Blood of the Clans
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Blood Of The Clans Ch. 27 free porn video
The dark, purple clouds hung low on the mountains, heavy with moisture and were releasing their burden rapidly. The fierce winds were driving it on a slant, almost level to the ground, but five riders were mounted and ready to ride north, soaked already but unconcerned with the weather. Harlan looked at his clan and then to the others riding with him. Eamon had agreed to go to see James MacRae and explain what they had found to him. He was completely unaware of the ramifications his disclosure would cause.
They rode off from Oban’s shores, keeping to the fastest route to Ballachulish which Harlan felt was a sail up Loch Linnhe in one of Andrew MacDougall’s birlinns. The two mile ride felt like twenty, the ground sodden from rain, as the five men rode to the gate and were recognized. They dismounted and tied the horses up, before walking into the keep, immediately taking their sheepskins off.
Andrew came down from the third floor and saw the soaking wet men standing by his fire.
‘Douglas, why are ye here?’
‘MacDougall, we need ye tae sail us tae MacRae. I ha’e something he needs tae hear and so do ye.’ Harlan told him, in such a way that Andrew felt was necessary to listen to what was to be said.
‘Who’s this ye ha’e wi’ ye?’ Andrew asked, noticing that he didn’t recognize Eamon.
‘This is who ye ha’e tae listen tae. Eamon, tell Andrew MacDougall, what ye’ve told me.’
Eamon was unsure of what was going on and how it affected all these men, that Harlan wanted him to relate his story to. He looked around at all the strange men and then to Harlan, who gave him a nod to start. He related everything exactly as he had told Harlan, the day before. Once he finished, he looked at the deep, brown eyes of Andrew MacDougall, growing darker and more sinister in content. He began to fear he would be held in account for his words.
Eamon turned to Harlan for assurance he was safe from persecution and received the nod of approval he sought to ease his worries. Knowing he was now safe, his mind raced for answers, as to why this was involving so many men, from so many clans.
‘Douglas, why is this something I must tell tae so many?’
‘Those boys, my boys, were murdered. Ye know that tae be the truth yerself, McGregor, ye know in yer own mind they were. I’m taking ye tae tell the Chieftain of oor clan alliance, James MacRae. Only he can make the decision tae do something aboot it, but I want vengeance fer this. Ye would tae, if it was yer own blood, Eamon.’ Eamon knew in his heart, the words Harlan spoke were fact. ‘So we’re going tae see MacRae noo, and we’re going tae see him as fast as we can get there.’
It became apparent instantly in Eamon’s mind who he was. He was Porrohman, a harbinger of death. A darkness to an unknown number of people, who would suffer at the utterance of his words. Against his heart’s own wishes, his mind played out scenes of horror he knew would happen, as a result of what he had caught in his nets that fateful day. He had unwittingly made himself an executioner and his voice was the axe.
MacDougall called for two of his men, his younger brother and captain, Bruce and John, his cousin and lieutenant to join him and ready the birlinn for the sail. Harlan and his men, along with Eamon, followed him outside once again, the drenching rain casting a misery to the scene. Eight men boarded the sea-tossed boat and pushed off, straining against wood and water to make open sea. Eamon pulled on the oar, but his effort wasn’t matched to the others.
Harlan watched him from the prow and knew his heart was heavy with the burden he was carrying. He came and relieved him of his position and told him to go forward. Eamon stood at the prow and looked forward, out towards his destination. The angry seas, tossed eight foot waves that smashed against the bow and soaked him. The sky was illuminated with the streaks of lightning and the thunder roared over the wailing winds. He knew he was facing the judgement for his soul, and he began to pray for it.
The storm grew in force, churning the waters up, the driving winds turning them into larger waves. Eamon looked back at the men in the boat, and looked into Andrew MacDougall’s eyes, as he stood at the stern. He could see the deaths he knew he would commit, knew in his own heart he had given that order for him to commit them. Looking skyward, he knew there was no reason to ask God why he was chosen to do this, he would know soon enough. For whatever reason it was, he hoped his soul wasn’t damned for eternity. He turned back around and looked at the seas he had sailed, the waters he fished, the life he had lived, the seas that gave him his life.
