Page 6 of Bride of Mist
Their bony fingers grasped and clawed at an unseen enemy.
Their teeth opened wide in silent screams.
The church had been set on fire. And the only exit had been blocked.
They’d been burned alive. Intentionally.
Men. Women. Children. The entire village.
Stunned sick and weakened by horror, Dougal sank to his knees. His grief was too deep for words or tears.
He’d known these people. He’d brought them food when they were hungry. Helped them bring new livestock into the world. Celebrated their weddings with them. Only two days ago, he’d sent the castle midwife to assist the birthing mother here. They’d been christening the bairn in the church when the attackers came.
Dougal’s heart sank as he realized that somewhere among the bodies was a wee lass only two days old.
Suddenly he couldn’t breathe. His chest ached, as if a mill stone pressed upon his ribs. As if they would crack under the unbearable weight of tragedy.
When at last he was able to draw in a ragged gasp, it came with the sudden, searing pain of guilt.
This was his fault.
He was supposed to protect the villagers. They depended on him to keep them safe. His brother couldn’t do it. So it was up to Dougal alone. He was supposed to look after them.
But he hadn’t. He’d failed them.
He’d allowed vandals to destroy their village. To murder them all.
They were dead because of him.
Behind him, Urramach neighed and stamped at the ground, anxious to be away from this noxious place of death.
For a long while, Dougal couldn’t move. He was frozen by grief. Burdened by remorse. Dead inside.
But deep within the smoldering ruins of his heart began to burn a hot ember of rage. Rage for the ones who had done this. For their wanton slaughter and savage cruelty. The mindless, senseless violence perpetrated against innocent victims.
The ember slowly bloomed to life. Burning higher and hotter. Purifying his guilt with fiery intention. Coalescing into a single white-hot flame of vengeance.
He steeled his jaw. Narrowed his eyes. Clenched his fists. And rose like a phoenix from the ashes of annihilation.
“Mac Giric,” he hissed between his teeth like a bitter vow. That was the badge the Fortanachs had found. That was the clan that must pay.
Dougal the noble warrior was no more. The man who rode east like a demon possessed was a new champion.
Forged in the fires of retribution, he was ruthless.
Unforgiving.
Deadly.
Chapter 2
Creagor, The Borders
Feiyan la Nuit couldn’t breathe.
In the blink of an eye, the unimaginable had happened. The friendly tournament melee had been transformed into a bloody battleground.
The first tournament at Creagor, celebrating the recent union between her Rivenloch cousin Jenefer and Morgan Mor mac Giric, was supposed to finish with a lighthearted free-for-all with blunted blades.
