Highland King

By Jeff Blackmer

Highland King, the sequel to Draegnstoen, continues the saga of the royal families in 5th Century Scotland and Northern England.
Doncann (nephew of Coel from Draegnstoen) is a young Pictish prince. Swept up in the politics and murderous infighting of claimants to his grandfather’s throne, he is falsely accused of murder and exiled to the north. Often fighting for his life, he is protected by the magic of women, mentored by a Celtic demigod and shown how his fate is part of the collective future of his people.
Who can unite an ancient kingdom broken apart for generations? Stand up to an invading army threatening to overrun the entire country? Learn the secret of the Stone of Destiny?
No one but the Highland King.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jeff Blackmer
• Release date: Nov 14, 2011
• ISBN: 9781465988737

Book preview

Chapter 1 – Dawn at Invernae

It was an hour before dawn. Brei rubbed his hands together, cupped them and blew foggy breath to bring warmth to his stiff fingers. He inhaled deeply; the air stinging his nostrils, but clearing his head.

The moon had set, but the dark sky was still awash with stars, except on the eastern horizon where it was now the palest blue, almost the color of bone. Anxious for the sun, he wrapped the wool cloak more tightly around him. This was the last watch of the night, and though early spring, there was still frost on the ground and only by mid-morning would the sun’s pale rays warm the little village of Invernae on the edge of Loch Fyne.

He was a young man with a wife and a new baby, but they were far away, a two day ride inland. Here, with other soldiers, they guarded what had become the frontier; valleys and shores once safe, but now bordering lands taken by the enemy. Taking a few steps to the sandy shore at the edge of the dark water he crouched down, cupped water in his hands and splashed his face to keep alert, wetting his black hair. The water reeked of algae, and reminded him of the dinner they’d had a few hours ago. Finally he stood and walked back to his companions sitting on rocks by the small fire.

Erip laughed. Are yoo walkin’ in yer sleep again, lad? The glow from the flames lit up his face, and the fire popped, shooting sparks out onto the ground. He poked at the coals with a stick, and the thin smoke carried the aroma of burnt oak into the air.

Brei grinned. Ah could fight better in me sleep than’ yoo can awake. Besides, it’s almost dawn.

Hurry up with tha’ sun then, Brei, said Galan. Thar’s a warm bed waiting fer me back in th’ village.

Donno how yoo could sleep now, me gut is still churning from that horrible supper, Brei patted his gut.

If yoo wer’ a real man, Naiton laughed, a few oysters wadnae bother yoo.

Brei peered out to the shadowy hills. Ah can stand a few bad oysters lads. It’s looking inta th’ dark an’ no’ knowin’ what’s owt there. Ever’ time th’ wind blows through th’ trees, every shadow tha’ moves. . .

Th’ Dalriada, nodded Erip, light and shadow playing on his face. He poked the fire again with a stick and a few more sparks jumped. Th’ bastards keep movin’ further inland. We get inna fight, they retreat, tails ‘tween their legs, an’ then a few days later they’re back, lookin’ fer more trooble. Ah heird they attacked a village five miles north o’ here joost a few days ago. There’ll soon be enough o’ these skirmishes an’ we’ll hae another all out battle. King Talorg will launch another offensive again’ them fer shur.

Brei looked up to see the tree tops, their uppermost leaves now bright with the sun’s first rays. Well, lads, we made it through another night.

There was a whooshing sound. His eyes followed the blur to Galan and saw an arrow protruding from his friend’s chest. His face contorted, Galan grabbed the arrow, gasped and crumpled to the ground. From the darkness a fierce howl roared toward them.

Dalriada! shouted Naiton, grabbing his bow. Brei looked up the hill and saw a horde bounding down the hill, most with swords drawn, a few with bows and some with axes, screaming while they ran. Huge shadowy figures rushed toward them, bursting through the trees and racing down the grass covered slope. Brei jerked his sword from the sheath. Just then an arrow hit Erip in the leg. Brei’s friend clutched at the arrow, screamed and fell to the ground.

