Page 23 of Edge of Yesterday

“You only did what you were born to do.” Valdar jumped sideways over a fallen log, and Cailean’s jab cut through thin air.

Cailean laughed. “If you’re saying I’m a born swordsman, I take that as a compliment.”

“Aye, you are born to the blade, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

“Nae?” Cailean feinted, then sliced a hole in Val’s cloak.

Valdar leapt back and held up a hand. “Enough.” He sheathed his blade.

Cailean halted, more glad that Val had ended the fight than he wanted to admit. He was getting old. The ceremonial cut for the opening feast’s Blooding Stone had re-opened. Now this new jab on his left arm also ached. He had thought it a mere scratch, but maybe it was a bit more. He wanted to head back to Bain’s, have a shower and crawl into bed.

But he flashed a cocky smile. “Can’t take the heat, huh?” He chuckled as he slid his sword into the leather scabbard.

“We shall see who can take the heat,” Val said, then shouted. “Now!”

Three large figures in leather and mail broke from the trees. Cailean slowed. He couldn’t discern the men’s faces, but he felt certain two of them were Rathais and Dunnett. He hadn’t known the men were going to join them.

Val made no introductions, but simply said, “Come,” and strode away.

Cailean fell in alongside him and the other men took up the rear. He slowed pace as the older man entered a field of large, lichen-covered boulders. After they took their bows, they would meet up on the far side of the village. There, they would play out the next scene that legend said had taken place two years after Lady Elizabeth’s death, when Valdar returned to Heatheredge as a Cistercian monk. In his newfound faith, he brought forgiveness to Heatheredge for the evil they had brought upon the village by betraying Lady Elizabeth. Thankfully, Cailean didn’t have another big swordfight tonight.

Village lights dotted the landscape to their right. He expected to turn in that direction, but Val veered left, into the great Scots pines.

Cailean slowed. “I’m all for authenticity, lads, but a torchwould do about now. A modern one with batteries.”

“We’re almost there.” Val kept walking.

Cailean followed, then silently cursed when a gorse branch snapped back and pierced his side. Thorns dug into him like tiny needles. Cailean lifted his arm to shield himself, but his plaid caught on a bush and he yanked the fabric free.

He glanced over his shoulder at the receding lights. “Shouldn’t we head toward Heatheredge?”

“Soon enough,” Val said.

Something in his voice snagged Cailean’s attention. He quickened pace to match Val’s long strides. The man didn’t seem bothered by stinging nettles and thorny gorse. Cailean swerved to avoid another close encounter with the fiendish gorse. Damn, but his side burned.

Val marched on, unfazed. Cailean glanced at him. Many considered him a Highland hero. Cailean couldn’t help a swell of admiration, even awe. The modern festival had evolved from a celebration that tradition said began with his forebear’s triumphant return to Heatheredge. The older man’s ancestors revived medieval Scotland and shared their tradition with generations of others. Hell, they’d shared Heatheredge with the world. What was it like to live with a legacy that reached back in time for centuries? He couldn’t imagine. But damned if he didn’t wish he knew.

Val murmured something Cailean couldn’t distinguish.

“What?” Cailean asked, then growled when Val shifted and another gorse pierced his right forearm.

Lightning unexpectedly turned the night into noon. Blinded, Cailean staggered back a pace and rammed into another gorse bush. Needles pricked his arm as a wave of dizziness pitched his stomach as if he’d dropped into a deep well. He jumped aside, stumbled, and hit the ground with a thud that took his breath.