Lois Greiman Read Online Free Page B

face.”
    “She could heal?”
    Keelan smiled. “And kill.”
    “Kill!” Roland growled. “This is rubbish, Master—”
    “Prove yourself,” Chetfield said.
    Keelan shook his head. This was the moment he had planned for, the moment he would prove his worth, make himself indispensable, gain the treasure that was rightfully his. But it was too late now. His plans had been laid waste. “It does na work such, as I think ye ken.”
    Chetfield smiled, a soft expression of evil. “Then make your peace,” he said.
    Keelan nodded, or tried to, but he did not turn his attention from the other. Could not. “There will be no peace for ye. Only pain.”
    Chetfield stood absolutely still, staring, thinking things unspoken. “Cut him free,” he said finally.
    “My lord—”
    “Do as I say!” he hissed.
    Roland moved like a shadow, slipping behind the timber. There was a grating sensation, and then Keelan’s arms spilled to his sides. He pulled them numbly forward. His fingers refused to move.
    The baron stood very still, both hands on the head of his craggy staff. “I shall give you one last chance, boy.”
    Keelan shook his head. His pate wobbled as he eyed his own torso. The skin was ripped and bloodied, burned and bruised. “I am sore weakened,” he said, and glanced up. Evil stood beforehim. “’Twould take me whole strength to touch the likes of ye.”
    Chetfield narrowed his golden eyes. “Because you think me powerful or because you think me evil?”
    “Both.”
    “Bloody bastard!” Roland cursed, but Chetfield lifted a graceful hand and smiled.
    “The lamb,” he said, and shifted his gaze with malevolent slowness to the beast’s still form. “Bring breath to the lamb and I shall spare your life, Highlander.”
    Keelan laughed. His plans had come to fruition. But too late. Too damned late. His powders were gone. His magic with them. “It canna be done,” he said. “Na without the Lord God himself.”
    “Then I suggest you pray.”
    The world was a hazy plane, gray with mist and uncertainty. “God and I have na spoke for some years,” Keelan said. “Indeed—”
    “You are running short on time, boy,” said Chetfield. Roland grinned and tightened his grip on the knife.
    Keelan watched the light play across the lamb’s flaccid form, then stumbled toward it. His legs trembled, scraped raw beneath the tattered remains of his tartan. He dropped to his knees. The movement jarred him like a blow,threatening his consciousness, bobbing his head. The others followed him, circled round.
    He glanced up. Even now he was not beyond fear. He had neither the courage of the Celt, nor the cleverness of the Irishman. As his mother well knew. “My lord,” he said, “I beg ye, let me rest this night so that I might—”
    “As you may have guessed, Highlander, I am not a patient man. Give the lamb life or forfeit your own.”
    Keelan settled back on his haunches. A prayer came to his mind, long forgotten and ill-used, but it was there nonetheless, chanting through his chilled brain. He let it hum along, then, reaching forward, set his hands on the tiny lamb’s barrel. Its ribs were distinct beneath the wet woolen curls, the droopy black ears lax, one crushed beneath the tiny head, one soft and limp against its mottled face. Its shoulder felt as cold as chilled meat.
    Closing his eyes halfway, Keelan rolled them back in his head. Then, lifting his hands a fraction of an inch from the tiny body, Keelan ran his fingers along the coarse wool and began to hum.
    The brute squad was close, leaning in, watching. But mayhap he could yet best them. They thought him beaten.
    Keelan passed his hands over the lamb’s head.
    Roland’s touch was a caress on the hilt of his knife. Changing the rhythm of the chant, Keelan raised the volume high, then let it fall abruptly. The bastard shifted nervously back. So he was not comfortable with the supernatural…or the faux supernatural. Keelan would have laughed if the door