3 comments/ 45914 views/ 9 favorites Shadows in the Mists By: James MacGregor A single thistle swayed in the wind on that cold April night. Its jagged leaves darkened with spattered blood, alone among the trampled grass and turned sod of the killing ground of Drummossie Moor. His eyelids closed again. A single tear cut a path through the dirt and dried blood coating his face. The images of grinning, red coated riflemen as they fired their muskets and canon point blank into his valiant countrymen filled his mind‘s eye again. The smell of gunpowder freshly turned soil and blood still thick in his nostrils. Though struck several times, he had continued to charge through the murderous fire with the rest of the woefully outnumbered and desperate Scots. They had stopped just yards from the first rank of Cumberland’s men, raised their muskets and loosed a thunderous volley. Then screamed and howled as the first rank of Redcoats withered away like smoke in a gale unnerving the second rank of English. The ferocious highlanders dropped their muskets, drew swords and charged. They slammed into the second rank with shuddering impact. The desperate highlanders hacked through the second rank only to come face to face with the bayonets and gun barrels of the third. He remembered lunging forward and howling his defiance as a mounted officer barked out the command to fire. It was odd but at that moment he was captivated by the surreal beauty of those bright flowering blooms and sheets of fire flashing from that seemingly endless line of troops. The musket balls struck him like the blows of a smithy’s hammer, the pain giving way to a comfortable numbness as he was thrown backward to land twisted and still among his massacred clansmen. His body was no longer able to respond as he watched with tear filled eyes. Bonnie Prince Charlie’s brave army was cut down like so much wheat. His breath came in slow labored gasps as he heard the skirl of the pipes and the howling scream of the final highland charge, suddenly silenced forever by volley after volley from musket and cannon. Slowly he rolled onto his back and stared up into the leaden gray sky, unsure if it was the cold rain or death’s caressing hand that slowly chilled him to the soul. He remembered kneeling and swearing his oath of fealty to the young pretender not a year ago. How his heart swelled as they won victory after victory, Prestonpans, Falkirk, and the numerous towns and villages on their march to London before turning back to Scotland 130 miles short of their goal and now all that had been won swept away, in less than an hours time. They had gone from heroic patriots to outlawed rebels in the blink of an eye. A shadow slowly materialized above him. He saw the glint of steel and felt the cold impact of a bayonet being thrust through his body. A tear escaped to run slowly down his cheek to seep away into the soil along with Charlie’s noble cause and the blood of so many of his courageous brothers lying silent and broken among the soft grasses of Drummossie Moor. His tears began to flow freely as he realized that this was not only the death of their bid to return the Stuart to the throne, but the end of their highland way of life. It took less than an hour to utterly destroy the heroic highland army, to cut down their best and brightest, a massacre from which the highlands would never fully recover. Cumberland saw to that when he gave the order, no quarter. For the next few hours the English ran down the fleeing highlanders shooting them in the back, bayoneting the wounded and immediately executing those foolish enough to surrender. As the darkness overcame him he heard nothing except the odd musket shot and the laughter of the English soldiers as they walked the moor now soaked with blood finishing off the wounded. As he slipped into that dark void he wondered if in the coming years any would remember what his countrymen had tried to accomplish and how it all came to a fiery blood soaked halt on that 16th of April 1746. He opened his eyes again and saw the lone thistle standing proudly in defiance amongst the utter devastation of the battleground. As he watched the tiny flower sway in the night wind he came to the realization that the thistle was truly the Scots flower. A weed that others sought to destroy and be rid of. But though it could be cut, burned and hacked, it survived to flower once more. A hearty bit of God’s creation that refused to be eradicated no matter what the odds. The coppery smell of blood and the stench of exposed entrails, scents of a battle reserved for the vanquished brought him back to reality. The scent of death and butchery hung heavy in the air. The sounds of steel crashing against steel and the screams of the wounded and dying now distant echoes. Only the sobbing of loved ones moving across the moor searching for fathers, husbands and sons could be heard now. His eyes glowed as a low growl rumbled through the mangled flesh of his chest. Slowly, painfully he rolled to his knees, sniffed at the air heavy with death. His muzzled twitched in the cold night air as he searched the winds for the scent of the men who had carried out this massacre. After all, he had sworn an oath. He stood slowly, his shirt and kilt still covered in dried blood as if it refused to wash away in the cold rain. He staggered a step or two on unsteady legs, his head low on his shoulders, his visage no longer human, fiercely glowing eyes were deep set in lupine features, large cruel teeth glistened and flashed in the wane moonlight. Women gasped and shook with fear as a hauntingly mournful howl rolled out of the cold mists covering the moor. They gathered children close and huddled in fear as the shadow loped through the mists, whispering in hushed tones of the Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh, the Demon Wolf. The four red coated soldiers approached the small cottage, showing little regard for caution. Two circled around to the back and two to the front. The leader of the small squad pounded on the door and demanded entry in the name of the king. “By order of his majesty, King George, all premises and domiciles are to be searched. Any found harboring or giving aid to the traitor, Charles Edward Stuart or any of his rebels are to be arrested. Open in the name of the king!” Private Clackburn stood in the darkness at the rear of the cottage gripping his musket in sweaty hands as he listened to his sergeant’s pounding and bellowing voice. He knew the chances of finding the Stuart this close to Culloden were slim to none, but the chances of finding a few coins or a recently widowed wife were very good indeed. His face was painted with a toothy grin at the sound of the cottage door being smashed in. His sergeant never failed to pick the fattest sheep, always able to sniff out coin or a succulent maiden. He felt a slight jolt and looked down. His eyes widened in uncomprehending surprise, not realizing the blood splashing over his hands was his own. He dropped limply to the ground never knowing what had happened. Private Smith stood at the opposite end of the cottage and turned as he heard something thud to the ground. He called out Clackburn’s name, asking what he had over there. Though dark, he could just make out the shadow coming towards him through the mist. Tightening his grip on his musket he asked, “Clack? What have you got? Did you catch one of the rabbits trying to flee?” Huge teeth and the head of a large wolf suddenly flashed into view. Strong jaws clamped around his neck before he could raise his weapon. Smith’s mouth worked feverishly, calling out to his sergeant, but the only sound was the muted thud of his decapitated head striking the soft ground. Sergeant Bretway stood imperiously before an old woman that cowered against the wall of the little one roomed cottage. “Mistress, your men folk have all been slaughtered this day and if you would not add your name to the list of dead, tell me where the Stuart is.” He nodded to private Lapp, giving him the go ahead to start searching the contents of the small cottage. Lapp began using his bayonet to overturn crockery and tear the linen from the bed with glee. His efforts became more and more destructive until he was brought up short after overturning the bed and saw the figures huddled beneath. The sergeant turned to the old woman with a leering grin. “What have we here then?” Lapp reached down and grabbed the hair of the nearest figure dragging it to its feet. The young woman screamed and fought only to be struck down by a backhanded blow from Lapp. The young woman reached out to wrap her arms about her frightened daughter. The little girl’s 8 year old eyes were wide with terror as her mother pulled her close. The sergeant laughed and said to Lapp as he undid his weapons belt, “I think I will take her first, then you and the others can have your pick.” Looking at the old woman whose face displayed pure hatred and fury, “If this one moves, kill the child.” Suddenly to everyone’s horror and surprise, the heads of Clackburn and Smith came sailing out of the dark to land with a wet thud and roll across the floor coming to rest against the hearth. Weapons were quickly snapped up at the ready as the sergeant motioned Lapp forward to the door. Raising his musket, Lapp moved cautiously along the wall, stopping at the edge of the doorframe. Listening then holding his weapon at the ready he slowly peered out, straining to see through the mists. Shocked with fright as Lapp was suddenly yanked from his feet and out into the night by an unseen hand. The sergeant made the mistake of a raw recruit and squeezed the trigger of his weapon by accident, firing a round through the thatched roof. Frantically he fumbled to reload the musket. Lapp’s scream was suddenly cut short by the sound of flesh and cloth being torn asunder and the crack and snap of bones. Shaking uncontrollably he dropped the weapon when Lapp’s faceless head rolled back through the door to bump against his foot. The sergeant’s face suddenly went slack as the blade of a stag handled dirk slammed into the base of his brain. The sergeant tottered a moment then fell limply to the floor atop the sightless head. The old woman slowly lowered the dirk and spat on the sergeant’s body in disgust. Turning to the young woman and the child “Take this carrion and the others to the forest and bury them. Then ye and the