Words that read, Loan application.
Chapter Two
The sand crunchedunder his boots as Arran MacLeod walked along the beach. It was a fine day, with the sun high in a cloudless blue sky and a gentle breeze coming in off the sea, sending his blond hair waving out behind him like the tendrils of the kelp beds that dotted the coastline.
Aye, it was a fine day, a rare thing for this early in the season on the Isle of Skye, but Arran barely noticed. His mood did not match the weather. It was as dark and threatening as the winter storms that rolled in from the Atlantic and battered the island with rain and fury.
His entourage had waited at the head of the beach, letting their laird come out here alone, which was a wise decision on their part. He was in no mood for company, and the gaggle of guards and advisors that had insisted on accompanying him would only have made his anger worse.
He stopped and stared out at the bay. It was even worse than he’d imagined, even worse than his breathless scouts had reported at first light this morning. The twelve fishing boats lay in remnants along the shore, some half out of the water, others listing in the waves. All destroyed. All soon to become wrecks on the seabed. But worse than this was the sight of the things that bobbed in the water beside the ruined hulks.
Bodies.
Bloated and already attracting the attention of gulls and other scavengers, the remains of the fishermen floated like bits of discarded wreckage, some drowned when they tried to flee their boats, others hacked to pieces when they’d tried to defend them.
Arran’s hands curled into fists. He ached to hit something. Anything. He needed to vent the fury that bubbled inside him like molten metal. Yet there was nothing on which to vent his rage. The raiders were long gone, back to whatever infernal hell they’d come from.
It was only April, early in the raiding season, and Arran’s stomach tightened with dread at the thought of what the summer—and calmer waters—would bring. How would they hold off the raiders when they came in force? If he couldn’t even defend this bay, how could he defend the rest of Skye? How could he keep his people safe?
Something caught his eye on the beach, and he knelt to pick it up. It was a wooden disc, no bigger than a coin, carved on one side with angular runes, on the other with a trident. Arran recognized it immediately. He’d seen many such tokens before.
So. These raiders were Norse, and this was a token one of them had dropped into the sea to beg the favor of their gods. Seems it had worked.
He straightened, gazing out at the softly sighing waves stretching to the horizon, hand tightening around the Norse token. He was laird of the Clan MacLeod of Skye. It was his duty to keep his people from harm, but he’d failed them. The weight of guilt settled around his shoulders, heavier than any mantle.
He was descended from a long line of proud MacLeod chieftains who had given their sweat and tears—their very lives—to protect Skye. But he was so muchlessthan his ancestors had been. He was chieftain of a failing people whose courage and resilience were gradually being eroded by the endless waves of attackers who showed not the slightest pity or mercy.
It shouldnothave been this way. He should have found a way tostop Skye’s ancient magic from failing. But he hadn’t. For years, the protective barrier that guarded the island, keeping Norse, Irish, and English raiders from their shores had been weakening, and he’d been powerless to stop it.
Now, it had failed completely, and the attacks had doubled, then trebled, turning the spring and summer months into one long hellish battle, with his warriors riding from one part of the island to another responding to every raid, but never quite getting to any of them in time.
He sank to his knees, staring out at the waves. All looked calm. And yet, he could well imagine the chaos, the terror and the carnage that had been visited on this tranquil bay only a few hours ago.
After all, he’d seen it often enough.
He’d been little more than a boy when his father had died and he’d been made chieftain. Just seventeen years old, he should have been looking forward to finding a wife and raising children before the trials of the lairdship were thrust upon him. But raiders had taken his father and elder brother long before their time, and so the burden had fallen on his young shoulders. He’d done his best to bear it, giving everything he had to his duty, giving up thoughts of a wife, a family, in his determination to serve his clan. But it hadn’t been enough.
What would his legacy be? he thought bitterly. He had no children to follow him, and it was perhaps just as well. What would they inherit? A barren, half-dead island where a handful of desperate people clung on to their meager existence?
He closed his eyes and whispered a prayer to the gods of the sea who had once protected this place.
Please help my people. Please send me a way to keep them safe.
He didn’t expect an answer. After all, every other prayer he’d uttered had gone unanswered, and the plight of his people had only gotten steadily worse. So his eyes flew wide in shock when a sudden wind sprang up, howling down the beach in a maelstrom, whippingsand into his eyes and turning the waves into a thrashing white froth.
He climbed to his feet and staggered back a few paces, flinging his arm up to protect his eyes against the stinging sand. The waves grew fiercer, crashing against the shore and battering what remained of his fishing fleet. Then a huge wave reared up, taller than the rest, taller than Arran, frothing and seething like a living thing.
Arran squinted into its green depths and felt his stomach tighten in fear. There was something inside it. A figure stood in the middle of that wave, a silhouette against the green water.
The wave toppled over, crashing onto the shore with a roar and drenching Arran with freezing spray. When the water receded, it left the figure behind.
It was a woman. She stood at the water’s edge, young and shapely, with a flowing pearlescent dress covering her feminine curves. Hair the color of ripe corn fell to her waist and seemed to wave and move of its own accord, like sea grass. But it was her eyes that drew him the most. They were large and oval-shaped—and entirely silver.
Ice slid down Arran’s spine. He reached over his shoulder and drew his claymore in a rasp of steel. Clutching it before him with both hands, he faced the stranger.
“Who are ye?” he demanded. “What do ye want?”
The woman did not reply. She stared at him with her silver eyes until, finally, she nodded as though satisfied. “There is no need for that,” she said, gesturing at the sword. Her voice had a strange musical note to it and reminded Arran of nothing so much as water bubbling over rocks.
