The Castle Macqueed

By Kayce Bennett

The Castle MacQueed

Where the past and the future collide, over and over again

An early morning phone call on a rainy Saturday wrenches Drake MacKays life in a direction that could delete his very existence. It is Gilles Breannan, his former mentor and adversary, calling to demand his presence at a 9th century Viking stronghold in Scotland to find The Book of the Angel Raziel, an enormously powerful and priceless artifact.

But this quest isnt taking the team of treasure hunters to the ruins of a mighty stronghold
Before they can stop it, they will find themselves prisoners of the Castle MacQueed in her own time, 865 C.E.caught in the middle of a bloody Viking uprising to remove the viciously cruel King Raoghalt Bloodaxe.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Mar 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781493174768

Book preview

PROLOGUE

The Dungeon and The Other

865 C.E.

Summer Solstice

Northeastern Scotland

T HE DUNGEON SLEPT, eerily silent.

For the first time in twenty years the instruments of torture within her vast womb were vacant. She sat dark as pitch; cold as a shiver of terror; void of screams, cries, souls begging for death to deliver them from their unspeakable horrors.

Only the dungeon’s invisible stench of torture and rot remained to evidence the madness within the Castle MacQueed.

And something else.

Thirteen-year-old Branan knew the dungeon well. He stood in the open archway at its entrance, a torch in his sweaty hand. He knew the dungeon too well. From the time he was old enough to draw and loose a bow with deadly consequences, he’d been escorted here to witness the punishment of traitors against his father, the king.

Never question orders, Father had said on Branan’s introductory tour of the dungeon at the age of six. Do and there are many others as equal in skill who will gladly replace you—while you are brought here to be shown the gods’ displeasure with your disobedience. Such as this man here, he’d said, indicating a prisoner prepared for torture.

Branan had stared at the naked man hanging upside down, feet spread wide, his ankles secured with iron shackles to a wooden beam and hands chained to the floor behind his head. He was rail-thin, a skeleton of a man, his ribs protruding grotesquely under the forces of gravity. His eyes were open with a wild, terror-stricken expression and his lips moved fiercely, silently as in desperate prayer, although he made not a sound.

Do you, Father? Do you question orders?

Two men stood on either side of the prisoner wearing only bloody kilts and sandals, faces sweaty, streaked with grime, bearing expressions of apathetic detachment. Each man held one end of a long saw that they worked to position between the prisoner’s legs. In place, they looked to the king for permission to begin.

Father’s gaze was fixed on the saw, still dripping the flesh and blood of its last victim, the drops like red tears reflecting the torchlight as they fell. "Even the king does not question, Branan. The king receives his orders directly from Odin, Thor, Tyr, Ull, many others. In turn he gives orders to ensure fulfillment of the gods’ desires. Disobeying the king’s orders, then, is to spit in the face of the gods. Punishment for that cannot be too harsh.

One day you will do as such, fulfilling the gods’ mandates. When I am gone to Valhalla and you are king.

The king gave a curt nod to the men. Obedient, robotic, they began the business of thrusting the saw back and forth through the prisoner’s groin.

Branan passed out before the man’s screams could reach his ears.

He’d suffered many tours of the dungeon since, had seen numerous tortures inflicted upon men and women, the very old and the young, strangers from other lands as well as upon those he knew, some he’d loved. They were all traitors in some fashion or another, those who had dared to spit in the face of the gods. Their punishment was of their own making, he’d been taught.

There were no second chances, no forgiveness. To extend such would be a show of weakness; a weak king would soon perish along with all those he served to protect—if his people failed to replace him before disaster ensued.

What was his crime, Father? he’d later asked, wondering what the sawed man’s offense had been to warrant such an extreme death.

Stealing a portion of bread more than he was allotted.

He was hungry? he’d asked, recalling the man’s skeleton of a body.

He disobeyed, his father had said sternly. He took nourishment from my guards, those who protect us, keeping us all safe and alive. To feel hunger for the benefit of others, then, is a sacrifice pleasing to the gods.

Even so young, Branan, in spite of what he’d been taught, recognized the horror of that twisted logic; it’s what told him he did not possess the fierce heart necessary to be king. He could never condemn even the most heinous offenders to the ministrations of the executioners. Now, seven years later, his stomach still knotted when he recalled the emaciated prisoner being sawed in half from his rectum down, clean through his skull, and in spite of witnessing many gruesome tortures in the dungeon over the years it was always this man his mind came back to. He didn’t have the stomach to think about the dungeon and what took place here, let alone to be here now, of his own free will. And also against the strictest of orders, given by the only man he did trust to obey—the king, the gods, be damned.

But perhaps the gods were more understanding than the king believed? His purpose in being here now was valiant, a rescue mission, and it had taken every scrap of bravery in him to overcome his fears to make it this far. Surely this was a quality that even the gods admired? Branan prayed that in return for his honorable sense of duty, the gods would reward him by making actual entry into the dungeon needless.

Thora? he called out, remaining in the archway just outside the dungeon, the torch held high, his voice barely more than a shaky whisper. He knew she wouldn’t hear that, even if she was still a young pup instead of an aging lady. Gathering more courage he spoke as loud as he dared: Thora, I know you’re here! Where are you, girl?