bairn take to the hills until these bastards have moved on.” The young woman moved dutifully to carry out her mother’s wishes but stopped and asked in a shaky voice, “But what aboot the beastie?” The old woman shook her head with a grim look, “You neednae worry aboot that one. I think it `tis the English that need fear the night.” He loped on through the night, slipping through the mists like a shadow. Appearing suddenly to viciously slaughter Cumberland’s outriders when he came upon them while slowly working his way toward the main body of the English army. As dawn approached, he came upon a ridge and heard the sound of men laughing and a woman’s scream. He drifted quickly and silently between the trees. There in a small clearing at the edge of the ridge were a handful of red coats bayoneting a herd of cornered sheep while a young maid was held at knifepoint and forced to watch. Her dress was ripped and torn, her breasts exposed as the soldiers mauled and groped her semi-nude body. A number of them were in the process of shedding their belts and equipment in preparation of ravishing her. He burst from cover and was among them before they could react. His fearsome jaws snapped with fury as talons slashed in wide bloody arcs. The nearest soldier fell, clasping his hand to his neck, trying in vain to stop the blood that was gushing from the ragged wound. A second screamed and another clutched at his midsection in a frantic attempt to keep steaming intestines from spilling from his slashed belly. The others whirled and brought their muskets up in defense as the ravening creature bore down on them. It was then that he spied the additional troops standing off to the side. His rage had blinded him causing him to forget caution, he snarled furiously as he realized his mistake. There was a sudden explosion of musket fire as he continued to charge the soldier holding the woman. He staggered and lurched under the impact of the musket balls. The force of the rounds caused him miss his target and slam into a boulder topping the windswept ridge. He was struck again as another volley erupted to echo across the glen. The force of the impact threw him over the edge of the ridge. A cool and soothing wind whipped past his face as he tumbled into the mists blanketing the darkened glen below. Mary MacGregor walked along the wee burn listening to the water as it trickled over the stones. Its gentle song almost sad in its melody as if it too mourned those brave souls lost at Culloden a few days ago. Her eyes darting this way and that watching for any sign of the hated English who had been razing the countryside while using the excuse of hunting rebels. She had heard no more shots since the day before but she remained alert and cautious all the same. Ever since her father had left to join Prince Charles’ army earlier in the year, she had been alone. She had gotten word from a passing rider carrying news of the early battles that he had been killed in a skirmish with an English patrol. Now at 20 summers old she was doing her best to keep their small farm running and remain beneath the notice of the English now roaming freely through the countryside. She knelt to fill her water bucket for the broth she was preparing and watched the last of the morning mists drift along the surface of the water. She stood, then held a shading hand to her eyes as she spied something white covered with dried blood among the rocks and heather along the side of the hill. At first she thought it a stray sheep that had fallen from the heights above until she noted the tartan between the rocks. Moving quickly she leapt down into the cold waters and through to the other bank rushing towards the body. As she feared, this man was a MacGregor and though she did not recognize him she knew the color and pattern of his tartan and did not hesitate in attempting to assist one of her clan. Kneeling by his side her eyes filled with tears she could see that he had suffered greatly at the hands of the English. His once white linen shirt was ragged and filled with the holes of many bullet and bayonet wounds. He was filthy and covered in dried blood his features marred by the swelling and cuts and one of his legs was folded at an odd angle. Mary shook her head sadly as her gaze traveled up the hillside to the ridge far above. As she began to gather stones to build a cairn for the man, she stopped and gasped in fright when she heard a soft moan. He was alive, but how? With the wounds on his body let alone the fall from the heights he should be dead thrice over. She shook her head to clear the shock of indecision and knelt at his side. She leaned down and whispered “M’Laird? Can ye hear me?” The only answer was another barely audible moan. Overcome with emotion she leaned down, as her eyes glistened with the tears of compassion and lightly kissed his forehead. Her eyes darted about as she decided what she must do. After fashioning a litter out of two stout branches from a nearby tree and her shawl she gingerly rolled the wounded man onto it and set off across the glen as fast as she was able. The smell of broth boiling and the warmth of a fire slowly brought him out of the embrace of darkness but when he tried to rise his muscles and flesh felt as though devils stabbed at him with fiery hot brands. His lungs refused to function until he stopped attempting to move. He lay there confused, wondering where he was and how he had gotten there. He remembered attacking the English on the ridge, them firing at him and the sensation of floating through the air. The face of an angel had appeared and caressed him with her heavenly touch. He had been sure he had finally died. Opening his eyes he saw the roughhewn timbers holding up a thatch roof. He was in a cottage, but how had he gotten there? His eyes widened in surprise when the angel suddenly appeared at his side carrying a washcloth and a bowl of water. She attempted to keep a stern indifferent face but her eyes gave away the true concern she felt. “How are ye feeling this day MacGregor?” He attempted to smile but his face hurt too much. “I have felt better lass. How did I get here?” She looked at him with a haughty expression and said “I dragged ye here, ye great lump.” He noted her attitude, a strong one this. His eyes flashed weakly in admiration. She sat on the side of the bed and rung out the wash cloth, gently washing his face and cleaning the wounds. Her touch was light and caressing; he closed his eyes and sighed thinking that “If this wisnae heaven it couldnae be far doon the road.” Her scent was that of freshness and spring flowers. Her long soft auburn hair flashed with highlights of red, her eyes the color of the sea flecked with the white of the cresting waves. His eyes traveled down her demure form, her soft white breasts barely contained within her laced bodice, the gentle contour of her thigh visible through the slit in her skirts. He asked softly “How….how long have I been here?” “Two days” Was her curt reply. Closing his eyes as the stiffness, pain and memory of the smoke filled battle washed over him again. As she gently wiped his brow she stated, with a hint of fear tingeing her voice, “Sir, I have never seen wounds heal as fast as yers. How is that possible?” “Damn” it had not occurred to him that his rashness would expose his secret. Just as he was about to answer the door crashed open and the king’s soldiers spilled into the room. His eyes hardened as he attempted to force his body to respond to the threat but bayonets were at their throats and breast before they could react. An officer stepped into the room behind his agitated troops and with a pleasant voice said “Good evening Miss, I am sure you are aware by now of the rebel defeat at Culloden and the Kings orders concerning those that would harbor rebels?” Growling deeply, MacGregor attempted to rise, and with a calm indifferent attitude the officer leveled his pistol and nonchalantly fired a shot into the MacGregor’s chest as if he were shooing an annoying insect. The officer turned looking about the small cottage with the look of one who had suddenly stumbled into a fresh pile of manure and stated matter of factly “The King’s orders are quite clear on this matter.” He turned to leave and told the soldiers in a lisp used by those of breeding “Kill the livestock, burn the hut and hang the woman.” The soldiers set about their assigned tasks malicious glee. One of the troops grabbed Mary by the hair and roughly threw the young woman through the door and out into the evening air. The rest set about destroying the contents of the cottage while searching for anything they could pocket. Outside, Mary was thrown forward, causing her to loose her balance, windmilling her arms as she fell forward to the ground, knocking the wind out of her. Before she could rise, hands were on her wrists and shoulders, pinning her to the hard ground. The soldiers were laughing and carrying on as she felt her skirts being pulled up and linens ripped away, exposing her from the waist down to their leering eyes. She screamed and kicked but to no avail as more hands grasped her ankles and yanked her legs wide. Hands and fingers mauled and exposed the exposed flesh of her bottom and between her splayed thighs, entering her roughly both fore and aft. She bit her lip at the searing pain of those dry digits tearing into her. Gritting her teeth, she dropped her forehead to the grass, resigning herself to the inevitable. Shadows in the Mists Ch. 02 The smell of smoke wafted gently through the trees causing a deep feral growl to rumble through his chest. He cocked his head to one side and listened, but knew that he was too late. He eased up to the edge of the forest and knelt in the underbrush as he looked out across the glen to the skeletal remains of the wee cottage and the dead livestock scattered about. The cottage showed no signs of life. He sighed heavily, eased from cover and slowly made his way toward the cottage, his heart heavy with sorrow, fists clenched in rage. Since the debacle at Culloden, that demon of a man Cumberland had been systematically killing and raping the highlands, slowly turning it into a green desert. He wasn’t sure if he would be able to make a difference, but by God somebody was going to pay for this wanton slaughter and these depravities. History will probably not record the atrocities following the defeat of