Page 70 of The Speed of Lightning
Hector rolled his eyes. “Your father and Freya are the least of my concerns. I’ll deal with them—but not today. Not now.”
“Of course you won’t,” Angus burst. “Everyone else matters but the MacKays. As long as we continue to take the brunt of the attacks, what’s the difference—eh?”
It was a step too far. Behind them, Iain muttered a low oath as the berserker stirred. Hector surged forward, towering over them, and with a roar he seized both men by the cuirass. With the strength of ten men, he wrenched them clean off their feet, their boots skittering uselessly against the stone floor.
Beneath the arch of the great hall, John Mór froze, gaping like a startled cow, gobsmacked and stupefied. Dangling in Hector’s grip, Calum found himself nose to nose with the battle-hardened monster, his breath stolen by the sheer, humiliating force of it.
Hector’s voice rolled out like the roar of a bloodthirsty lion, shaking them with every word. “I dinnae ken what’s gotten into either of you, but remember this—no matter what our so-called king says, you are on the same team. We fight the same mission. Have you forgotten? To guard the people of the Isles. To stand, not for yourself, but for the good that God himself set in this world.”
The rage drained from Calum in an instant. He blinked, turning his face aside, unable to meet his commander’s eyes.
“Now, if this has changed for either of you, which I sincerely hope it has not, then walk away now. Leave Lochbuie, and dinnae return.”
Slowly, he lowered them back to their feet. He stepped away, looming, waiting for either man to move. Neither dared.
“Angus, we will deal with the stories and their consequences. But right now, we must be unified and focused on the transition of power. I need time to shape a strategy, to meet with Dómhnall, to decide what he must and must not know. Stripping Týr of the chieftainship would only deepen the fracture in my clan.”
Angus gave a stiff nod.
Hector turned to Calum. “I have no wish to endanger Freya or disgrace your father. But I must meet with them soon. I need to hear how this began, and why it was allowed to grow unchecked. None of us—not them, not us—are safe.”
Satisfied that Freya and his father were, for the moment, safe, Calum gave a short nod.
Hector straightened his tunic. “Now. Let’s return to my solar and discuss this?—”
The door below slammed open. “Chief MacLean! Chief MacLean!”
Boots thundered up the stone steps. A dozen guardsmen crowded the corridor.
Peter, newly appointed commander of the Lochbuie guard, thrust a scrap of vellum into Hector’s hands, the ink still wet and smeared. “The Wolf’s fleet—spotted off Kintyre. He’s forming for attack.”
Angus and Calum exchanged a look, horror rising, knowing the two closest islands to Kintyre.
“They’re moving fast,” Peter gasped. “Massing…off the coast…”
Calum braced against Angus’s shoulder, waiting for the word he dreaded.
Hector’s brow furrowed as he read. “Off the coast of Jura.”
Panic surged. Calum broke into a sprint, racing for Sea’s bìrlinn. He didn’t stop to weigh the treason of defying Alexander Stewart. He didn’t stop to consider Jura’s feeble defenses. He didn’t even ask if the others would follow. But as his boots pounded stone and wood, he heard the rush of feet behind him. The Shield was with him, charging into battle once more.
Chapter 19
INVERLUSSA, JURA - NOVEMBER 15, 1386
Freya jolted upright, heart pounding, wrapped in darkness. Reaching instinctively for Calum, she nearly pitched over the side of the bed—only then realizing she wasn’t in their bothy, but in his narrow shelf bed under Týr’s roof. It took several breaths before memory returned: Calum was still away at Moy. She raked her hands through her hair, drawing in air to steady herself.
By the fire, Bog lifted his great head and gave a low whine.
She shushed him in the dark, casting her eyes to Týr and Mariota curled around one another in their bed and not wishing to wake them. “I’m fine, Boggy. Just a nightmare.”
A nightmare she couldn’t remember. Bog’s tail thumped against the rushes, then stilled, his ear cocked toward the door. A faint scrape brushed against the wood. Her heart lurched—perhaps only an animal.
One by one, the hairs along Bog’s back rose into a bristling ridge. He crept forward, lips peeled back, a growl rumbling deep in his throat.
The sound stirred Týr. He pushed up on an elbow, eyes fixed on the door.
A shadow slid across the crack at the threshold. The latch jiggled. Bog lunged, colliding with the wood, barking in a frenzy.
