Eamon, spotting the bow being lined up, ducked to his left and narrowly missed being impaled as he closed in on the rider.

  The rider, cursing at his miss, kicked his heels into the side of the horse and continued his ride. He headed for the foliage in front of him, dense and stretching on for a significant number of miles.

  Eamon, hot on the rider’s heels, cursed once he realized he had no weapons on him. He trailed the rider as they zig-zagged their way through the trees, the rider competent in his stride and keeping Eamon on his toes.

  Eamon pursued the rider for a half-mile, unable to close in on him—and then a thought popped up into his brain. He broke right, disappearing from the rider’s rear as the sound of his horse’s hoof

  beats slowly faded.

  The rider, casting a look over his shoulder, smiled with satisfaction, certain that he had lost the Highlander. He continued to ride, as fast and as hard as he could, making his way toward the designated rallying point that his leader had given him. He looked ahead, a cascade of light peeking in from the other side of the forest—his salvation.

  The rider pushed…and pushed…and pushed, confidant that he was on the cusp of making his escape. As he attempted to push through and out of the forest—he felt the weight of the horse of the Highlander pursuing him slamming into his side and knocking him clear off his mound.

  Eamon, having successfully flanked the rider, also fell from his horse. The two men laid on the ground for a moment, the wind knocked out of them as they struggled to stand.

  The rider stood first, slowly unsheathing his sword as Eamon found his footing. Eamon knew he had no time to waste—he charged.

  He tackled the rider to the ground, the two men tumbling over each other and struggling to get the advantage. It wasn't long until Eamon knocked the sword from the rider's grip, leaving him no choice but to fight with bare hands.

  Eamon punched the rider. The rider punched Eamon. A few more kicks and blows were exchange, one of which knocked Eamon dizzy. The rider took the opportunity to put Eamon into headlock, preparing to break his neck as Eamon began to see dark spots around his vision.

  Eamon felt things slowly turn to black, his hands groping along the ground for anything that could assist him. His fingertips then grazed a rock, his palm quickly suctioning up against the rock before he picked it up, swung it back, and slammed it into the rider’s skull.

  The rider fell instantly, the rock having cracked open his skull in a fatal blow that killed him right away. Eamon stood back, catching his breath as he stared at the sprawled-out corpse. Moments later, two of the other Bairdsmen arrived on horseback and quickly dismounted.

  “Eamon!” the one called Sean said. “Are ye all right?”

  Eamon opened his mouth to reply as he looked at the gray garb on the fallen rider—and the flaming cross stitched in red on his tunic. He gasped, having heard of these colors and insignia before.

  Eamon moved closer to the rider, examining his garb from head-to-toe to confirm what he already knew. “We maist get back tae the village,” he said. “Something foreboding is playing out before us…”

  Chapter 2

  The body of the rider that Eamon had slain was brought into the tavern and placed on a table. The Bairdsman who had come to Eamon’s assistance, Sean, winced as they laid the corpse down.

  “We could nae take it somewhere where we dinnae eat and drink?” he said.

  Eamon flashed Sean a look, the same irked look he flashed Sean often, being that Sean was a man prone to speaking his mind constantly.

  Sean held up his hands in submission, taking the hint fine.

  “What is this?” a familiar voice called out from the doorway.

  Eamon turned and laid eyes on his aunt Gavina, her hair tied in a braid and hands on her hips. She was older now, a mother—but still the most formidable warrior in these parts, even if Eamon did have about one-hundred pounds on her.

  Eamon gestured to the dead rider. “Look…” he said.

  Gavina walked over and looked at the dead man gray garb and reversed red crucifix crudely stitched into his tunic. She closed her eyes. “Me God…”

  Sean held up his hands. “I would very much like tae ken what ye both seem tae already ken…”

  Eamon jutted his chin toward the dead body. “He is a member of the Hands of God.”

  Sean squinted. “What is that?”

  “A group of rogue Sassenach warriors,” the voice of Finlay said from the corner, seated with a depleted look on his face and a watchful eye focused on the dead body.

  “The Hands of God?” Sean said.

  Gavina nodded. “Aye. There are rumors that hae circulated fer the past several years aboot them. It was said that there was a small band of men, naw mair than thirty of them, who were expelled or rebelled from Sassenach rule. They set aboot looting and pillaging anything they could and adopted the moniker ‘Hands of God’ as a way tae strike fear into the hearts of Scotsmen.”

  Finlay shook his head. “Naw,” he said, slowing rising from his chair. “That is nae entirely true, Gavina.” He walked over to the body. “I am afraid it is much mair sinister and foreboding than that…”

  Gavina, Eamon, and Sean waited for Finlay to continue.

  “Ye are correct,” Finlay continued, “that these men were once under the employ of the Sassenach. That is true. But they did nae just rebel from their order—they were wronged by them?”

  Sean squinted again. “How dae ye mean?”

