Grimm drew Occam to a halt. Zeke was half crying the broken words of an old lullaby. Grimm wondered who had managed to hurt his feelings this early in the morning. He watched the lad, trying to decide what was the best way to approach him without offending the child’s dignity. As he hesitated in the shadows, any decision on his part was rendered obsolete as the crackling of brush and bracken alerted him to an intruder. He scanned the surrounding forest, but before he had detected the source, a snarling animal sprang from the woods a few feet behind Zeke. A great, mangy mountain cat burst onto the bank of the loch, thick white spittle foaming on its snout. It snarled, baring lethal white fangs. Zeke turned, and his song warbled to a stop. His eyes widened in horror.
Grimm instantly flung himself from Occam’s back, yanked his sgain dubh from his thigh, and drew it across his hand, causing blood to well in his palm. In less than a heartbeat, the sight of the crimson beads roused the Viking warrior and set the Berserker free.
Moving with inhuman speed, he snatched Zeke up and tossed him on his stallion and smacked Occam on the rump. Then he did what he so despised … he lost time.
“Somebody help!” Zeke shrieked as he rode into the bailey on Occam’s back. “You must help Grimm!”
Hatchard burst from the castle to find Zeke perched on Occam’s back, hanging on to his mane with whitened knuckles. “Where?” he shouted.
“The loch! There’s a crazed mountain cat and it almost ate me and he threw me on the horse and I rode by myself but it attacked Grimm and he’s going to be hurt!”
Hatchard sped off for the loch, unaware of two other people who’d been alerted by the shouting and were hot on his heels.
Hatchard found Grimm standing motionless, a black shadow against the misty red sky. He was facing the water, standing amidst the scraps of what had once been an animal. His arms and face were covered with blood.
“Gavrael,” Hatchard said quietly, using his real name in hopes of reaching the man within the beast.
Grimm did not reply. His chest rose and fell rapidly. His body was pumped up with the massive quantities of oxygen a Berserker inhaled to compensate for the preternatural rage. The veins in his corded forearms pulsed dark blue against his skin, and, Hatchard marveled, he seemed twice as large as he normally was. Hatchard had seen Grimm in the thick of Berserker rage several times when he’d trained the fosterling, but the mature Grimm wore it far more dangerously than the stripling lad had.
“Gavrael Roderick Icarus McIllioch,” Hatchard said. He approached him from the side, trying to enter Grimm’s line of vision in as innocuous a manner as possible. Behind him, two figures stopped in the shadows of the forest. One of them gasped softly and echoed the name.
“Gavrael, it’s me, Hatchard,” Hatchard repeated gently.
Grimm turned and looked directly at the chief man-at-arms. The warrior’s blue eyes were incandescent, glowing like banked coals, and Hatchard received a disconcerting lesson in what it felt like to have someone look straight through him.
A strangled noise behind him compelled Hatchard’s attention. Turning, he realized Zeke had trailed him.
“Ohmigod,” Zeke breathed. He trundled closer, peering intently at the ground, then paused mere inches from Grimm. His eyes widened enormously as he scanned the small bits of what had once been a rabid mountain cat, savage enough to shred a grown man and, driven by the blood sickness, mad enough to attempt it. His astonished gaze drifted upward to Grimm’s brilliant blue eyes, and he nearly rose on his tiptoes, staring. “He’s a Berserker!” Zeke breathed reverently. “Look, his eyes are glowing! They do exist!”
“Fetch Quinn, Zeke. Now,” Hatchard commanded. “Bring no one else but Quinn, no matter what. Do you understand? And not a word of this to anyone!”
Zeke stole one last worshiping look. “Aye,” he said, then fled to get Quinn.
CHAPTER 18
“I TRULY DOUBT HE RIPPED THE ANIMAL TO PIECES, Zeke. It isn’t healthy to exaggerate,” Jillian reprimanded, masking her amusement to protect the boy’s sensitive feelings.
“I didn’t exaggerate,” Zeke said passionately, “I told the truth! I was down by the loch and a rabid mountain cat attacked me and Grimm threw me on his horse and caught the beastie in mid-leap and killed it with one flick o’ his wrist! He’s a Berserker, he is! I knew he was special! Hmmph!” The little boy snorted. “He doesn’t need to be a puny laird—he’s king o’ the warriors! He’s a legend!”
Hatchard took Zeke firmly by the arm and tugged him away from Jillian. “Go find your mother, lad, and do it now.” He fixed Zeke with a glower that dared him to disobey, then snorted as the boy fled the room. He met Jillian’s gaze and shrugged. “You know how wee lads are. They must have their fairy tales.”