Charlie’s army of 5000 hard-bitten highlanders by Cumberland’s 9000. History tends to favor the victor. He winced and unconsciously allowed his hand to drift up to his now healed shoulder at the thought of the thunderous booming of the massed artillery and steady lines of riflemen during that last wild charge. His wounds had since healed but his heart never would. It had been swallowed by the blackness of despair and sorrow as he had watched his fellow highlanders, friends and family slaughtered wholesale on that cold April morn. Shaking his head to clear those horrible visions as he cautiously moved toward the burned out farmhouse. His eyes narrowed as the sound of snoring came to his ear. He reached up and filled his hands with two of the pistols hanging from the brace along his shoulder. Quietly slipping up to the house, his back to the wall, pistols raised, he stepped into the doorway and leveled the pistols ready to fire. Quickly surveying the destruction inside, his eyes came to rest on a red coated soldier snoring away in a chair next to the hearth. His fingers tightened on the triggers, his eyes flashed with malice but then slowly relaxed the tension and lowered the barrels. He stepped quietly into the room and moved to the bed where the nude form of a middle- aged woman lay sprawled. He ground his teeth as he could tell by her waxy pallor that she was dead, and slowly covered the woman with a crumpled blanket from the floor in an attempt to restore some of the her dignity. Thinking back to the night when Mary’s wee farm had been laid waste by Cumberland’s men, then turned back to the sleeping soldier. Grabbing a scorched chair, he placed it gingerly in front of the redcoat whose hand now sleepily brushed at his nose. Sitting slowly, he casually lay a pistol across his lap but kept the barrel of the other trained on the sleeper as he stretched out his foot and tipped the chair back causing the soldier to crash to the debris strewn about the floor. The redcoat jumped with a roar then came to an abrupt halt when he found himself face to face with the feral grin of the highlander and the leveled pistol. His eyes darted to the musket leaning against the small hearth then slowly started to reach for the knife at his back. The highlander’s eyes hardened and held up a finger in an “ah, ah, ah”, motion. The soldier relaxed and resigned himself to being a prisoner for the time being. “Where are the others frae yer bunch?” the highlander growled. The soldier just shrugged his shoulders. “I don’t know.” His eyes narrowed as he regarded the soldier suspiciously. “Ye are entirely too calm fer aine in yer position. That tells me that they are no’ far off, or ye’ve a camp nearby.” The soldier just shrugged again and was about to resolve himself to waiting on a patrol when he heard the hammer of the flintlock click back. “Lord Marcum’s regiment is based in the town of Holywell just south of here!” He gobbled. “We were on a patrol to find and arrest any and all Jacobite sympathisers, and she was a Jacobite.” He quavered and held up a bit of tartan, patterned for the Jacobite cause. The highlander exploded onto his feet and pressed the pistol’s muzzle against the soldier’s eye. “Aye, and she wis such a fierce warrior and enemy that ye saw fit t’ rape and kill her?” He snarled. “Well, she certainly deserves better than this. So, ye are going to see that she gets a proper burial!” It was well into afternoon when the soldier had finished the grave and had lain the poor women in the earth. As the last stone was placed atop the wee cairn, the highlander bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer then looked up at the soldier whose eyes were darting to and fro looking for a possible escape. Slate grey eyes filled with tears as he growled at the soldier, “I intend to see that justice for this poor woman is meted oot. But, we both know what will happen if ye are taken to the authorities so that just leaves me.” With that he snapped the pistol up and fired a ball point blank into the soldier’s stomach. The stunned redcoat collapsed to the ground, clutching at the wound, and pleading for his life. Raising another pistol he said in a matter of fact tone “That wis for the crime of killing those who hadnae raised arms against ye.” Suddenly the second pistol barked, firing a round into the wounded man’s groin. The soldier screamed and writhed in agony. “That was t’ make sure ye dinnae use that on any mair innocents in the hereafter.” Pulling a third pistol from the brace he said. “Now, because I am not heartless and I know ye widnae want t’ live withoot yer manhood.” He squeezed the trigger firing the shot though the soldiers open mouth. The back of the soldier’s head erupted in a spray of blood and brains, spattering the cairn of his victim as the shot echoed away through the glen. Casually reloading the pistols and replacing them on the brace he looked toward the south and in a whispered growl spoke into the chill wind “Ye’re next, Laird Marcum.” It had been almost a fortnight since he arrived in Holywell and taken on as assistant to the blacksmith. Holywell was a quaint little village that had been spared the ravages of years of warfare. This was due in large part to the mayor and elders paying a ransom to whichever side held sway at the time. The whitewashed walls of the shops and homes on the high street spoke of money. It straddled the crossroads between the western highlands and lowlands and enjoyed a fair amount of trade. Its market was known far and wide, drawing people in from the farthest reaches of the county. The market was more like a fair at times, goods and wares of every sort were available, for a price. It had been two bloody backbreaking weeks and still no sign of Lord Marcum. Rumor had it that he was away south conferring with the Duke of Cumberland. He was becoming anxious, especially with so many of those that had killed his kin milling about the town. There were times that he had wanted to let his rage loose and kill these Redcoats in their barracks but knew that he would be cut down before he could ever hope to get them all. Hefting another load of firewood for the smithy, he made his way along the muddy track glancing over sadly at the figures swaying in the breeze from the old oak at the edge of the village. It’s branches loaded down with corpses of men and women whose only crime was to have been born Scottish. A contingent of cavalry preceded an elegant six-horse coach as it thundered into the high street. Townspeople scattered in all directions as it had been learned the hard way that the coach did not stop for pedestrians. The cavalry and coach did not stop for anyone unfortunate enough to be in their path. He walked along close to the buildings, his eyes never leaving the coach as it slowed to a stop in front of the town hall. Inside was one of the butchers who had been meting out “justice” to his people. His attention was so focused that he only caught a flash of finery and lace before he crashed headlong into her. There on the ground before him was an extremely beautiful woman, a lady of means by the look of her attire. However at the moment her mud spattered face was livid with rage. “How dare you lay hands upon my person!.” She shrieked. His eyes went wide at her accusation as he looked down at the bundle of wood still in his arms. Hands grabbed him roughly from behind and he felt the cold kiss of steel at his neck. His eyes flashed with a hint of silver and a low growl rumbled through his chest as his muscles and tendons tightened readying to defend himself. Just then the rotund Lord Marcum appeared surrounded by his bodyguard of soldiers. “Kill the insolent swine.” He lisped with a casual wave of his hand while he leaned down to help the lady to her feet. The hands tightened around him as he readied himself for the leap at Lord Marcum’s throat when the sound of the woman’s voice sounded “STOP! I want him alive. I want him to work off the cost of this dress he just ruined, as a lesson to him and others that would think to treat their betters so casually. Then hang him.” Lord Marcum clapped his hands gleefully and chuckled, “Oh My dear Lady Ashford, you have such a clever mind.” Marcum turned to the troops holding the highlander and waved his hand “Take him away and put him in chains until I can devise a suitable task for him to perform. In the meantime insure he requites himself for his folly.” He felt the dull thud of the club at the back of his skull but no pain, only darkness. The pain would come later. A splash of cold water shocked him awake. “On your feet, scum” Barked a particularly rough looking sergeant. He spat out bits of straw and attempted to sit up, looked down and saw the manacles about his hands and feet and felt the collar chaining him to the wall. Suddenly a boot slammed into his stomach with brutal force, knocking the wind from him. If there had been anything in his stomach he certainly would have added it to the filthy straw strewn about the floor of the cell. “That wasn’t a request!” and the soldiers boot slammed into him again. He could do naught at the moment but curl up in a fetal position and weather the beating. Again and again the boot slammed into him. Luckily he did not hear the tell tale snap of bones, but he would feel the bruises for days. There was a sharp jerk as someone yanked the chain to the collar, snapping his head up and cutting off his air supply as he was hauled to his feet. He swayed on unsteady legs he slowly looked up into the malevolent eyes of the sergeant. “Rule number one! Never look your betters in the eye!” He caught the flash of movement and felt the sharp impact of the jailer’s fist along side his head, the jarring impact caused him to fall to a knee. “I said on your feet!” Again the chain was jerked and he was hauled roughly back to his feet. Keeping his eyes lowered, he braced himself for the next blow. “See? I told you it would finally seep through his thick Scottish skull.” The sergeant chuckled to the other two soldiers. “Right, her ladyship has a little task for you, mucking out the horse stalls.” Hands shoved him roughly forward as his feet shuffled quickly to keep his balance, restricted by the length of chain between his ankles. The morning sky was gray and overcast when he stumbled up out of the basement jail, but it caused him to squint nonetheless. The soldier who had hold of