Page 34 of Wolf Heir (Highland Wolves of Old #3)

Coinneach was already getting tired, and when he readied his sword, Aodhan swept his sword away, but he didn’t use his sword on a vulnerable spot; instead, he used the same maneuver on him as Coinneach had used on Aodhan.

Before he knew it, Aodhan swept his leg behind Coinneach and grabbed his arms, pushing him back until Coinneach landed on his back.

Then Aodhan laughed. “I’ve been privately practicing the maneuver ever since you did that to me.”

Coinneach laughed. “Well done.” He grabbed Aodhan’s proffered arm and pulled himself to his feet.

Then everyone else paired up with partners and began to practice fight.

The guards on top were watching the inner bailey, not the surrounding land, as they were supposed to.

Swords were clanging in the inner bailey, shouts of camaraderie, taunting jabs in good humor, while Aisling took the moment to cuddle next to Coinneach. If anyone asked him to fight now, he would say he had more important matters to attend to.

Suddenly, one of the men on top of the wall walk shouted, “Fire! Coinneach! Your family’s croft is on fire.”

Coinneach and Aisling headed for the gates, but Hamish said, “Nay, we take the horses.”

They broke into a dead sprint for the stables, feet pounding the earth, shouting over one another in a frantic litany of orders, each intent to be the first to mount. Inside, the tang of sweat and hay and horseflesh was sharp as vinegar.

Coinneach’s hands shook as he fumbled for the bridle, his fingers failing him once, twice, before he managed to cinch the buckle.

Someone else was already leading his mare out, and he vaulted onto her back, pulling Aisling onto his lap.

The rest of the men mounted in similar haste.

There were only the beat of hooves and the hot, desperate animal breath of the pursuit as they tore across the field.

The croft was half a mile off, across the hollow and up the rise, and as they neared, the orange glow intensified, seething at the edge of the afternoon sky.

Coinneach felt the dread like a stone in his throat.

Every stride closer confirmed what he’d feared: the roof was fully ablaze, the thatch curling back in tongues, hurling sparks.

He could not hear his own screams. He could only hear the hissing collapse of the roof timbers, the shrill keening of his mother, and above it all, the thunder of the fire itself.

When he reached the yard, he flung himself from the horse, landing hard enough to jar his bones, and dashed for the nearest window.

The shutters over the windows were blocked, but he could see shadows, bodies pressing up to the other side, shrieking for release.

He grabbed a rock and smashed it through the shutters.

Smoke billowed out. He tried to climb in, but the opening was too small, and he could do nothing but shove his arm inside, shouting for them to back away, to cover their faces, to make themselves as small as possible and crawl toward his voice.

From somewhere behind, Aisling’s voice, hoarse and trembling, “They’ve blocked the door from the outside—look!”

The men, overcome by horror, turned their attention to the thick, spiked beam hammered across the front of the house, the heads of the nails glinting in the firelight.

Someone had done this knowing full well it would kill everyone inside.

Coinneach understood then that this was not an accident, but calculated, and the taste of bile filled his mouth.

The whole world shrank to the task: yank away the carts and other items meant to keep his family in the smoke-filled croft. He had to save them before the roof completely caved in. The men set to the barricade with axes, stones, and bare hands, bellowing with the effort.

Each blow sent splinters flying and rattled the frame, but the fire was quicker than they were, and the smoke burned their eyes and lungs. He felt the hours of his childhood, his father’s hands, his mother’s gentle admonishments, burning away with every moment of delay.

His mother screamed inside, high and desperate. For a heartbeat, everything stopped; even the fire seemed to hold its breath. Coinneach dropped his shoulder and rammed the door with all his weight. The first time, nothing.

The second, a groan of splintering wood. The third, the barricade shifted, and the men surged forward in a tangle of limbs, finally toppling the beam. The door swung open, spewing fire and choking blackness.

Coinneach plunged in first, the heat singeing his eyebrows and beard. He groped for anything living, found his mother’s wrist, and yanked her toward the threshold. The others followed, dragging his father and his brother out of the building.

He heard, distantly, the voices of the men calling out to each other, and then the cool, sweet relief of the afternoon air as he fell backwards onto the grass, clutching his mother to his chest, and saw the rest emerge, coughing and weeping, alive.

Aisling saw Coinneach and ran to him, kneeling beside him. “You did it,” she gasped. “You got them out.”

Coinneach could only nod, his throat raw and useless. But as he looked up at the blazing ruin of his family’s home, he knew this was not the end. It was the beginning of a reckoning.

Then he saw Morag, her dress on fire as she tried to extinguish it. She screamed at Rupert to help her, but he saw Hamish and the others coming, and Rupert took off to leave her to her dilemma. Then they saw Osmond.

He had his hands on his head, staring at Morag as the flames took over. He finally realized Hamish and his men were coming, and he looked around, saw Rupert, and ran in a different direction. It appeared he was keen to save his own worthless hide.

Aisling immediately began to take care of Coinneach’s mother while Hamish and Aodhan saw to Magnus and Tamhas.

At the same time, Blair arrived, seated behind Tristan, looking a little green from the wild ride. She began helping Aisling with the care of the victims while the men put out the flames.

Hamish glanced at Morag, who had died. “She deserved what she got.”

“What about Osmond and Rupert?” Coinneach asked.

“We take them down. They get no more chances.”

Coinneach kissed his mother, put his hand on his da’s shoulder, and said to his brother, “Tamhas, didna you die on us.”

“I have…cough…no intention…cough, cough, of doing so. Where is Nelly?”

About that time, Nelly came riding behind Ruadh on his horse. She slipped off the horse and ran to Tamhas.

He would be in good hands.

