Chapter 16

Chapter

Sixteen

A ltair bit his lower lip as Berenson helped him sit up. It was no good. A groan of pain escaped his gritted teeth.

"I have to tighten the bandage, Laird. It's the only way ye'll be able to move." Altair was built like a strapping man in the prime of his life; he was no easy weight to bear. His manservant heaved and grunted as Berenson bore the burden of hoisting Laird Sterling into a sitting position. The bandage was adjusted to try and provide more mobility, but the shoulder blade and winged trapezius muscle were too badly injured.

Falling back onto the bolster, Altair gasped. "I'll fight left-handed. Leave it."

Berenson grumbled. "The Donaldsson lad is sure to carry a shield, Laird. If ye're using yer shield arm to fight with, where will yer shield go?" The steward tried to phrase his words diplomatically. "Because it looks like ye'll need to use a shield going forward."

Giving a wheezing huff of laughter, Altair shook his head, sweating and exhausted. "I think that is the last of me worries. And that healer is gone, so nay woman can help me with a potion. I'm a dead man at last, Berenson."

This gave the steward an idea. "The Donaldssons have released the women and children from captivity, Laird, just as ye requested. Maybe one o' the village folk kens how to brew an elixir for pain. Or they might have a flask obtained from Healer Agnes."

Ducking out of the makeshift pavilion set aside for Altair's use, Berenson disappeared for a long time. He returned later with good news.

"One o' the women bought a wee vial from Agnes before she upped sticks and left." Waving a small clay bottle with a cork stopper in front of Altair, Berenson grinned. "See? I'll have ye right and tight in a trice."

In no mood to celebrate, Altair shook his head. "I need me wits aboot me when the time comes around for the duel. I cannae have me head befuddled with syrup o' poppies."

Berenson crowed with triumph. "Ha! It goes in the wound, nae in yer mouth, Laird! Come on. Sit up, and let's be having ye!"

Only moments later, the wound was unwrapped and exposed. The bolt had been cut and withdrawn, but the hole it had made in Altair's shoulder was formidable. The entry wound next to his collarbone was inflamed and weeping. The exit hole gaped like a dragon's maw with shards of bone and muscle tissue embedded in the skin flaps.

But Agnes's potion must have held some magic, because when Berenson poured a few drops into the holes at the front and back, Altair felt relief. Flopping back, he fell into a restless sleep with a frown marring his handsome face. Laird Redmond stuck his head into the pavilion past dinnertime. "How goes he? Can I call for the field to be marked out with rope and flags?"

The steward scowled. "Take a look for yerself. The Laird is as weak as a kitten."

Redmond pretended to be somber from the news, but secretly he was ecstatic. The fame of the Donaldsson clan would spread far and wide once it was known Ethelred had slain one of the Eternal Brethren. "That's too bad, but I cannae hang aboot all day, like."

"We will take one more night before we fight!" Berenson stood staunch. "Yer son shot us under the white flag, Laird. I think that deserves one more night, do ye nae?"

Redmond narrowed his eyes. "If I didnae ken how loathed yon Laird was throughoot the region, I might think ye had a trick up yer sleeve. But nay one is coming to his rescue, so ye can take one more night. But first thing tomorrow, we fight! No more excuses."

Turning on his heel, Laird Redmond left the tent flap open. Lying on his makeshift bed, Altair groaned in his sleep as if nightmares pursued him. A fever gripped him, sapping his strength and weakening his defenses. Sighing, Berenson went to fetch water to bathe the laird's forehead. There would be no more peaceful healing sleeps for Laird Altair Sterling ever again, not in this lifetime at least.

Climbing down the mountain was not so easy. Firstly, the lad refused to leave right away. "Only a giant could hop and skip up an' doon beinn na h'Iolaire, Damsel. I must rest a wee bit and have a sup before returning."

And so Laura was forced to twiddle her thumbs impatiently for the rest of the day until the small boy had recovered his strength. But he had another excuse. "We'll miss oor footing if we travel by night, Damsel. Wake me at dawn."

Mistress Berenson chuckled. "The lad is none too keen to go back doon to Iolaire, not when the place is heaving with invaders."