the chain jerked sharply every third step or so, jerks so hard that a lesser man might have had his neck snapped by the violence of them. As they entered the high street, he noticed the Lady at the root of his misery standing in the doorway of Marcum’s headquarters with a smirk on her face. His eyes hardened but he looked down at his shambling feet as he felt the chain tighten again. The soldier chuckled as they passed the smithy’s. “Look there, once you’ve finished all your appointed tasks we’ve a spot all picked out for you.” Chortled the sergeant. Looking up he saw the empty noose swaying from one of the branches of the oak tree between two rotting bodies. He was prodded into the stables with a club then pushed suddenly into an open stall, to land heavily in the stinking muck. Gritting his teeth he slowly got back to his feet and looked around. “Whit aboot a fork?” He growled. “Oh no, no fork. You’ll be using your hands. The Lady Ashford was very specific on that point” the soldier snickered. The sun had begun to set when he finished the last stall. He stood slowly, hearing the creak of his joints and back. He was covered in muck, but the good thing about it was that he smelled so bad that it kept them from jerking the chain as it tended to bring him within smelling distance. As he shuffled from the last stall and into the evening air he heard the sultry voice of Lady Ashford. “Have that filth cleaned, I have another chore for him.” He glanced up wearily before he realized his mistake. The sudden blow from the club to the back of his legs dropped him to his knees. He grabbed at the sergeant’s belt to keep from falling on his face, only to feel the club slam into his shoulder. “Rule number one, scum!” He heard the soft tinkling of her laugh as he gritted his teeth through the pain. His eyes smoldered with rage as he silently vowed to make her pay for this inhuman treatment. This woman seemed to take an inordinate amount of pleasure in seeing others suffer. Chains clanking and clinking, he slowly, painfully regained his feet, eyes cast downward he mumbled in a voice dripping with sarcasm “Ma apologies….m’lady.” She turned and regarded him coolly then turned up her nose at his offensive odor then spun about in a whirl of skirts and headed toward Lord Marcum’s headquarters. The headquarters were actually lavishly appointed apartments that had belonged to the local mayor until the English arrived to commandeer it and most of the young women of the town. The sergeant prodded him roughly in the back “You heard the lady. I am to make sure you are cleaned up, move it!” Shuffling off as best he could with the hobbling chains restricting his movement he headed in the direction of the stream. Soon standing on the banks of the rushing stream he turned and held out his manacled hands to the guard. The sergeant just laughed and placed his booted foot against the prisoner’s behind and shoved, sending him headlong into the icy cold stream. “Nice try, but those chains stay on until we cut you down from the gibbet in three or four months.” Sucking in great gasps of air at the shock of the cold, he turned and looked at the sergeant whispering, “Oh, I think it will be a bit sooner than that.” A quarter of an hour later he was standing in the antechamber of a third floor apartment, he could not help but stare at the finely crafted oak paneling and tapestries. The two guards tightened their grip on his arms as the sergeant knocked sharply on the ornately carved door. After a moment it opened to reveal the Lady Ashford. She looked over at the prisoner then stepped out of the room and walked slowly around him as if inspecting livestock. “He cleans up rather well don’t you think Sergeant? He almost looks presentable.” She said with a smirk on her bright red lips. “Um…Yes m’lady, I suppose he does.” Replied the sergeant nervously. She turned and stepped back to the door of the apartment “You men may go about your business.” She said curtly. Shocked, the sergeant replied “But m’lady, this man is a prisoner and potentially dangerous!” She regarded the sergeant a moment then said, “I suppose you are right.” Stepping forward and with a deft flick of her hand a small dagger appeared in her palm, which she quickly lay against the prisoner’s neck. “I have a feeling he will behave himself, otherwise.” She let the sentence trail off shrugging her shoulders and whipping the blade away quickly, smiling as she saw the wince of pain on the prisoner’s face as a thin scarlet line appeared upon the side of his neck. The sergeant sighed heavily and turned to the other two guards “Alright boys, let’s go.” Stopping at the antechamber door he turned and said “My lady, I will post a man outside this door just in case.” She nodded and waved a dismissing hand as she eyed the prisoner. The sergeant bowed and stepped out closing the door of the antechamber quietly behind him. Motioning with a come hither finger and a seductive smile she stepped into her apartment and waited for the prisoner to shuffle in then closed the door to her apartment behind him. Slowly walking around him again she reached up and slipped his ragged tartan from his shoulder then with a slender finger poked at the almost healed bruises on his torso. “My but you are a tough one, for I know the sergeant is not a kind man but you look hardly the worse for wear. Good, this pleases me greatly.” She said in a low sultry voice. He kept his eyes level and ahead of him, taking in the size of the room and it’s furnishings. This one room was bigger than the cottage he grew up in. The finery and riches were absolutely beautiful. It was obvious that someone had been pillaging the local manors and castles as some of the items though lovely, were definitely out of place. Which is exactly what he was feeling. To him, these were cramped confines for someone used to the open glens and lofty mountains. She stepped away from him and into the middle of the room facing away, innocently crossed her hands behind her back and casually nodded toward the wooden bathtub near the hearth. “I want you to fill that and let me warn you, there had better not be a drop of water spilled on that carpet. I would hate to have to call the sergeant back so soon.” She said pleasantly. He glanced over at the kettle over the fire and the tub, noting there was no bucket with which to draw the water. Then looked at her sideways knowing she wanted him to not only spill the water but scald himself in the process. “Aye” he thought. This woman takes great pleasure in the misery of others. Shuffling toward the hearth he wondered how a woman of such beauty could be given to such cruelty. Stopping before the hearth he looked from the tub to the kettle again then reached down and grabbed the tub and carried it to the hearth. He positioned it so that it was almost under the kettle then swung his manacle chains over the kettle, catching a link on a molded hook on the far side if the kettle rim. Pulling gently he tipped the kettle so that the steaming water poured directly into the tub. Once it was half full he relaxed the tension on the chains and then carefully pulled the tub away from the fireplace, positioning it in the center of the flagstones before the hearth. Turning back to the kettle again he used his manacle chain to fit over the hook and lifted the entire kettle from the fire. Moving slowly he sat the kettle on the edge of the tub, tipping it carefully and pouring in the remaining water. The steam rising from the tub choked him and snatched at his breath as it threatened to blister his chest but he was able to bear it. “Bravo, Bravo clever man!” she stated merrily as she clapped her hands together slowly. “I thought sure you would be moaning in pain by now.” She laughed. “But I do not remember asking to have the tub moved.” She stated in a thoughtful tone as she placed a slender finger to her cheek Realizing her game he stated softly “I thought that having the tub nearer the hearth would keep the night chill off ye m’lady.” As he waited for her to call for the guards he noted the wardrobe was slightly ajar, as if there were something behind it. A small smile came to his lips as he realized it to be a passage into the next apartment, more likely than not Lord Marcum’s. His eyes flashed with a hint of silver. He would bide his time, but tonight Lord Marcum would draw his last breath. Shadows in the Mists Ch. 02 Lady Ashley slipped the dress from her alabaster shoulders and stepped out of it then began undoing the bows of her corset. “Hmmm…I suppose I will let this little breach of my instructions go this time as the warmth of the fire is quite nice.” She said with a purr. Slowly she removed article after article of clothing until she was standing nude next to the bed. The light from the fire danced over her ivory skin as she reached up to undo her hair, letting it fall in a golden cascade, caressing the gentle contour of her lovely bottom. Turning to face him boldly she placed her hands on her hips and whispered “What do you think highlander? Is a lady’s body not better than the cows you are used to?” He looked into her pale blue eyes keeping his face impassive, yet drinking in her utter beauty with his eyes. Her long lithe legs slightly spread as she slowly rocked her luscious hips side to side. The down covering her Venus Mound flashed like gold in the firelight. Her taught stomach smooth and flat. Her breasts up thrust and firm capped with two tiny pink cherries. The sly smile on her face told him that she knew exactly how he felt. She tilted her head back and walked toward him slowly like a cat stalking the sparrow in spring. She licked her lips as she reached out running a slender red nailed finger slowly across his chest as she moved around him. He kept his eyes straight ahead, but her beauty and sweet scent were having their affect on him. “Hmm, I do not like you in this, this rag.” She said in an annoyed tone grabbing the knot of his plaid and yanking, tearing it away from him. He could feel the heat rising in his cheeks as the cool air rushed forth to swirl around his now naked form. Laughing she reached out and wrapped her dainty hand around his swollen shaft “So, the proud Scot is not made of stone after all?” She gave it a squeeze and laughed again. “Then again, perhaps you are.” He had sought to remain impassive and impervious to her wiles but his body had betrayed him. She