Only a frigid draft answered him, blowing from the black depths of the dungeon, through the archway, and up into the stairwell behind him. It brought with it the stench of rot and suffering and death.

Branan felt vomit rising in his throat and quickly buried his face into the elbow of his free arm for a momentary reprieve, inhaling his perfumed tunic, breathing deeply and slowly until his stomach eased.

Seconds later he heard the sound of sharp, rhythmic thumping. Quickly getting louder, closer. From inside the dungeon or from the stairwell? Was it the dog or someone else? Someone living… or someone angry not to be? Who—or what—was coming for him he couldn’t tell, adding panicked terror to the disgust he already felt being in Father’s dungeon again. In his imagination it was an insulted god, larger than the castle herself, raging, foaming at the mouth, with a saw in hand and charging for his groin. He tightly shut his eyes against that thought when a firm grasp on his shoulder nearly stopped his heart.

What are you doing, brother? asked a voice he knew as well as his own.

Branan’s body turned to jelly, partly from fright, partly from relief but he recovered quickly, not wanting his little brother to see his fear. Thora, she took off.

Da said not to leave the kitch-

I came for Thora! She’s scared, he insisted, thrusting his torch at the black wall of darkness beyond the archway.

"She’s down here? Cailean asked, waving his torch in front of him as he walked fully into the middle of the dungeon’s small receiving room, roughly ten feet by ten feet. Directly across from them, on the far wall, stood the open door that would lead them into the dungeon proper. Cailean peered into the dungeon’s blackness. You’re sure she’s here?"

Here somewhere. Can’t get her to answer me.

Cailean took a step closer to the open dungeon door and recoiled against the horrific smell. "By the gods, I hate this place! Know what it smells like?"

A dungeon…

Cailean’s eyes met Branan’s, wide and moist. It smells like… well, like the smell of evil.

It is evil here, idiot! They ripped our people apart down here, muscle from bone, because the baker burnt the bread or the seamstress missed a stitch or a starving man stole a crumb.

I know, I know, I just… It’s like there’s something else here now, some other kind of evil, Cailean said, his voice lowering as though afraid to wake it, whatever evil it was.

Yeah… Branan agreed, I know…

After a long moment of silence, the brothers burst out: Thora! yelling, over and over, slapping their thighs and whistling. Come, girl! Thora!

The dog didn’t answer—not a sound came from the dungeon’s black recesses. The silence was heavy, bearing down on them with a physical weight, fueling their darkest fears.

Cailean let out a halting sigh. No, no, she’s not here, Branan, let’s go, he said, trying to sound more disgusted than frightened. We’re not supposed to be here at all, so if she’s down here she’s on her own.

No! Branan insisted, grabbing his brother’s arm. We aren’t leaving her. You know she can’t climb the stairs by herself. Would you want to be left here?

Cailean wrinkled his nose in thought. "Oh, fine. Quickly, one walk-through end to end and we’re out whether we find her or not. That stink’s too awful."

Agreed.

Even with his brother at his side, Branan’s knees were weak at the thought of going in there and he wished Thora would heed his call and come running. There was no choice but to search for her, and Branan wished Mother was with them, if Da couldn’t be. But right now, Mother was not with them, she was…

She was the reason Da had left.

Because of her they’d been left alone in this horrid, abandoned castle to fend for themselves and the dog until Da and his first-at-arms returned with help.

If they returned. Their departure was highly dangerous. What if they hadn’t made it past the castle’s drawbridge? Or if they had, what if they couldn’t make it back? There were millions of possibilities for things to go wrong—what if they were already dead?

That was Branan’s greatest fear, far darker, more terrifying than this dungeon and all her dark secrets.

Just as Branan had convinced himself to stand up to his fears and charge into the dungeon for his dog, there came a distant but sharp, mournful cry—or was it a howl? Either case, it came from somewhere deep in the womb of the dungeon herself.

Cailean reacted first. Listen! he ordered in a harsh whisper. That a sound you ever heard your dog make?

Branan nodded, his hands trembling. It’s Thora. She’s frightened.

"You’re sure it’s the dog? Maybe it’s someone else, someone we should leave here?"

There’s no one here but us, remember? Da made sure of that. It’s Thora. She climbed down something and can’t climb back up. Probably one of the pits.

How the hell do you know that?

Only time she cries like that, when she’s scared. Only thing that scares her is when she feels trapped.

Stupidest damn dog I ever saw…

Not stupid, just old, Branan corrected.

Cailean threw up his free hand to quiet his brother. He listened intently to the dog’s wailing, turning his head from side to side, toward the dungeon’s entry ahead of them, then toward the stairwell behind them, back and forth.

"Brother, what are you doing?"

Shhh…

We have to hurry, she could be hurt!

Suddenly, Cailean grabbed Branan’s arm and dragged him out into the central stairwell. Come! Now! he yelled.

Branan wrenched his arm free. Not without Thora!

Cailean whirled around to face his brother. We’re not leaving! But we have to go this way, he said, pointing inside the central stairwell to an archway on the opposite side, and five feet up. She’s closer to the discharge room than the receiving room, listen!

Branan turned his head between the dungeon’s entry and exit. You’re right, but hard to tell by how much. She could be right in the middle.