Wringing her hands with impatience, Laura railed against the delay. "I must save Altair. I no longer care what I have to sacrifice to do it!"

The eastern sky was still black when Laura shook the lad awake. "Come, bestir yourself, boy. Let's be off."

Knowing that he could no longer postpone his comfortable stay at the fortress, the lad knuckled the sleep from his eyes. "Aye, Damsel. And I'll warrant there's nae need for me to fill me water bottle either!"

When they walked into the courtyard, the sky was leaden with rain. "That's likely to make the rocks really slippery," the lad said, "so we must stick to the path where we can."

The torrential rain made their gloomy descent treacherous. Laura's dainty boots had been made for coach travel in mind. The heels kept losing traction on the stones and skidding her forward. If she lost balance, Laura would have tumbled down the mountain head first. The dawn brought no sun peeking through the clouds, and the rain did not let up. But for some reason, Laura's heart was lighter. She was moving in the right direction. She was getting closer to Altair with every sliding step.

The pine forest was hidden by the mizzling rain. Laura could not help giving a small scream when a tall, dark shape loomed out at them from the mist.

"‘Tis only a tree, Damsel," the lad told her, looking at her with a puzzled expression. All Laura could do was give a nervous laugh before wrapping her arisaid over her cloak more tightly.

"When I was last down this way, boy, these roads were swarming with bandits."

"Aye," the boy shrugged, "but they must have moved away to find richer pickings."

Laura scoffed. "No, they did not. Your Laird killed most of them and the rest ran away. Did you not know that?"

His eyes wide, the boy shook his head. "We saw the eagles circling the rocks, but we thought it was curiosity. One o' the villagers said the birds were feasting on carrion, but we dinnae believe them."

Laura laughed. "Laird Sterling takes better care of you than you could know?—"

"Wheesht!" the boy held up his hand for silence. They were past the pine trees now, tramping along the mountain pass road that meandered around the mountain. The silence was muffled by the constant drone of rain. But above it all came the sound of a horseman riding purposefully towards them.

"Looks like ye spoke too soon aboot the mountain being free of brigands, Damsel," the boy whispered to Laura as they ran to the side of the road and crouched behind a large rock.

Almost too scared to watch who was coming, Laura pulled her hood down low before daring to look. The horse sounded tired, the steady clop-clop of hooves marked a weary walking pace. It might have been faster for the rider to dismount and lead the horse instead.

A dark shape of a horse moved slowly out of the thick mist. In the saddle, a rider sat hunched. The rider did not look intimidating, but one could never be too sure. Laura's eyes narrowed with concentration as she searched for some sign of a sword or other dangerous weapon, but she saw none.

And then the rider hunched forward, contracting in on itself as the muscles prepared for action.

" Att-chooo !" A mighty sneeze rocked the figure as the man's limbs shot out from the pressure of the wet nasal blast.

"Father!" Jumping out from behind the rock, Laura launched herself at the horse and rider. "I would recognize that sneeze anywhere."

And when the rider pulled the hood of his cloak back, it was indeed Sir Morecambe Raleigh sitting atop his weary horse. After blowing his red nose into a lace handkerchief with a gentle toot, he slid out of the saddle and gave his daughter a loving hug.

"Laura! You little minx. Did I not warn you to keep that stubbornly independent nature of yours hidden away?"

Altair gave his faithful steward a rueful grin. "Let's get this over and done with then, shall we?"

Berenson did not like the tone of his master's voice. "Where there's life, there's hope, Laird! And dinnae ye say anything different."

Moving the elbow of his left arm around in a circle, Altair winced. "Och, I'll give it me best shot. I'm nae meat for the crows yet."

"Ye're the finest fighter in the Highlands!" Berenson insisted. "Those soft coastal folk are nay match for ye, Laird. Oor clan is well hard, like the mountain."

Darting a glance out of the pavilion door flaps, Altair grimaced and shook his head. "I dinnae ken, Berenson. Yon Donaldsson lad looks like he's built as strong as a latrine wall. If he gives this right shoulder o' mine a good buffet, the pain is likely to send me to me last prayers." Looking back over his shoulder at the steward, Altair became serious. "Promise me that ye will take the road south. Laura must ken if I am dead, and tell her that I died happy, Berenson. Ye must tell her that. I am happy because she came into me sorrowful, lonely life and brought me joy."

