Anita Clenney: Awaken the Highland Warrior

***

Faelan crouched behind the crumbling chimney of the burnt-out farmhouse. He could hear the worried breathing of the man beside him and hoped the coins jingling nervously in the man’s pocket were enough to buy his loyalty. The full moon was covered by clouds, and there was a thickness in the air that didn’t sit well, but he attributed it to the coming storm. Even the horses, hidden in the nearby grove of trees, neighed and stomped uneasily.

It was madness to take on a demon as powerful as Druan without other warriors to protect his back, but Faelan couldn’t wait for his brothers to arrive, not after what he’d discovered last night. In truth, he didn’t want his brothers here. While it was brave of them and the other warriors he’d sent away to offer their help, it was too dangerous for them to face an ancient demon without being assigned. One mistake could mean death. He wouldn’t risk their lives. He’d already warned his accomplice to flee as soon as Druan showed. Faelan felt the warmth of his talisman and hoped he wouldn’t have to use it. The time vault waited behind the trees, ready to suspend the demon, but if he had to be destroyed, so be it. One way or another, this would be finished tonight.

The wind kicked up, slapping his kilt against his legs. The first fat raindrop hit his nose, followed by the second and third. A jagged flash of lightning split the sky. Faelan flinched. “You sure Jeremiah’s coming?” That was the name Druan went by these days.

“Should’ve been here,” the man said, fretting. “Probably ran into the storm.”

It came fast, the sky blackening as wind howled through the trees. There was a loud crack, and sparks flew from a nearby pine. Faelan heard horses approaching, hooves pounding the ground like an army from hell. He gripped his sword. “You said he’d be alone.”

“He was supposed to be.”

At least a dozen riders entered the clearing, mounts snorting as the night flashed. There were too many. He could take Druan or the others, but he couldn’t take them all. If he tried and wasn’t strong enough, wielding the talisman’s power would kill him. He should have kept the other warriors with him, instead of trying to capture Druan alone. He would have to retreat.

Then Faelan saw them, sitting in the midst of the others, four figures taller than the rest. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Druan rode in front, flanked by the other three, faces any warrior knew from the time he could lift a sword. The demons of old, the ancient ones. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar.

What were they doing here?

He heard a gasp. His accomplice hadn’t run. The man stood frozen, staring at the ancient demons. The sky lit violet, and Druan’s yellow eyes found Faelan. The demon rode closer. Tristol, Malek, and Voltar followed, in demon form as well. They seemed puzzled to see Faelan. The remaining horsemen, halflings, and demons, closed in around them.

Faelan shoved the man behind him. He’d have to destroy Druan by hand and save the talisman’s power for the rest. It wouldn’t be strong enough to kill them all, but it might give the man with him a chance to escape. There was no way out for Faelan. He would die. His only hope was to take Druan and as many with him as he could. “As soon as they’re distracted, run,” he whispered over his shoulder. “I’ll try to hold them off until you’re safe.”

“Did you think you could stop me, warrior? Stop my war?” Druan hissed as Faelan raised his sword.

“I will stop you, you bastard,” Faelan yelled over the storm. “We both know this isn’t about war. The war’s just a distraction for this disease you’ve created. You’re planning to destroy every human on earth.” And by the time his clan and the other warriors got the message, it would be too late. Everyone would die.

Druan’s eyes widened. His thick, gray skin quivered.

“What disease?” Tristol roared, turning on Druan. Where the others were hideous, Tristol was striking. Long black hair flowed from a face that looked almost human, except for a slight bulge in his forehead. He was rumored to be the closest to the Dark One, hell’s favorite son. What was he doing with Druan?

“Lies. He tells lies.” Druan looked over Faelan’s shoulder. “What are you waiting for, Grog?”

“Grog?” Faelan tensed and started to turn as a jarring blow struck his skull. He’d been betrayed. It was over. The world was doomed.

***

He woke hard, chest heaving. He was here, not in the clearing. Not in the time vault. He was in a bed. He remembered the woman opening the vault and helping him inside the house. One minute he’d felt his skull explode, the next, he’d looked into terror-filled green eyes. Human eyes. It seemed an eternity had passed in between. It had, if the woman told the truth, and she must have, or he couldn’t be here.

Grief hit him again, as it had in the crypt. His mind clawed at the darkness, searching for faces forever lost. A woman’s smile and a lassie with dimples, two lads wrestling in the dirt.

What had he done?

A tear formed, but didn’t fall. He had no time for grieving, there was work to do, and he couldn’t ask forgiveness from the dead.

He touched the talisman. If he wore it, how could the world still stand? Or did it? He’d seen only one human, if she was that. Were there others? What he’d seen outside looked normal, not the wasteland he’d expected. And who’d sent the woman to wake him? Druan? Or one of the other ancients: Tristol? Malek? Voltar? No one else would have known where to look, and Druan had the only key. Someone with knowledge was behind this.

Faelan flexed his muscles, testing. His strength was returning, though his head felt like a split watermelon. That bastard he’d hired had betrayed him. Probably a bloody minion. He thought of the woman again. She’d saved him, for sure. If not, he could have been in that vault until Judgment. By freeing him, she’d saved mankind. Who was she? She couldn’t be a full demon and enter the graveyard. Was she a halfling? She didn’t smell like one. Or a minion? Then why wake him from suspension, offer him food and a bed? He’d keep quiet and see what part she played in this game. He wouldn’t think about what he’d seen in her eyes. It must be the time vault messing with his senses.

He sat up and the sheet fell away. He was naked. Her doing, or his? Pushing the covers aside, he stood, his body hard, aching. He needed a woman. Her. He’d dreamed of kissing her, his tongue dancing with hers, but it hadn’t felt like a dream. Was she entering his thoughts like Michael did? No minion could do that.

Faelan looked around for his clothes and saw a box with glowing numbers beside the bed. He cautiously touched it, but it wasn’t warm. Some kind of timepiece, judging by the number shown and the lack of daylight at the window. His clothes lay folded next to the box. Another kindness. But halflings and minions would use any means to carry out their master’s evil.

A quick search revealed he had one less thing. His dirk was missing. He should’ve hidden it with the key. The woman’s scent caught his nose. He tuned his vision and saw her in the corner, asleep in a rocking chair. He could just make out her face, but it didn’t matter. Every inch of her was etched into his brain. His body grew harder. He walked over to where she slept, her dainty hand holding his dirk. Did she understand the danger that came with waking him? Or did she hold it in protection against him? Who was she?

She was perfect, that much he knew. Long dark hair like strands of silk. Bonny eyes as green as the hills of the Highlands, and a soft, feminine mouth that made his water. Her breasts were full. He wanted to fill his hands while he tasted her. He’d start with her lips and move on until he’d had every part of her. He longed to feel her skin, her legs entwined with his, lifting around his waist, her body opening to him. What if she had a husband?