Cailean thought for a moment. So either way, he said, racing up the stairs toward the discharge room’s entry, we’ll find her. But she sounds closer to this end.

The brothers darted into the castle’s central stairwell, and on to the discharge room. They went in, torches held high and true.

It was Branan’s idea that they should stay on the primary walkway through the dungeon, keeping their eyes on the ground in front of them at all times. Their torches were the only puny source of light against an immense black void but their torches easily illuminated the devices of torture just off the walkway, those instruments of terror and death that they’d rather forget. Eyes to your feet. No need to remind ourselves, he told Cailean. They’d have to find Thora from the primary walkway with their heads down, following her mournful cries, which, sadly, hadn’t stopped yet.

They passed through the discharge room, identical to its receiving counterpart. Both rooms were small, ten-by-ten, bare except for a table and chair on the wall next to the entry/exit archway. In the discharge room this table was normally manned with a guard whose responsibility it was to check the prisoner out of the dungeon by comparing the body—or body parts, in some cases—against the method of execution as recorded on the prisoner’s sentencing sheet.

The receiving room operated, of course, in reverse, the guard checking the prisoner into the dungeon and officially assigning the designated instrument of death.

Prisoners entered the receiving room struggling and begging for mercy; eventually only their physical remains would exit via the discharge room—their screaming souls trapped behind, as mangled and dissected as their bodies, permanently imprinted into the dungeon herself.

The moment the brothers were clear of the discharge room, Branan heard them. Muting Thora’s frightened cries for help, he heard the excruciating sounds of thousands of the tortured—still. He heard their hysterical screams, their moans, sobbing, begging, as clearly in his head now as he’d heard them in real time. Walking past a torture device he heard them there, begging for death, their cries superimposed over a cacophony of screaming all around him, and then, those melting into the background with the others as he continued on to the next instrument of death, all their ghosts screaming loud and urgent inside his head.

First, to their left, was the saw, the site of the first execution he’d witnessed.

Next up to their right was the fleshing wall with dozens of sets of chains and shackles. Prisoners were secured spread-eagled by wrists and ankles, suspended several feet off the ground and facing the wall. Executioners used metal claws with long, thick, sharp talons to slowly—ever so slowly—strip the prisoners’ flesh from their bodies. Then, if they still breathed, they were released, only to be re-suspended. This time facing the claw, not the wall.

Branan’s best friend Iomhar had suffered here only two weeks ago. He would have turned fifteen in the wintertime. But he’d been found in the throes of passion with the archery captain’s daughter when he was overdue on the practice range. Iomhar did not require the fleshing of two sides. The clawing of his backside only was sufficient to end his tender life. Father had insisted that Branan be here to witness every scrape. To hear every scream from his best mate, his dearest and only real friend.

From the pitch-black recesses…

From one torture device to the next…

Screams layered upon screams.

Castlefolk as well as strangers from other lands.

Most he knew, some he loved.

And with the ghost of their screams in his head came the vivid images of twisted faces, wild eyes, gaping mouths, clenched fists and curled toes. Blood—so much blood—and again, the smell of rotting death.

Although the dungeon slept now, deserted, all prisoners freed and taken to safety, the memories overwhelmed Branan. He stopped, fighting the urge to vomit.

What? Cailean asked. You okay?

Cailean’s voice jarred Branan from his memories and the screaming ghosts halted. In their place he clearly heard Thora’s wailing, closer now. He closed his eyes and focused on her, where she might be, whether or not she was injured. He thought of the gods, of pleasing them by rising above his fears to rescue Thora, even if it meant disobeying a direct order. He wasn’t questioning the order, after all, he was simply revising it as Thora’s taking off had revised the situation.

He thought of Da and how proud he’d be that Branan had shown the qualities of a true warrior, adjusting to changed circumstances and thinking it through. In this he found a new level, a before-unknown reserve of bravery.

Well, are you? Cailean insisted.

Branan drew a slow deep breath and opened his eyes. He looked straight ahead, into the darkness beyond their torches’ reach. She’s closer, he said, we’re getting closer.

Cailean shook his head as they continued on the walkway. Stupidest dog I ever saw. Mostly deaf, nearly blind. Can’t hardly smell anything. Bad joints. Climbs down but not up. Seems to me we’d be doing her a favor by leaving her here.

No, she still serves a purpose, brother. Just like you and me, she serves a purpose.

Cailean snorted. Says you. We were told to stay put and wait for Da. And told specifically to stay out of here. We’ll be in so much trouble, you know that.

We did stay put. Thora took off. And we were also told to keep her well. Can’t follow both orders at once, not when one changes another.

Hmmm. Careful there, brother. Almost sounds thoughtful. He reached over to punch Branan’s arm.

Branan felt an urge to smack Cailean upside the head. But backhanded compliment as that was it felt surprisingly good to hear. He simply nodded. They continued on the walkway, here and there working their way around a pool of blood or body limb, but staying their course to Thora.

The dungeon’s overall floor plan was shaped as an elongated C that wrapped around the castle keep’s central stairwell—the entry and exit each one end of the C. Should the boys continue the entire length of the walkway it would bring them back to the receiving room.

They had gone just beyond the midway point between the discharge and receiving rooms when Thora’s cries were on top of them. They stopped.