  Finlay looked at Sean. “These men are rogues who betrayed or were cast out by their Sassenach overlords. These are men whose lives were nothing shy of obliterated by the war we hae been engaged in fer quite some time.” He drew a breath. “Their leader,” he continued, “and I am nae sure of his name, lost his wife tae a fight with the Highlanders, at least that is the rumor.”

  “We all lost someone,” Eamon said, reflecting on thoughts of his deceased wife. “Ye dinnae see us killing and pillaging tae deal with our grief…”

  Not a word was spoken for a moment as everyone let Eamon have his moment.

  “The point,” Finlay finally said, “is that these men, these Hands of God, had their lives taken from them, and they hold a very strict frame of thought when it comes tae their current plight.”

  “Which is?” Gavina asked.

  “They believe that everyone in Scotland, everyone, is responsible for the turmoil that has occurred for over twenty years. They blame the Sassenach and Highlanders alike for prolonging the conflict, for decimating their families and their lives, and they believe that there is only one way to finally settle things once and fer all…”

  Everyone in the room eagerly held on for the rest.

  “They wish tae kill everyone,” Finlay said. “Every last breathing creature in Scotland, native and Sassenach alike. Not a soul spared.”

  A tenseness collected around the room. It felt as if all the air had evacuated and vanished.

  Sean shook his head, incredulous. “If what ye say is true,” he said, “and they hae but only thirty men—there is naw way they can accomplish that.”

  Finlay wagged his finger. “I would nae be so sure of that. These men are naw ordinary group of warriors. They are trained in the art of surprise attack. They attack under the cover of darkness, like specters rather than men.” Finlay leaned on his cane as he recalled a particular story and sighed. “As I said,” he continued, “I ken of only the rumors of these men that hae been proven tae be true, one of which occurred but five years ago. I received word of this from the McManus clan…”

  Everyone once again waited for Finlay to muster the strength to continue.

  “There was a village,” Finlay said. “It laid some distance from here. It was obliterated overnight—one hundred people, all of them killed silently in the knight. Men. Women. Children. Everyone. The McManus clan found them. They had arrived in an attempt tae trade goods. They discovered what remained of the village…it was nae much.”

  All in the room were holding their breath.

  “These Hands of God,” Finlay said, “kill with precision. Stealth. Naw grand attack. They slit the throats of maist everyone they killed, one by one, with nae one of them being detected. These are silent killers of the most lethal breed. Only thirty men were able tae take them out.”

  “How can one ken if the rumors are true aboot their numbers?” Sean said, eager to debunk the facts laid before him.

  “They were spotted once,” Finlay said, “by one of the McManus clan. He spotted them riding off into the distance. Their familiar garb, as seen on the dead man afore ye, was recognized. He fled quickly, worried that the Hands of God might hae spotted him.”

  “This is madness,” Sean said. “Impossible.”

  Finlay shook his head. “It is mair than possible. These men are oot there, and I fear that us catching one of them by pure happenstance will end up signaling an alarm…”

  Gavina huffed. “What should we dae?”

  “If they kill like father has said,” Eamon added, “then we maist seek them oot.”

  Sean flexed his brow. “Seek them out?”

  “Aye. We maist kill them afore they kill us.” We maist protect the village.”

  “If rumors of their abilities are true, then it is a fool’s errand!”

  “Naw,” Finlay interjected. “Eamon is right. We maist attempt tae locate them. I am naw saying that we try tae take them, but it is important tae seek them oot. The dead man before ye is a scout. He was preparing tae return tae the rest of his people tae tell them of our numbers. This has been a precursor tae an attack.”

  Silence settled over the room.

  “We should hae Eamon prepare the Bairdsmen,” Gavina said. “He should take them and attempt tae find these men. Once he does, he maist return and relay all that he has discovered.”

  Finlay looked upon his son. “Eamon,” he said. “What say ye?”

  It took Eamon a moment—but he nodded. “Aye,” he said. “I shall take the Bairdsmen oot tonight and track the rogues.”

  Finlay tapped his cane twice on the floor. “Well done. Take all the supplies ye need.”

  Sean forked his thumb at the dead body. “And what of this one?”

  Finlay looked at the body for several moments. “Burn it,” he said before leaving the tavern.

  An hour later, after the body of the rogue had been burned, Eamon sought out Gavina in her home, hoping for some words of wisdom from his aunt.

  “Gavina?” he said, poking his head through her doorway.

  Gavina, in the midst of polishing a dagger by a table, looked up and smiled. “Eamon. Come in.”

  Eamon entered, his eyes looking around for signs of Gavina’s ten-year-old daughter, Isla, named after her sister, the Lady of the Baird Clan, who had passed away just two years prior.

  “Where is Isla?” Eamon inquired.

  Gavina gestured toward a window. “She plays with several of the other children. I suspect she will be covered in mud upon her return, as she has been so many times before.”

  “Ye say it with such enthusiasm.”

