Page 58 of Highlander’s Burning Touch

“Sir, whatever we do tomorrow, for now, we need to turn back,” voiced the counselor bravely. Rory turned immediately to face him.

For a moment, there was a pause as the wind hurtled around the glen one more time. Watching Rory’s pale eyes narrow against the wind, Fingal thought for one minute that he was about to explode. His whole face tensed as if weathering more than just the storm that raged around them.

Everyone waited for the laird to reply. His expression changed from annoyance to resignation.

“Aye,” he said, casting his blue eyes downward. Although in the darkness, it was impossible to see the color, in fact, it was getting hard to see much at all. The only light was coming from the intermittent moon, jetting out occasionally from behind the cloud.

It was a starless night, and without even the light of the moon to guide them, Fingal wondered if they would even make it back home again.

But he could just about make out the shape of a horse, standing idly by the lodge on the hill. It was hard to be sure, at such distance, but deep in his heart, Fingal wondered if it was Niven’s.

And from the inside of the lodge, a faint light glinted out into the blackened sky. He couldn’t be sure, but it looked as if someone was in there. And he thought he could guess who.

Despite his curiosity to discover if Niven had made it to the hunting lodge before them, Fingal had other things on his mind. Which were, right then, not losing his fingers to frostbite and getting back home again as fast as possible.

Something that didn’t look very likely if they continued up this hill.

If it wasn’t for the snow gleaming in the pale light, it would be extremely hard to see anything at all. But the more Fingal looked, the more he was sure that it was Niven’s horse. And more than that. He thought he saw the mangy gray creature that Deva insisted upon riding, tethered next to it.

Idly, Fingal wondered what she was doing there. He hadn’t expected that at all. As far as he knew, it was only Niven the laird was waiting on.

This could mean only one thing. That the pair had reached the lodge far in advance of them and not ridden on, looking for the hunt which Niven was expected at.

Before he could think about this any further, Rory turned to face them in seriousness.

“Och, well, aye, of course perhaps tonight we cannae do anymore,” he conceded, looking slightly ashamed. “But maybe tomorrow, when Niven gets here, it’s just…”

His voice wandered as Fingal caught the sadness in his voice. It had been something he had noted more and more over the last few weeks. His uncle’s reluctance to be in the castle for any longer than necessary and sudden disappearances had been noted.

He had taken to going on long, unplanned journeys, often at the drop of a hat. Nothing strange there, but it was winter, and the Highlands were even more inhospitable than usual.

“It’s just what, Uncle?” Fingal asked. He had been silent up until now, but at last, had dared to speak up.

It was just as well that Dughall had said what they were all thinking. At least the laird listened to him. If he had tried saying it, it would have been a different matter all over.

“Och, maybe I was a wee bit carried away, coming all this way out here, in the dark,” the laird finally conceded. Then, he looked to his horse, harumphing beneath him. “But I cannae see what other option there is to do but to continue to the lodge…”

Almost as soon as he said this, a gust brought a fist of snowflakes his way. For a minute, they had to hold onto their capes as the blast ran through them.

When it was done, Fingal looked at his uncle. He could only just make out his features in the darkness. It was freezing, they were stranded, and the tips of his fingers no longer had any feeling.

Finally, Fingal was at the end of his patience. “Uncle, we cannae,” he snapped.

Rory turned and looked at him. They all did. He had been quiet up until this point, and his outburst was all the more notable. Fingal didn’t very often dare to venture an opinion like that.

“What?” Now Rory was looking at him, with the full fury of the wind behind him. “It isnae far now…”

But by then, the cold was so biting that Fingal no longer cared for what he or any of them thought. “

“It is!” he said, fighting to keep the bitterness out of his voice. He could feel their eyes upon him, all of them, but especially Dughall, his uncle’s wizened counselor. “It would be easier to turn back again than go to the lodge…”

But if Fingal thought that he had got through to his uncle, then he was to be sorely disappointed. If anything, his words seemed to have spurred Rory on.

“Nonsense, the lodge is much nearer. I can see it on the hill!” said his uncle, his blue eyes flashing in the rare light.

Although he could hardly see them, Fingal felt a sense of co-conspiracy with the others in the dark. They wouldn’t say it, but they were willing him on to change the laird’s mind. The only thing was Fingal wasn’t sure Rory would listen.

He never did, not to him, the second heir. If Niven was here, it would be different. Although over the last few days, Fingal had noted that Niven did not seem to want to spend much time with his uncle, and when he did, the two men snapped at each other.