Branan grabbed Cailean’s arm and led him to the edge of the walkway several feet back. She’s here, he said with authority that even his brother wouldn’t question. I was right—these are the pits.

Fearless now, he plunged into the wall of darkness lining the walkway to save his dog.

Branan had often thought of his own torture. What would be worse? Getting sawed in half like the skeleton of a man, or suffering his flesh slowly being clawed off of him? Restrained in a chair while a nasty screw was slowly turned into the base of his skull? Or the slow slicing, the lingering death? Watching his body parts, one by one… slowly, slowly… ten fingers, ten toes, penis, ears, nose sliced from him and eventually forced down his throat before finally being gutted, leaving a body that in so many parts could never be whole in the afterlife.

Or perhaps worse would be tied to the needle-spiked chair that was heated from the back side to temperatures that slowly, slowly cooked him alive; or maybe the box that was really a cage, secured to his head into which starving rodents were set loose to feast on his face?

There were dozens of torture methods in Father’s dungeon and he’d given each one obsessive thought over the years, most cruelly, insanely slow, yet Branan believed that the worst of them all was the pit.

In its simplicity it was the cruelest torture he could imagine. There was nothing in the pit, no torture devices at all. Just a deep, circular stone hole in the ground, barely as wide as a man’s outstretched arms, and covered by a lid of heavy metal grating. The pit was used by the dungeon staff to relieve themselves, subjecting its captive to urine and feces, spit and snot, falling from above, day and night, no food, no water, no light.

Death came from starvation, dehydration, fever—could take many days if a body was strong enough.

Thora was at the bottom of one such pit. The lid had already been partially moved earlier when the prisoners were freed from the dungeon, giving enough of an opening that they were able to climb out, but that opening was also enough to allow Thora to fall in.

Coming, girl! Branan told her. At the sound of her master’s voice her cries immediately reduced to whimpers.

He got down on his belly and held his torch over the opening. The torchlight couldn’t penetrate the darkness to the bottom of the pit, but he could see the red-orange glow of her retinas reflecting his light. Cailean’s torch appeared next to Branan’s and they could just make out the black outline of Thora.

Cailean chuckled. I’ll be damned, Branan, you were right! You’d make a good seer. Even Drostan would be impressed!

Branan knew where to find two rope ladders. The boys tied the ends through the metal grating and climbed down. Thora was a medium-sized black lapphund, but far too heavy, too frightened, for one boy to carry back up on a flimsy rope ladder. They had to work together then, Branan holding her head-end, Cailean clutching her tail-end as they slowly made their way back up, keeping in step with one another.

Half-way up Cailean asked, Branan, why’d she take off? The storm? They’ve never scared her like that before.

What are you talking about? There’s no storm. Can’t be. Everything’s frozen until Da gets back, that’s what he said. Right now it’s nearly sunrise… clear sky… the gods’ lights…

Cailean paused to reposition his arm around Thora. Well, there was. Flash lit up the entire kitchen, blinding. Felt the rumble in my feet! Don’t tell me you didn’t notice, brother!

Branan didn’t know what to say. Yes, he’d noticed. How could he not? The sudden, brilliant flash of light and the earth shifting beneath his feet with a tremendous rumble had hit when they were playing with Thora in the kitchen. Thora had missed Branan’s toss of her ball and Cailean had chased after it, disappearing into a nearby storeroom.

Branan instinctively took off after Thora when she bolted, without waiting for Cailean.

But there was no storm.

It went easier than the boys had expected—thankfully Thora’d fallen into a recently cleaned pit—and soon they were on the walkway again. The dog was shivering but quiet now.

What a brave girl, Branan said, kneeling beside her to inspect for injuries. And she seems just fine. No blood, nothing broken. Brave and lucky!

Cailean patted her head. So she’s fine, good, let’s get out of here!

I couldn’t agree mo- Branan stopped cold when Thora suddenly growled, deep and fierce as she did when protecting them, her ears went out, her long hair stood on end.

And she shot ahead into the pitch black darkness toward the receiving room, fearlessly leaving the boys behind with the torches.

The boys charged after her, keeping on her tail for several paces before they lost her to the dark.

Nearly blind, huh? Branan yelled, slowing down to let Cailean catch up. She sees better than you, asshole!

Just then the corridor filled with deep growling from the darkness beyond, followed by howling that echoed loud and urgent.

By the gods—she’s… she’s found someone? Cailean asked, looking to Branan for confirmation.

The boys stared at each other with wide, confused eyes.

Branan finally whispered, Can’t be.

But isn’t that her cry that says she’s holding an enemy? That one I know, Branan, that one I’ve heard before! His harsh whisper trembled, betraying his fear.

Branan swallowed hard and drew a deep breath, taking a pause to think it through like Da would, trying to ignore how his blood had turned to ice in his veins.

That was Thora’s signal that she was restraining someone, an enemy who would wish them harm. Yet there couldn’t be anyone; Da had told them that every last soul had been taken to safety, every last traitor to the crown—the true crown—dealt with. Da had said they were alone in the castle, perfectly safe.

Branan’s thoughts raced as he struggled to remember Da’s orders, the ones he hadn’t questioned.

Stay hidden. Do not leave this kitchen until I return with help.

