Chapter 19

Chapter 19

Jocelyn didn't catch up with Lachlan until he'd already stopped. She saw Stormcloud waiting by a tree near the entrance to a village, digging at the ground nervously with his hooves as the screaming and the flames assaulted his senses. Lightning reared back, but Jocelyn jumped off the horse's back and made sure she was secured next to Lachlan's horse before she rushed right into the fray.

Horror awaited her as she entered the village. True, unrelenting horror, the kind she had only witnessed in her nightmares. The air was thick with acrid, billowing black clouds of smoke and death as houses and shops and everything in sight was set alight around her. Flames roared and grew, and women and children screamed as men—armored men, Bram's men—cornered them, some with sick grins on their faces. There weren't many men from the village, but the few who were there were brandishing pitchforks and other farming tools in lieu of actual weapons as they tried to protect their homes and families.

She saw a man falling to the sweep of a sword, and the murderer did it so casually he may as well have been taking a sip of water. He turned away from the corpse to leer at the wailing women and children who had just lost the father of the family, and he took a menacing step forward.

And then out of nowhere, a shining sword swung hard, slicing the man down where he stood. He collapsed right in front of the terrified woman who was doing everything she could to shield her children, and she gasped as the soldier fell. She turned, no doubt looking to thank their savior, but Lachlan had already hurried on, his sword drawn, fighting through the men in a desperate bid to get somewhere.

Jocelyn followed, the camouflage of the chaos around her giving her nothing to fear from those men now except for the way they indiscriminately brought destruction and death. She stopped every so often to point a child back to his mother or duck behind a wall to avoid the hungry looks of the murderous men, but her eyes always sought Lachlan, who was fighting through so fiercely that he may as well have been a one man army.

"What are ye doin', lass?" one woman demanded of her in a coarse village accent. "Come! We must escape!"

The woman tugged at her arm, but Jocelyn shrugged her off. "Nay! Go, take the bairns, be safe!"

The woman looked at her like she was mad, but did not argue. No doubt she simply didn't have the time to protest. Jocelyn kept moving deeper into the village, despair growing intense in her heart as she took in the sight around her.

Cottages were burning. Crops were trampled and destroyed. Bodies were still on the ground, and around ten of Bram's men were roving, most obviously taking delight in every bit of destruction. Children were screaming for their mothers and mothers for their children. The stench of death hung over the place like a cloud of horror and ash.

"I'll die first!" one man screamed as a soldier demanded he move out of the way. The soldier took that as permission and slew him where he stood.

Jocelyn didn't sob, though tears tore at her and horror clawed at her chest. Those men, those murderers , would pay, but she could do nothing to them, not now.

Where was Lachlan? She'd lost sight of him in the chaos, and as she hurtled through the smoke and debris, she had to resist calling out his name. The bodies that littered the ground didn't belong only to the villagers, she noticed; several of the dead, maybe ten or twelve, wore Bram's crest on their lapels. Had Lachlan slain them all, or had some of these poor farmers and their wives gotten lucky?

The shrill cry of a frightened child distracted her, and Jocelyn spun around to see a little girl of perhaps five or six sobbing alone in the smoldering ruins of what had perhaps once been a small storage shed. The little girl had a deep gash on her leg, and she was obviously in pain, unable to move.

"Mammy!" the child shrieked. "Mammy!"

Jocelyn hurried over to the child and scooped her up in her arms. "There, there, pet," she murmured, feeling ludicrous for trying to soothe a child in such circumstances. "We'll find yer mammy."

She carried the girl, stumbling as she moved, unsure where to go next—then turned a corner and slammed directly into two of Bram's men.

The men spun to face her, and Jocelyn noted that they were young and almost as surprised by the meeting as Jocelyn was herself. The little girl whimpered and clung tighter to Jocelyn. Jocelyn swallowed. Would this be how it ended then—protecting a child while Bram's men killed her without even realizing who she was? She'd miss her sisters, and she wished she'd seen Blair again. She'd never kiss Lachlan again, nor even see his face.

"Shut that bairn up," one of the young men demanded. "Stop her cryin'."

"I cannae. She's hurt," Jocelyn told him, her voice not even shaking. She didn't want to die, but if she had to, she'd do it here and now, protecting this child, rather than futilely running. "Let us go, and ye'll nae need tae worry about tears."

The other men glanced at the child and swore. "Did one of ours do that?" he demanded, pointing at the wound on the girl's leg. "Jesus Christ. Just a bairn. I cannae be part of this, Charlie. That lassie's the same age as me wee niece."