Ruadh, Aodhan, and Tristan went with Coinneach to track down Osmond. As far as he was concerned, he was the biggest threat. Rupert was just spineless.

Hamish, Collum, and Fletcher chased down Rupert.

On horseback, Coinneach and his team had the advantage until they were deeper in the woods. Then Coinneach left his horse with Tristan, removed his clothes, and shifted. He could find Osmond more quickly as a wolf.

They were deeper in the woods. Roots and brambles tripped even the most sure-footed of their party, but Coinneach, with his keen sense of scent and direction, pressed on ahead. The chase had become a hunt, and the human mind in him yielded by degrees to the primal urge that simmered beneath.

The world brightened as his senses recalibrated. Smells billowed toward him—sap, rot, musk. The track was clear: this was not just a manhunt. This was a pursuit through every evolutionary shortcut his body had ever known.

He moved through the underbrush with all the fluidity of memory.

The ground was damp, the air thick, and every sound was an invitation; every rustle a warning or a lure.

Osmond's scent was easy to follow. Fear-sweat laced with wolf, a hybrid trail of desperation and cunning.

Coinneach found him at last, huddled inside a shallow depression beneath a tangle of bracken and broken branches.

Osmond’s eyes, wide and shining, reflected every glint of sunlight that managed to sift through the canopy. He was trembling, but even before Coinneach could close the distance, Osmond pulled away from his hiding place and began to undress.

Omond’s movements were less the flailings of a desperate man than the precise, almost reverent gestures of someone who had repeated this act many times, each time expecting it might save him.

He dropped his sword and sgian dubh, ditched his tunic, shirt, breeches, and boots.

He stood naked for only a second before the transformation overtook him.

His wolf form was smaller than Coinneach’s, leaner, with a ruff of fur around the neck and an angular, almost foxlike head.

His jaws were already agape, tongue lolling in anticipation.

Coinneach had never seen him fight as a wolf.

Had he ever fought wolves before? Like with any venture, they needed to practice to succeed.

Osmond looked more ill at ease than ever.

Not waiting another second, Coinneach lunged first. He landed on Osmond’s back, snapping at the scruff, dragging him through wet leaves and upended loam.

Osmond bucked, twisting his head to clamp down on Coinneach’s foreleg, but Coinneach barely felt the puncture; adrenaline overrode all but the deepest pain.

They tumbled together in a blur of fur and teeth, every bite and claw a message written in the oldest language of all.

Osmond’s technique was extraordinary—he fought dirty, going for the soft underside of the throat, for the eyes, for the places that a wolf would usually never dare to attack.

The rules of wolf etiquette did not bind him.

He was a man who had lost the right to be a man, and so he fought with the desperation of an animal that had been caged too long.

The others caught up quickly. They approached on horseback, swords drawn, but dismounted at the edge of the clearing, their faces taut with the realization that they were witnessing something ancient and ungovernable.

Tristan and the others tethered their horses, forming a loose ring around the combatants, but none interfered.

This was between Coinneach and Osmond. It was an honor, yes, but also a necessity: these attempted murders had to count for something, even if it was only the settling of a private balance.

The fight escalated. Coinneach felt a jagged pain in his left flank where Osmond had ripped a patch of skin away, but he retaliated with a bite to the ear, tearing it nearly in half.

They broke apart, circled, and came together again.

Blood spattered the leaves and pooled in the hollows of the earth; the smell of it drove both wolves into a frenzy.

They moved so fast that for a moment it seemed the very trees were closing in, the world shrinking to the size of this single, brutal contest. Osmond feinted left, then darted right, catching Coinneach off-guard and sinking his teeth into Coinneach’s haunch.

Coinneach roared, shaking him off, and then drove him backward, step by step, toward the waiting semicircle of men.

Osmond must have realized, at some point, that he could not win.

His attacks grew more erratic, the space between them lengthening.

He tried to dart past Coinneach, aiming for an escape into the deeper woods, but Coinneach anticipated the move and cut him off, forcing him into the open.

Osmond faltered, limping now, one forepaw dragging uselessly.

He looked up at Coinneach with a strange, almost human expression—regret, or perhaps resignation, as if he knew exactly what he had become and what he deserved.

The others waited, silent, at the edge of the clearing.

Their swords drooped, forgotten at their sides.

They would not interfere now, would not rob Coinneach of this grim rite.

It was a reckoning, not just between two wolves, but between two ways of life: one that survived by rules, and one that survived by breaking them.

Coinneach drew a deep breath, filled his lungs with the humid air, and advanced. Osmond bared his teeth, but the snarl was feeble, more a memory of defiance than the real thing. They crashed together, fur and blood and muscle and bone, and this time Coinneach did not hold back.

He clamped onto Osmond’s throat, felt the pulse fluttering beneath his jaws, and squeezed.

Osmond thrashed, but Coinneach held fast, feeling the life ebb from his enemy with each passing second.

When at last Osmond went limp, Coinneach released him, panting, and stood over the body, the taste of iron thick in his mouth.

Coinneach straightened, licking blood from his muzzle, and looked at the ring of men.

Their faces were wary, a mix of awe and apprehension.

It was not easy, watching a man become a wolf and then take a life as one.

It stripped away the easy comforts of civilization, reminding them all of what they were beneath the armor and swords.

Coinneach shifted back. He stood, naked and trembling, covered in blood and grime, and waited for someone to speak. Though he at once thought of getting another scolding from Blair once she saw his wounds.

The gathering was silent for a long time, the only sound the slow drip of blood onto leaves. Then Tristan stepped forward, his voice low and steady. “It’s done.”

But it wasn’t done. Not until Coinneach learned of Rupert’s fate. They wouldn’t be safe until he was dead too.