Sequels
Earthchild
Published
New Age Dimensions Press

Prologue

Heather was as pale as her sun-bleached linen sheets where they were not splashed with blood. Her breath scarcely budged the plaid stretched over her, yet she sensed Brian’s presence, even turned her face toward him and offered a valiant smile. A little boy, scarcely tall enough to see over the top of the bed, Brian had sneaked into the sickroom. They were sure to be after him.

“Brian, my lad,” she said. She was his step-mother, but no mother could have loved him more. Brian clung to her hand. It was cold as the loch.

“So like your da,” Heather whispered. “My dearest laddie, I’ve a gift for ye, a little sister. Ye will see to her? I’ll not be here to take care of her. She will need ye to take a brother’s part.”

A sob twisted the lad’s throat and quivered his chin, but he clung bravely to her hand.

“See to her, Brian,” Heather whispered. “See she learns the old ways. She has the gift . . . tell her I wish I could have . . .” She seemed to drift inside herself for a moment then murmured, “She will leave this place when all is lost. Tell me ye will watch over her–my little Branwyn.”

“Yes, Mama! Don’t go, Mama.”

“Watch over her until Branwyn is a woman grown. The Goddess will send a guardian. By the linn . . . he will vow to her. Thank the Goddess!” Her eyes closed.

 

 

 

Chapter One

Eighteen years later . . .

He had scarcely dozed off in the dark of the wood when his restless horse nudged him again. It had been countless days since he had last slept or eaten. After that last insistent nudge, he contemplated the effort involved in fixing an equine roast.

“I’ll barter you for the first feather bed I see,” he grumbled.

Were a few hours of sleep too grand an ambition for a man? Leaves crunched beneath him as he fantasized a featherbed, scented sheets (any scent but horse), a roof. Was that too much to ask? For now, even the indulgence of his own name was denied him. With luck, even in this remote corner of the highlands, simple pleasures like a hot bath, a dry bed and a willing woman might yet be found. He would seek his ease in the village near Castle McDermitt. Scratching at his lice-ridden heavy beard, he knew he would not risk being clean-shaven until the need for secrecy was over.

The sun’s location told him that he’d only just closed his eyes. He stretched, damning the coarse sheepskin, and scratched at resident lice. Should have gotten the disguise from a clean bog-trotter. A few twigs fell, the rest matted into the sheep’s nap. Flexing the massive muscles of his arms, he idly noted the scratches he must have gotten riding through this forest that shouldn’t even be here. Sleep beckoned him as he eased his sunburned arms over his head. The ill-fitting garment ripped under the pressure, and he groaned in relief at the small, new freedom of movement. No help for the damaged seams–at least he’d look his part. Dried foam, sweat and dirt rubbed off the horse and onto him. The stallion, Atilla, had been ridden hard and was due a rest. He rummaged in the pack for a chamois, and turned his attention to giving Atilla a decent rubdown, when the gray’s ears flickered. Instantly his reflexes snapped to attention, taking precedence over his physical state.

Someone was close.

Someone could be dangerous.

Someone was as good as dead.

Tightly-stretched nerves and toughened sinew leapt to accept the challenge. He dropped the chamois and belly-crawled toward the sound of splashing water, one hand gripping the skean dhu. Like a wolf, he crouched for the kill, peeking through the stunted brush. He
saw . . .

Her.

Glistening with water.

A woman.

He licked his dry lips.

And such a woman. Mayhaps he was still dreaming.

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