Page 1 of The Bells of Triumph (Highlands’ Lost Valley #3)
PROLOGUE
T he room was still and quiet as Seamus struggled to get through the words on the page in front of him. He could feel the tutor's displeasure grow the longer it took Seamus to turn the page, but the words wouldn't form in his mind. His fingers glanced over the long dried ink, tracing the images pressed into the paper, willing the story to make sense in his mind. However, there was something about it all that had him on edge.
Looking up, Seamus watched as the rest of the room floated into position. The same worn and tired rugs from the study, an empty and clean hearth, and his mother sitting contentedly on the sofa in front of it. Other books were scattered around the room, along with several of the sheets of paper he had been practicing his Latin on. At his mother's feet lay a handful of wooden soldiers, positioned and ready for battle. For a moment, he couldn't draw his eyes away from the singular soldier who lay dead in the middle of the fight.
“Focus, Seamus,” his tutor scolded. “I chose this story because I thought ye would enjoy it, but ye act as though it is the last thing ye wish to read.”
Seamus blinked at the man who no longer had a face, his features hazy at best. Even as his confusion grew, Seamus forced himself to look at the book in front of him again.
This time, as he studied the letters, the story all but leapt off the page and into the air around him. The toy soldiers from the floor drifted into the scene that played out in front of him, taking on a life of their own.
Together, they wove a great tale that Seamus had heard many times throughout his childhood. It was the story of his great-grandfather, the first Laird Murray. One hundred years ago, before the castle had been built or the clan had truly been established, the lands were plagued by raiders. It was a constant effort to keep their homes and crops and cattle safe from the pillagers. Having grown weary of the attacks, Laird Murray, who was little more than a farmer himself at the time, gathered all the men he could, and they all began to train.
Seamus was in awe as he studied how his great-grandfather rallied the other men into a full-fledged army. By the time they went up against the raiders from the Lowlands, his great-grandfather was a leader to be reckoned with. They fought viciously, and one by one, Seamus watched as the raiders fell.
He no longer had any trouble keeping his focus on the story as he waited to see what the toy soldiers still dancing in the air would do. They marched back to their homes, all the while, declaring his great-grandfather their Laird. It was the start of an era of peace, of a clan that prospered, and of a family history that sparked something inside Seamus.
“I want to do that,” he said triumphantly.
“Do what, darling?” his mother questioned, her eyes still glued to the embroidery hoop that covered her lap.
“I wish to fight for my clan, just like the first Laird Murray did. I want to lead our people into battle and help them win.” He jumped up from the desk and started an imaginary fight, swinging his pretend sword this way and that. “I want to cut down anyone who stands in my way.”
His words got his mother's full attention. She stopped mid-stitch to look up at him with a soft but sad smile. He hardly noticed it as he jumped from one piece of furniture to the next, too caught up in his dreams of heroism to see much else.
“Och,” she sighed heavily. “Come here, Seamus.”
She stretched out her long, thin fingers, wrapping them around the hand he offered in return. Calming himself, Seamus grew serious again, no longer feeling like the nine-year-old he was, but rather that of a grown man looking through a child's eyes. It was then that he could see all the fear his mother held for him and his future.
“It is easy to read the history books and only see what we want to see. The victors so rarely write about the challenges they faced or the cost of their winnings. But make no mistake, war is a pricey, vile thing. It takes more from a man than his money.”
“But that is what good Lairds do,” Seamus argued, not quite understanding what she was trying to say. “They fight for their clans and take over more land.”
“A Laird is nae judged based on how much land he is able to take from other clans, nor is he deemed worthy by his ability to wield a sword. A Laird is judged by the fairness of his rule and the way his people prosper under his care. There are times when that includes fighting for what is right, but I pray that when ye are Laird, ye have a peaceful reign that is marked only by the prosperity of those under ye.”
Seamus let his shoulders slump forward, disappointed by his mother's answer. He studied her dark brown eyes, trying to see the wisdom that lay there, but unable to move past feeling deflated.
“Do ye nae think that I could lead the clan into battle and win? Is that why ye dinnae wish for me to go to war?”
He had hardly gotten the question out when she scooped him up into a hug and squeezed tight.
“Of course nae. I think that ye are the kind of lad, the kind of man who can do anything ye put yer mind to. I only meant to say that ye will be an excellent leader, just like yer great-grandfather. Ye will ken when to fight just as well as ye ken when to strive for peace.”
Seamus nestled into his mother's arms, but only for a moment, as her words soothed his ruffled feelings. It wasn't but a moment later that he was bounding out of her embrace and jumping towards the floor.
“I have completed my studies for the day, Mother. Can I go find Connor now?”
She laughed sweetly and nodded.
“Aye.”
Before she could change her mind, Seamus grabbed a handful of the toy soldiers that were now on the rug at her feet and stretched up onto the tips of his toes to press a kiss to her cheek.
He dashed out of the door and into the hallway that he had walked every day of his life. With the parlor situated in one of the taller towers of the castle, he made way for the stairs, his only thought of playing with his friend. He passed window after window as the stairs wound around themselves. For a moment, he felt as though he was going nowhere. But then something just outside the window caught his attention.
Inching closer, Seamus placed the soldiers on the window sill and pressed his face against the glass, peering outside. Something dark and hazy curled into the otherwise blue sky like a streak of ink across a clean page. Curious, he undid the latch and pushed open the glass pane, only to be met by the distinct smell of smoke. It was so strong that he pulled away coughing, his eyes already watering. His jerky movements caused the toys to tumble to the ground two stories below the open window, slipping past his notice. And then the screams began.
He watched in horror as the smoke spread across the village, burning through houses and stables faster than he could keep up with. The once peaceful and serene sight melted into a battlefield where villagers, men, women, and children alike, were slaughtered where they stood. Faceless men, dressed in the same uniforms his toys wore, with the same painted-on expression that never moved, marched into the village, leaving a trail of destruction in their wake. Bodies began to pile up as the fire raged on, leaving nearly everyone dead.
Tears streamed down his face of their own accord. He had no idea what to do, but he knew he had to help them, he had to do something. His mother had said he needed to know when to fight for his clan, and now was certainly that time.
Turning from the window, Seamus ran down the stairs once more, his toy soldiers no longer mere toys, but weapons of mass destruction come to life. The steps seemed endless. Though he was growing weary, he was no closer to helping the villagers escape whatever calamity had befallen them. It felt like a lifetime had passed before he made it to the bottom of the staircase. With the front door in sight, Seamus made to run towards it, only to be yanked back and thrown to the ground.
He yelped out in pain and confusion, blinking up at the unseen force that had stopped him.
“Going somewhere?”
Campbell's familiar face leered at him, with malice and hatred oozing from every part of him. Once again, Seamus wasn't the young boy he looked like, but rather the grown man trapped in a child's body, unable to even so much as rise from the floor and confront Campbell. Despite knowing this, Seamus tried anyway, pushing up on his elbows while gritting his teeth. The sight only made Campbell laugh that much harder as he shoved his boot onto Seamus' chest.
“It is nae use, lad. This is my clan. Ye will never rule.”