Ciaran stumbled a few steps. “Bogles and the fae? Really?” They were being shot at by alien technology and Boyd was worried about bogles?
“Aye! Ye said yeself these woods are haunted.” Boyd was slowing down.
“I lied.” Ciaran stopped, turned, and planted his shoulder in Boyd’s gut to lift him.
Boyd grunted and let out a string of curses. “Lad, when this is over, I’m gonna kick ye in the arse fer this indignity.”
“Ye are more than welcome tae try. We have nae time fer ye tae make it on ye own.” Ciaran kept going, despite Boyd’s cursing. When he made it to the horses, he set Boyd on his feet next to Ciaran’s horse. “Take Horace; he kens these woods. He’ll take ye straight tae the castle. Ye will come out in back of my aunt’s cottage. Keep going and follow the wall around tae the barbican. The guards should recognize Horace, but in case, take this.” Ciaran took off the brooch at his shoulder with his seal. As firstborn and heir, it had his unique sigil in the bottom left of his family crest. “Tell them tae send the signal when they get in position. God speed!”
Boyd mounted Horace, swinging his injured leg over the saddle. “Hold them till I get back, lad.”
“Aye!” Ciaran swatted his trusted horse on the rump. “Go home, Horace.”
Horace took off through the forest, and Ciaran made his way back to Patrick, Ram, and Grant. He ducked low, avoiding the beams of light, and positioned himself behind his tree. The sun had made its way past the horizon, bringing on full dark.
The combatants were closer now, their shots coming strangely near the trees Ciaran and his companions were behind, as if they could see more clearly in the dark. Which was impossible. There was even a low fog concealing them. Several of them littered the field in front of the woods, thanks to Grant. There must be a dozen now. They had the advantage for the moment, but Ciaran hoped like hell his father made it back before Grant ran out of arrows.
They continued like that for what felt like hours. The men advanced, Grant shot a few, and they retreated to try again. Then came the word they’d been dreading.
“Out,” Grant said softly so only they could hear.
If I survive this, I’m carrying a bow and some arrows with me at all times. Ciaran wasn’t the archer Grant was, but he wasn’t terrible either.
The next time the men moved forward, a knife from Patrick hit one of them in the shoulder.
With his heart in his throat, Ciaran rested his sword against the tree and pulled the dagger from his boot. As he took aim, a loud whistle pierced the air, echoing through the mountains and the forest.
Angus! No one whistled as loud as his father’s second-in-command. Relief slammed into Ciaran as metal shields glinted in the moonlight and the MacKays came around the bend.
The enemy stopped and turned just as arrows flew, taking them out from behind. They fired at the new threat, and a few horsemen fell, but they were outnumbered. Father had brought at least a hundred men. It made Ciaran proud to be a MacKay.
The stench of charred flesh filled the air. War cries echoed through the night, competing with wails of pain. Patrick was the first out of the woods, his sword arching high, but Ciaran followed right behind him and took down four men before the enemy began to retreat, abandoning their fallen comrades.
When they cleared the battlefield, victory shouts filled the air. Then chaos reigned as the MacKays chased them down.
Torches were lit, and they surveyed the damage. In the distance a loud whirling noise drew everyone’s attention. It sounded like thunder and high winds all rolled into one. Like a tornado.
“What the devil?” Ciaran stepped up next to Patrick.
“A ship.” Patrick pulled his sword from a man’s gut.
It didn’t sound like any ship Ciaran had ever heard, but he knew what Patrick meant. It was a ship from Patrick’s world, not theirs. A ship that used air instead of water.
The sound boomed, and then bright lights flooded the area. A large rectangular shape rose into the air, making the lights shine down on them like daytime. Then just as quickly as it had appeared, it disappeared. It was faster than anything Ciaran had ever seen, and within seconds it was through the clouds, leaving the area dark and them blinded.
Next to him, Patrick reached down and picked up something.
Ram drew close to them, his hand still shielding his eyes even though the light was gone.
“Ciaran!”
The anguish in the deep voice made Ciaran snap to attention, turning and searching for the voice. He sensed the sadness around him and the sudden quiet. When his eyes could focus, he spotted Angus MacKay kneeling on the ground over someone only fifteen feet away from them.
Anguish ripped through Ciaran, tearing him apart and throwing him back together. It was his father. He knew it was, without even seeing the face. He took off running, and it was the longest fifteen feet he’d ever traveled. Pain pierced his chest as though he’d been run through with a sword, but the words would not come. Even as his knees hit the ground next to his father, he could not speak. It was as though everything around him froze. He stared down at his father, brushing the black hair off his face and revealing the high cheekbones.
His skin was still warm, but there was no life in those open brown eyes.
The contents of Ciaran’s stomach threatened to spill forth, but he held it back. He grabbed his father’s hand, still wrapped around his sword, and stared down at the charred hole in his father’s chest. This was his fault. He should have never called for his father’s help. He’d come to see his family, his clan. He’d wanted to tell his father all about his training, but now… now he’d never be able to, and he felt lost.
His clan had gathered around. He sensed them rather than saw them, but he knew they were there. It was quiet, so quiet he could hear Ram sniffling behind him.
Tears streaked Angus’s face in front of him.
Patrick rested his hand on his shoulder.
Ciaran sat there, holding his father’s hand, feeling more alone than he’d ever been by himself. They all stared at him, expecting him to cry, to yell, something, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t do anything. He didn’t know how. Finally, he forced himself to do what was expected. Releasing his father’s hand, he picked up his father’s sword, taking on more than the title of chieftain—he took on vengeance. “Whoever did this will pay.”
CHAPTER ONE
“Are we there yet?”
—Timothy on space travel.
May 25, 4831: The Lady Anna, Intergalactic Navy destroyer, under the command of Captain Brittani Kindros
So help him, if Percy Edmonstone said one more word about his brother and brother-in-law, Bannon was going to plant him a facer. Or perhaps he should take it up with his father for banishing him in the first place. Going to Englor for a few months was one thing, but ending up trapped on a destroyer with the ton’s darling was cruel and unusual punishment.
If he made it to Englor without being thrown in the stockade—or whatever the jail was called on an IN destroyer—for murder, it’d be a miracle.
Actually, destroyer jail might not be a bad idea. I wouldn’t have to deal with anyone. I could just draw.
Bannon groaned at the thought and steadied the tea tray he carried. Leave it to Timothy to find a bright side. His muse was annoyingly perky sometimes. Gritting his teeth, he stormed out of the mess deck and nearly slammed into a group of sailors going in. The top of his teapot rattled, the cups fell off the saucers, and the biscuits slid off the plate.