Page 5 of Bride of Mist
This was no time for sibling rivalry. Time was slipping away. Dougal had to save Kirkoswald. Even if he had to do it himself.
Out of patience, he gave Urramach a quick jab with his heels, and the steed bolted. If his brother hadn’t released his grip at the last instant, he might have lost a finger.
But Dougal never looked back. He rode like the wind toward Kirkoswald.
Once again, it was up to Dougal to do what his brother could not. Pick up the reins when Gaufrid dropped them. Pay heed to the matters the laird neglected. Heal the wounds he inflicted. Hold the clan together.
He never resented what he was required to do on his brother’s behalf. It only troubled him when Gaufrid tried to get in his way.
Even at Urramach’s thundering pace, it took a long and anxious quarter of an hour to reach the village.
Nothing could have prepared him for the devastation.
He was too late. The fire was already out. Not because it had been extinguished. But because there was nothing left to burn.
The flames had fed on everything in the village. Every thatched roof. Every wattle fence. Every wooden post. Nothing remained but flattened and charred shadows of what had been.
Wisps of white smoke coiled from the smoldering black bones of the cottages, like final gasps of the fire that had greedily consumed the flesh of Kirkoswald.
As he removed his helm and rode gingerly through the village, Dougal noticed something else.
Silence.
Where were the fiends who had wrought such destruction?
And where were the villagers?
There should be lasses wailing over their lost homes. Men calling out orders for buckets of water. Children bawling in fright.
Where was everyone?
Only one structure remained standing. The church.
Its roof was gone. Black beams protruded upward from the scorched and crumbling stone walls, like fingers reaching for heaven. The high and slim stained glass windows had cracked from the heat. Through the fissures leaked threads of smoke. The thick oak double doors were still intact.
He dismounted and slowly climbed the stone steps.
What he saw made his blood run cold. Wedged through the twin handles of the doors, locking them together, was a pair of heavy blacksmith tongs.
Later he would learn he’d burned his fingers as he wrested the tongs from the door. But in the moment, he was numb.
When he tried to push the doors inward, he was met with resistance. And then the odor hit him. A sweet, sulfur, acrid smell.
Unmistakable.
Unforgettable.
The horrible stench of burnt flesh.
Dread gripped his throat like a vise. It took all of his strength to shove the doors inward just a few inches. And then he saw why.
Bodies were piled up against the doors.
Bodies with charred skulls and twisted limbs.
Their clothing had melded with their flesh.
Nothing but black holes gaped where their eyes had been.