Stay hidden? If they were alone why must they hide?

Keep care of Thora. She’s your protection.

Protection? From what?

Under no circumstances are you to go below.

The dungeon.

Branan! Cailean insisted. "Thora’s got someone! Who? We’re alone here!"

Whatever the truth, Branan knew there wouldn’t be time to waste should Thora’s captive overcome the dog. He and his brother were not prepared for combat, there’d been no reason to arm themselves after Da had left, and standing in the middle of the walkway with their torches made them vulnerable, giving that man in the cloak of darkness an advantage over them. Branan immediately knew what to do.

He leaned to his brother’s ear and whispered, You must trust me, brother, and do exactly as I say.

Cailean stared straight ahead with a frozen expression but finally gave a slight nod. Thora’s insistent howls continued, echoing off the dungeon’s walls.

Good. As long as we hear her, that’s a good thing. Means she’s in control. He’s incapacitated. That could change quickly. Right now we’ve got to get these torches out and-

What? Cailean interrupted. But we won’t be able to see anyth-

No light! Branan snapped. It’s our first enemy now. I will be our eyes. Now, move slowly, he said, pushing a hand into Cailean’s back. To our right and three paces up is a barrel of sand. Torches go there for now, then I’ll lead us to weapons.

Cailean numbly nodded and headed off the walkway to their right. He didn’t make it the full three paces to the barrel. Two steps off the walkway and Branan watched his brother flying forward, violently face-first as though someone had taken out his legs with a sword.

A quick look to the ground and Branan gasped to see what had tripped his brother.

A man’s body sprawled out in front of them, blocking the path to the barrel. Next to him was another body, then another, and another. Branan raised his torch and surveyed the area off the walkway. For as far as he could see in either direction the ground was covered, and in some places stacked, with bodies, packed solid.

They were the king’s men, his guards, hundreds of them. He knew each by name; he loved none.

And they were alive. They breathed, they twitched.

They weren’t supposed to be here!

Or if so, at least not alive.

Now Da’s order, Under no circumstances are you to go below, made sense to him and this, obviously, was why the order had been given. So that they wouldn’t find the truth—that they really weren’t alone, and absolutely were not safe. Not from these men. These men and their king were the very reason for the uprising. Branan knew they had to get out of the dungeon—now—and get back to hiding in the kitchen as they’d been ordered.

Because one way or the other, someone was going to kill them for disobeying. The only question then: Who would do the killing? The king’s men, or Da?

Cailean screamed. Branan found him backed against the sand barrel, eyes wide with terror as he took in the sight of the men at his feet. Lost in such terror, Branan wouldn’t be able to bring him back with talk. He open-handed slapped Cailean across the face.

Stop it! he commanded.

It’s… it’s them! Tears streamed down his little brother’s face.

Shh! I can see that, idiot! Come, let’s get out of here. He took Cailean’s hand to lead him out, but he wouldn’t be budged.

Thora’s howling continued. Branan looked to her direction, wondering when she’d give out. For an old girl she had stamina, she was a true warrior.

It was then that he realized that in spite of her loud cries, somehow magnified as they echoed off the dungeon’s walls, the king’s men hadn’t moved. They were breathing, and so alive, but how could they sleep—were they sleeping?—through such a ruckus? The guard that Cailean had tripped over and fallen on top of, he hadn’t responded in the slightest.

Then perhaps the enemy that Thora was howling over was also asleep? If so, then it would be safe to use the torches the rest of the way and Branan felt a twinge of hope for getting out of the dungeon without the king’s men ever knowing they’d been disturbed. Da would return very soon and no one would be the wiser.

Cailean wiped the tears from his face. How, Branan? How do we get out of here now? We’re surrounded.

And yet they sleep! Stop wasting time before they wake up. Meaning what he said, he tackled Cailean around the waist. With his free arm he hoisted his brother over his shoulder and returned them to the walkway where he set him down. Look, Cailean! he said. There’s the receiving room straight ahead.

I-I… see… there’s nothing but dark! How do you know?

Branan said nothing but gave Cailean a stern look that said: I know this dungeon like I know Mother’s face and Cailean reluctantly fell in step next to his brother.

About twenty yards up the walkway they saw Thora. She obediently came to Branan’s side, nervous, pacing, and he knew his dog wanted him to follow her.

Where are you going? Cailean cried as Branan veered to the left of the doorway that would take them out of the dungeon, into the receiving room, and on to the safety of the keep’s main floor.

Branan took his steps cautiously, his torch held high. Not sure, but Thora’s really insistent that I see- His words caught in his throat.

On the floor, just to the left of the dungeon side of the doorway there was another body. This one Branan knew intimately.

Cailean came up behind Branan and looked to the man on the floor. And immediately cried, Noooo…

It was the man the brothers knew as Da.

Branan smacked his brother’s face again. Stop! Now! he yelled. It’s not Da, can’t you see? It’s the other.

Are you sure? Cailean asked, rubbing his cheek.

Branan squatted next to the man and brought his torch closer. He studied his face, looked at his hands. Well…

Well?

I can’t… I’m not sure, Cailean. But it’s got to be the other because Da left, you know that. He left with Artair.

