Highland Warrior, McCollum, Heather [carter reed .TXT] 📗

“’Tis our turn through,” Calder said, nodding toward the fires. “And then you can lead your horse through with Kára leading Broch and then her animals.”

Joshua walked with him. They rounded the first fire in silence. The heat from the flames slowed Joshua’s steps to remain in the glow of the warmth for as long as he could.

“Thank you,” Calder said. “I do not think I said that before, about you fetching Hilda and holding Brenna up when I was…”

Joshua nodded. “Ye have a bonny family. ’Tis a good start.” Which would end in death if they went against Robert, even with his training. How many places would be set at next year’s Samhain? Would Brenna and her bairn weep over Calder’s?

They rounded the first fire. “Have you trained your whole life at winning battles?” Calder asked.

Winning battles? The field at South Ronaldsay surfaced in his mind. Scavenger birds circling as people carried away their family members. A mother crying over the boy covered in mud. Her wiping his face with her skirts until his freckles showed through on his pale skin.

Joshua forced himself past the memories that would never leave him. “Aye. I was raised to war,” he said, his words solemn.

“Have you been taught by masters of war?” Calder was attentive, eager to learn. A year ago, Joshua would have smiled at his enthusiasm.

“Aye, from my father and… I have a book. Have ye heard of The Art of War?”

“No.” Calder shook his head.

“It was written over a millennium ago by a great warrior from a secluded country named China. Although the country is closed off to most travelers, spice traders and spiritual seekers have taken sea routes to reach it.”

They rounded another fire, the flames bending toward them with a gust of breeze. “And you have this book of wisdom? And can read it?”

“A Jesuit priest translated the teachings into French. My father, hearing of the book, went to great lengths to track a rare copy down in Edinburgh. After all, his second son was War.” Joshua’s hands gripped into tight fists, the remorse for not studying it more pressing heavily on him. “I spent the next year learning French to decipher it.”

“What great teachings did you learn?” Calder asked, his brows lower.

“Many,” Joshua said. “I have my copy with me and can read ye some.” He stretched his arms behind him, his gaze scanning ahead of them out into the darkness that the Hillside warriors were watching. “Intimidation works to deter attack.”

“You are very intimidating,” Calder said with a chuckle.

“If intimidation is not enough to deter the enemy, a swift, brutal strike can end a war quickly and ultimately save many more lives.”

He slowed, and Calder matched his pace, watching him as if he meant to commit each of Joshua’s words to memory. “And there are more times that it is wise not to attack than to act offensively.” Like when a lad pleaded with him to help his family attack an oppressor, and he did not properly scout the area or get to know the enemy first.

They made it back around in time to see Geir walking Fuil through the fires himself. Kára’s boy had obviously learned not to fear his warhorse. Kára had her own horse, Broch, walking beside him.

Pastor John meandered over with two more Hillside men, joining him and Calder where they stood in the glow of the fire. “Tell us about Scotia,” one said. “About your festivals where there are five hundred horses and hundreds of people and sheep and livestock needing to weave through the fires.”

The other one handed him an ale. Joshua took a drink, swallowing down his self-loathing with it. He cleared his throat. “It is much louder and rather unruly. We usually have a horse or two charge off into the night to be rounded up by the lads.”

Pastor John shook his head, smiling. “’Tis right muddled with all the people and horses and lots of drink.”

They followed Calder to some boulders acting as benches and sat with the men Joshua had been working with over the last week. “And we have tournaments. Throwing daggers, stones, and cabers.”

“Cabers are trees?” Calder asked.

“Aye,” Pastor John said, stretching his arms out wide. “About one hundred fifty pounds and twenty feet long.”

“I have never seen a tree that size,” one man said. “Why do you throw it?” He shook his head, laughing.

“’Tis useful,” Joshua said, taking a quick sip and relaxing into the easy talk. “A way to ford a river if some bastards are chasing ye.”

“But first you would have to cut it down,” Osk said from where he stood off to the side. He walked closer into the circle that had formed. “By then the bastards would be upon you.”

Joshua pointed at him, his brow rising. “Aye, unless we have carried one with us into battle,” he said, half jesting.

“You carry trees about?” the first man said, and they all waited for his nod before breaking into loud laughter.

“No wonder you are as strong as three men,” another said.

“If we had trees,” Osk said, “I would carry one about.” He nodded seriously and drank deeply off his tankard.

Joshua grinned at them, but then his chest tightened with the thought of them battling trained warriors, being struck down under Robert Stuart’s orders, the whole lot wiped out in one heated battle. On South Ronaldsay, both sides lost, but against Robert, the Hillside people would surely falter. It was a matter of numbers and experience.

He looked down and then up to meet Calder’s gaze. “If ye came to my home in mainland Scotland, there’d be whole forests for ye to carry about.”

The men laughed, but Calder stared at him. “Enough wood to build cottages and furniture?”

Joshua nodded. “And a clan of hundreds to protect yer families. Free lands to hunt upon. Horses to ride.”

The laughter subsided. Did they hear his invitation? Did they hate him for it? The scowl that had taken over