Back ta th’ village! yelled Naiton.

What aboot Erip, what aboot yoo?! shouted Brei.

Naiton nocked an arrow. Yoo canno save Erip. Ah’m right behind yoo, but Ah can get a few arrows off first. Warn everyone. Th’ village can hold them off. Go, run.

Naiton spun back around, paused and let fly the arrow. One of the charging men fell, tumbling down the hill.

Brei jammed his sword back into the sheath, dropped his cloak, gritted his teeth, turned and sprinted along the wet sandy shore towards the village, just waking up to the dawn. After a moment, he turned, running backwards, searching for Naiton. His friend let one more arrow fly, and then, with the enemy upon him, swung his bow like a club twice before getting cut down by steel. Brei spun away and ran faster. His lungs were burning, but he was almost there.

Dalriada! Up ahead, at water’s edge, on stilts, was the Crannog, the roundhouse, home of the village leader. Brei grabbed the rough sides of the ladder and had one foot on the rung when Domech, the chieftain appeared at the top. He was a huge man with a black mane and a shaggy beard. He scowled at Brei.

Dalriada ar’ comin’, Brei gasped for breath.

Domech pulled a ram’s horn from the belt encircling his tunic, put it to his mouth and blew a loud long blast. He dropped the horn and clambered down the ladder.

Out o’ th’ way then, lad.

Brei dropped to the ground with Domech right behind him. A woman and two small children appeared in the doorway of the crannog above them. Her eyes were wide and frantic.

Domech?

Donno be comin’ down hier woman, stay inside with th’ wee ones.

Shouting villagers were running in the direction of the crannog; dozens of men and women with swords, axes and clubs to meet the enemy. Domech glanced over his shoulder to see them coming. He nodded and smiled, turning back to face the enemy. But the expression on his face went slack and he grabbed Brei by the shoulder in a crushing grip.

Go find a horse, lad. Ride hard ta th’ east, to Fortriu, an’ tell th’ king.

Frightened, Brei searched his leader’s eyes. Tell him what? Ah can stay hier ta fight.

No, no’ taday. There ar’ too many; an’ besides, hae another look.

Brei’s eyes went again to the hillside. The enemy was spilling out onto the beach now, and then he saw. In the dawn light, Brei saw. The rest of the Dalriada were running hard, but this one was out in front, barely jogging. He was two heads taller than the rest, red hair and beard, shoulders unbelievably broad, and with arms bigger than Brei’s own thighs; he held a huge broadsword and carried a massive shield.

They hae a champion, Domech’s voice faded, almost in awe. He turned back to Brei, scowling. Wha’ ar’ ye still doin hier? Go, take me horse. It’s tied up a’ th’ tree.

"Take yer horse?"

Ah willnae’ be needin’ it no more, go!

Brei took one more look and saw that the fight had begun. Sounds of crashing steel, shouting, and cries of pain assaulted his ears. His heart pounding, he ran to the tree, and the chieftain’s bay horse. Its eyes were wild and it pulled against the rope, but Brei spent a few precious moments holding its halter, gently petting its soft face, talking quietly to it before he untied the rope. Jumping on, he gave it a kick in the sides and it lunged ahead, quickly speeding into a gallop. After a short distance Brei pulled the reins to stop and turn back to face the village. The sunlight was halfway down the hill now and the melee was at its full fury. He saw the chieftain charging with other fighters, his leader heading straight for the champion.

Domech saw the huge warrior ahead and he knew, succeed or not, this was his fight. The giant seemed to cut down a villager with almost every swipe of his sword. Almost there, and the Dalriadan hadn’t noticed him yet. Up close, his enemy loomed even larger. The knot in his stomach betrayed his years of confidence and experience and skill suddenly seemed of little advantage against an opponent as this. The cacophony of battle, the stench of sweat and blood; normally those things brought the urgency of combat into sharp clarity. But today those things played against him, unnerved him, even frightened him. But he held the hilt of his sword tight with both hands and finally, in close enough, swung his weapon like an axe, bringing it crashing down at the base of his enemy’s neck. But a huge blade swung a parry, and the swords smashed together in a bone jarring crash. The impact stunned him and he staggered back a step. The huge man turned to see him, grinned and in a flash, the giant’s shield slammed into Domech like a battering ram. The chieftain’s head snapped back and he staggered backward two more steps, blood rushing from his nose and forehead. Dazed, and tasting his own blood, he looked up one last time and saw the flash of steel.