The loch was a turmoil of violent water, as the birlinn fought its way north. Passing Lismore Island, Eamon knew it was the moment of truth in his life, if his beliefs in God were to be founded. He rose up the side of the birlinn and looked once more into MacDougall’s eyes. It was all he needed to commit himself to God’s hand. He jumped from the boat and let the waves carry him to his destiny, life, or death, by the judgement of the sea.
Before anyone could re-act, he was carried away from them, the waves taking him towards the coast. Only Andrew MacDougall had the chance to look at him, and watch, as he rose and fell in the swells, while the others strained on the oars to fight the currents. Farther and farther, he watched Eamon being taken away, rising and falling in the churning water. He looked past him and saw the breakers pounding the small atolls, the waves rising up in massive, curling froths and engulfing the land completely.
Eamon was picked up and carried on an ever-rising wave. To MacDougall’s perception of it, it was at least ten feet high and gathering volume. As it raced in, it peaked, Eamon high on top, before it curled over and took him plummeting down to the rocky ground. The force of the wave crashed against the rocks, then carried over and past the atoll leaving the surface bare. MacDougall scanned the surface for any signs, straining to see through the wind-driven rain. The surface was clear of anything, nothing resembling a body could be seen on the rocky ground, the evidence of Eamon McGregor erased.
Harlan had watched as much as he could, looking at the last moment when he saw him going down. Just dropping from the height of at least ten or twelve feet was deadly enough, but the addition of tons of water crushing him down onto solid rock, told him what he had heard from Eamon, was now lost with him. He knew enough of them had heard Eamon to tell MacRae the story and seek the vengeance that ate into every man’s heart, more-so, into his own.
They sailed on, Harlan and Andrew looked at each other and silently agreed this wouldn’t deter them from seeking the revenge for the acts done. Approaching the entrance to Loch Leven, the crosswinds and conflicting currents were making it harder to keep the birlinn on a stable course. The narrows were only five hundred feet across at the narrowest part and the mountains were funnelling gale-force winds through them. Normally a pleasant sail past in calm waters, it was now a challenge to the greatest of sailors. The currents and winds shifted constantly, the storm intensifying in fury, as Andrew tried to judge the best route through. He stayed closer to the port side, watching the turbulent swell of water gathering in the middle,
From behind, they were unaware of the approaching mass of water, bearing down on them and travelling fast. Waves rebounding off the far shores of Ardgour, collected with the tidal surge creating a rogue wave. The Corran Narrows held the water back, forcing it to take the natural path of least resistance and headed it into the bay. In an instant, the
birlinn was rising higher and higher. The men looked out the sides, paralysed in progressive fear, as they continued to ride the crest of the massive surge. With no direction of their own, the water sent them down, l
osing its strength after hitting landfall. Hitting bow first, the mast snapped off and fell over the prow, the sail covering everyone. The seven men were driven towards the ground in uncontrolled force and oars drove the men back up even faster as the blades made contact with the ground and folded towards the bow, like the fins of a fish.
The sounds of large bones breaking and the screams of agonizing pain, cut through the wailing winds and lashing rains. The birlinn slammed down on the keel again, snapping like the bones of the men. Not one man stirred or moved, the birlinn now jammed tight in a rock formation.
On a tiny dot of land, no more than the size of a birlinn, a hand clung to a rock. The bloodied fingers dug into the nooks and crevices, clinging in hope. Another hand weakly came up and soon after a desperate struggle, Eamon McGregor found enough ground to lay himself on and rest. He could feel the jagged pain from breathing and knew his ribs were broken. He tried to move his feet and felt the acute agony of a broken right ankle, informing him he wasn’t paralysed.
In a strained effort, he turned his face skyward, looking into the angry clouds. ‘Thank ye, God,’ was all he could manage, before feeling a darkness sweep over him and he passed out. He was never touched by another wave again, as the storm settled down in fury and the winds diminished. In his last moments of awareness, he knew his soul was spared from seeing the horrors of hell he had created.
Morning broke over the waters of Loch Linnhe and the sun cast its rays into the face of Eamon McGregor, beckoning him to awake. Squinting hard, he realized he would be living another day and weakly smiled. In pained effort, he pulled himself completely onto dry land and lay there looking about. To his north-east, just over a mile away, lay Castle Stalker. With no way to draw a breath with broken ribs, he realized God had silenced his voice as well. He lay and prayed for forgiveness for what he had done, trying to realize what sin he had committed.