Jocelyn was startled by that, but carefully schooled her face and body to not react at all. She stood still and quiet, holding the child close, stroking her hair, unsure what was going to happen next.

"God forgive us. And let's hope that accursed bastard callin' himself our Laird leaves our families out of it," Charlie muttered. He looked directly at Jocelyn. "It's yer lucky day, lassie. Take yer bairn an' go."

"What?"

But Charlie wasn't looking at her anymore. He nudged the other man and said, "Come on, Bern, let's get away frae this while we've still got a chance o' atonement for what we've done."

And in front of Jocelyn's eyes, Bern and Charlie, two of Bram's men, dropped their weapons and turned and ran.

Deserters , she thought, but another word came to her mind more strongly. Good men.

Because they'd shown her something at that moment. Every man here may be under Bram's orders, but they all had a choice. They could have chosen to run rather than kill like those two young men had but instead they'd chosen to attack the innocent and claim their consciences were clear.

"I hope Lachlan kills every single one of them," she muttered through gritted teeth. They weren't men, not anymore. They were monsters.

The child whimpered again, and Jocelyn moved to the edge of the village. She'd leave the girl with the horses until she could find Lachlan, and then…

"Isla!" a voice called, and Jocelyn saw a bedraggled woman in a torn dress hurrying to them. "Isla!"

"Mammy!" the child cried, reaching for her.

Jocelyn's heart relaxed a little, and she handed the girl to her mother quickly.

"Ye saved me daughter! Ye?—"

"Never mind that," Jocelyn interrupted quickly. "Take her and go. Some others escaped. Go that way and dinnae stop until ye find them, understood?"

The woman nodded, and with another quick word of thanks, she took her child and ran off. Jocelyn watched until the woman had made it to the outskirts of the village, then turned back, her determination to find Lachlan renewed.

Only around eight or nine of Bram's men remained now, but they were making up for their low numbers with the amount of wanton destruction they were wreaking. Thankfully, they seemed to have moved on from attempting to slaughter the remaining villagers, but were making up for their lack of murder by upping their levels of destruction. They were burning or breaking everything that they could get their hands on, seemingly determined to wipe this entire village from the map.

Why would they do this? It was a small farming village, populated by widows and orphans, soldier's wives and farmer's families. Jocelyn could tell all of that at a glance. What advantage could Bram possibly have attacking a place like this? Did he think he'd find Jocelyn and her sisters here?

Lachlan's words filled her mind again. He'd told her that they were already on McFerguson land—and with that, all the pieces clicked into place. This attack wasn't a search for Jocelyn, Deirdre, and Aoife. No, it was a declaration. Bram was declaring war upon the McFerguson clan, and had chosen to do so by attacking innocents.

Revulsion and guilt rose in Jocelyn's throat as she took in the scene around her. This, all of this, for a prophecy! All of this for a story about some wolf cubs that had no clear meaning!

When would it end? Her father had gone mad with supposed foresight, trying to kill his own nephew. Her uncle, imprisoning his own nieces. And now Bram destroyed his own father and hunted down his own cousins, convinced of a curse that did not exist, a vision that made little sense.

We choose our own fate. That was what Lachlan believed—and more than anything, Jocelyn wanted to believe it as well.

"Lachlan!"

It wasn't Jocelyn who shouted the name, and she whipped her head around, trying to figure out through the smoke who was shouting. There, in the near distance, was Lachlan, battling through to reach a cottage on the far end of the village. One of Bram's men held a torch, ready to set the building aflame. A middle-aged woman came tumbling out of the cottage, holding a young girl of thirteen or so by the wrist. The woman who was shouting Lachlan's name, over and over again.

Jocelyn hurried closer, just in time to see Lachlan's blade swing without hesitation and take down the man who was trying to burn the cottage. The older woman called his name again, and Lachlan paused for just a brief second, glancing toward the woman and the child. Jocelyn was close enough now to see the expression on his face, a million emotions swirling on it at once. Then he turned away, launching himself at two more men who were approaching with their swords drawn.

"Nay!" the girl cried out.

Jocelyn darted forward, hiding behind rubble that had probably been the wall of a cottage just a few hours ago. She watched with equal levels of horror and amazement as Lachlan fought, how he darted between them, using the smoke as cover rather than a hindrance, his sword a blur! How he dodged their blows almost effortlessly, blending in with the terrain and holding them at bay without too much trouble.

