Page 33 of Highlander’s Evil Side

“Thank ye,” she whispered. She kissed her son’s head, cradling him close to her while retreating behind the crowd of men surrounding Fraser.

Fraser opened his mouth, catching the raindrops. His body was still heated, feeling dried and shriveled like an apple lying out in the sun for far too long.

“Yer daft,” said Scott, pacing in front of him. “Ye know that? Absolutely, daft.”

Fraser chuckled, which led him into another long bout of coughing. Scott smacked his back, his worry laced in his every touch. “We need to get ye a healer.”

Fraser shook his head. “We need to stop the fires.” He frowned at the men approaching him, carrying their shovels and sickles, all pointed towards him. “What’s happened?” Fraser pushed himself up, wobbling on his legs while he stared at the growing crowd.

He stumbled in a circle, his gaze widening on the unharmed fields surrounding the village. The wheat rustled in the wind, waving mockingly back at him. The smell of it permeated the air, mixed with the softness of fresh rain. Only the village suffered; only the people’s homes were destroyed.

“Why?” Fraser breathed, looking amongst the thickening crowd.

These people had nothing. No money, no precious goods; the only thing they bartered with was their crops, which fed the clan throughout the year. Why would anyone wish to harm them? It didn’t make any sense.

“Ye!” shouted a man, jutting a shaking finger in Fraser’s direction.

Fraser paused, his gaze widening on the man. He was not much older than Fraser. His leine was dirtied and wrinkled, his head covered with dark, matted strands. He stumbled towards Fraser, his trembling finger rising higher as he closed the distance between them. “Ye,” he said, his voice accusatory as he stopped before Fraser.

Fraser’s frown deepened as he stared at the man’s finger, seeing the welted and puckered red skin. The man was injured.

“‘Tis him,” Fraser heard someone whisper.

“The man from before,” whispered another.

“Has he come to finish what he started?”

A woman wailed in the distance, cradling her unblinking lad to her, still staring at the remnants of their home. The boy’s hands fisted at his sides. Dirt covered one side of his face, and his leg puckered with an angry red rash from the fire.

“What happened?” Fraser called out to the people. “How did the fires start?"

The man before him scoffed. “What happened?” he shouted. “What do ye mean ‘what happened’?”

“Ye will speak to yer laird with respect,” said Scott, moving between the man and Fraser with his hand on his hilt.

Fraser reached for Scott, pushing him to the side and stepping purposefully towards the villagers.

“My laird,” Scott said harshly, his hand grabbing Fraser’s shoulder. “Do ye think this wise?”

Fraser ignored his friend. These were mere farmers. If they were unable to stop the men who burnt their houses to the ground, they wouldn’t be able to harm him, a man trained in sword fighting since he was a lad of seven.

“Please,” Fraser urged. “Tell me what happened.”

“Ye were here,” the man said forcefully, tears glimmering in his eyes. “Ye were here with an older man, lighting yer fires nae matter how we begged.”

“Ye laughed as ye did it,” a woman whispered, her voice cracking on the words. She inhaled deeply, her shoulders shuddering to contain her sobs. “Ye said it was a means to an end.”

Fraser shook his head. “It’s not possible.”

“Ye were here!” another man shouted, jutting his finger at Fraser. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“Aye, I saw it, too!” shouted an elderly woman.

Fraser couldn’t believe his ears. It wasn’t true. He had been with Beitris at the falls. His gaze fell on an elderly-looking man with white hair. He recognized the elder as Angus, the village head. Angus stepped forward, raising his hands. With the slight movement, the shouts dissipated. The people watched their elder approach Fraser. He gazed back at Fraser with sorrow in his eyes.

“I saw ye, as well, my laird,” he said, his voice hoarse. “I did not want to believe it, for I know ye. I knew yer father, and I knew ye since ye were a young lad. But,” his gaze turned hateful, his tone dark, “ye were lighting yer fires and laughing as ye did, not caring who of us got injured.”

“I swear to ye, I was never here,” said Fraser, glancing around the crowd, whose gazes darkened with anger and hate. “I was not,” he insisted.