stepped in close to him, pressing his length between them “You may be of use to me yet.” She whispered. Turning away from him she moved over to the tub, raising a long slim leg and dipping it slowly into the steaming water, cooing in pleasure as the heat caressed her soft skin. The other leg followed as she lowered herself into the water, long lashed eyes closed in decadent pleasure as she sank into the tub, the water lapping at her throat. Opening her eyes slowly she raised her arm and languidly pointed to the decanters on a tray by the vanity “Bring those bath oils and pour them in.” She purred. He shambled over to the vanity and retrieved the decanters then shuffled back to the tub. Standing next to the tub he glanced down at her body shimmering in the water, then pulled the stop on the decanter and poured a quarter of the sweet scented oil into the water. She waved her hand through the slick trail it left causing it to bubble. His eyes widened in amazement, he had never seen anything like this oil. He was used to thick bars of lye soap that left the skin red and raw. As the water slowly filled with thick white foam she closed her eyes and purred “Mmm, Get a cloth to wash my back”. He turned and shuffled to the large canopied bed, picked up a thick towel, draped it over his shoulder and grabbed the cloth then returned to stand behind the tub. Looking down upon her lovely neck, his jaws clenched for a moment as he ground his teeth together then relaxed. She slowly leaned forward and pulled her golden tresses to the side, waiting. Kneeling behind the tub, manacles jangling and dipping the cloth into the water he slowly, tentatively drew the cloth along her softly rounded shoulders then down her back. “Your touch is surprisingly gentle for one so uncouth and wild.” She moaned. As he moved the cloth back up to her shoulder she reached around, grasping his wrist and pulling his hand down atop her up thrust glistening breast. “How does that feel? Soft, firm, warm to the touch?” She purred. Then without waiting for an answer she pushed his hand away, “That’s enough! Go stand over there where I can see you.” She snapped pointing to the front of the tub. Shuffling around the tub he stood, looking over her head to the window and the dark night beyond. Giggling she slipped down into the water so that it lapped against her full luscious lips as her glistening thighs and knees slowly surfaced on either side of the tub. Her shoulders pulled in tight as she licked her lips seductively, her eyes on his waist. He had no doubts as to what her hands were doing beneath the soapy waters. After awhile he noted the shudder that ran through her shoulders and groaned inwardly. “Give me that towel!” She snapped as she slowly rose from the water, her body glistening in the light from the hearth. Goosebumps could be seen raising rapidly along her soft limbs as steam rose in thin wispy tendrils. Slipping the towel from his shoulder, he leaned forward to hand it to her. She snatched it from his hand, wrapping it around her as she stepped from the tub. Quickly rubbing it along her arms and breasts then bending at the waist facing away from him as she dried her long legs. He could not help but allow his gaze to drift down to the view now offered him. Those gently rounded alabaster half moons. The way they separated to expose the delicate down covered peach with those demure petals peeking from within and above, that tiny touch hole, all exposed to his piercing slate gray eyes. She stood slowly, dropping the wet towel to the floor and walked over to the bed, sitting on the edge. “Come here.” She said with a smirk on her lips. He shuffled over to stand before her. “Kneel.” She commanded. Slowly he slipped to his knees, a slight grimace crossing his face due to the blow he had received from the sergeant earlier. Her hand shot out and grabbed him by the hair, pulling him off-balance. His face landed between her widespread thighs. She moaned deeply as she felt his rough chin pressed into her tender flower “Please me and you may live to see another dawn.” She hissed. Though loathe to show this woman any pleasure whatsoever he found himself slowly running his tongue over her delicate flesh. This woman was evil incarnate but she tasted so sweet. A deep growl rumbled through his chest as he thrust his tongue deep into her splayed flower. Twisting and thrusting as she ground her pelvis against his mouth. Hard, sharp teeth closed down on a fleshy petal and tugged causing her to squeal and thrash. He sucked the tender lip hard and as he bit he tasted her honey begin to flow freely into his mouth. It was then that he realized this one liked her rides hard and fast. Slipping his tongue along her womanly cleft he pressed his lips around the tiny exposed bud at the top of her furrow and sucked hard, slashing his tongue back and forth against it. She squirmed and thrashed gripping his hair tightly, pulling him tight against her. Arching her back and driving herself into his ravenous jaws, hissing “Yes!” He feasted upon her sweet sex, delving his tongue deeply, exploring her tight confines, savoring her, driving her faster and faster toward the brink of ecstasy like a runaway coach. Her gyrating and grinding pelvis was having its affect on him to. He could feel the blunt head of his shaft stabbing into his belly, throbbing hotly, aching to be immersed in her molten treasure. Knowing that as soon as she had taken her pleasure from him she would call for the guards to take him away to be hanged, he lifted his mouth momentarily from her splayed flower, letting the broken key drop into his palm. Lowering his mouth once again, he bit down her engorged petals, hard enough to make her gasp then sucking them softly. She cooed and moaned and she thrashed her golden mane back and forth on the bed. Working quickly he reached around to unlock his manacles on his wrists. Lifting his head slightly he begged her to turn over so that he might expand the pleasure. Moaning but never looking up she rolled over onto her stomach, tilting her hips up, exposing not only her glistening flower to his gaze but the tiny gate of her most sacred treasure. His lips were immediately upon her, nipping, biting, sucking, running his tongue slowly along her sweet furrow. He quickly unlocked the chains about his ankles and throat, easing them to the floor while he continued to feast upon her. Twirling the tip of his thick tongue around the tiny demure entrance of her ass for a moment causing her to pause a moment, then he drove it in deeply. Tiny hands clenched the material of the blankets as her back arched in pleasure, she took no notice as his hands, no longer shackled grasped her tiny waist pulling her back into his jaws. Ravishing her orally until her limbs stiffened as the ‘little death’ overtook her. Raising his glistening lips from between her undulating thighs and upraised bottom and stood slowly. Placing a staying hand in the small of her back, he wrapped his hand around the shaft of his swollen manhood, running the blunt head along her dripping furrow till lodging in the entrance of her quivering flower. She gasped and attempted to turn around as she realized his hands were no longer shackled but dropped her head weakly back to the bed as he thrust his length deep within her. “Yes! That’s it you pig! Deeper, Harder!” She snarled into the bedding. Grasping her slender waist he snapped his hips forward with bruising intensity, literally pounding into her up thrust sex. The slick heat and exquisite tightness of her clasping sheath tore an involuntary growl from his throat as she thrust back against him, rocking and grinding her bottom back against his pelvis. Again and again his pelvis slapped sharply against her beautifully rounded cheeks, driving her further down into the bed, her breasts and sensitive tips dragging against the rough weave of the coverlet. Slipping his hand into the fan of golden hair splashed across arched back, to the nape of her neck and clenching his fist, tightening, pulling her hair. Slowly she came up away from the bed, mewling at the animalistic ravishing of her sex and the rough hands on her person. Leaning back he brought her to a standing position as she rose onto her toes. Grinding against him, deliciously impaled on his pulsing spike. Tightening his grip on her hair he slipped his other hand up along her straining belly to cup and mold the soft milky white breast standing proudly as she arched back against him. She mewled like a kitten as his fingers roughly grasped and twisted the hardened tip, pinching it hard as his hips slapped against her bottom. Her nectar was flowing freely, literally dripping from his pistoning shaft soaking her bottom as well as his pelvis. The wet slap of their bodies echoed sharply in the apartment. His eyes flashed with a hint of silver and he leaned back and watched as his glistening shaft thrust in and out of her ovalled peach, the lips clinging tightly in an effort to keep him within her sweet furnace. Suddenly he pulled free, nudging the head of the impaling shaft against the tiny opening nestled between her soft alabaster cheeks. She drew in a sharp breath as she realized his intent and snarled “That’s enough pig! Get your filthiness away from me!” He leaned down and growled in her ear “This is for the stables.” And snapped his hips forward, driving his length deep within her tiny bottom, filling her, stretching her. Retaining his grip on her hair as if the reigns of a bucking mount he ground and thrust his shaft deeply into her. Running his other rough hand down her body to cup her Venus mound, pulling her back tightly against his pelvis. She gasped in shock at the sudden intrusion, the violation of her body. Never had she allowed anyone or anything to penetrate her thus. But as she struggled to free herself from this unwanted onslaught she only succeeded in grinding herself further onto his impaling shaft. A few moments later, the electric touch of his palm grinding into her sex, the fist gripping her hair and the thrusting of his shaft ignited flames of passion she did not know existed. A feral grin crossed his face and he felt her relax and suddenly started grinding herself back onto his throbbing shaft. His breath started to come in a ragged pant as he thrust brutally into her, determined to give her back some modicum of the pain he experienced at her whim. But