Coll Stewart and his cousin, Griffin, set out for a sail, in the calmer, morning waters, the small sailboat big enough for four men. It had been Braedon’s order, that the waters be patrolled after a storm and assist anyone in need. Heading out of Appin, they took the inner channel south and looked along the coasts of the mainland and Lismore, for wrecks or bodies. Tacking back and forth, they made their way down and rounded the end of Lismore to the open waters. Without knowing it, they had passed the hiding spot of the stolen birlinns. A small inlet that wound to the left, was all it took to hide them and then cover them over.
They both kept watch on the coast, staying close enough to it, to get a good look. Other than trees and other natural debris, nothing dire seemed to have happened from the violence of the winds. They wound through the inlets and coves on the north end and headed across to Shuna Island, a mile and a half away. The teens loved sailing and had spent countless hours sailing this boat together. They sat and talked of the times they had sailed against Cameron and Loman, the two younger siblings, pitted against the two older. They laughed at how they had bested them on many occasions, catching the wind better than them and sailing past, waving with smug smiles of triumph on their faces.
Neither saw the arm raised on the atoll as they came abreast of it, their focus still on themselves. They sailed on without paying attention, until a gut-wrenching scream alerted them. Just as Eamon’s arm dropped, Griffin caught sight of it and pointed to Coll where to head. In moments they were wending back and forth against the wind to the atoll. The
quarter mile seemed to take forever to Eamon, for the sail to make it to him. He held enough strength to hold his hand off the ground to them and finally from the pain, passed out again.
Coll and Griffin raced to him and saw he was alive, but heard the raspy sound in his shallow breathing, to know his ribs were broken and in serious need of attention. Carefully they carried him to the boat and laid him across the centre seat. Coll took off his robes and covered Eamon with them. Griffin pushed them back out and pointed them towards Stalker, before jumping in and holding Eamon steady. The wind caught fast and they were soon bent from it and making all haste to the castle.
Coll shouted and waved to the lookout, as they approached, getting his attention. The lookout saw the body lying across the bench and shouted down for a stretcher and bearers. By the time the boat was secured, the men were helping carry him out and lay him down. They rushed him into the hall and set to work doing what they could.
Braedon came down from his chambers, leaving an interesting conversation with his guest, to attend to the commotion in the hall and saw his son and nephew helping a man. He came through the gathering people and made his way to the table. He heard the laboured breathing and laid his ear to Eamon’s chest and heard the puncture.
‘His ribs are intae his lungs, we’ll need tae set those first. Lads, help hold him, while I get his bones back t’gether.’
Braedon guided the boys through each way he wanted them to pull, feeling the fracture with his fingers. When the ends came together, he had them ease off slowly, while he kept hold of the bones making sure they didn’t move. Eamon’s breathing eased and he drew in a clearer breath. Braedon felt along the man’s body, looking for signs of any more fractures. He didn’t need to feel the ankle to know it was broken. The swelling and dark, purple skin, was enough to alert him. The wet, leather boot clung like a skin, so they carefully cut it away. The foot swelled and disfigured instantly, while Braedon felt the joint and knew it was beyond repair, shattered too much from the crushing impact of what had caused it. He knew there was only one thing to be done and that was to amputate it.
‘Coll, fetch my sword.’
Braedon told his son what he wanted, but Coll stood in awe of the moment, still not comprehending the gravity of the situation.
‘COLL! my sword, noo.’
Coll broke free from his daze and ran up to get his father’s sword. He grabbed it and hurried back to the hall. Braedon took his sword and held it in the embers, heating the metal.
‘Hold his leg, so his foot is over the edge of the table.’ he told the men.
When Eamon was ready, Braedon withdrew his sword, now glowing red with heat, and took his position. He judged his swing, then raised the blade high. With all his might he brought it down, keeping to his planned trajectory, as the blade cleanly severed the foot from the leg. Quickly he held the glowing metal to the open end, cauterizing and sealing the severed flesh and bone. Cold water was poured over the smoking and blackened remains, quickly cooling it. Everyone covered their noses from the smell, as it permeated the air. Braedon was the only one not to cover his face, as he lay his sword down and picked up the foot and tossed it in a bucket. He handed the bucket to a male servant and looked at him with a sense of ease in his eyes.
‘Bury it.’ was all he said to him.
The man left, looking disgustingly at the bloody, disfigured foot inside.
