Page 5 of Sins of a Scot
“How can ye be sure he’s the strongest warrior?” she asked, though not really doubting the man’s words.
“I’ve bet every coin I have on him. That’s how sure I am.”
Iseabail was a little surprised at the man’s confidence, but then, she had not seen the masked man fight. She could only hope the one beside her had made the right choice. Every coin he had was a huge gamble.
The men in the room began yelling at the fighters, but Iseabail could not see what was happening, for every man in front of her was far taller and broader than she was. She then remembered the wooden steps, and slipping behind the burly man, who was far too busy yelling at the top of his voice to notice her absence, she clambered up two steps, and turned to look back into the room.
The man in the mask threw fist after fist, while his opponent, a shorter but still muscular man, blocked each attack and threw strikes of his own. Around them, the men yelled outcries of encouragement, pushing them back into the center of the room when their skirmish ventured into the crowd.
“Mask. Mask. Mask,” the men chanted, seemingly getting more and more excited as the shorter man appeared to wane.
Iseabail found herself completely mesmerized by the masked man, watching his every move, and not at all perturbed by the blood that each of them shed. Evidently, he was the stronger of the two, just as the burly man had said earlier. In fact, now, as she watched him fight, she could understand the reason he had gambled every coin he had.
The shorter man’s legs started to buckle, and he fell against the masked man, grabbing his shirt with such a grip, he tore it clean off his body. Suddenly, Iseabail gasped. Not for the fact that the masked man’s form was huge, with muscles rippling with his every movement. Something far more important caught her eye.
A sparkle of crystal danced in the lantern lit room. The same kind of crystal she had spent weeks searching for. The crystal that currently hung around the masked man’s neck. In fact, so distracted by it was she, she had hardly noticed that the fight was over, and that the masked man had won.
As he paraded around the room, slapping the hands of all those who watched on, yelling out encouragement and congratulations, Iseabail took one last glance at the crystal. She then turned, ascended the steps, and left the room.
I must have that stone, and I ken exactly what I need tae dae tae get it.
CHAPTER TWO
He didn’t feel the pain. He was too exhilarated to feel anything but joy and delight at his victory. The crowd was nearly manic at his win, and Owen Sinclair was loving it. It gave him such a thrill, he was more than ecstatic. In fact, he had never felt anything like it in his life. As he breathlessly took in the room, he realized how much he was going to miss all of this, but a promise was a promise, and he could not go back on it now.
Pushing through the excited men, he headed towards Daire, who was hard to miss, given he was nearly a foot taller than all those there. His striking white blonde hair and Viking-like features also made him stand out in a crowd.
Daire grinned broadly and flung his arms around Owen once he managed to reach him. “Well done, me friend,” he yelled. “Ye fought well.”
Owen beamed back. “Thank ye. It felt great.”
“Aye, well, I’m nae sure yer face would agree with ye. That eye will look like a pig’s ear in the morning.”
“I dinnae care,” Owen panted. “Right now, I cannae feel a thing.”
They were interrupted when another man approached holding a large leather purse. Handing it to Owen, he said, “Yer winnings, Mask.”
It was a name he had been given by all those who had watched his many fights so far, and if Owen was honest, he kind of liked it. It was mysterious and only added to the persona of his character. He hadn’t imagined, when he first donned the mask, that it would become such a feature of his fight, but it had been necessary. No one could know who he was. No one.
“This is great,” Owen exclaimed, grabbing the heavy bag. “What a win.”
Daire raised an eyebrow and gave him a stern look. “Ye promised,” he said.
“Aye, I ken,” Owen relented. “Me last fight.”
“Yer last fight?” the man balked. “But why? Look at the crowds.” He flung an arm out at the gathered men, who were now trying to make their way to the bar. “These fellas would pay tae see ye fight every week!”
Owen looked the man squarely in the eye, and though he didn’t really feel his words, he said them anyway. “Me last fight,” he said, lifting up the purse.
The man looked crestfallen, but Owen shrugged and then walked past him, closely followed by Daire. They were carried along by the throng of men until eventually, they made it out of the room and headed to the bar.
Daire ordered two tankards of ale and Owen dropped himself onto a stool, relieved to be able to rest and get his breath back.
“Here,” he said, handing Daire the heavy purse. “I’ll let ye keep hold o’ that.”
“Why?” Daire smirked. “Are ye too exhausted tae lift it?”
Owen chuckled, shook his head, and took a long draw of his ale. It felt cool and refreshing on his dry throat and, in a matter of minutes, the men ordered another.