  Gavina smiled. “I like being a mother.”

  Eamon took a beat. “Well…Christian would have been proud.”

  Gavina’s thoughts then ran to her husband, who had passed away of illness a few months prior. She missed the Sassenach knight turned ally, her confidant, her love. “Aye,” she said to Eamon. “I believe ye tae be right…”

  Gavina placed down her blade and looked at her nephew. “What troubles ye?”

  Eamon huffed. “I dinnae ken…everything, perhaps.”

  “I take it ye spoke with yer father.”

  A nod. “Aye. I did.”

  “Well…the words he expressed tae ye maist likely reflects what the rest of yer family feels”

  Eamon squinted. “I dinnae understand…”

  “Aye. Ye dae.”

  “Pretend that I dinnae.”

  Gavina smirked. “Ye lost yer wife. Ye miss her. Since the day she passed, ye act as if nae a thing affects ye. Ye hae never cried. Ye hae never gotten angry. Ye merely drift through life, as if ye dinnae hae a care in the world.”

  “That is nae true.”

  Gavina stood, slowly. “Then why, nephew? Why is it that ye dinnae seem tae be saddened over the death of a woman ye loved so much?”

  Eamon felt a cacophony of emotions flowing through him: anger, sadness, regret, more anger. He never knew how to process them. Any time he thought on his wife—that was how he felt.

  “I feel nae a thing,” Eamon said to his aunt. “I mean…I feel so many things. But it is as if I cannae act on them. I cannae cry, or yell, or express myself. It is as if…it is as if I am…numb.”

  Gavina nodded, empathizing with her nephew more than he could ever know. “I ken,” she said. “It is something that takes time.”

  Eamon sat down across from Gavina and sighed. “It scares me…I worry that…I might become crazed in due time, that how I feel will finally boil over until I ignite.”

  Gavina reached out, resting her hand on top of Eamon’s. “Dinnae think that. That is nae how a Baird functions.”

  “I am just scared, Gavina. I am scared and saddened…and it does nae gae away…”

  Gavina felt overwhelmed by Eamon’s sadness, practically secreting from his pores and causing her to dwell on feelings she shared with him due to the death of her loved one. With nothing else left for her to say, she merely reached over and gave her nephew a reassuring hug.

  For the first time in a long time, Eamon, holding onto his aunt’s embrace, felt like he did when he was all of ten years of age.

  That evening, as the sun settled in the west and painted the sky hues of orange and pink, Eamon and ten other men, dressed all in black with burly frames and lethal glints in their eyes to match set out to find the Hands of God.

  Eamon, mounted his horse in front of the men known as the Bairdsmen, took one last look around at his small army and nodded approvingly. He then raised his hand, pointed it to the north, and ordered his men to ride.

  The Bairdsmen rode off into the north, Eamon leading the charge and doing his best not to dwell on the emotions still running rampant through his mind. He was heartbroken. He knew thus—but he worried, like he told his aunt Gavina, that the time would soon come when he would do something in response once those emotions finally came screaming out of him.

  Chapter 3

  Agatha Pickering was always complimented for her beauty. Words like “Lovely,” “Charming,” and “Exquisite” had been poured over her nearly her entire life. It was not that Agatha was immune to compliments, but she had been judged solely on her stunning and aquiline looks her entire life, and most that met her assumed, due to her beauty, that she didn’t have the mind to match. But Agatha did—many, many times over.

  Agatha had always dreamed of being a person of medicine, of learning more about the human body and becoming a healer back in her home of England. But that was not how the world worked, and Agatha was forced to flee the country after her mother passed away. Agatha sought employment wherever she could, drifting from one place to the next before finding herself stuck in the employ of a Highland Lord by the name of Sir Ian. Sir Ian was cordial at first, but as Agatha continued to work for him—she found that he was much more lecherous and vile with his intentions.

  Agatha, standing and looking out the window in her master’s bedroom, sighed away those thoughts like she did so many mornings before—it just was what it was.

  “Agatha,” a high-pitched voice called out from behind her—her master’s young son, George.

  Agatha smiled — George was the only welcomed reprieve in her life of servitude. “Georgie!” she called back.

  “Father says he wants to speak with you.”

  Agatha’s smile somewhat faded. She held onto a shred of it for the boy’s sake. “Thank you, Georgie. Tell him I am on my way.”

  George flashed a smile and quickly hurried out of the room. Agatha stood there shaking her head for a moment before she placed down the broom that she had been using to sweep the floor and moved her way downstairs to the kitchen.

  Sitting on a stool and gorging himself with food was Lord Ian, her master, overweight and sporting a knack for making odd grunts and groans to assist him in coping with his poor digestion.

  “Me dear,” Lord Ian greeted as she entered. “This chicken tastes undercooked!”

  Agatha wanted so desperately to roll her eyes. But she didn’t. “I apologize, my lord,” she said. “I shall prepare another.”

 

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