the harder and faster he thrust the more she moaned in pleasure. It was not long before she was telling him, then begging him “Faster. Ooooh yes, harder!” As he thrust into her he slowly moved her across the room, each step a deep powerful thrust into her abused bottom until they were standing on the flagstones of the hearth. He released his grip on her hair and renewed his grinding against the tiny bud below her down covered Venus mound. Gasping for breath she fell forward, her hands catching the mantle. The heat from the fireplace, licking upward along her body, tantalizing, teasing the tips of her breasts. Holding onto the mantle with one hand, she grasped her left breast, pinching and twisting the dark point as she ground herself back against his shaft, trying to fill herself completely. He could feel his mounting passion, that uncontrollable element rising up to swallow him in its gaping maw. Gripping her cheeks tightly, squeezing, separating them he thrust into her hard and fast using her tiny opening as if it were the channel designed to accept his straining shaft. His breath started to falter as his throbbing manhood pulsed and swelled in preparation of the flood about to be released. He threw his head back and growled deeply as he drove into her a final time, burying his entire length into her. Hot molten essence exploded from the depths of his being to flood into her quivering body as she was caught in the grip of her own rapture. Again and again his shaft throbbed firing bolt after bolt of searing seed into her. Slowly his breath calmed and his heart reigned from a gallop to a canter as he pulled his shaft from her thoroughly ravished bottom. His seed running out of the still dilated opening and over the swollen petals of her flower and slipping down the inside of her sweat slicked thigh. He heard the sound of the wardrobe swing on its hinges and whirled to face the shocked visage of Lord Marcum. Lord Marcum was obviously not expecting the lady to be engaged at this late hour as he was only clad in robe and slippers. He reached down and snatched the poker out of the stand next to the hearth and was on Lord Marcum in a flash, the point pressed into the copious amount of flesh wobbling beneath his chin. Lord Marcum’s eyes were wide with terror as he recognized the man before him as he who had been sentenced to death and realized his chance of continued survival was evaporating like smoke in the wind. “Laird Marcum, I am here to avenge ma kin and countrymen fer the cruelties ye’ve saw fit t’ inflict upon the Scottish people in retaliation fer our fight fer freedom.” He growled dangerously. “This is for every man, woman and child ye’ve put t’ the sword or hung frae a rope.” Lord Marcum blanched deathly white and lost control of his bladder as he babbled “But, but I did not ord..” The sentence was never completed as the enraged highlander thrust the poker with such force it drove up through Lord Marcum’s skull to protrude from his bald pate. Suddenly he heard the sound of uncontrollable laughter. Turning to look over his shoulder he saw the Lady Ashley nearly doubled over. Slowly she caught her breath and calmed enough to look up at him. “Was that your game?” She laughed. “You came hear to assassinate the man responsible for the retributions against this worthless province?” And she burst into another fit of girlish giggles. “You actually thought that he was capable of carrying out the King’s decrees in such a manner? Coldly and mercilessly?” She chuckled as she drew herself up regally. “No you dolt! He was a soft befuddled fool, but he was the King’s man.” She stepped seductively away from the hearth in slow measured steps. Her nude body aglow in the firelight. “It was on my orders that the countryside be rid of you vermin Scots. I stand to inherit these lands as his mistress and I do not want any of your kind fouling the landscape with your stink.” She spat as her eyes hardened. His own eyes narrowed dangerously as he realized he had just pleasured one of the butchers of his countrymen. A low growl rumbled up through his chest as she stepped to the bed and slipped on her robe. Outside the ante chamber the sergeant and his aid approached the guard outside the antechamber door. “Is the lady still, entertaining?” He asked gruffly. The soldier nodded his head in a bored fashion. The sergeant took a seat in one of the chairs along the wall and absently fingered his key ring as he settled down to wait. His brows knitted together in question as his fingers caught on a jagged piece of iron. Looking down at the key ring he noticed the eye of a key but the remainder had been broken off. Reaching up scratching his chin in thought, he suddenly bolted upright as the memory of what happened came back to him. When he had thumped the prisoner in the back of the knees, there was a sharp tug on his belt as the prisoner fell. At the time he had just chalked it up to the dog trying to keep himself from falling. Suddenly the door to the apartment burst open as the sergeant rushed in followed by two more soldiers. The cornered highlander loosed a feral snarl, then yanked the poker free of Lord Marcum’s head, much of his cooling brains coming out with it. He whirled and threw the poker. It spun twice end over end in the air, tiny bits of Lord Marcum fanning along the ceiling in a spattered line, to strike the sergeant in the throat with such force it sunk all the way to the handle. The sergeant landed in a crumpled heap back at the doorway, a full two feet sticking of the poker sticking out the back of his neck. The highlander growled deeply and leapt at the two stunned soldiers who were not expecting a supposedly half-dead prisoner to turn on them so ferociously and obviously capable of giving battle. Grabbing the arm of the first soldier and twisting it behind his back, tearing the sword from the soldier’s now nerveless fingers as the crunch of cartilliage and snap of bone echoed through the apartment. Throwing the soldier to the floor he stepped around to face the third soldier who was advancing cautiously. He whirled the blade once, easily batting down the soldier’s wavering blade and then thrust it straight through the heart. Pulling the blade free as the soldier blinked twice then slipped lifelessly to the floor. He staggered then snarled as he felt the sting of a blade slamming into his lower back. Spinning he backhanded the unseen assailant. Lady Ashley’s head snapped back from the blow twisting in air to land a full ten feet away to lay groaning, stunned. He took a staggering step and reached back, grasping the dagger still protruding from his back and wrenched it free with a sickening sucking sound. She lifted herself onto her elbows, shaking her head to clear it. “You are a fool if you think you will get away now. I will have you drawn and quartered, your skin flayed from your body, disemboweled and emasculated. Your stones and manhood will be burnt upon your chest before your very eyes!” She spat vehemently. He held the dagger up to his eyes, looking at it as his blood dripped slowly from the blade. Looking over at her, he dropped the dagger to the floor. His head tilted down in a predatory fashion as a feral grin played on his lips, revealing enlarged and wicked looking canines. Piercing slate gray eyes still locked on hers as he reached down and grabbed the other soldier by the throat. Shadows in the Mists Ch. 02 Lady Ashley gasped, her mouth moving as if to scream but no sound was heard. Before her she watched in uncomprehending horror as the highlander rapidly grew, his body twisting and deforming. His head, his jaws lengthened becoming filled with huge dagger like fangs, taking on the visage of a wolf. His legs becoming jointed like that of a dog, arms becoming long and corded with muscles and tendon. Dark black and gray fur covering his body and a large tail appearing and snapping side to side in apparent agitation. The creature held her in its baleful stare while it flicked its wrist, snapping the soldier’s neck as though it a twig. The creature before her looked as though it more wolf taking on a man’s features than the other way around. A deep feral growl rumbled through the apartment as the monstrous, eight-foot beast moved toward her. She curled into a fetal position, hiding her face, shaking and sobbing uncontrollably. It reached down and wrapped its huge talon tipped hand about her tiny neck, lifting her as though she a toy. She gasped for air, her feet kicking wildly as it lifted her to eye level. In a halting voice, deep, growling and no longer human it spoke to her. “Ye…treated…with …the …Devil…and …he…has …sent…me…to …collect …yer…soul…” Her eyes went wide, fixating. She stopped kicking as the creature slowly lowered her to the floor. Her legs crumpled beneath her no longer able to support her. It lay her down gently, as her head lolled limply to one side. The creature kneeled and brought its muzzle within a hair’s breadth of her face, still frozen in shock. A little trail of spittle slowly made it’s way from the corner of her pallid lips to slowly track down her cheek. The creature loosed a growling chuckle as it stood, for he would long remember the instant her mind snapped and all comprehension of reality was shattered like a fragile mirror. Standing and stretching to his full height, he gnashed his teeth together and spread his talon tipped fingers as he snuffled the air, catching the scent of more soldiers, his lip curled up into what could be construed as a smile. The town of Holywell recovered and slowly became prosperous, much visited for it’s quaint old buildings and Scottish charm. But some come to hear the old tales of how after the last Jacobite rebellion an English Lady from the south had came to make the land her own. It is said that she had entered into a deal with the Devil himself. She was a cruel, evil woman who ordered all to be put to the fire and sword, man, woman and child. Nobody knows for sure what happened. Some say she was performing dark rites and had called up a demon to do her bidding and that it had gotten loose. All that is known for sure is that on a cold April night Screams were said to be heard along with the snarling and growling of a demon and all of the English soldiers barracked in Holywell were slain in a most horrendous manner. The following morning parts of them were found strewn all about their barracks. The