‘I’ll raise him up, bind his chest wi’ wrapping and it’ll be God’s hand that guides him then.’
Braedon told the women and carefully pulled Eamon up, so the wrapping would help hold
the broken ribs in place. Working together, the two women wrapped Eamon’s chest and tied off the cloth. Braedon carefully laid him back down and checked his pulse for strength and told the women to cover him and keep him warm. If he woke up, they were told to come to him immediately. He picked up his sword and silently went back to his chambers. Upstairs, oblivious to what had gone on, his guest sat in suspense of what had transpired.
At dawn’s early light, the fishermen left Bishop’s Bay and headed out towards Loc
h Linnhe, to set their nets. The sight of a birlinn, smashed on the rocks over five hundred feet inland, had them pulling their boats to shore and investigating the sight. They approached cautiously, the cracked and broken birlinn showing signs of breaking apart. A young man climbed the rocky outcropping and peered in under the sail to get a look.
‘There’s men!’ he shouted and looked back to count the number. ‘Seven, I think they’re dead.’
Several more made their way up the rocks, pulling back the sail and exposing the men inside. A faint groan was heard and eyes searched for the source of life. A hand flopped backwards, signalling to them. Carefully the men pulled the battered body of Harlan Douglas from the boat and laid him on the ground. One at a time they continued taking out the bodies, hoping signs of life might appear in them.
The flopping of bodies and necks as they were lifted, told of certain death. None of the men were recognized by anyone, but one fisherman knew enough to head back down the loch a short ways and let James MacRae know what had happened on his lands. In less than a half hour’s passing, James MacRae stood over the dead bodies of one of his main leaders and two of his men. James moved along and knew the bodies of Harlan Douglas’ captain and lieutenants. He knelt beside Harlan, still bleeding from his mouth, knowing he wouldn’t last long.
‘Harlan, can ye hear me? Douglas.’ he shouted louder, causing Harlan to open his eyes.
‘What happened tae ye?’
Harlan gasped in for a breath and coughed out more blood. Trying slower, he drew in enough air to speak weakly.
‘We were coming tae see ye aboot Fraser. They murdered my boys, all of them. A man from Seil found the bodies. McGregor. Told MacDougall as well, all the men heard him too.’ Harlan weakly grabbed at James. ‘They must pay fer it, like ye said.’
There was little evidence of any strength left in Harlan Douglas, except the fierce look of un-served justice, in his eyes. James looked back, seeing a dying man’s final request being asked of him. The life-force passed from Harlan, a final gurgle from his lungs as he went limp. James could still see the demand set on his face, even in death. He had the men load all the bodies and take them across the loch and load them into his birlinn. Once again, he took stock of how his plan was going. Four of his five leaders were dead, the other one a traitor. Two captains and three lieutenants were also stricken from the leadership. How many more would be lost, before the battle even began?
He stood and looked at the smashed birlinn, trying to imagine the wave that had carried them so far inland and crashed them into the rocks. James MacRae looked skyward, wondering to himself if the Almighty might be telling him, he was wrong in doing what he wanted to do. He looked across at Ballachulish, and knew he could never be happy with what he had. He wanted his castle, deaths and God be damned, he wanted his own power over life and death. He walked away from the shattered remains of the birlinn and sailed the two miles back to his own, now loaded with bodies.
He knew he had to take care of the dead men, then he had to take care of a dead man’s request, for vengeance. He thought of what Sloan Fraser had said about that night and it never sat right with him. He would have to find out the truth and find it out any way he
could. This wasn’t just a ride for vengeance, it was a ride to uncover treachery. He had a feeling down deep in his core, that Sloan Fraser was on a different course of action. Ever since that day at Dunollie, he knew a man who had just seen his father slain, was never going to join with the men who slay him. He had misjudged the character of Sloan Fraser and it was costing him dearly in his plans for success.
He looked at the men gathered on shore. Looked at the need for battle in their eyes. He wanted them to have a thirst for blood and he was about to give them a reason for that thirst. As the bow slid up the sandy beach, MacRae jumped down and stood before his men, no longer looking at them as soldiers, but as his hand of power, the one that ruled these lands. He called his son, Iain to him, along with Leith and two lieutenants and walked back into his cottage. They sat at the table, all eyes focused on James. He sat contemplating something, something he was making sure of in his own mind before telling them.
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