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

matters the laird neglected. Heal the wounds he inflicted. Hold the clan together.

He never resented what he was required to do on his brother’s behalf. It only troubled him when Gaufrid tried to get in his way.

Even at Urramach’s thundering pace, it took a long and anxious quarter of an hour to reach the village.

Nothing could have prepared him for the devastation.

He was too late. The fire was already out. Not because it had been extinguished. But because there was nothing left to burn.

The flames had fed on everything in the village. Every thatched roof. Every wattle fence. Every wooden post. Nothing remained but flattened and charred shadows of what had been.

Wisps of white smoke coiled from the smoldering black bones of the cottages, like final gasps of the fire that had greedily consumed the flesh of Kirkoswald.

As he removed his helm and rode gingerly through the village, Dougal noticed something else.

Silence.

Where were the fiends who had wrought such destruction?

And where were the villagers?

There should be lasses wailing over their lost homes. Men calling out orders for buckets of water. Children bawling in fright.

Where was everyone?

Only one structure remained standing. The church.

Its roof was gone. Black beams protruded upward from the scorched and crumbling stone walls, like fingers reaching for heaven. The high and slim stained glass windows had cracked from the heat. Through the fissures leaked threads of smoke. The thick oak double doors were still intact.

He dismounted and slowly climbed the stone steps.

What he saw made his blood run cold. Wedged through the twin handles of the doors, locking them together, was a pair of heavy blacksmith tongs.

Later he would learn he’d burned his fingers as he wrested the tongs from the door. But in the moment, he was numb.

When he tried to push the doors inward, he was met with resistance. And then the odor hit him. A sweet, sulfur, acrid smell.

Unmistakable.

Unforgettable.

The horrible stench of burnt flesh.

Dread gripped his throat like a vise. It took all of his strength to shove the doors inward just a few inches. And then he saw why.

Bodies were piled up against the doors.

Bodies with charred skulls and twisted limbs.

Their clothing had melded with their flesh.

Nothing but black holes gaped where their eyes had been.

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