Oh, Cailean wailed. We didn’t actually see them leave the castle, did we? He said they were leaving…

And they did. They’ll be back. Soon. Da promised! This is… is not him, all right?

But you’re not really sure?

In truth Branan wasn’t sure. This man wore the exact garments that Da wore when he’d left the boys. This man and Da were identical in every way. Except one. But with this man unconscious it was nearly impossible to tell.

Branan, I need to know, Cailean wailed. "Because if it is Da, then we’re waiting for help that’s never going to come!"

Branan sighed. You’re right. There’s only one way to know for sure-

So do it! Open his eyes!

And what if he wakes up? If he’s the other, he’ll kill us!

Cailean nodded, already on it. He quickly searched the body of a nearby guard and came back with a broadsword.

Give me that! Branan said, reaching for the sword. You’ll kill yourself with that thing.

Fine, here. You cover me.

Branan stood over the man holding the tip of the sword just above his belly. He kept it back enough that if the man was Da he could quickly pull away without hurting him, yet close enough that should the man turn out to be the other one he could just as quickly plunge the blade into his gut.

Cailean kneeled next to the body, dropping his torch at the head and drew a ragged breath, then another, holding it. He carefully leaned over the man’s face. Da? he softly whispered. Or the other? He lightly placed the thumb of his left hand over the man’s right eyelid and lifted, carefully, slowly.

Branan tightened his hold on the sword’s handle. Well? Which is he?

Mmm, can’t tell. Need more light. Get the torch and hold it above me. I don’t want to let go and have to do this again.

Well, I can’t exactly move right now, Cailean! I’m your cover, remember? What if he wakes up and he’s the wrong one?

Open up and tell me who you are… Cailean told him, peering closer into the man’s right eye. Don’t think so. He seems as deep as the guards-

In one lightning fast move, the man sat bolt-upright, startling Branan, sending him against the wall behind him, the sword flying to the ground. He landed hard on his butt, the wind knocked from his lungs.

He looked up to see that the man had his hands tightly clutched around Cailean’s throat.

In the torchlight he could clearly see both of the eyes that gleamed at his brother, and he knew Da would return to two dead brothers.

This man was the other.

CHAPTER 1

The Myth, The Legend, The Castle MacQueed

Present Day

4th December

Northeastern Scotland

I N THE DARKNESS of predawn atop a barren promontory, Gilles Breannan stood dangerously close to the edge of a steep cliff, staring down the horizon over the North Sea. Waves lapped and crashed against the rocks at its base, a hundred yards straight down.

Siddonie Velero stood next to him, although a safer step back from the edge, just as she had twice previously on this exact spot. She clutched her down coat close to her body, a failed attempt at keeping out the morning’s frigid sea wind; it sliced through her, chilling her to the bone, chattering her teeth. She’d be more comfortable sitting in front of the small campfire he’d built for her ten yards back while she waited for the sunrise to show him yet another failure, but this time his demeanor was oddly reserved and her curiosity was bigger than the chill. Normally, moments from sunrise on any site found him cheerful, nearly giddy with the excitement of anticipation in finding what he called my castle. Not today, not this time. What was different?

Gilles Breannan, she said softly. Where are you, love? Already lost inside your castle?

His only answer was to harden his stare at the horizon. She knew he was tuning her out, his way of dismissing her. Many times she’d seen that firmly set jaw, tense facial muscles, eyes not seeing what was in front of him, but rather glazed and seeing through things to another place, another time.

The ninth century.

The Castle MacQueed.

He got the same look every time he wandered so deeply into the caverns of his castle fantasies and her treasure that he became absorbed by them. That was most of the time anymore. Now was different though, his entire body tensed, poised as if ready to defend against an attack. From what? The sunrise?

Siddonie frowned as she studied him, remembering how this far-off, lost in his fantasies quality used to be endearing. It gave him a sense of mystery and intrigue that she couldn’t resist, determined to figure him out. She hadn’t yet, and what was once endearing had devolved into annoying and insulting. On a great day he was a hard man to reach through his thoughts, but even so, his behavior this morning seemed further off, even for Gilles.

He squinted against the wind whipping his shoulder-length dark hair about his face, the only visible sign that he was vaguely aware of the world about him. The hint of sunrise glinted in his eyes. And the more she studied him, the more she thought that his posture wasn’t defensive—it was more like defiance.

Gilles? Are you willing the sun to rise? Or daring it?

His jaw set firmer, twitching his cheek muscles.

Oh, to hell with this! she thought. If she could, she would’ve reached out, grabbed the cresting sun and yanked it up herself if it meant getting this over with and going home for breakfast. She was bored, cold and famished.

Well, Gilles, you know you can’t do either. Even you can’t order it, can’t dare it. Sunrise will come in its own time, not yours, she said, not caring if he liked her disgusted tone or not. She looked to the horizon, finally streaking with the first light of daybreak. And then… one more failure and we can look forward to planning the next failure. But from home, where it’s warm, where there’s food. I’m so starved I could eat a pound of bacon! Yeah, and eggs, potatoes, oh, and must have hot chocolate, that would just hit the-

"Dinna you ever shut up, woman?" he erupted, the sharp edge in his heavy Scottish accent practically slicing through her.