The steward clucked his tongue. "Awa' wi' ye! I will nae need to travel south because ye're nay going to die."

All Altair said by way of a reply was to shake his head. Berenson had strapped the laird's arm against his chest. That was the only way Altair could function well enough to fight. If his right arm moved in any way, the pain would become overwhelming, so it had been wrapped tightly to his chest along with the bandages that held the wounded shoulder. He felt weirdly off-balance with only his left arm free.

The moment the eastern sky began to turn a lighter shade of gray, the Donaldsson's encampment arose. The village women scrambled to serve the invaders food to break their fast. The sound of spoons scraping the bottom of bowls rang around the village square as the men came out of cottages and huddled under canopies to keep out of the rain.

"Will ye nae eat, Laird?" Berenson's tone was wheedling. "I can fetch ye some porridge."

But Altair only scoffed, continuing to stare out of the tent flap. His face was icy pale, making the yellow-amber of his eyes stand out starkly in contrast.

Redmond Donaldsson was stomping towards him. "It's braw Highland weather for ye, Sterling."

"Aye," Altair replied in a neutral voice. "Too bad I'm nay feeling so braw meself."

The two men locked eyes. "Seems like a good day to die." Redmond wanted Altair to resign himself to the inevitable. "And by all accounts, ye've lived many long years."

"Lived?" Altair chuckled sardonically, "Nay. I existed in some kind of a limbo. That is all. Life is nothing withoot love."

"There's many a man who has drunk, brawled, and tupped his way around a brothel who would tell ye different, Sterling," Laird Redmond scoffed.

Not bothering to contradict him, Altair held his left hand out towards Berenson. "Let's get this over and done with, shall we?"

The servant placed a sword in Altair's hand. Blinking his eyes as the raindrops collected on the dark lashes, the Laird of beinn na h'Iolaire walked steadily into the ring.

A rumbling sound was heard as all the village men ran to one side of the guildhall and fought for a prime position to watch the duel through the narrow, barred windows. Many of the womenfolk retreated into their cottages, calling for their children to come away and to not watch the destruction of the injured man.

But a few of the older boys stayed to watch. "It'll be something to tell oor grandchildren one day—that we were there when the last Eternal Highlander died."

The two men were fighting on cobblestones in the market square. It was the only part of the village unaffected by mud. The rain was relentless, beating down on Altair in a deluge. Laird Redmond had his forehead pressed against his son's as he whispered the last words of a tutorial to him. Ethelred was hardly listening. His breath was coming in bullish snorts as the bloodlust rose inside him.

Finally, bashing his sword against his shield, the laird's son and heir trotted into the ring.

" Raaargh !" Ethelred roared, pacing from one side of the square ring to the other, never taking his eyes off Altair. "Today ye die, Sterling."

It seemed as though the young man spoke the truth. The Laird of beinn na h'Iolaire looked wretched. His dark hair was plastered to his pale skin. Only his eyes blazed forth with a steady gaze, clear as a fiery beacon on a pitch-black night. Straightening his shoulders and wincing, Altair drew himself up to his full height and brandished the broadsword in his left hand.

"Let's be having ye, Ethelred."

The two foes were polar opposites. One so tall, dark, and muscular, the other blond, squat, and portly around the middle. There was no doubt it would be an even match because of Altair's injury.

The Laird turned sideways, presenting his left, uninjured side to Ethelred. The point of his sword hung down in the mud.

Giving another wailing battle cry, Ethelred launched himself towards Altair, his sword swung back for a sweeping blow.

But the blow never landed. With lightning fast reflexes and astonishing agility, Altair ducked under the scything arc of the sword stroke, an action that brought him behind Ethelred. It happened so quickly that the Donaldsson clan were still cheering before they realized that it had gone horribly wrong. Lunging forward, Altair brought his left arm around Ethelred's neck so that the blade near the hilt settled comfortably over the pulsing artery in the young man's throat.

"Drop yer blade, lad."