Page 97 of The Speed of Lightning
“So ends the true tale of bonnie Morven MacKenzie—daughter of High Chief David MacKenzie, a child stolen by the Wolf of Badenoch, predator in human form. Our armies nearly brought him down, yet King Dómhnall let him slip away—unscathed, even rewarded with Ardtornish. Is this what the Isles will be remembered for? Yielding our children for slaughter, our families and homes to be cut down by his caterans?”
Her words ignited the crowd. Cries of outrage whipped through the courtyard.
From the gate, a guard in the MacDonald plaid shouted, “What’s that? Did you hear what she’s saying?”
Poet squared her shoulders, every bit the warrior, and shouted, “I said—THE PRETENDER KING! He disbanded our armies, left us unprotected, invited this monster to prey on us with his sniveling weakness! He turns a blind eye to the merciless slaughter of our clans!” She struck her breast. “Our people. The people we cherish!”
The crowd erupted, screaming their indignation, drowning out the guard’s response.
Lightning’s stomach dropped, his chest locking tight. She had hurled the mission past its fragile limits, and every guard in the courtyard narrowed on her. Cold panic tore through him; she was in danger now, real and immediate.
His eyes snapped to the walls. Birdy was waving frantically.Six guards—heavily armed. Three more guards closing from the southwest. GO! NOW! THROUGH THE NORTH GATE.
He spun to Shadow. “Hurry!”
Lightning shoved him forward, forcing a path through the crowd. They had to reach Poet—fast.
From between the gathered people, he saw her draw back, chin raised, eyes pinning the stunned crowd. “Remember, good people—when a throne is built on injustice, it trembles not from swords but from the whispers of those who dare speak. From those whomustspeak, of Morven, of the people in the Great Glen, Badenoch, Strathspey, Moray, Aberdeen, Lochbuie, of Sanaigmore, Islay, Barra, Uist, Benbecula, Harris, Inverlussa, and Inverness—how many more shall I name? Thousands of our homes terrorized! How many of our children will continue to die before this Wolf is cut down?”
The crowd crushed in around him. Lightning shoved his way through, heart in his throat, shouting in Norse, “End it! End It!”
Poet’s head snapped toward his voice. Her hands shot high. “Remember her name—Morven! Bonnie Morven!”
Shadow was almost there. A guard lunged for her. Lightning nearly screamed, ramming people aside in a frantic bid to reach her.
Poet clapped. Black powder burst into the fire—flame roared skyward, crackling. The crowd shrieked and fell back. In that instant, Shadow swept her beneath his cloak and vanished into the chaos.
Lightning lost sight of them, his chest heaving with biting, draining relief.
The guards blinked against the firelight, disoriented. “Where is she? Make way for the King’s guards. Make way or you will be taken into custody!”
Lightning looked up at the walls, spotting the dim outline of Birdy climbing upward before launching onto a nearby roof, following their trail. His heart eased slightly. Poet was out—on her way to Charger and her escape.
In minutes, the festivities had descended into riot. The crowd swarmed the guards, outraged. “Why are you turning against us? Have you no honor? Traitors!”
Adrift in the sea of mobbing people, Cota Liath’s eyes went wide as Thunder and Rock flanked him, dragging him toward the east gate. Lightning pushed through after them, steady and deliberate, while six guards stormed past, wading into the mêlée. He fought to stay upright as chaos surged toward the forecourt, then broke free into the quieter streets, shadowing Thunder and Rock until they left Cota Liath before the Great Hall.
The man shook out his cloak, bewildered. “What—wait, where are you going?”
They walked on, heads low.
Lightning slipped a folded paper into his grey surcoat, murmuring as he passed, “A message from the son of Týr.”
Without looking back, he fell in step with Thunder and Rock. Together they cut past the King’s residence, moving opposite Poet and the others. At the island’s southern tip they slid down the steep embankment to their waiting boat.
Swiftly, Lightning and Thunder flattened beneath a heavy blanket. Rock shoved off, rowing east with steady strokes.
“God keep ye, wherryman!” he called to a passing boat, his whistle light and careless.
“Aye—and Christ keep ye, guid man!” a voice called back.
Minutes later, the hull knocked against a dock.
“Clear,” Rock whispered.
They tore off the blanket and vaulted ashore, sprinting into the woods.
Freya waitedbeneath the clear moon, her gossamer hair catching its silver glow, glimmering like dragonfly wings. Still dressed as Poet, she laughed softly at something Hector said, her hand drifting over Bog’s head. She nodded at Birdy, lively and warm, while Iain leaned in, teasing.
