A Tail of Destiny

Copyright © 2024 by Heide Middlebrook

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental. 

Battle of Cluain Immorrais 

Year of our Lord 1406, Ireland

Rory MacKearsin closed his green eyes, best not to look. Sixteen winters and he still closes his eyes like a wee lad of ten who thinks if the sight is unseen, it isn’t there. If he enjoyed the vista perhaps it would be easier to digest, but it was those who paid the highest coin for his strong talents who seemed to take sick joy at this vista. Blinking several times given the rare sunshine, he glanced down toward the warrior who lay dead at his feet on the spent battlefield. Sick joy, that certainly applied to this warrior who had been all but grinning while swinging his sword. Rory inwardly shook his head, nae, this was simply a means to earn. 

While he shifted the weight from his leather clad toes onto his heels, the ground was still softer than expected before the battle cries had announced the advance, he took a deep breath, which allowed the stench of blood and sweat and death to inflict his nose. At least, before the lunges and deflections, his odd trait of checking the terrain had served him well by enabling him to avoid death. He stomped each foot one fierce time. Aye, still above the ryegrass. He glanced at all the other warriors who lay silent and were not so fortunate.  

Time. Perhaps, it was time to return to Scottish soil, and to answer the summons from his mentor and friend, Cameron MacDarren. He rubbed his eyes, damn exhaustion. How much sleep did he capture last night? Hour, perhaps? If only the haunting nightmares would stop growing worse alongside the spiteful fears from crashing sounds. Maybe returning to native soil would ease them.

A snarl stole his attention from the distance along with a clamoring of voices belonging to the warriors from the Kingdom of Uí Failghe, who, after claiming victory, were currently stabbing the Galls of Meath. Those very same opponents still withering in pain or begging for mercy within the dire surroundings.

While rubbing the sweat and misted blood from the adversaries he had slain off his brow, Rory kept stepping through the “garden” of the already fallen toward the bellowing Irishmen. The damn ache was crawling up his thigh muscles again! He gave it a slap from his palm, then he drew close to the four warriors who were cussing at something concealed by their chainmail clad backs. 

What the hell were they doing?!

“Nock the damn arrow,” Rory heard the Irish warrior called Fearghal spew the words. “The bastard tried to snap at me!” Whoever it was, wasn’t the first.

‘The bastard’ turned out to be a wolfhound. Gray, furry, and ferocious. What a magnificent creature. 

Rory demanded, “Leave him be.” All Irish eyes turned at him and narrowed. Aye, lads, care for another fight?

“Stay from this Highlander,” Fearghal, his noble birthright showing, warned, “The hound needs to know who his master is or die.” Ruthless as ever.

Rory took one step closer, his grip tightened on the massive sword, which was forged to complement the rest of the sizable mercenary. “Ye touch that hound? I’ll be takin’ yer hand,” he threatened.

An arrogant tilt lifted at Fearghal’s chin. “Ye are nothing, but a warrior of fortune sought for battle and the battle is done,” he countered.

Rory took another step. “Aye, the siege is cast, so a wee bit more blood willnae make a mess,” he challenged. The mercenary approached raising his swords hilt with an unspoken warning till he voiced in a growl, “Ye seek one more battle? I willnae hold back.” Rory narrowed the distance till the rancid breath from the opponent fanned his set jaw. Sour as Fearghal’s inner nature.

“Ye leave him be,” Rory issued–one final warning.

A strained silence blanketed the vista with an eerie gust through the oaks that sounded more like a hiss from a snake. He watched Fearghal dart his eyes twice between the hound and him in consideration before the foe’s thin lips twitched. Ah, there was the trait the Irishman did when nervous. The hound let out his own low growl as if sensing the tension between the two adversaries.

The air filled with a terse laugh by Fearghal. “Take the damn hound! He’ll rip your throat out while you sleep, then I will kill him and add his hide to my pelts!” he retorted, arrogantly.

The cluster about him gave a few low grunts in chuckle before they moved on. Rory looked over at the bulbous, amber eyes giving him a guarded expression. Huh, the hound was young, despite his gigantic size, which graced all wolfhounds, he had the look of a pup about him in his snout’s shape.

Once alone Rory murmured to the hound. “Ye’re díleas,” he said the Gaelic word for loyal, his heart tightening at the sight of the wolfhound still guarding and having refused to leave his master’s side, even if his master lay mangled next to the matted grey paws. Loyal!  

Rory motioned his palm toward the fallen mercenary who was a gallowglass having seen the fellow Scotsman from a distance in the days past to declare. “Yer master was a guid Scot, fought with valiance, and he died an honorable death.”

The bloodied right ear on the hound cocked a little higher as if knowing Rory was proclaiming admiration toward his fallen master. His wiry muzzle altered from a snarl to open wide freeing a slobbery tongue to pant as if the hound was silently saying – ‘Continue.’

“Fearghal does not carry a loyal bone in his hide,” Rory explained. “’Tis why he does not ken what ye are.” 

The hound proceeded to take a hard look him. Most would be apprehensive or irritable at this hounds want to stare openly. Rory took a step closer. Something lurked within the beast’s eyes. The amber depths seemed to see him, really see him, and everything always haunting him the same as demons.  

“Ye are unique,” his square jaw widened by a grin, he took a knee onto a bare patch belonging to soil. The hound is so inquisitive. Hell. When was the last time Rory smiled? Aye, it was when the innkeeper’s daughter declared she never had seen a handsomer lad before he took his leave from the Highlands. 

After giving the hound careful consideration, he offered, gently, “If ye care to travel with me? I am seeking Scotland or if yer wish is to remain, ’tis yer choice.” 

He paused for a moment, hopeful, please follow. Hope. When was the last time he had held any? Too long to recall. Two firsts in mere moments. 

Could he force the hound to follow? Never, he gave a small respectful nod toward the amber eyes before standing to depart. Rory turned on his heel before beginning to walk away. 

He took two steps.

Warm fur brushed his fingers as the hound reached his hand that was free from the sword. The mercenary’s grin grew wide like a bridge. 

Aye!

Rory cocked his dark, left eyebrow higher while looking down at the fresh companion.

He ruffled the scruffy fur between the pointy ears. “I dinnae ken how,” he murmured, bewildered, “but I hold a vast consideration ye are goin’ to shape my destiny, Díleas.”

Woof.

Follow Rory and Díleas in their upcoming journey in A Highlander’s Healer as the hound discovers Greer McGray, the healer who will come to love the mercenary, tame his demons, and change his destiny forever.

A wee Author Note:

Thank you for taking your time to read about the origin of Rory finding his noble hound. 

I hope you enjoyed!

With my kindest regards,

Heide