Devil of Kilmartin Read Free

impossible. He knew this cursed place. He knew the madness had led him back here.
    The stones stood silently in their primeval ring as if standing in judgment of him. All the ills that had befallen his clan these past six months, even his own hated reputation, had started here, in this circle, on that fateful day of his father’s death. Symon clenched his shaking hands. The past could not be changed.
    But it could be faced.
    It was madness to enter the circle again, but madness was his near-constant companion. What more harm could come from this place than the death of his father and the torment his life had become these past months? Symon would not let his weakness get in his way. Something hadbrought him here, and he was determined to face his fate. Perhaps then he would find a way free of his curse. If he did not, he would lose all that he had ever worked for in life: his position, his honor. It had already stolen his self-respect.
    Symon slid from the horse. As he tied it to a tree, a hound bayed in the distance and was quickly answered by another, adding to the horse’s already nervous shifting. It pulled at its lead, eyes wide, breath coming hard and fast.
    “Shh,” Symon said, grateful that his voice obeyed him. He scratched the horse’s cheek for a moment, quieting the animal and himself.
    Finally Symon took a deep breath and moved toward the accursed rocks, drawn by the circle as a lodestone draws iron. The hounds bayed again, the sound echoing off the stones, warning him away. The hair at the base of his neck prickled in response.
    “ ’Tis only a ring of mighty rocks.” The sound of his own voice, though gravelly as always after the madness, calmed him.
    Determined to meet his fate, he strode between two of the tall rocky sentries and into the circle.
    A bare pace within, he stopped.
    Gone was the clear air of spring, nor was the remembered blood-stink of battle present in the circle. It was like walking into warm, thick water. Sounds were muffled and the smells of a moment ago, damp, boggy earth and sharp, dusty rock, were muted here, more like the memory of a smell than the actual smell itself.
    Mist began to rise about his feet, swirling up from the ground, reaching out and embracing the huge moss- and lichen-clad stones. Damp wisps of reflected moonlightfilled the gaps between them with a transparent wall of white moonglow.
    Hounds bayed once again, closer, accompanied now by a long wailing cry. The stallion stamped the ground.
    Symon remembered to breathe.
    It was only a trick of the wind, that wailing. It was only the remnants of madness that made that wail sound human.
    Symon rolled his shoulders, noting the weight of his claymore high against his back, and the lesser weight of his dudgeon dagger tucked at his belt. At least his affliction did not extend to leaving himself weaponless.
    A branch cracked. Symon whirled in the direction of the noise. Something hurtled from the mist and threw itself at him, hitting hard enough to force the breath from him. He staggered and his arms encircled the all-too-solid form of a woman.
    Long-fingered hands gripped his tunic. Leaf-tangled hair caught in the stubble on his chin even as a peacefulness he no longer believed possible washed over him. Calm, like a healing salve on weather-raw skin, pushed the lingering confusion and pain from him. He felt clear-headed, balanced, and strong as he hadn’t since the madness had first come over him in this very place.
    Hounds bayed just beyond the mist, and the stallion snorted its misgivings. The unearthly wailing sounded again, this time from just under his chin. The woman pushed away from him, stumbling when he released her.
    Peace deserted him.
    He reached for her again, grabbing a bony wrist. Peace stole up his arm and briefly fluttered in his chest. She tried to stumble backward, her eyes fixed over his shoulder.
    “Help me, I beg of you!” Desperation at odds with the peace he felt colored her low voice.
    His