Page 8 of Highlander’s Heart

“Who calls himself Ian?” someone cried.

Ian looked up at the wall, but there was just that guard.

“Come closer!” the voice said.

Someone stood at the gates which were open just enough to let a man through.

Ian’s heart thumped in his ears. Was it Craig? He jumped down from the horse and walked towards the gate, the ground shifting under his feet. Yes—dark hair, tall, broad frame…

He crossed the bridge without looking away from the man.

“Craig,” Ian mumbled.

His cousin’s eyes widened, his face blank. “’Tis truly ye?” Craig said.

Ian stood before him now, studying the face he’d known since he was born—older now, not a young lad anymore but a man, a proud warrior. A commander and a leader.

Would Craig understand?

Craig gathered Ian in a bone-crushing hug. Ian’s eyes burned from tears. Craig slapped him on the back.

“Come in, come in.” Craig ushered him through the gate. “How are ye alive? God, I canna believe my eyes. I ken ye’re standing before me and ’tis ye, but I canna… All these years we believed ye were dead. We had a funeral. There wasna a day I didna think of ye, wishing ye were with us.”

They went through the gates into the courtyard, where life was in full swing. Servants carried buckets with water from the well, baskets with food, hay, and wood. Chickens squawked and pecked at the grass. Warriors walked somewhere, played cards in the corner, talked. It smelled like stew, and oatcakes, and woodsmoke. Ian let a servant take the horse to the stables.

“What happened to ye?” Craig said while they walked through the yard towards what was probably the great hall.

“The MacDougalls sold me to a slave ship bound to the caliphate,” Ian said. “I was a slave there.”

Craig’s features grew livid. “They what?” He stopped, his fists clenched till his knuckles whitened. “They told us ye were dead… Had I have kent, I’d have come for ye.”

“I ken, Craig.”

They entered the great hall, which was full of people eating the midday meal. Craig led Ian to the table in the corner by the fireplace.

Ian’s gut squeezed as he saw his uncle, his cousins Owen and Domhnall, and other warriors of the clan he’d recognized.

Craig called for the clan’s attention, and everyone turned their heads.

“Look who came back,” Craig said. “Look who we thought was dead thanks to the damned MacDougalls. I swear, they’ll pay for this, too.”

Uncle Dougal was the first ones to recognize him.

“Ian?” Dougal said.

Ian nodded, his chest tearing from a mixture of emotions he’d never thought he’d feel again—elation, relief, and even a hint of peace.

Dougal stood up from the bench, then the rest of them. Ian was hugged, hands clapped him on the shoulders, on the back. Noise rose around the table—questions. What happened? Where had he been? Was he healthy?

With his stomach clenching, he answered the same thing he had told Craig. Slavery ship. Baghdad. Slave.

How had he come back?

There was a battle and he managed to escape.

That it hadn’t been a battle but a massacre, and that he hadn’t seen any other survivors from the palace, he couldn’t bring himself to tell them.

Because he didn’t deserve to be alive, he thought, a cold emptiness spreading in him. He was a monster. A killer.