Siddonie bristled; clearly he’d returned from the caverns of his fantasies wanting to fight. God, she was tired of this, tired of him. Cocking an eyebrow, she gave him her best Oh yeah? Bring it on! expression. Backing down from Gilles was never her way. But he wasn’t looking at her. His pose, his demeanor remained as still and serious as stone, his gaze fixed on the horizon. She felt anger writhing in the pit of her stomach. If he wanted to talk down to her, at least he could be a man and look her in the eye—not at some far-off point across the North Sea.

Dinna you ever answer a question? she snapped back.

No answer, no acknowledgment. Again he dismissed her like his used, snotty tissue.

Siddonie let out a haughty chuckle, her writhing anger—with him as well as the situation in general—ready to explode.

No, of course you don’t answer questions, you insufferable arrogant Scotsman, she yelled. "For years we’ve searched site after site for this cursed mystery castle of yours. Know what? We’re running out of places to look, Gilles! Have you noticed that? There’s only so much of Scotland to search, and we’re at the end of the map here.

"Have you also noticed how we always go home with no castle, no treasure, no fame and fortune? And I know damn well that you know this is our third attempt on this exact spot! You need to face reality, Gilles—there is no Castle MacQueed! It truly is a fairy tale, do you hear me?

God, I’m sick of this. But you never give up, do you? Oh, no! There’s always, ‘This is the site, Siddonie, this is it!’ and off we go. You lead, I follow. You command, I serve. You say ‘No questions, Siddonie!’ and how convenient for you, huh? No questions, no need to be bothered to answer them.

And thus no need to lie, he said, his harsh eyes never leaving the horizon.

Siddonie’s mouth dropped. "What the hell’s that supposed to mean, Gilles, no need to lie? You trying to tell me something, or just picking a fight?"

After a pause, Gilles suddenly turned to face her. The cresting sunlight lit up his seething eyes, giving them an even more striking appearance than normal.

"Just trying to shut you the hell up. But nocht seems to work on you Yanks outside of death!" He took a step closer to her, his entire posture daring her to say another word.

Siddonie stared at him, befuddled. What the hell was wrong with him? She’d never seen him like this, but he wasn’t playing around; this wasn’t his usual dry sense of humor. Not that Gilles was a jovial sort, moody as the Scottish weather, but this was a show of darkness in him that she’d never seen. Her stomach twisted into a knot.

She’d known Gilles Breannan, had worked with him, had loved him, for nearly three years, but this man in front of her now she was meeting for the first time. His eyes were suddenly as distant and disconnected as a stranger’s and she wanted to move away from him, away from the edge of the cliff. She wanted to go home.

Before she could move, however, he reached out and grabbed both her arms, pulling her tight against him. She felt his hot breath on her face, saw the fire in his eyes. Whoever this man was, he was clearly in a rage.

"This is the site, he spewed, spit flying from between his clenched teeth, his eyes flashing. The Castle MacQueed does exist. Here! And she’s mine. She and her treasure, they’re mine!"

As dearly as Siddonie wanted to give Gilles an in-your-face response, she thought again. This raging man wasn’t Gilles. Anything she said could be taken as condescending or mocking, which would certainly fuel his rage. Instead she gave him soft, calm eyes to look into, expressing sincere belief in what he was saying, and she nodded her head.

He reacted in a moment, but in her fright it felt like an hour before Gilles relaxed his grip and let her go. His eyes drifted back to the horizon as his face slowly softened until he looked like the man she knew, the Gilles she loved. Whatever had come over him seemed to be dissipating now.

Siddonie also looked to the horizon, relieved and grateful to see that sunrise was upon them.

Stand down, he told her, his softened tone as close to an apology as she knew he’d ever come. Return to the fire, Siddonie.

Quickly, she followed his order.

There was enough sunlight present that she knew what would come next. They’d been through this exact routine countless times before, from the Hebrides to the Orkney Islands, and twice before at this very site. As he had so many times before, Gilles removed a gold-trimmed crystal from a pouch tied to his belt and walked to an upright stone set several yards from the edge of the cliff. He set the crystal on top of the stone, positioning it to catch the sun’s rays. They would pass through the crystal momentarily to reveal…

Nothing.

Same as always, there would be absolutely nothing to see but the unchanged, bare land that was this promontory.

No castle, no priceless treasure inside the castle that would make them rich and famous, no nothing.

When would Gilles accept this fact? What would it take for him to understand that the Castle MacQueed was only a fantasy? She called it a myth; he called it a legend. She dismissed the myth to Scottish folklore, perhaps a metaphorical tale. Gilles believed the legend was based on hard fact, the details of which had been kept alive in his family for generations, every generation searching for the cursed castle.

Every generation for twelve hundred years coming up empty.

Initially the lure of the treasure’s power had been enough for Siddonie to admit: What if? And if that What if? turned out to be something after all, then they would be insanely rich, not to mention the most famous people on the planet for finding the ancient book capable of solving every problem in the known universe. So what was there to lose by searching? Only some sleeping-in time on the weekends, no major loss, no great sacrifice in exchange for the potential of What if?

Three years later, however, three years of following Gilles’s obsessive quest and Siddonie was exhausted. More than that, she was bored. In her mind the evidence was firmly against What if? For her, clearly it said: Just Ain’t So.