From his mount, Brei gasped to see his great chieftain fall from the massive brutal blow. He kicked the horse in the sides again and galloped away, never looking back.

Chapter 2 - Cairbre

The sun had gone down an hour earlier and an eerie quiet descended upon what was once a small village on the edge of the loch. Most of the hovels were burnt to the ground and the air reeked with the smell of burnt thatch and hay. The Dalriadan captain saved the Crannog for himself; keeping the contents he wanted and tossed the rest onto one of the many fires.

The Dalriada lost twenty three fighters, but the entire population of the village had been slaughtered. The women of the village stood with the men in battle, and most fought to the death rather than be captured. A few women did survive however, and they were taken captive, first as slaves, perhaps later as wives.

The Dalriada had buried their own warriors and now another foul smoke drifted into camp; this one more acrid than the others; the heaped bodies of the villagers, burning in the distance. The invaders warmed themselves around campfires, eating, drinking and celebrating their victory, but the giant, Cairbre, found his own lonely place, a large rock just outside the fire’s glow. Quietly he devoured a burnt, greasy chicken and quenched his thirst with beer from a flagon. He chewed thoughtfully, the light from the flames barely illuminating his shadowed face.

A fighter named Eadbhard came over, perched on a nearby stone and ate bread and meat from a wooden plate. He studied the giant for a few moments, and then cleared his throat.

Cairbre, Ah was watchin’ yoo out there t’day. Quite a fighter yoo ar’, an’ Ah hear this is only yer third battle.

The giant nodded and licked his fingers. Hmmm, aye, thanks be to ya, lad.

Eadbhard grinned. Ya fight with such passion!

Cairbre took a swig and glanced over at him. It’s no’ aboot passion. He took another swig.

What is it then? What makes ye fight so bold?

Cairbre stared him in the eyes, a wild glint in his own. It’s aboot rage, an’ hate fer all things Cruithnie.

Hate? Wha’ could make yoo hate an entire people so much?

Cairbre looked away. It’s a long story, too long ta tell, an’ ya wadnae want me to anaway, because it makes me very angry. An’ when there’s no’ a fight goin’ on, yoo donno’ want ta see me angry.

No, no, Ah s’pose ah donno.

Another warrior came over and sat down.

Did ya hear th’ woman a bit ago who was howlin and yellin’?

Aye, Eiric, what was she sayin’?

She’s mad with grief o’ course, but she’s yammerin’ on aboot some legendary king. Tellin’ us oor days ar’ numbered; sayin’ this Highland King will unite their people against us an’ win this war.

Highland King? laughed Eadbhard. An’ who is this king?

Ah donno, but she said someday he is ta com’ an’ defeat all his enemies. Ah told her, well, we hae a giant. Yer Highland King canno’ defeat him! An’ she said it donno matter, their king will e’en beat a giant.

Who is this woman? glared Cairbre, looking up, his voice suddenly angry.

No one, joost a prisoner, a slave now.

Ah told ya aboot me getting’ angry, an’ this is makin’ me angry. Ah hate the word…beat. No man will ev’r beat me again. No man will ever defeat me. Ah will find this Highland King. Ah will hunt ‘im down. If he is real, Ah will find him. He will not beat me.

Eiric and Eadbhard looked at each other, Eiric swallowed.

Cairbre, ah’m soory. Ah didn’t mean ta…

Joost leave me now, both o’ ya. Ah canno talk right now, Ah need ta be alone.