English Lady said to have loosed the demon was found the next morning nude in her rooms, her mind was gone, she was nothing more than a drooling vegetable. Rather than stone her outright, she was sent back to England as she was a distant relative of the royal family. The English pulled their troops from the district, never to return as it was said that Holywell is inhabited by a demon, that the Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh prowled at night. Shadows in the Mists The first soldier dropped down upon her as his compatriots held her firmly, entering her exposed sex with a brutal thrust and snapping his hips hard and fast. Feeling the bile rise up in her throat, she almost wretched as she felt him spend his seed within her ravaged sheath. Before she could recover from the affront the next soldier took his place. His thick cock entering easier now that the path had been greased by the previous soldier. She was held down and used by soldiers, some of them twice. Not all of the soldiers were content with her womanly charms and opted to bugger her instead. She could taste the blood in her mouth as man after man ravished her. Finally the last man thrust deeply into her ass to flood her bowels with his hated seed, when the officer called out to finish with her and let her swing. Mary’s lips moved in silent prayer for her immortal soul and the fact that this heinous torture would finally be at an end. MacGregor’s eyes fluttered open when he smelled the odor of burning wood and felt heat on the side of his face. Focusing, he realized that the cottage had become an inferno. Rolling to the floor, his eyes flashed darkly as a deep growl rumbled through his chest and his bones and muscles began to pop and shift. A soldier chased a terrified sheep around the corner of the burning cottage and was brought up short by the sight of a huge snarling beast. Its bared fangs glistened in the firelight, its eyes glowed like embers of hell fire as it crouched in the shadow of the doorway. The young soldier soiled himself in fright as he frantically tried to raise his weapon but the beast leapt at him with blinding speed. His breath torn from his throat as his chest was ripped open by the beast’s unnatural strength and razor sharp claws. His eyes glazed and were fixed in death before he hit the ground. Across a small field at the edge of the forest the others were laughing and joking as they bound Mary’s hands behind her back and affixed a noose around her neck. The officer leaned against a tree a few feet away his features painted with a look of bored indifference. Yawning, he held a scented handkerchief to his nose and watched as his troops hoisted the wildly struggling woman into the air. His eyes widened in shock, his hand fumbled to draw his saber as a huge beast resembling something that was part wolf and part man suddenly leapt upon the man holding the rope. The sickening pop of the spine echoed through the darkness and the rope slipped through nerveless fingers, dropping Mary to the ground gasping for breath. The next few moments were a blur of chaos punctuated with the blood curdling screams of his men as the beast leapt from man to man with blinding speed and flashing talons tearing them to shreds. The officer screamed in terror, turned and fled into the forest. Crashing and stumbling through the brush the young officer whimpered as branches tore at his uniform and lacerated his flesh. He burst forth into a small clearing, panting heavily. He whirled at the sound of a low feral growl directly behind him. Raising his pistol and saber with shaking hands he gasped in utter mind numbing fear for before him was a creature born of nightmares. It stood slowly and rose up to its full height of what had to be a full eight feet if it was an inch. The creature was covered in thick dark fur. Its head, that of a monster wolf, the body similar to that of a man. Its long sinewy outstretched arms ended in long razor sharp talons that still dripped with the blood of his men. Its lips curled back into a snarl revealing huge gory fangs, its eyes flashed like the fires of hell. The young officer took a staggering step back as the beast started forward with a slow measured step, its head low on its shoulders, its muscles and tendons shifted and rippled beneath taut drawn skin as if it were readying itself to pounce on him. The officer leveled his pistol as best he could with a shaking hand and fired. He squeaked like a small animal caught in a trap, for when the smoke cleared the creature was still there apparently unharmed and to his horror it grinned malevolently at him. As if to say nothing on this earth was going to save him from those slavering jaws. As the monster moved slowly, methodically toward him he swung his saber at its huge head. He felt a sharp tug and a sting. The frantic officer flexed his fingers on the grip of the saber readying for another strike, not realizing that the hand that held it now lay cooling in the heather. His eyes widened in shock as he stared dumbly at the blood gushing from the stump of his forearm. Huge cruel hands slammed into the sides of his chest breaking ribs and slowly lifting the officer from the ground. Raising him till even with the creature’s massive grinning maw. As the officer attempted in vain to draw a breath through shattered ribs he heard the deep barely articulate growl “Not...all...died…at... Culloden.” The officer’s scream was cut short as the creature opened his jaws wide and snapped them shut on his neck. Fangs the size of daggers sliced through muscle and tissue to grind and powder the arrogant young officer’s spine. The beast shook its head once violently, cleanly separating the young officer’s head from his shoulders. The Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh dropped the body next to the staring head, turned and melted back into the forest. Mary sat weeping next to the tree she was to be hung from, the torn bodies of the red coated soldiers all about her. She looked up to see MacGregor’s nude form covered in blood and dirt, emerge from the edge of the forest. Fear gripped her soul for she now knew that this was the Deamhan Madadh-Alluidh of legend. His slate gray eyes belied a gentle concern as he kneeled beside her. She hugged her knees to her chest and pressed herself back against the tree, her eyes wide with terror. He spoke in a soft whispering tone “Weesht Lass, I will not harm ye. For ye see it is my duty to protect those of the MacGregor clan.” Reaching out to stroke her cheek with a gentle hand “I have always been there to avenge wrongs against my clansmen. Long ago, I was charged with the duty of protecting the clan. Though I am no’ a man as ye would know, I am no’ aine o’ the devil’s minions. I am something bred frae the stones and trees o’ these very highlands. A creature born from the breasts o’ those that have yearned for their freedom and the protection o’ loved aines frae those that would seek to destroy them merely because of their birth. These pleas were heard and I was sent in response. I would no’ nor could I ever harm ye Lass.” His eyes flashed with a hint of silver and winced slightly with a twinge of pain from his not fully healed wounds. Mary looked from this man who was not a man to her cottage which was rapidly being consumed in the ravenous flames to her animals lying butchered about the ground to the twisted bodies of the soldiers and then back to the stranger. Her eyes welled with tears born of frustration and loss then with a nature and humor born to all those of the highlands “Well, now what am I to do? Could ye no’ have killed the lot of them before they burned me from house and home?” He smiled easily and replied “Aye, I could have Lass, but I wanted to pick me moment, to accentuate the dramatic.” Mary breathed a bit easier and as her fear rapidly melted away she looked him up and down “Well we cannae have ye running about dressed as the day ye were born and scaring the women folk and wee bairns, now can we? Let’s see if we can find ye some clothes.” As if this kind of thing occurred everyday, she stood brushed off her clothes and gave him a stern look “Well? Come on then ye great lump. I cannae stay here any longer, especially wi’ all these dead Redcoats laying aboot.” Stripping the trousers off one of the dead soldiers and gathering weapons he said with a hint of sadness “I know o’ a wee cottage at the far end of Loch Katrine. It hasnae been lived in for years. It should make a suitable replacement for the aine ye’ve lost.” Her eyes glistened with tears as she looked around at was once her home one last time then turned slowly and followed this otherworldly protector. Days passed slowly as Mary settled into her new home and made the small cottage liveable. She finished sweeping the small interior of the cottage and looked over her handiwork with a critical eye. Its furnishings were sparse but everything was in its place and cleaned. It had been nigh on a month now since that terrible night in the glen. Though an occasional nightmare came in her sleep, she felt she was none the worse for the ordeal. Life in the highlands was not an easy thing, especially in these times. Nodding once in satisfaction she turned and stepped outside as she heard the approach of what sounded like cattle. Stepping out into the morning sun she spied six of the shaggy long horned highland cows emerging over the small rise being driven by this man who had taken such great pains to see to her comfort. She smiled as she watched his lean form silhouetted against the morning sun. Now that she was aware of his lineage she noted that he did move with the surefooted grace of a predator. Opening the gate to the newly built pen and she stood to the side as he drove the beasts through. She watched him as she closed the gate and realized that she did not know how old he truly was. He did not look old but then again he did not look young. His long shaggy hair was pulled back and tied off, and though dark and lustrous it did have a fair amount of gray shot through it. His face was lined and weathered from years of living outdoors in the elements making him look older. But his blue gray eyes constantly danced with the twinkle of youth. Mary smiled as she stepped up behind him “I dinnae suppose ye’ll be tellin me where these coo’s came frae wid Ye?” Seeing him wag his finger in an “ah…ah…ah” fashion she changed