The Ranger Read online

  Fourteen years was a long time, but he still remembered it as if it were yesterday. At twelve, he’d been desperate to impress the man who seemed like a king to him.

  He could still remember the way the sun had caught his father’s mail in a halo of silvery light as Cailean Mor, the Great Colin, gathered his guardsmen in the barmkin of Innis Chonnel Castle, readying for battle.

  He’d looked down at the son who most of the time he tried to ignore. “He’s too small; he’ll only get himself killed.”

  Arthur started to say something in his own defense, but Neil cut him off with a glance. “Let him come, Father—he’s old enough.”

  Arthur felt his father’s gaze fall on him and tried not to shuffle under the weight of his scrutiny, but in all of his twelve years he’d never felt so lacking. Small for his size. Skinny. Weak. And on top of it, unnatural.

  I’m not a freak. But in his father’s eyes, that’s what he saw.

  “He can barely lift a sword,” his father said.

  The shame in his voice cut like a knife. Arthur could see what he was thinking: How could this odd, puny whelp of a lad be of my blood? Blood that had forged some of the fiercest, toughest warriors in all the Highlands. Campbells were born warriors.

  Except for him.

  “I’ll watch over him,” Neil said, putting his hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Besides, maybe he can be of help.”

  His father frowned, not liking the reminder of Arthur’s strange abilities, but nodded. The hint of possibility in his gaze gave Arthur hope. “Just make sure he doesn’t get in the way.”

  Arthur had been so excited, he’d barely been able to contain himself. Maybe this was his chance. Maybe he’d finally be able to prove to his father that his skills could be of use, as Neil said.

  But it didn’t work out that way. He was too nervous. Too excited. Pressing too hard and wanting it too much. And too damned emotional. His senses weren’t responding the way they usually did.

  They were nearing the border of Campbell and MacDougall territory, having just passed the eastern edge of Loch Avich approaching the string of Lorn—the old route through the hills of Lorn used by drovers and pilgrims on their way to Iona. He and Neil had ridden ahead with the scout, anticipating a surprise attack by their enemies along the narrow pass.

  They rode over a ford in a small burn and stopped near Loch na Sreinge. “Do you feel anything yet?” Neil asked.

  Arthur shook his head, his heart pounding fiercely in his chest and sweat beading on his brow as he tried to force his senses to sharpen. But it was his first battle, and now that the excitement had worn off, fear and anxiety had invaded. “Nay.”

  Then they heard it. Behind them, not fifty yards away on the other side of the forested hillside. The sounds of an attack.

  Neil swore and ordered him behind a tree. “Stay here. Don’t move until I come for you.”

  To his horror, Arthur’s eyes filled with tears, only adding to his self-loathing. How could he have failed? How could he not have sensed them? This was all his fault. He’d been given a chance to prove himself—to show his skills—and instead he’d let the one person who believed in him down. “I’m sorry, Neil.”

  His brother gave him an encouraging smile. “It’s not your fault, lad. This was only your first time out. It’ll be better next time.”

  His brother’s faith in him only made it worse.

  He wanted to go after them, but his father was right, he would only get in the way.

  It seemed like hours before the sounds of battle began to fade, and still Neil hadn’t come for him. Fearing that something might have happened to his brother, Arthur couldn’t wait any longer. He carefully crept through the trees, making his way toward the battle.

  Suddenly, he came to a stop. The senses that had so deserted him flared to life.

  The clash of steel on steel seemed to be all around him—indiscernible, but something made him turn to the left. He felt a flash of panic and started to run toward the sound. His sword dragged through the leaves and dirt, and he struggled not to stumble as he wound through the trees and scrambled up a small rise, taking refuge behind a large boulder.

  Then he saw them. Two men, a short distance from the rest, hidden from view by the bend of the hillside, were waging a fierce sword battle at the base of a small waterfall. It was his father and a man he’d seen only once before from a distance: their enemy, John MacDougall, Lord of Lorn, the MacDougall chief’s son.

  Arthur held his breath, watching as the two men, both in the prime of manhood, exchanged blow after powerful blow. When it seemed it couldn’t go on much longer, his father swung his sword with both hands over his head and sent it crashing down on his opponent. Arthur nearly cried out with relief, seeing Lorn sent to his knees by the force of the blow, his sword ripped from his hands.

  Arthur’s blood froze with fear. He knew he was about to see his first death on the battlefield. He wanted to shield his eyes, but he found himself unable to turn away. It was as if he knew that something important was about to happen.

  The sun flashed off Lorn’s steel helm. His father lifted his sword. But instead of a death knell, he rested the point on Lorn’s neck.

  The men were too far away. The waterfall should have drowned out their voices. He shouldn’t be able to hear them. But he could.

  “The battle is over,” his father said. “Call off your men; the Campbells have won the day.” Arthur glanced at the other side of the bend, near the ford in the burn, and saw that his father spoke true. The bodies of their enemy littered the grass along the bank of the burn, turning the stream red with blood. “Surrender,” his father ordered, “and I will let you live.”

  Behind his nasal helm, Arthur could see Lorn’s eyes burning with hatred. His mouth was twisted with rage. It took him a long time, but eventually he nodded. “Aye.”

  The Campbells had won! Arthur was filled with pride. His father was the greatest warrior he’d ever seen.

  Great Colin lowered his sword and started to walk away.

  Arthur felt a flicker of premonition, but his cry of warning was too late. His father turned around, only in time to have the blade of John of Lorn’s dirk find his stomach instead of his back.

  He froze in stunned horror as his father’s eyes found his from his hiding place behind the boulder. His father staggered, fell to his knees, and in harrowing slowness the lifeblood drained out of him. His father’s gaze held his the entire time, and in it Arthur read his silent plea: Avenge me.

  Lorn shouted, and a few of his men came around the bend to answer his call. Seeing the mighty Campbell chief fallen at their leader’s feet, they let out a fierce battle cry of victory. Lorn pointed to the hillside in Arthur’s direction. Arthur knew he couldn’t see him, but Lorn must have heard the cry that had alerted his father. When they started to come toward him, Arthur turned and ran.

  He didn’t remember much of what happened afterward. He’d hid in the trees and rocks for nearly a week, too terrified to move. When he’d finally made his way back to the castle, Neil said he was half-dead. Arthur told his brother immediately what had happened, but by then it was too late to counter the MacDougalls’ version of events. Even if it could be explained how he’d heard the men from so far away, Neil knew that Arthur would not be believed. The MacDougalls had won the day, with Lorn taking credit for defeating the powerful Campbell chief.

  Not long afterward, Lorn laid siege to Innis Chonnel and the Campbells had been forced to surrender.

  From that day, Arthur had vowed justice for his father. Vowed to destroy MacDougall for the treacherous murder. Vowed to never let emotion get the better of him.

  For fourteen years he’d bided his time, working to become one of the greatest warriors in the Highlands—a warrior his father would have been proud of—and now he had his chance. He couldn’t let anything interfere. He had to stay focused.

  He’d failed his father once—his senses had let him down—and he would not do so again.