Eiric and Eadbhard quietly stood and slipped away into the darkness. Cairbre faced the fire, his eyes blank, seeing only memories.

No man will beat me; no’ ev’r again, he whispered, clenching a fist, no’ ev’r again. And he watched the flickering flames and remembered a night, four years earlier.

He had walked at dusk among the long shadows on the forest road. A stiff breeze blew through his cloak, but Cairbre did not care. Someone said the name today. It was uncommon, one not heard among his people, and so it startled him. Wurgest - it was a name that belonged to the Cruithnie.

He’d not heard that hated word in years. Thought he’d forgotten it; buried it deep in his memory, where it could no longer hurt him. But today he found out he was wrong. Though sixteen years old now, the utterance of the reviled name immediately took him back to some of his earliest memories; the recollections of a five year old boy.

The little boy remembered confusion, fear, and terror as he was scooped up by a stranger, one of the northern people. Cairbre had been taken by his captor deep into the woods, not to be a son to a father, but instead, a slave to a master. He remained there, mistreated, beaten, ridiculed and forced to work against his will for three long years.

Flashes of memory flickered through his mind; images of those three miserable years he was taunted, berated, beaten, and hurt in other ways, both dark and terrible. In spite of being horribly mistreated, and fed little, he somehow grew much bigger than normal. Wurgest seemed to delight in tormenting him because of his size, deriding him with the nickname Fingall, after the legendary giant. It was not used as a compliment, but spoken as a precursor to another beating, and used to instill fear. Even though Cairbre’s size made him bigger and stronger than normal, Wurgest relished making him feel weak, small, and powerless.

Finally, miraculously, while out in the woods one day, he fell into a creek; one swollen by spring rains. The stream carried him swiftly away, and finally, half-drowned, to a rocky beach where he was once more found by his people.

His real family was thrilled to see him again. But he was bewildered, trying to adjust back to his real parents and siblings, and most nights he woke screaming from the nightmares of his capture and imprisonment. Those memories gradually faded, but he felt changed and different. The pain lingered and would not go away.

His size made him feel different too; yet another reason to be rejected and shunned. Grown to the height of his father by the time he was ten years old, he was resigned to being alone in his pain. No one wanted to befriend an angry, sullen giant. As he grew older the pain became frustration, and the frustration turned to bitter hate.

Now he was traveling the road not walked in years. He always knew where to find this rocky path, but fear reminded him where it led; out from the land of his people and into the land of the enemy, his old master, the Cruithnie. Today though, fury pushed aside fear.

Though it was getting dark, there was a familiarity to the land that spoke to long ago memories. It seemed he must be drawing close, and then, up ahead, in the trees, a recognizable silhouette. He knew it was a small broch with a thatched roof. Pleased to see a light flickering in the window, he drew his sword and continued his trek. Eight years earlier this place shook him to the core. Now though, he was big, strong, weighed over three hundred pounds and was over a foot taller than almost any man. He knew Wurgest could no longer hurt him. Somehow though, this place and its memories; it still reached out, still found the terrified little boy hidden deep inside him, the little boy with wild eyes, a pounding heart and a throat too tight to speak, almost too frightened to breathe. But tonight, tonight that little boy could hide behind the taller, older self. He could watch instead of participate; be safe instead of in danger. The little boy would not get hurt again.

Almost there, and a man, a guard, stepped out from the darkness in front of the door, to bar his way.

Who ar yoo? his voice fading as he saw how tall the shadow was in front of him.

Ah’m here ta see…Wurgest. Even now it was hard for him to say his old master’s name. He’d done it once years ago and that single utterance earned him a beating.

It’s gettin’ late, Ah donno think he wants ta be disturbed."

Leave this place, now.

Tonight there was no inclination for politeness; his emotions pushed him to a sense of urgency. The guard backed away slowly and then hurried off into the darkness. A glow from the fire came through the broch’s window and shone on Cairbre’s face. He heard a man’s gentle voice and shuddered to the core. That soothingly deceptive voice; he’d forgotten its power; eloquent, well modulated, and warm. It made the listener drop defenses and then suddenly it became a weapon, one of thunderous rage, vile degradation and withering hate. In the shadow of the broch Cairbre began to sweat.