the subject. “Would you care for a nice cup of tea after your long journey, sire?” Laughing as she knew that this title irritated him immensely. He turned and gave her a baleful look, but his eyes flashed with that now familiar twinkle. “Aye I would Lass. Why is it that it is not already in my hand?” Laughing heartily as he back peddled out of reach as she attempted to swat him with her apron chasing him back to the cottage, laughing like children all the way. He sat in a chair next to the hearth lighting his pipe, leaning back and putting his feet up “Ah, but I do like this tobacco. It comes from the New World ye ken, quite nice.” His eyes flashed as puffed away on the pipe and watched her move about making the tea. She turned and looked at him noticing that his gaze was much lower than her eyes and stated in a mock tone of admonishment “Aye m’Laird, but must ye foul the air with it?” Gathering up the cups of tea she approached him with an exaggerated sway of her hips. She set the cups on the small table and suddenly swung her leg over his lap and sat down slowly, lightly grinding her pelvis against his. She reached up and ran her fingers through the graying hair at his temples and looked into his eyes “Are you sure it’s a cup of tea you’re wanting, Sire?” Lowering her head she covered his mouth with hers, pressing her full red lips softly against his and kissed him passionately then whispered softly “I think it time I was thanking ye again fer saving my life.” He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight to him as he returned her kiss with equal passion and heat. Pulling away, his eyes flashed with mischief “Hmmmm, I think I fancy the tea.” She leaned back and gave him an insulted look, then smiled and undid the laces of her bodice. Slowly she exposed the soft round flesh of her breasts, her rosey hued points up thrust and straining with desire. “Are ye sure?” With that she started to re-lace her top “I can put these away if they dinnae please ye, sire.” A soft growl rumbled through his chest as he grabbed her, pulling her to him and gently biting her rapidly hardening point with sharp teeth, sucking it hard. The tip of his tongue rasped against the tender flesh causing her to gasp in pleasure. She ran her fingers through his thick hair and pulled him tightly to her breast as a soft moan of pleasure escaped her lips. Reaching back she deftly unlaced her girdle and undid her skirt while rocking against his pelvis. He leaned her back as his teeth nipped at the soft skin of her breasts; kissing away the slight stings they produced and growled softly at the feel of her gently grinding against him. Reaching down, undoing his buckles and pulling his kilt aside he groaned deeply at the feel of her moist heat now pressed against his raging hardness. Resting her hands on his shoulders she arose slightly and then settled back down, feeling the blunt head of his shaft split the delicate lips of her tender flower. She sank slowly feeling him deliciously fill and stretch her tightly clasping sheath. Her eyes were shut tight in wanton pleasure as his thickness filled her, his strong hands on her hips rocked her slowly against his pelvis, her soft butterfly wings stretched and strained tightly around him as she ground against the base of his shaft. He lowered his head taking her breast into his mouth again nipping and sucking at the tender flesh and rose hued point. Growling softly as her hot velvet viselike grip enveloped him, her sweet nectar flowing freely, soaking him. She raised and lowered herself slowly as though riding a horse at a slow walk, grinding each time she settled against his hips, shuddering as his hot breath bathed her breasts and his mouth moved back and forth biting and sucking at her nipples. The sensation of his shaft filling her and the sharpness of his teeth began to cause her breath to come in soft uneven gasps. Butterflies began to flutter through her, their wings beating faster and faster as the sweet caress of her orgasm began to build. Her moans came faster and faster as she started to lose herself in the moment, she did not notice his hands slipping up and behind her. He lifted her easily, setting her down on the small oak table. Withdrawing his dripping shaft from her splayed flower and dropping to his knees, jaws opening wide as his head darted between her heated thighs and drove his tongue deeply into her, lapping at her sweet nectar, devouring the essence of her soul as it flowed into his straining jaws. Her thighs tightened at the height of her orgasm then dropped limply to his shoulders, her fingers entangling in his thick hair, pulling him tightly against her softly grinding pelvis. She gasped and rolled her eyes in sheer pleasure as his teeth closed on the soft petals of her flower. He bit down gently, sucking those delicate folds into his mouth, tugging at them and causing her hips to buck and grind wantonly. Raising her hand to her mouth biting down on it to stifle off a scream of pleasure as his lips wrapped around the tiny nerve filled bud nestled beneath the gentle curve of her Venus mound. The tendons of her neck stood out in bas-relief as she strained to crawl away from his tantalizing lips and tongue. His strong hands gripped her hips and held her in place as he sucked the tiny bud, flicking it with his tongue then flattening it against it and thrashed his head violently from side to side. Her thighs tightened and her hands gripped his hair as she ground against him, another orgasm ripping through her panting body. Her breath slowly evened and the waves of bliss began to ebb as he raised his mouth from her flower, lips and cheeks glistening with her nectar. He stood slowly, allowing her thighs to slip from his shoulders as he pulled her to the edge of the table. She looked up into his blue gray eyes and saw they were slightly unfocused, the pupils were that of a wolf. She realized that it must be strong emotion that caused the deamhan madah-alluidh to surface. Her back arched up off the table as she gasped in pleasure at the feel of his length entering and filling her. Wrapping her legs tightly about his waist she dug her heels into his flanks urging him deeper. His hips snapped in deep long strokes causing her breasts to bounce at each jolting thrust, her gasps punctuating the action each time their pelvises slapped wetly. His breathing became deeper and his moaning became a feral growl as he thrust into her faster and faster. Her breathing had almost stopped at the sheer pleasure of the sensations she was experiencing. Her mind reeled at the thought of this, blood-chilling beast of legend making love to her. Her vision began to swim and her grip of the here and now began to slip as she gave herself over to the sheer pleasure. He growled deeply, withdrawing from her heated depths, grasped her hips tightly and turned her over on the table. She raised up on her toes and arched her back as she reached back in frustrated urgency to feel him within her again. Grasping her hip with a large hand now tipped with talons and placed the other in the small of her back. He thrust his length deep within her in a single powerful motion. Thrusting fast and hard, his breath became a ragged pant as his pelvis slammed against her up thrust bottom as he leaned forward, sharp teeth grazing the nape of her neck. She shivered at the feel of what she knew were large cruel fangs but continued to thrust back against him, wanting to feel him spend, to make him feel as he has made her feel. His hand slipped underneath her body to cup the gentle curve of her mound, her hand covered his as he ground his palm roughly over her tiny bud. Her mouth opened in a silent scream of pleasure as she felt his shaft swell and his essence flood her depths as though a dam containing molten lava had broken to release its contents within her wildly gyrating pelvis. Her vision blurred into unconsciousness as she felt the hot sting of his fangs sink into top of her creamy shoulder. Vaguely, as though from a great distance she heard the hollow pop like the sound of a needle being forced through heavy cloth as the tips penetrated her soft flesh. Mary stretched languidly like that of a cat in the morning sun. Opening her eyes she found herself tucked neatly away in her bed. Looking around the room she saw him, fully dressed and buckling on his weapons. A look of fear and concern, darkened her features as he turned to her with a sad smile. “Lass, I must be away.” “I am bound by an oath made long ago.” He said in a soft tone. “It is no longer safe, as I have seen that the army is making its way through this area.” he said in a choked whisper “I would not cause ye to be burnt from another home.” But dinnae fear, I will not allow ye to suffer any further at their hands.” Stepping across the room, he knelt beside her and stroked her cheek with a gentle hand. “I have left ye a gift, but ye must be careful with it else yer friends may fear ye more than yer enemies.” Her eyes clouded with fear and tears began to well, “I dinnae know if I really want such a gift.” Averting his eyes as a look of shame flushed his weathered cheeks, “I didnae think to ask ye. I am sorry, what is done cannae be undone.” With that he started to rise and turn away but she caught his hand and whispered softly “I didnae want the English to come but they did. What’s done is done, I will learn to live with it but I dinnae want ye to leave.” He looked down into her glistening eyes, “But I must lassie, there are those that will have need of me. I cannae forsake them.” She reluctantly released his hand and with eyes brimming with tears, watched him slowly lift a small pack bundle onto his shoulder. He stopped in the doorway, silhouetted by the late afternoon sun and whispered haltingly, “I dinnae know when I will be back, but I will see ye again. I would hope ye think fondly of me in the times to come and know that ye will never be far from my thoughts.” Then suddenly he was gone. Shadows in the Mists She lay back, eyes closed, a single tear slowly rolled down her soft cheek as she looked at the single thistle standing in the wee vase atop the table and thought to herself “Aye, we shall meet again but only when we are hunted and feared, out of sight of the world, like shadows in the mists” Part two to follow. If you’ve enjoyed what you’ve read, or didn’t, please, feel free to use the Feedback option.