Her heart swelled with equal levels of pride and fear as he took down one of the attackers and spun to defend himself from the next. He was holding his own, but he must be tired now. How much longer could he keep this up? She had to do something to help him, but?—

And that was when she saw the third man approaching from behind, a crafty, evil grin on his face, a dagger in his raised hand. The girl and woman both screamed, but Lachlan didn't seem to hear it as the sneaking assassin moved to strike.

Jocelyn didn't think. She pounced out of her hiding place, hurtling forward, and slammed her whole body into the man who had been about to stab Lachlan in the back. She felt the attacker's dagger graze her side as they went tumbling together to the ground and knew she'd probably signed her own death warrant, but right now that didn't matter. All that mattered was that Lachlan had a fair chance.

The man she'd tackled wrestled with her briefly, until suddenly he'd overpowered her. He slammed her to the ground, her head whacking against a rock and leaving her feeling dazed. He knelt over her, both legs on either side of her waist, one strong hand wrapped around her throat. His fingers closed, cutting off her air. Jocelyn struggled under him, desperate for breath,

"Who do ye think ye are, ye wee bitch?" he snarled. With his other hand, he gripped his dagger, brushing it against her skin. "Normally I'd have a wee bit of fun with one as bonnie as ye…but sadly for ye, we dinnae have time for such things."

Jocelyn's vision was spinning, but she saw him raise his dagger high, ready to plunge into her, and she closed her eyes tight. Please, God, at least make it quick, she prayed.

And then there was a loud scream of agony and the weight of the man fell forward onto her. She gasped, and then just as suddenly the body was dragged off hers and she scrambled to her feet. Lachlan stood there over the dead man, his eyes ablaze with fury, and Jocelyn sucked in air which, despite being tainted with smoke and ash, tasted sweeter than ever before.

"Are ye all right?" he demanded roughly, staring down at the body of the man who'd just nearly killed her. "Did he hurt ye?"

"I'm fine," she assured him. Her voice croaked and she knew her throat would hurt for some time, but apart from that and some bruises. She looked him over and noticed he was bleeding in several places, his arm at an odd angle and his face contorted with pain. "Ye're nae, Lachlan!"

"I'm—" he started, but another yell drowned him out.

"Men!" someone barked. "See that lass with the Wraith! It must be one of those wenches our Laird is lookin' for! Get her!"

Suddenly, all seven of the remaining men were approaching at speed, their destruction forgotten in favor of gaining the bounty of Jocelyn.

Lachlan roughly pushed her back, placing himself and his sword in front of her. She stumbled, but didn't fall.

"Lachlan! Ye cannae hope tae take on seven men alone!"

He grunted but said nothing, and then the clash began.

Lachlan fought like the smoke itself, darting to and fro, somehow in every place at once, keeping all seven men at bay for some time. Jocelyn retreated back, finding herself near the woman and the girl, and all three of them watched in fascinated terror as Lachlan became the wind. He managed to down two of them, but he was clearly tiring fast, and the men were relentless.

"Watch out!" Jocelyn cried, but it was too late. A brutal swing of a club by one of them and Lachlan's body crumpled to the ground and didn't move. "Nay. Nay! Lachlan!"

Two of the remaining men, bruised and bloody from the fight, moved forward and grabbed her firmly, dragging her over to the rest of the group. One of them punched her in the guts, and she fell forward onto her knees, wheezing in agony.

"Is this her?" one of them demanded of the others. "Dae ye recognize her?"

Through watering eyes, Jocelyn saw one of the men lean down to examine her. With a start, she realized it was one of the younger lads who'd been tasked with guarding her over the years. He'd tried to flirt with her a few times, and even once brought her some fruit. His name was Barra, she remembered. All that warmth was gone now as he looked at her now, replaced by a cruel, satisfied smile.

"That's the oldest of the little witches," he confirmed. "God kens where the others have gotten tae. God willin' they're in a ditch somewhere."

Someone kicked her then, and when Jocelyn whimpered, it made them all laugh. She gasped for air, refusing to let them hear her sob, even as pained tears gathered in her eyes. She would not give these monsters the satisfaction of seeing her cry.

"Let's get out o' this pathetic place," someone suggested. "We've got the lassie, Bram will be happy enough wi' that."

" Me Laird, ye mean," another reminded him, and they all laughed again, though Jocelyn couldn't see what was so funny. "Better nae forget or ye'll end up goin' the way o' Nils."

Nils? Hugh Nils, the advisor? None of this made any sense. Jocelyn's head was spinning, and her heart felt like it was being torn in two. Lachlan…she had to know what had happened to him. Why hadn't he gotten back up?

