Page 9 of The Speed of Lightning
Squeals rang out and little feet stomped the floor. Freya snapped her fingers. “Ah, but I’ve forgo’. I havenae received payment.”
Hands shot up, wobbling in the air. A boy she recognized as Douglas MacLean’s son—one of Týr’s most resistant clansmen—bounced up and down. Freya twirled, stopping before him with a flourish. “You there. What payment have you brought me?”
The boy stood tall. “I helped Gavina beat out the skins from her floors.”
Freya’s cloak swirled as she turned toward the door where Gavina sat. “Gavina MacSorley…is this tale of service true?”
“Aye,” Gavina said, smiling. “Leif has helped me.”
Freya clapped once. “The Storyteller accepts your payment.”
Eager hands flew back into the air.
“Oooo! Please, pick me! Pick meee!” Arne nearly toppled from his bench in excitement.
Spinning on her toes, Freya bowed before him, hand across her breast in a Viking salute. “What payment have you brought me?”
Arne cupped his dirt-stained hands around his mouth and shouted, “I helped Ivar MacLean weed his vegetable beds!”
Freya drifted down the longhouse, cloak sweeping side to side, until she reached stoic Ivar, whittling by the fire.
Ivar lifted his eyes and nodded. “Aye, Storyteller. Arne helped me.”
Freya clapped twice. “The Storyteller accepts your payment.”
Once more she spun, hand raised above her head, glancing over her shoulder. “Only one more payment is needed.”
Children bounced up and down in their seats, hands stretched high, but Freya searched for the quiet one, as she always did for the final payment. At the edge of the gathering, a red-haired lass sat alone, her hand raised no higher than her shoulder.
Remembering what it felt like to be that child, Freya crouched beside her and extended a graceful hand.
“You there. What payment have you brought me?”
The girl licked her lips. “I helped Liv MacSorley dust her shelving and wash her pottery.”
Freya winked, and the girl’s smile blossomed. Rising, Freya crossed the room to Liv. “Liv, is this tale of service true?”
Liv nodded. “Aye, Storyteller. Cora MacLean has helped me.”
Freya clapped three times, and the room erupted with stomps and cheers. Stifling her laughter, she schooled her face into solemn dignity. She danced a silent reel around the fire, then slipped a hand into her pouch, drawing out a palmful of sawdust. Lifting her hands overhead as though plucking the story from the air, she whispered, “I bring you the Tale of the Boar’s Destruction.”
She clapped her palms together and blew the dust into the fire as though breathing it to life. Sparks leapt skyward, white smoke curling into the rafters. Silence fell. Apprehension gleamed in every eye.
Freya drew a breath. And began her story.
Chapter 2
ARDTORNISH CASTLE - OCTOBER 1, 1386
For the first time in more than a year, every member of the Order of the Hebridean Shield sat together in the same room. It was a reunion of friends—familiar, yet heavy with change.
After months scattered across the Kingdom of the Isles and Scotland, each working in perilous outposts, they had been summoned by Hector to the king’s estate. The call had come through their urgent watchword: Lochindorb. A word they had devised but never used. A word that meant distress, calamity, a cry for aid so dire it brooked no hesitation.
At once they had abandoned their missions. Calum and his closest partner, Murdoch, had left Lewis mid-operation and raced south, arriving at Ardtornish in record time. They expected to find one of their number broken or imperiled. Instead, all were hale. Every mission flourishing, every objective achieved. Which could only mean one thing—whatever trouble lay ahead was greater than the Shield itself.
And so it proved.
This synod, more solemn than any before, signaled not the careful forging of battle plans but the rekindling of bonds—unspoken, yet tempered in fire. It was a recommitment to their pledge to one another and to God. A call to brace for attack. Together the members of the Shield whispered in hushed tones within the quiet hall, waiting to be received by the king and his family. Waiting to learn the fate of their mission. Waiting to know whether the goal they had pursued for three years would at last come to pass—or collapse into setback.
