Bride of Mist (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #3) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,2

downed the ale all at once. It soothed his dusty throat. But it couldn’t wash the bitter taste of injustice from his mouth.

It was a travesty that maidservants like Merraid should have to cringe from the laird who was supposed to protect them.

It was outrageous that warriors like those he’d just defeated were driven to murder to keep from starving.

“Go on now,” he urged the lass. She was looking up at him with the sort of lovesick gaze that would only get her into trouble.

As she scurried off, Campbell brought Urramach, saddled and ready, to the field. The destrier had shied at his last battle and was worthless in tournament. But Dougal didn’t have the heart to get rid of him. Besides, the beast loved to run. Dougal took the reins, giving the horse a pat on the neck, and then narrowed his gaze at his brother.

Ordinarily, the daily trouncing that Dougal gave the laird’s warriors tested Gaufrid’s temper. His eyes would glitter with rage. His teeth would grind with frustration. He’d try to wound Dougal with his sharp tongue.

Today he didn’t seem as out of sorts as usual. Instead, he gave Dougal a simpering smirk, looking curiously pleased with himself, as if Dougal had not just defeated his entire army of warriors.

Before Dougal could wonder what his brother’s good mood meant, he heard desperate bellows from the courtyard.

“Help!”

“Come quick!”

He acted at once, snatching up his claymore and tugging Urramach toward the cries.

Gaufrid was still sputtering in confusion when Dougal raced past him to see what was going on.

The two Fortanach brothers stood in the courtyard, bent over and heaving. Sweaty, breathless, and exhausted, they looked as if they’d been chased by a devil. Their faces were smudged with char. Their hair was coated in ash. They reeked of smoke. Their garments were torn and bloody where cloth and skin had been scraped.

“What’s happened?” Dougal demanded, wondering what foul mischief the troublesome brothers had gotten into now.

“Fire,” Fergus wheezed.

“An attack,” Morris rasped out.

Dougal’s heart raced. This was more than mere mischief. “Where?”

“In Kirk—” Morris’s words ended in a series of racking coughs.

By now, others had gathered. Murmurs of “fire” circled the courtyard like an ominous wind.

“Kirkoswald?” Dougal asked, his heart in his throat.

Fergus nodded.

Bloody hell. That was where the christening was to be. East of Castle Giric. Roughly three miles away.

“Fetch buckets!” Dougal called out to the bystanders. “We’ll need all the able-bodied folk we can muster to put out the fire.” He turned back to the Fortanachs. “How bad is it?”

“They burned the whole village,” Morris muttered.

Dougal fist tightened in Urramach’s bridle. “Who?”

Fergus shook his head. “We didn’t see them.” Then he held out a tarnished medallion. “But they dropped this.”

Gaufrid had finally arrived. “Let me see that.”

Dougal had to go to Kirkoswald. There was no time to waste. He hauled himself into the saddle and shoved the helm down over his head.

“Men, saddle up and follow me as soon as ye can!” he commanded the warriors.

“Wait!” Gaufrid countermanded him. “I know this badge. ’Tis the mac Giric’s.”

Beneath him, Urramach danced impatiently, eager to run. “And?”

Gaufrid frowned. “The mac Giric stronghold is three days’ ride from here, at…at…” He glanced up at Morris.

“Creagor,” Morris said.

Gaufrid nodded. “Creagor, aye, that’s it. The mac Girics at Creagor.”

Dougal didn’t see how that mattered. “Whoever attacked Kirkoswald, I’ll chase them to the ends o’ the earth.”

“Nay!” Gaufrid suddenly seized Urramach’s bridle. “Not with my men!”

Dougal’s brows slammed together. “What?”

“He’s right,” Fergus interjected. “What if the marauders return?”

Morris said, “Ye can’t leave the clan defenseless.”

“Besides, brother,” Gaufrid sneered, “ye do not command my warriors.”

“Kirkoswald is on fire,” Dougal bit out. “Every moment we delay…” He didn’t want to think about it. “Let go.”

Dougal knew he’d suffer later for defying his brother. Defying and humiliating him in front of the clan. But he’d gladly pay the price to save the village. “Let. Go.”

Gaufrid’s eyes squinched with fury as his knuckles tightened on the bridle.

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