As if they'd read her mind, one of Bram's men said, "What of the Wraith? Do we pack him up an' take him as well?"

"A double gift!" another of the men snickered.

Jocelyn lay on her side and managed to concentrate enough to see that the woman and girl had both hurried to Lachlan's side while the men were talking. One of the men took a few steps toward the unmoving man, but the older woman let out a loud, plaintive wail.

"Ye've murdered him, ye monsters!" she cried out. "Me wee lad, me only remainin' lad, he lays here deid at yer feet!"

The men seemed to freeze at this, maybe unable to believe what they were hearing. Could it truly be the case that they'd managed what so many before them had failed to do—managed to down Laird McFerguson's Wraith once and for all?

The woman wailed in deep sorrow once more, and there was no doubting her agony. Jocelyn wanted to scream, too, but bit her lip so tightly she could taste blood in her mouth, coppery and hot. Lachlan, dead? Had he truly fallen trying to save her?

It couldn't be. It couldn't be . If he was dead… if he was dead.

"Let us at least bury him," the young girl said suddenly, surprising them all. "Ye've had yer fill o' death in this village. Ye've got the lassie. Let us at least bury him here."

The men murmured between themselves, but Jocelyn couldn't hear them. A loud buzzing sound filled her ears as she gazed at Lachlan's unmoving body, still and bloody, crumpled like any other corpse. It couldn't be true. He couldn't be gone. Please, God, please let this be a lie, let it be a dream, a nightmare, please…

"Keep him, then," one of the men decided. "For all the good it'll do ye. We have the witch tae confirm our kill tae the Laird, an' besides, once he has her, he'll nae be interested in anythin' else."

There was a general mutter of agreement.

"An' when yer Laird comes by," another of the men told the child and weeping woman, "be sure tae tell him Bram McMillan sends his greetin's, an' a reminder o' what happens if Laird McMillan is crossed."

"What are ye talkin' about? What was worth all this?" the older woman demanded through her sobs.

"Laird McMillan takes what's his," the man who had once been Jocelyn's guard declared. He grabbed her by the hair and pulled her to her feet. "An' he accepts nay defiance. Tell yer Laird that."

Jocelyn felt numb and cold as the men surrounded her. One of them tied her wrists and bound her ankles, throwing her over his shoulder like a sack. She didn't know what to think, what to say, what to do. She had never dreamed it would come to this, never imagined that Lachlan would lay dead while she lived. Here, hanging over this brute's shoulder, she could still make out the image of the woman and girl kneeling over Lachlan's still body.

God above, how could this be true? How could any of it be true?

"Can ye believe it?" the bulky man carrying her asked of one of his companions, sounding disgustingly pleased with himself. "We overcame the Wraith. Just us! So much for the stories o' the killin' machine that cannae be slain."

"I cannae believe he's really deid," one of the men replied, laughing with sickening humor in his tone as they all began to stroll toward the edge of the village as though they hadn't just destroyed countless lives and livelihoods. "I suppose even legends can die if ye hit them hard enough."

This caused another ripple of laughter among the monsters pretending to be men. Jocelyn understood now why Bram had chosen them for his service. Disgusting, each one. As she was carried away, her eyes stayed trained on Lachlan's body, and she wondered if he could hear the apologies and pleas she was screaming in her head.

Could this really be it? Was it really all over, after so much effort, so much work? When they were so close to the end? Had they lost everything after coming so far?

She watched as the older woman and the girl gathered the body, obviously intending to take it inside of the house. And then, to her astonishment, the girl caught her eye, winked, and mouthed two words to her that only she could see.

Those two words changed everything. Jocelyn came thudding back down into reality, the pain and fuzziness sloughing away in an instant, and everything around her became crystal clear. She remained silent, not reacting out loud, not allowing her emotions to get the better of her as she was carried like a sack out of the smoldering village. She did not speak or react as they threw her roughly to the ground outside of the village in front of a group of their horses and started a discussion amongst themselves.

That girl, whoever she was, had given Jocelyn a greater gift than she knew with those two words. She'd given her clarity, given her a reason to keep moving, and made her realize one thing for sure; she was not done, not yet, no matter what these men did to her. This was her story, and it was still being written, not dictated by these monsters.

Just two words which had changed the entire world, two words which had given Jocelyn hope again. For that young woman, whoever she was, had met Jocelyn's eyes and told her the only thing she needed to hear at that moment:

He lives.