The Shore of Destiny: Shanna Murchison

Aislinn stood on the battlements and stared in horror at the sea below her. This couldn't be happening. Never in all her twenty-three years...

But it was. The dragon ships were even now beaching below her ramparts. Though only possessing six oars each side, the first one looked the most lethal she had ever seen.

It was filled with the harbingers of doom. Not the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse, she thought hysterically, but eleven naked screaming men wielding swords and axes, and two bears.

No, one bear. A bear so golden and beautiful that she was sure she had to be imagining things, such was the contrast between it and its huge black companion.

The second was as ebony as a raven's wing apart from some bald patches on its chest and legs and--

God above, it wasn't a bear, it was a man. How could she have missed the huge--

She blenched in shock and fear as he suddenly stopped his run along the sandy strand to look up at her. Straight at her.

And she to her shame gazed down at him. Stared her fill. And then stared even more. The hot blush scalded her cheeks as she gaped at the man, who was completely naked save for his dark bearskin cloak and soft black leather boots. But she just couldn't seem to tear her eyes away from him.

Nor did it seem could his be parted from her.

But if he was going to lead his men he certainly couldn't do it from twenty yards back, Bowen scolded himself, and ran on. He had just been so astonished to see Aislinn again after all this time. After all the weeks of dreaming of this moment, ever since he had started to prepare for this expedition, and then had to row half way around Ireland to get here. He had worried the whole way about her safety. If she would even still be alive when he finally got here.

But she was alive, thank the gods. And he was shocked to see that his dreams had not done justice to reality for once. He couldn't help but note that if anything, Aislinn was even more beautiful than the last time he had seen her seven years before.

Only now she was the object of his pity, rather than the other way around. And she was screaming down curses at him instead of blowing kisses as his men charged on toward the cluster of rather feeble-looking warriors trembling in their boots as they tried to defend Ardara's gates.

He blew one kiss up to her which set her back on her heels, her mouth clamping shut in shock. Then Bowen rounded the corner of the great stone wall of the keep and engaged his first partner in the dance of death.

One, two, one, two. An older man who looked sickly, a young lad doing his best not to appear scared. He smelt the tang of urine and knew exactly how terrified the poor boy was. He had been very much like him once upon a time a long time ago.

Damn Rory O'Neill. Damn the bloody waste. He only hoped to Thor that he wouldn't have to kill too many of Aislinn's men before her worm of a husband crawled out of his hole.

Bowen knew what Rory looked like from Horvath, so that there would be no mistake. But he was sure the odious wretch planned to keep as safe as he possibly could. Sending such weak defenders out meant he was most likely reserving his best men in anticipation of eventually making his bid to become high king.

Well, Rory was not going to make these lads and old men fodder for the Grim Reaper if he could help it. He tried to only wound whenever he could, and offered up a prayer that the injuries would not fester. Even if they did, he knew his potent magical skills were such that he could most likely heal them. He only hoped these minor wounds to make the invasion look credible wouldn't cause deep lasting scars upon the O'Neill clan. That they could learn to let bygones by bygones once Rory was gone and he and Aislinn were safely wed.

But first he had to get rid of Rory. For that he had to make this whole sordid affair of a pre-arranged Viking raid look like a genuine contest of wills.

Bowen had mastered human anatomy in order to make the most efficient kills. Now he was using his skills in reverse, aiming for places like the brow, which would cause maximum blood but minimum damage, as he gave his feeble opponents light taps with the flat of his sword.

Fortunately, there were no women to be seen at this point. He knew the Berserkers would be fine, but he didn't want to have to worry about his second boat crew getting excited at this stage.

They had orders to make things look good, but if they felt too exuberant and a few buxom wenches crossed their paths, he didn't wish to place much faith in their self-control, even though he had warned them they were there to settle the land, not just plunder and leave in a few days.

Bowen wasn't sure he could even exercise his own self-control at this point. Gods above, let his blood flow somewhere else, please, he prayed. It had never happened to him before, this blood lust. But no, it was lust for Aislinn, he knew. So close, so very close. If all went well, she would soon be his. After seven years of dreaming of her day and night, in only a few short hours, she would be his own woman, his wife. His head swam at the thought.

He tried to recollect his fishing forays with Arth the golden bear in the frigid waters they had traveled across, in order to combat a vision of her on the beach swimming with him, her breasts bobbing in the surf as the tide came up to caress their pert magnificence...

Bloody hell. It was only getting worse. And he needed to concentrate.

Bowen gave up using the sword blade altogether as he came closer to the castle gates, using his shield or the hilt of his weapon instead as he tried to cover his raging manhood.

The bloodlust had never been so high before, but he was aching for Rory's death. The bastard. Betraying his wife and sons as though they were no more than sheep in the fields worth nothing but to be slaughtered.

One, two, one, two with fists, his shield, and occasionally the hilt of his sword, and Bowen pressed nearer and nearer to the gaping entrance.

Why the hell weren't they closing the gates?

He looked around for any sign of a trap.

He felt a sudden prickle of awareness, and two tiny bright flames in his head.

Then he saw them.

A small boy, with a nurse trying to creep around to sidle in through the gate in the long wall without being noticed. She was carrying a small bundle in her arms and was clearly terrified. The poor flaxen-haired woman looked little better than a half wit, with wide, staring eyes in a moonlike face. The arrows were showering down all around her, making her cringe and squeal in terror as each goose-feathered dart whistled past her.

Arrows?

Ye gods, the O'Neills were firing down at the innocents from their own walls.

Rory was trying to make certain they were dead.

Which meant Aislinn had no idea of the danger she was in. One quick knife thrust and she could well be gone before he ever even reached her.

He summoned up his dimmed power, trying to squeeze a message past the self-imposed dam which blocked his ability to enter people's minds at will. He had eaten his daily allocation of rowanberries early that morning, determined to win Aislinn and Ardara in a fair fight without his powerful druid magics. Perhaps the berries were starting to wear off?

Lock the door. Stay where you are. The children are safe.

He prayed then to all the gods in his pantheon that she would obey. The gods help them all if she didn't...

The Shore of Destiny
Book Three of The Druids of Destiny
Setting: Ireland, 1147
Word Count=135,000
Rating: Sensual
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