“You’re pagans. Heathens, blasphemers to the one true religion—”
“You’re hardly one to judge!” Ronin exclaimed.
“Dinna think to debate the Lord’s word with me, McIllioch. The voice of Satan will not tempt me from God’s course.”
Ronin’s lip drew back in a snarl. “When man thinks he knows God’s course better than God himself is when hundreds die—”
“Free Jillian and you may have my life,” Grimm interrupted. “But she goes free. You will entrust her to”—Grimm glanced at Ronin—“my da.” He tried to meet Ronin’s gaze when he named him his sire, but couldn’t.
“I dinna recover you to lose you again, lad,” Ronin muttered harshly.
“What a touching reunion,” Connor remarked dryly. “But lose him you will. And if you want her, Gavrael McIllioch—last of the Berserkers—free her yourself. She’s up there.” He pointed to Wotan’s Cleft. “In the caves.”
Horrified, Grimm scanned the jagged face of the cliff. “Where in the caves?” Dread filled him at the thought of Jillian wandering in the darkness, skirting dangers she couldn’t even know were there: collapsed tunnels, rock slides, dangerous pits.
“Find her yourself.”
“How do I know this isn’t a trap?” Grimm’s eyes glittered dangerously.
“You don’t,” the McKane said flatly. “But if she is in there, it’s very dark and there are a lot of dangerous chasms. Besides, what would I gain by sending you off into the caves?”
“They could be set to explode,” Grimm said tightly.
“Then I guess you better get her out fast, McIllioch,” the McKane provoked.
Ronin shook his head. “We need proof that she’s in there. And alive.”
Connor dispatched a guard with a low rush of words.
Some time later, that proof was offered. Jillian’s piercing scream ripped through the tense air of the valley.
Ronin watched in silence as Grimm climbed the rocky pass to Wotan’s Cleft.
Balder was far back in the ranks, his features concealed by a heavy cloak to prevent the McKane from realizing there was yet another unmated Berserker still alive. Ronin had insisted they not reveal his existence unless it was necessary to save lives.
From different vantages, the brothers admired the young man mounting the cleft. He’d left Occam behind and was scaling the sheer face of the cliff with a skill and ease that revealed the preternatural prowess of the Berserker. After years of hiding what he was, he now flaunted his superiority to the enemy. He was a warrior, at one with the beast, born to survive and endure. When he topped the cliff and disappeared over the edge the two clans sat their horses in battle lines, staring across the space that separated them with hatred so palpable it hung in the air as thick and oppressive as the smoke that had filled the vale fifteen years past.
Until Jillian and Grimm—or, God forbid, a McKane—topped the edge of the cliff, neither side would move. The McKane hadn’t come to Tuluth to lose any more of their clan; they’d come to take Gavrael and eliminate the last of the Berserkers.
The McIllioch didn’t move out of fear for Jillian.
The time stretched painfully.
Grimm entered the tunnel silently. His every instinct demanded he bellow for Jillian, but that would only alert whoever was holding her to his presence. The memory of her terrible scream both chilled his blood and made it boil for vengeance.
He eased into the tunnel, gliding with the silent stealth of a mountain cat, sniffing the air like a wolf. All his animal instincts roused with chill, predatory perfection. Somewhere torches were burning; the scent was unmistakable. He followed the odor down twisting corridors, his hands outstretched in the darkness. Although the interior of the tunnels was pitch black, his heightened vision enabled him to discern the slope of the floor. Skirting deep pits and ducking beneath crumbling ceilings, he navigated the musty tunnels, following the scent.
He rounded a bend where the tunnel opened into a long straight corridor, and there she was, her golden hair gleaming in the torchlight.
“Stop right there,” Ramsay Logan warned. “Or she dies.”
It was a vision from one of his worst nightmares. Ramsay had Jillian at the end of the tunnel. He’d gagged and bound her. She was wearing the McKane tartan, and the sight of it on her body filled him with fury. The question of who had stripped and reclothed her tortured him. He assessed her quickly, assuring himself that whatever had made her scream had not drawn blood or left visible sign of injury. The blade Logan was holding to her throat had not pierced her delicate skin. Yet.