a large space that looked like a cave. It had rough stone walls and a vault-like ceiling. Wooden planks, crates, barrels, and sacks were lined along the walls. The floor was a mixture of rough rock and earth. Was it the same floor she and Sìneag had sat on in complete darkness?
The allegedly magical rock lay by her side. It wasn’t glowing now. Should she try to touch it again? No. The disorientating sensation of falling through a stone still pulled at her gut.
She stood up and looked around. The torch illuminated a massive door that looked more like a gate, with heavy iron hardware and hinges. Well, that was weird. She was pretty sure there’d been no doors of any kind under the ruins.
Weird but interesting. Amber had always loved adventure novels and stories, and she felt like she was in the middle of one—a terrifying one—now. She knew it might be dangerous to venture out, but she couldn’t cower down here forever. How long had she even been here?
She’d be careful, of course, and watch for the police, but so far, there was no sign of them. She walked slowly towards the door, her shoes thumping quietly against the ground. The door smelled faintly of tar and iron. She stood and listened at the door, but no sounds came from the other side. She gripped the heavy, round handle, as big as a saucer, and its coldness burned her skin. She pulled it, and the heavy door moved.
She peered in the slit that formed between the door and the frame. It was another storeroom with more casks, barrels, crates, and sacks, all illuminated by several torches. Stairs lead to the upper floor. The room was round, its walls were solid and made of rock and mortar.
The stairs had just been ruins before, but they looked almost new now.
What the hell was going on? Had Sìneag’s words been true? Had Amber fallen through time to when the castle was still whole…seven hundred years ago?
No, that was crazy.
She had to get out of here before she started believing in fairies and magic toadstools. Climbing the stairs, she noticed how solid the smooth stones were under her feet.
She opened yet another door and froze, stunned.
No ruins, crumbling rocks, or darkness. Like the one downstairs, this room was round and illuminated by five torches. Another flight of circular stairs led somewhere up. Along the walls were swords, shields, bows, and arrows, as well as leather armor and chain mail. This room smelled acrid, like animal fat, and iron, and…blood? Shadows cast by the torches danced like the teeth of a giant dragon. The small hairs on the back of Amber’s neck stood.
As though hypnotized, she walked towards the heavy door and became aware of voices, grunts, and the clash of metal on the other side.
She laid her hand on the massive handle. Don’t do it, a logical, careful part of her screamed.
But she’d already pulled at the handle, and the door moved. She stepped back to let it open and walked out. Cool air brushed against her heated cheeks. The scent of blood and spilled guts hit her.
What did I get myself into this time?
The castle wasn’t in ruins anymore. It stood whole. The towers rose high into the sky, not crumbled stumps anymore. The courtyard was a battlefield. Men in armor swung swords at one another, hacking flesh, piercing bones. Some fell, wounded or dead. The ground was saturated with blood. The gates were busted open.
RUN!!!
A man in armor stared right at her, his face distorted in a grimace of surprise and battle rage. He lifted his sword and launched straight at her.
Chapter 3
Owen slashed a warrior’s neck, turned, and cut through another man’s side. Battle rage took him, turning him into a whirling, cutting, thrusting being.
But no matter how many warriors he killed, more were coming. There was no end. His ears filled with the cries, groans, and ringing of metal against metal. His breath loud, his muscles taut with the strain, he kicked, and fought, and wet the ground with enemy blood.
And then he stopped in his tracks. By the eastern tower, someone fought an English warrior with no weapon.
A woman?
Owen ran closer, wiping his eyes from sweat to make sure he was seeing it right. She had kicked the man’s sword from his hands and used her legs and arms in an elegant, graceful way he’d never seen before. She whirled and kicked her boot into the man’s face, and he fell backward. He propped himself on one elbow and reached for his sword, but she stepped on his arm. She leaned down and delivered a punch like a battle-hardened warrior. The Englishman fell back and lay still.
She straightened and looked around, and all breath left Owen’s body. She looked like she came from another world. She was tall and graceful in a predatory way, but big eyes were wide. Her voluminous hair fell in small curls around her face, making her also look innocent. Her skin was dark, the color of brown honey, and she was so beautiful it hurt to look at her. He’d never seen anyone who looked like her…
But he didn’t have time to dwell on it.
A familiar face flashed in his peripheral vision. Kenneth Mackenzie was down on one knee, holding his stomach as a giant English knight raised his blade for a deathly blow.
“Arrrghhh!!!” Owen darted forward and smashed into the knight. He pulled out his dagger and stabbed the Englishman through the slit on his helmet. The man fell in a heap of metal and flesh.
Kenneth lay on the ground with his hands clutching his stomach. Owen sank to his knees by his side. He’d seen enough injuries to know the gaping, bleeding wound was fatal.
If only he hadn’t been distracted by the woman, maybe he could have saved Kenneth.
“Cambel,” Kenneth whispered. “Good. Ye’re here. No one is more qualified than ye to take charge now. Save Inverlochy.”
Owen swallowed hard.
“Ye dinna ken what ye’re talking about,” he rasped. “I canna—”
Owen’s chest tightened. He couldn’t make this wish come true, no matter how much he’d wanted to. He was the worst man to trust with responsibility.
“Surely someone else can,” Owen said. “Someone from yer clan… Angus? Or Raghnall?”
“If nae ye, ’tis lost.” Kenneth closed his eyes briefly. “No time. My sword, Owen. I wish to die with my sword in my hands.”
“Aye…”
That, he could do. Pain tore the back of his throat as he found the blade and put Kenneth’s bloody hands around the hilt.
Kenneth looked at him. “For freedom. For Scotland. For me. Show them…”
His words trailed off, and he stilled. The vein on his neck stopped pulsing, and his eyes glazed over.
Owen crossed himself and lowered his head. Kenneth’s death was on his hands. If he hadn’t allowed himself to get distracted by that beautiful woman… What was she doing here in the middle of a battle? She didn’t belong here.