Campbell had rid the west of most of the MacDonald vermin. He'd imprisoned MacColla's father and brother, and though they roamed free now, he'd exiled the rest of the clan to Ireland.
But he'd underestimated the middle son. MacColla had
returned for Campbell, sniffing him out like a dog, seeking his revenge. It was when he'd come to Campbell's own lands at Inveraray, savaging Campbell holdings and killing Campbell kinsmen, that he'd vowed to destroy MacColla once and for all.
But first he'd see him suffer.
Finola stiffened. With a sharp inhale, she rolled her eyes back and swayed, her breath coming in short pants. Rocking forward and back, forward and back, she intoned:
Cloaked in black of night. I call the elements. Hear me. By the blood of my enemy-
Chanting and quaking madly now, she swept her hand over the clay crown of the corpse's head.
Grant me dominion over fire. Grant me dominion over wind, Grant me dominion over earth, Grant me dominion over water.
Campbell was uneasy once more. That she'd taken his own blood for her ritual disturbed him, and his hand inched to the dirk at his side.
Uncertainty nagged at him, and dread that he'd stepped upon a path from which there was no return. It wouldn't sit well with his clan to know the lengths he went to. Black witchcraft was feared in the Highlands. He'd never known anybody who'd resorted to its use. Or at least none who'd confess to it.
But his noble Lowland peers, they'd simply have his head if they discovered he dallied in such devilish abominations.
I shall bathe in the lustral fire, I shall bathe in pools of wine.
Her hands waved over the flames, sweeping the gray smoke to her breast. She cast palmfuls of dirt and water toward the fire and it hissed angrily, shooting plumes of ghostly white smoke into the night. Campbell hastily pulled a handkerchief from his waist pocket, covering his mouth and nose to protect his body from inhaling such evil.
I shall bathe in the tears of mothers, I shall bathe in rivers of blood.
White sparks crackled out from the flames and whorled around them before winking into darkness. Campbell recoiled, looking around in panicked horror, his hand finally seizing the hilt of his weapon.
Finola stood suddenly, and the flames rose with her.
Campbell let go his dagger, whispering a prayer as he edged back from the fire.
The whites of her eyes filled her sockets and shone an eerie, translucent gray in the night. Her voice jumped higher, beseeching in a keening, inhuman voice.
Thine art the midnight beloved.
Thine art the black swan.
Thine art the prince of the night.
Hear me and grant dominion over the stars.
The witch fell to her knees and stared into the fire. Its hot blue center swelled, and yet its crest split into what seemed like thousands of yellow tips, all licking and dancing in a frenzy. She leaned close, as if she would breathe the flames into her, to welcome the fire into her nose and mouth like a lover.
It was going too far. He'd stop the witch before she summoned the devil himself to them. Campbell reached his hand out, felt the heat of the flames and the damp of her sweat radiate to his fingertips. One slight movement and he could push the woman in, baptize her in fire as any witch should be. It was his moment to go back, to choose a different path than that of evil. Her body would burn, and none would know of Campbell's flirtations with the dark arts.
Eyes tearing, her thin, dry lips cracked into a smile. “I see,” she whispered.
Campbell drew his arm back. He felt Finola's sudden serenity like a breeze in the night. And he found his own resolve. He would see as the witch saw. Use her powers just this once.
He'd wait for now. Her death would come in time.
Finola sightlessly took a wooden panel from the dirt. “So it is,” she rasped, and began frantically muttering an incantation.
Her tiny dagger glittered silver white in the moonlight as she hacked and carved at the small square of wood. Untouched by the heat, she retrieved a chunk of charred kindling from the edge of the fire and used it to etch lines and circles on the panel. She worked quickly, as if in a trance, sketching with a loose arm shapes that slowly coalesced into figures.
“I call for you she who is most able to shatter MacColla.” Finola slammed the wooden panel down before Campbell, and this time he didn't flinch. It bore the image of a large man with a woman by his side, smudged in shades of gray and black.