Page 17 of Highlander Redeemed (Guardians of the Targe #3)
Duncan’s stomach chose that instant to growl, breaking the solemn moment. Scotia snorted, and quirked one finely arched eyebrow at him. “Perhaps we can think about the present, too.” She hooked her arm through his and pulled him along. “At least until have we have supped!”
T HE NEXT MORNING Duncan followed Scotia just far enough to find where she had left the trail for her daily task of disguising her destination with a circuitous, hard even for Duncan to follow, route.
He looked around to make sure no one would see as he slipped silently into the thick wood on the opposite side of the trail and waited, hidden by the bracken, just long enough to determine that no one followed either of them.
Once he was sure, he headed through the wood, taking care that no one could easily follow him, either, and before long came to the training area in the bottom of the glen where either Malcolm or Uilliam drilled the lads each day .
Two of Malcolm’s kin were there, sparring with such determination that the clash of sword on shield and the clang of sword on sword rang out through the clearing as if there were many more warriors battling.
They did not seem to notice Duncan as he made his way over to a cone-shaped tent where the practice weapons were stored.
He pulled a flap up, grabbed one of the wooden swords that was weighted with bits of lead wrapped in bands around the “blade” and pommel to better simulate the heft of a real sword.
Scotia needed to strengthen her arm and her grip, and her sticks were not ever going to do that.
Her reaction to not becoming a Guardian yesterday had convinced him that she was ready to move forward in her training. She recognized the strength of her emotions and took action to manage them before she loosed her temper on anyone. ’Twas quite a milestone for the lass.
Of course he knew she would greet the practice weapon with a grin, or a smile, or a teasing comment, and he had to admit that was as much motivation for him rewarding her with the wooden weapon as were the needs of her training.
He left the training ground as if he had nowhere particular to be, then slipped back into the wood, took more time than he wanted to cover his trail, and finally arrived in the tiny open area in the forest where Scotia kept her weapons.
He held the practice sword behind his back as he stepped from between two large oaks.
“There you are,” she said without even turning to see him.
She finished the drill he had her start each day with, a drill that was complicated enough to demand her complete attention and which allowed no room for wandering thoughts.
“I thought perhaps you had returned to your sleeping blankets,” she said as she held the final position for just long enough to check that her feet were where they should be, another thing he had her do at the end of every drill and exercise.
He said nothing, letting her complete this warm-up.
She turned, and a look of surprise lit her face, her dark brows arched like bird’s wings over her sparkling eyes .
“What are you about?” she asked, closing the short distance between them. “What have you behind your back?”
He slowly pulled the wooden sword from behind him, then held it out to her, hilt first. She looked from it to him and back to the weapon.
“This is for me?” she asked.
“Nay, ’tis for wee Ian,” he replied. “Do you think he will like it?” He tried to hold his smile in, but could not. “Take it, Scotia. You have earned it.”
She tossed her stick into the wood, then wrapped her hand around the handle, lifting it from his hands. She immediately went into a fighting stance, moved through one drill, then another.
“Raise your arm,” he said as she moved into a third. “You must increase your strength in order to keep the sword up where it will best serve you.”
She did as he said, moving into a fourth and fifth drill before dropping her arm and letting the sword tip rest on the ground. She turned to face him, a huge grin on her face.
“’Tis very different than fighting with a stick.”
“Aye.”
“Heavier, so it moves differently. I move differently with it.”
“Yet your body kens the movements, so you do not have to focus on your feet, or whether ’tis a parry or a thrust that comes next. Now you can strengthen your arm, your back, your ...” He patted his stomach with his hand.
“And when I do that, I will get a real sword, aye? Then I will be ready to go into battle, to kill my first Sassenach.” She lifted the practice sword and made as if to stab a man in the stomach, twisting her sword and lifting upward, to gut him.
She spun and widened her eyes at him, clearly asking him what he thought of that.
The look of gleeful expectation saddened but did not surprise him.
“You will get a real sword when I deem you prepared, physically and mentally, for battle, Scotia. I do not think you understand the brutality of battle, the blood, the stench, the noise, and the harsh necessity to kill or be killed. Your life will be at risk every moment of a battle. Your skill and your kinsmen will be your only true defense against the skill of soldiers who are far taller, far heavier, and far more experienced than you. Do you really think you can stay focused on what you have to do to survive with all of that going on?”
To her credit she took a moment to consider what he said.
“I witnessed battle firsthand not long ago, at the Story Stone. I ken well what to expect, what it will be like.”
“Really? What do you remember of that battle?”
“I remember relief when I found my clan had come for me. I remember fierce anger at the gap-toothed Sassenach who held a dagger at my throat. I remember the roar of the barrier Jeanette and Rowan created as it passed by me. I remember Gaptooth writhing on the ground, his life’s blood pouring from the stump of his arm after you sliced off his hand. ”
“’Twas Malcolm who sliced off his hand. And you were shivering from the shock of it all, your eyes glassy, mute.
I took you back to the burn where the Guardians and Nicholas awaited us, and we waited for the battle to end before we ventured forth from there.
You saw little of the battle, and what you saw, I doubt you remember clearly. ”
“Nay, ’tis not true,” she said, but he could hear the doubt in her voice and see it as she looked into the distance over his shoulder as if she sought to look into the past. “I was there. I remember.”
“Do you? Are you certain you remember it just as it happened?”
She pressed her lips together and shook her head. “Nay.” The word came out on a whisper. “’Tis a blur of images, sounds, the smell of blood, but then almost nothing until a day or two later when I realized that no one would speak to me. No one would even look at me.” She swallowed. “Not even you.”
“Once I learned how Myles had died, and why ... nay, I could not look at you. ”
“What changed?” she asked, and he could almost feel her trembling again, as she had when he’d grabbed her hand and dragged her to the shelter of the wood and the protection of the Guardians that horrible day.
“I saw you training yourself. I saw a lass determined to do what was right in any way she could.”
“And that is why I intend to go into battle, to kill as many Sassenach soldiers as I can, to avenge what they did to my mother, and what they did to Myles. To protect my home and my family.”
He sighed at her continued adamance that she would kill English soldiers. In spite of what he had promised her, he did not think she would survive such a battle.
“Your intentions are good, but I still do not think you comprehend exactly what battle is like. There is no feeling of glory when you have brutally killed men with your own hands, even if you win the day. ’Tis brutal and terrible and should be avoided whenever possible.
’Tis why the battle at the Story Stone was particularly wrenching—it was not necessary until you became their hostage. ”
“But they killed Myles, too,” she said. “We had to answer that heinous act decisively.”
He looked at her, a decision coming to him fully formed. “He should never have been killed, aye, and he would not have died that day in that way if you had done as your chief commanded, if you had stayed in the camp.”
“’Twas not my actions that killed him. ’Twas not my fault the English gutted him.”
Duncan looked up at the heavy clouds that seemed to scud just above the treetops, weighing the dangers of what he meant to do against the lessons that needed learning.
“Bring your weapons,” he said, turning to melt back into the wood.