Highlander Enchanted

Chapter Twenty Three

Dawn sent his seillie magic dancing within him, and Cade lifted his weary gaze to the horizon. Too tired to shiver, he ensured his black clouds had blocked any ray of light from the direction of the rising sun in another attempt to delay Laird Duncan's attack. After the single combat bout the previous evening, he had begun to fall into fever once more and was fighting it with the aid of the surly healer.

Seated atop a horse with his wrists tied to the saddle, he was surrounded by armed men from Laird Duncan's clan. They feared him, even when he was barely strong enough to keep himself upright on the horse.

He was in no state to fight, and cold despair slithered through him, provoking his unseillie magic. He reminded himself over and over he had a weapon of sudden tempests, and it was not only a sword he required to combat the men hunting his clan.

The betrayal of his fevered body, however, angered him. He struggled to contain the mad unseillie sorcery, wasting his energy to control the madness when he needed it to protect his kin.

Cade assessed the war party. They were waiting for the first light of dawn to crest the hill before them. Camp had broken up earlier and the men positioned themselves behind a long hill running parallel to the ocean. Logic told him there was likely a valley beyond it, however shallow, and he had seen the second ridge of hills and bluffs edging the ocean. This part of the country was sparse in terms of forest, though his seillie magic imparted that there was one near.

Too weak to sense his kind or know what they planned, he twisted the ropes binding his hands in frustration. He was not accustomed to feeling helpless. He had faith in his cousins, in John, in Laird Macdonald and the clans. But faith was rarely a match for a sword.

One hand slipped free of its bonds, aided by the blood from wrists rubbed raw. The new pain helped push away the addled thoughts stemming from his fever.

One of the warriors near him muttered about the never-ending tempest, and Cade smiled. He was saving the thunder and lightning, but the steady rain had ruined the morning meal of Laird Duncan's men and soaked them through before they left the camp.

It was a small victory, along with the desertion of over half of Richard's knights the night before. The proud English noble was at the head of his men, resolution on his features despite it being common knowledge his men had abandoned him.

A cry rang out from one end of the narrow dirt road running alongside the hill.

Cade's stomach jolted as he realized the moment for attack had come. He whispered to the clouds and touched the two medallions he wore at his neck, beside the black crystal meant to drive away evil.

He discreetly hastened freeing his second wrist from the bonds. His hands were unsteady and his skin hot despite the cold rain. Delirium had not yet claimed him – though his senses were dulled.

It was soon light enough for Laird Duncan to give the final command for attack. The first lines of warriors began racing up the hill, most on foot, some on horses, swords raised and shouting. The bearded chieftain trotted towards Cade and the loose ring of his guards.

"Doona let him free," he command. "Take 'im t'the hilltop."

The warrior with his reins was the first to move. Cade gripped the horse with his thighs, twisting his hand free of the rope. They loped up the hill at an angle, apart from the brunt of Laird Duncan's forces and safe from arrows and swords. Laird Duncan soon joined him. Lord Richard was close behind, accompanied by a seasoned man Cade took to be the knight's master-at-arms and a young squire. Several other men, each in a different tartan, climbed the hill to stand beside Laird Duncan.