The child in him remembered. The child recalled every sound, smell and touch. He remembered the man… the man with a voice of soothing acquiescence that in an instant could turn into loathing, anger and stinging words. That voice sneered at tears. It laughed when Cairbre scrambled to the floor for scraps of food, the only food he was ever given. With sharp recollection he remembered his master’s face …the thief who stole his childhood. Standing in the dark, outside the broch, Cairbre began to shake as he recalled the beatings, almost felt them again; when stripped bare, he was forced to stand as the master bought the oak staff down across his back and shoulders; again and again until he blacked out from the pain. He would wake up later in a dark, foul smelling place, thirsty, hungry and caked in his own blood, aching in every joint from the pain. Cairbre was never certain what he’d done to incur the anger. He’d been afraid of everything; everything and anything that could make those eyes grow cold and the honeyed voice turn to vinegar.

Inside the broch there was a pause in the speaking, a sharpened tone, and then, the whimper of a child. Alarmed, Cairbre raised his right foot and kicked the door with all his might, breaking it inward and leaving it sagging and splintered. A startled old man shrank away from the doorway, and a blur of motion scampered behind a covered cot. He was as Cairbre remembered, but now much older, bald, a short white wispy beard and clad in a dark tunic. But the eyes, those eyes were proof. Large, brown, and deceptive, they looked as though they might be kind, forgiving, and attentive, but their owner could change their look at a moment’s notice. Cairbre remembered how often they disarmed him and then, when his defenses were down, Wurgest’s assault began; words that stung, objects thrown, beatings that came from nowhere. Those eyes were his master’s best weapon and it was easy to be charmed by them. It would not happen this time, but he was still wary; body tense, head now burned with an intense headache. Looking around, it was a simple one room dwelling, much like he remembered, just a cot, table, two chairs, a large open hearth, with a roaring fire, and the smell of burning pine.

Facial expression changing, he regained composure, almost to one of welcome. Good health ta yoo stranger, An’ who ar’ yoo?

The monster didn’t remember? It seemed impossible since the infliction of pain seemed such a brutally personal thing. If the victim could not forget; how dare the perpetrator. The insult infuriated him, but other things must come first.

Who wer’ ye talkin’ to a momen’ ago?

No one, joost mumblin’ ta me’self, the man shrugged. But then Cairbre saw a motion again, behind the cot. He laid his sword on the nearby table and took a knee.

It’s all right, yoo can come owt. No one will hurt yoo.

Slowly a little girl, perhaps six years old, with a dirty face, blonde hair, green eyes, and a grimy off-white tunic stepped out into the open. She looked Dalriadan. Cairbre reached out his hand gently.

Cad e mar a tat u?

She smiled slightly. Ta me go maith.

Com’ here, darlin’, he softly encouraged. Shyly and slowly she walked over to him. Gently his arm protectively surrounded her and they faced Wurgest together.

Who is this man?

He says he’s me father.

Cairbre shook his head. He’s no’ yer father. Wha’s yer name, little one?

Mayra.

Mayra... Mayra, Ah know yer real mum an’ da. Yoo were lost in th’ woods, a long time ago. Ev’ryone was lookin’ fer ye, but we coudna find yoo.

Ah found her, Ah saved her an’ took care o’ her.

Mayra, did this man hurt yoo?

She shook her head. No’ tonight.

But he haes?

Aye. She pointed towards the doorway. Mostly with tha’ stick.

Cairbre felt his face turn hot, but he controlled his voice and took a deep breath.

"Mayra, would yoo like me ta take yoo home, to yer real mum an’ da?

Nodding, a tear slipped down her cheek.

Do ya know where th’ big yew tree is outside, near th’ road?

Another nod.

