Insolent: The Moray Druids #1 (Highland Historical) by Kerrigan Byrne Page A
Authors: Kerrigan Byrne
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echoed off the stones.
Bael heard his mate, his sweet, yet strong-willed woman, her voice filled with defiance, and then fear.
With no thought for tactics or strategy, he burst into the throne room intent on killing whomever was not Morgana and sorting it all out later.
He was behind his mate who’d sunk to her knees, struggling for life. Three witches turned to look at him in eerie unison. They were his enemies. They’d hurt Morgana. He’d kill them all with his bare hands.
He knew what they saw as he moved. A blur. A rush of air. And then the woman who reached her arms toward Morgana was crashing through the window casement, shattering the wood, and collapsing, broken, to the ground outside.
The sinister girl who’d taunted him from the flames was flesh and bone this time, and she made a satisfying crunch against the wall when he flung her with a swing of his fist.
He took a moment to check on his mate, his heart lifting to see her clutching her chest and gasping in huge lungs full of life-giving air.
That moment cost him.
The crone, screeching with shock and outrage threw out her hands and Bael was lifted from the stone floor, mid-lunge, as though his heavy frame weighed no more than a whisper by a wind funnel that whipped his hair painfully against his face and shoulders. He flailed about, desperate limbs trying to find purchase, but there was nothing but the most intangible and salient element surrounding him.
“I will end you,” he roared.
“I will end everything ,” the crone hissed.
“Not today.” With a flick of Malcolm’s wrist, a discarded stone half the size and twice the weight of the old woman dislodged from the throne room floor. “Yer healer is gone, Badb. Will ye survive this?”
As Malcolm spoke, the girl struggled to her feet from where she’d crumpled against the wall in a pile of thin bones and pain. Blood poured from a crushed eye-socket. One arm hung limp from a shoulder that barely existed anymore, but she circled toward the Grimoire with a dragging limp and a maniacal sneer.
“Give Nemain the Grimoire, Druid King, or watch your sister and her Berserker die in a storm of flames,” the crone threatened.
“Bael,” Morgana gasped, struggling to her own unsteady feet. “Release my mate.” She turned on the crone.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Bael ceased his struggles. She’d accepted him. Not to his face, not in the darkness where no one but he could hear. But to her King. To her family. Even to her enemies.
They were likely over before they began. Malcolm would crush the fire witch, and this crone would crush Bael. He could already feel her taking his breath. But he’d die with the knowledge that he’d been enough.
Enough for her .
Chaos erupted in a flurry of simultaneous action.
The wounded girl dove for the Grimoire, snatching it from the altar.
In a shocking move, Malcolm hurled the stone at Badb, ignoring the fire witch and freeing Bael.
The crone didn’t have time to deflect the stone, so on a scream, she jerked her entire form and a circle of gale-force wind erupted from her body, throwing everyone back against the walls of the throne room. It wasn’t enough to completely redirect the stone, and it glanced off her body with a bone-crunching sound.
By the time Bael gained his footing, her robes were snagging on the shattered window as she flew into the stormy night.
Which left Nemain clutching the book.
Morgana stumbled forward, desperately reaching trembling arms toward the witch. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”
The girl flashed a triumphant smile, made all the more sinister by the blood coloring the spaces of her teeth. “You first,” she hissed, as the fire in the hearth flared around her, turning half the throne room into a furnace.
Morgana pulled the rain inside once more, but by the time the flames extinguished, there was nothing left of the girl but a scorch mark on the flagstones.
“Nay!” Morgana lurched towards the door, the
Bael heard his mate, his sweet, yet strong-willed woman, her voice filled with defiance, and then fear.
With no thought for tactics or strategy, he burst into the throne room intent on killing whomever was not Morgana and sorting it all out later.
He was behind his mate who’d sunk to her knees, struggling for life. Three witches turned to look at him in eerie unison. They were his enemies. They’d hurt Morgana. He’d kill them all with his bare hands.
He knew what they saw as he moved. A blur. A rush of air. And then the woman who reached her arms toward Morgana was crashing through the window casement, shattering the wood, and collapsing, broken, to the ground outside.
The sinister girl who’d taunted him from the flames was flesh and bone this time, and she made a satisfying crunch against the wall when he flung her with a swing of his fist.
He took a moment to check on his mate, his heart lifting to see her clutching her chest and gasping in huge lungs full of life-giving air.
That moment cost him.
The crone, screeching with shock and outrage threw out her hands and Bael was lifted from the stone floor, mid-lunge, as though his heavy frame weighed no more than a whisper by a wind funnel that whipped his hair painfully against his face and shoulders. He flailed about, desperate limbs trying to find purchase, but there was nothing but the most intangible and salient element surrounding him.
“I will end you,” he roared.
“I will end everything ,” the crone hissed.
“Not today.” With a flick of Malcolm’s wrist, a discarded stone half the size and twice the weight of the old woman dislodged from the throne room floor. “Yer healer is gone, Badb. Will ye survive this?”
As Malcolm spoke, the girl struggled to her feet from where she’d crumpled against the wall in a pile of thin bones and pain. Blood poured from a crushed eye-socket. One arm hung limp from a shoulder that barely existed anymore, but she circled toward the Grimoire with a dragging limp and a maniacal sneer.
“Give Nemain the Grimoire, Druid King, or watch your sister and her Berserker die in a storm of flames,” the crone threatened.
“Bael,” Morgana gasped, struggling to her own unsteady feet. “Release my mate.” She turned on the crone.
Their eyes met, and for a moment, Bael ceased his struggles. She’d accepted him. Not to his face, not in the darkness where no one but he could hear. But to her King. To her family. Even to her enemies.
They were likely over before they began. Malcolm would crush the fire witch, and this crone would crush Bael. He could already feel her taking his breath. But he’d die with the knowledge that he’d been enough.
Enough for her .
Chaos erupted in a flurry of simultaneous action.
The wounded girl dove for the Grimoire, snatching it from the altar.
In a shocking move, Malcolm hurled the stone at Badb, ignoring the fire witch and freeing Bael.
The crone didn’t have time to deflect the stone, so on a scream, she jerked her entire form and a circle of gale-force wind erupted from her body, throwing everyone back against the walls of the throne room. It wasn’t enough to completely redirect the stone, and it glanced off her body with a bone-crunching sound.
By the time Bael gained his footing, her robes were snagging on the shattered window as she flew into the stormy night.
Which left Nemain clutching the book.
Morgana stumbled forward, desperately reaching trembling arms toward the witch. “You’ll burn in hell for this.”
The girl flashed a triumphant smile, made all the more sinister by the blood coloring the spaces of her teeth. “You first,” she hissed, as the fire in the hearth flared around her, turning half the throne room into a furnace.
Morgana pulled the rain inside once more, but by the time the flames extinguished, there was nothing left of the girl but a scorch mark on the flagstones.
“Nay!” Morgana lurched towards the door, the
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