Ghosts of Culloden Moor 07 - Rabby by L.L. Muir

Author:L.L. Muir [Muir, L.L.]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2015-09-25T07:00:00+00:00

CHAPTER FIVE

Damn Cameron anyway!

After all those stories, the details of the real battle had been lost to Rabby long ago. Oh, the folks inside the Great Visitor’s Center probably had it aright, but since few of the ghosts ventured through those doors, Rabby had avoided them as well, and whatever truths lay beyond were lost to him.

Too many mortals emerged from the building with tears on their cheeks. Rabby would have been foolish to go poking about. Or at least, he thought it would have been foolish to borrow trouble. But at that moment, standing close to the front lines waiting for the battle to commence, he wished he would have been a bit braver in his spirit form. If he’d paid strict attention, he might know of some way to save his father!

Hadn’t that been the one thing, in all the world, he’d wished for? A chance to send his father home alive—the one thing that would make amends to his mother for running away and never returning?

It had been his fault, all of it. If Dauphin hadn’t been told to stay at Rabby’s side on the rise, the animal might have been free to protect the elder Rabby. But now he realized, thanks to the magic of Wickham, he was able to stand at his father’s side and defend the man himself!

Seventy-eight warriors had taught him their best moves. He could manage this!

The first belch of bagpipes, with their discordant cries, caught him by surprise and curdled the blood in his newly enlarged body. He took his sword from the scabbard and stepped back between his father’s line and the one behind, to wield the thing about and test the muscles that held up his manly form.

His new body seemed to know its purpose well, for the sword sang through the air and sliced where he willed the blade to slice. He ducked and sprang forward. Dodged to the left, then the right. He spun about in different directions and never lost his footing.

Aye. The body would serve him well. The grown version of Rabby MacDonald, the younger, was a fit and agile man.

But could one man make a difference?

Murdo laughed. “A dandy fighter, to be sure. But would ye mind saving some of that fight for an actual enemy? Or do ye just dance?”

“To me, Rabby,” his father said, just as if he were calling to him from across the yard or a field of barley.

To me. Rabby, my lad. To me!

The scurl of pipes came from across the way—a reminder that Scots fought on the other side as well. A mean reminder that soured his belly and made his chest groan with hatred for all those who would fight against an English-free Scotland.

The deep murmur of voices around him said he wasn’t alone in his sentiment. And that murmur grew into a rumble, and then a roar. The sense of being part of something great and powerful was much more impressive from inside the ranks than it had been when he’d stood upon the rise that day.

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