Ah want yoo ta go out to th’ tree an’ climb up in it. Wait fer me. Ah’ll com’ get yoo in just a little while an’ take yoo home tonight. Will ya wait fer me owt there?

Aye.

Good, run along then. Ah’ll see ya soon. She smiled, turned and ran out the door. Cairbre walked to the door to watch her; running as fast as she could to the tree. As he turned away from the splintered door, he grabbed the staff with his right hand. It was oak; smooth, hard, and stained with the oil from the hands of the monster who used it. He remembered it well.

Turning back, he saw Wurgest near the table, looking up at him then back down again.

Yoo thot Ah was careless an’ left me sword on th’ table? Cairbre smiled. Ya donno remember me an’ yer afraid. Go ahead, take th’ sword.

Wurgest’s eyes were warm and disarming. Lad, Ah’m no’ afraid, but ta hae ya break me door down at night, com’ in with a sword, take me gran’ dauter…

Yer a lyin bastard. She’s no’ yer gran’dowter. She ran owt th’ door an’ niver looked back. But look a’ me, yoo shoud know me.

Yer th’ lad who was so large fer his age.

Aye, are’na yoo so clever. An’ what was me name? Or hae yoo hurt so many children, yoo canno’ remember anymore?

Wurgest seemed to lose some of his composure. His well modulated voice, his smooth mannerisms seemed rattled, and that pleased Cairbre.

The older man looked away, seemingly trying to remember. Cairbre took a couple of steps closer. So, what is it? Yoo canno even remember, can yoo?

Wurgest regained his calm expression and looked into Cairbre’s eyes. Lad, o’ course Ah remember yer name. It’s…Fingall.

Eyes flashing, he slammed the table with the pole. No, tha’s no’ me name. Wurgest jumped at the violent action.

Take it, take me sword.

Lad, Ah’m no’ gonna’ fight…

Me name’s no’ ‘lad’. Com’ on, ya do remember me name, ya beat it out o’ me, every day fer three years!

The old man’s face softened over yet again and he stood up straight and dignified.

Cairbre, yer name is Cairbre.

Aye, ya do remember me, the young giant nodded, smiling.

Aye, Ah do. Now, why ar’ ye here?

Because, tho yoo can barely remember me, Ah hae niver been able ta forget yoo. Ah thought Ah was here joost for me, but now Ah know Ahm here fer Mayra too. Yoo canno hurt any more children, ever again.

Wurgest held his hands out in an open conciliatory gesture. His eyes glistened with warmth; his voice was soothing honey. Cairbre, Ah’v never hurt no one in me life. Ah think yer memory is playin’ tricks…

The giant slammed the table again with the staff. Pick up me sword an’ defend yerself. Pick it up nou, or Ah swear Ah will crack open yer head.

Wurgest calmly picked up the blade with his left hand and tentatively held it in front of him. Ah willnae fight yoo, Ahm an innocent man.

Stepping around the table, Cairbre intentionally stepped just a bit too close. Wurgest’s eyes flashed, and the sword slashed the air, almost connecting.

Like always, yoo lie ta me. Yoo’ve nev’r told th’ truth, no’ once. Cairbre brought the staff up, and Wurgest swung again, and he parried the swing, nicking the staff and it made him smile. This, this was what he wanted. He did a feint, the sword slashed again. The young giant swung the pole and the end crashed against Wurgest’s sword hand. Screaming, he dropped the blade, grimacing, holding his left hand with his right.

Yoo broke me fingers, ya bastard! All composure was gone. Now, now the true monster was coming out. Cairbre swung the pole again, this time bringing the staff swiftly up between his opponent’s legs with a sickening thud.

And then a satisfied grin. An’ tha’ was fer Mayra.

Wurgest staggered from the blow, color draining from his face. He put his good right hand out on the table’s edge to steady himself. The staff swung again, smashing the monster’s right hand; crushing bone. Wurgest yelped and jerked it away, lost his balance and fell. His chin cracked the table’s edge, and he crashed, moaning on the floor. Cairbre