There’s more to life, Gilles, she’d told him on their last attempt. "And either this castle doesn’t exist, or it’s not meant to be found, ever think of that? Maybe it’s one of those things in life that’s more fun if left unfound, like Atlantis or the Loch Ness Monster! Or maybe there’s some bigger reason you can’t find it. Maybe it really is God’s book and that’s enough reason to walk away and leave it alone."

There had been no raging reaction that day. Gilles had responded to her with, You dinna have to be here, Sid. With or without you, I’ll find her. You dinna have to tag along if you’d rather be at home, and he’d even smiled with a gentle, loving look in his eyes that morning.

It was damned tempting to take his permission and run. But if she had, when would she ever see him? The quest for the Castle MacQueed was not merely a weekend hobby for Gilles, it was everything in life to him. She’d often thought that he wasn’t obsessed with finding the castle—he was possessed. Even understanding the magnitude of such a discovery and the impact it would have not just on him or her, but on the entire world, still she couldn’t fathom his illogical passion for something that simply could not exist.

Nonethless, she loved him in spite of himself and one day she’d marry him when he was no longer obsessed 24/7 with finding a 9th century castle used by the Vikings that mysteriously disappeared clean off the face of the Earth along with the vast treasures that she held. The Castle MacQueed was last known to exist twelve hundred years ago in Scotland…

Somewhere.

One day she’d marry him, when Gilles was more filthy, stinking rich than he already was. But for now, nothing would deter him from his Castle MacQueed. As long as he refused to accept that the damn thing didn’t exist—and never had—Siddonie had no choice but to accept that he refused to accept and continue the search by his side.

From the campfire where she squatted, warming her gloved hands over the waning flames, she saw that he had the crystal in place. Gilles stood to the side, giving the sunshine full access to the crystal pyramid sitting upright on top of the large standing stone. As expected and right on cue, the crystal filled with the colors of early morning sunshine: soft yellow, orange, pink. The colors sharpened, gathered into a beam and shot outward from the crystal, out across the bare promontory.

And suddenly… nothing happened.

Just like all the other attempts.

Oh, he’d be in a bad mood now. Especially on the heels of his raging outburst and insistence that this was the site! This time the Castle MacQueed was within reach dammit, and it was his, his, his.

Siddonie stood, let out a heavy sigh, shook her head, and kicked dirt at the campfire. It was going to be a very long drive home.

Gilles studied the crystal pyramid, glowing on top of the standing stone next to him. With the North Sea to his back he looked out across the promontory’s acreage and waited. Nothing happened.

This time, however, he was undaunted. Gilles didn’t just believe the castle was here, he knew it was here, waiting for him. He was right, and Siddonie was wrong. But then, she was always wrong—except when it came to dealing with hard facts and research; in that she excelled.

He would rather she wasn’t needed in any of this at all, but as long as she was required, the research gave her something to do, something to keep her busy and less focused on him.

He looked to his left over the crystal to see Siddonie staring at him with a look of disgust. She shook her head, stamped out the campfire and set about the business of packing their things for the trip home.

Gilles, for one, was not leaving until he’d produced a castle. Perhaps the crystal wasn’t situated correctly? Or maybe the sun’s rays weren’t hitting the crystal’s face at the right angle? It had to have something to do with positioning or lighting, one or the other. He moved between the sunlight and the crystal to make an adjustment.

A nanosecond before Gilles’s fingers made contact with the crystal however, he was struck with the feeling of a pulse hitting him, an invisible wall of energy, at the same moment the ground beneath him moved like a wave upon the ocean. He instantly felt such profound vertigo that he had to grab the standing stone to keep from falling.

The wave passed and Gilles’s legs found solid ground again, his vertigo gone. It had lasted no more than a second or two, very brief, but it was extremely powerful.

He brought his hands to hold his head for a moment to make sure he was steady. He looked for Siddonie, sincerely concerned for her safety and he was relieved to see her lying on the ground next to the fire. She looked dazed, but well.

He ran his fingers through his hair, took a deep breath, and checked the crystal, stunned to see that it was no longer a clear crystal at all. It had transformed into a pyramid of solid gold, more brilliant than anything Gilles had ever seen, not merely reflecting or refracting light, but owning it somehow.

And then movement in his peripheral vision drew his attention to something big.

No, something monstrous.

He looked up to see that a mere fifty feet in front of him was the myth, the legend, the Castle MacQueed.

"Siddonie!" he screamed.

Immediately she was at his side, mouth agape, eyes huge with disbelief at the sudden materialization of an enormous castle where only bare land had stood before. Holy… fucking… shit…

Aye…

It’s your castle! Oh by God, Gilles! It’s your castle, you were right! I can’t believe it, you were right, she squealed, jumping up and down, clapping her hands.

Call the team, he told her.

"What? Call the team? Now?"

Right now.

"Um, well, but… We’re not waiting for them, are we? I mean, we’re going in now, right?"

No, he said, firmly.

But, Gilles! she protested. We don’t need them, not really! C’mon, let’s go, just you and me. We can find the treasure on our own, we don’t need anyone else.

Siddonie! Gilles yelled, grabbing her shoulders. Please just do as I say. Call the team.

Siddonie stared Gilles down for a brief moment before deciding that it was best