Highland Island (Book 6)

Chapter 18

Chapter 18

The dim light of the room had Isla blinking, as she tried to adjust from the brighter torches of the holding room. Whilst the torches within this room were full of flickering flames, the amount of them was incredibly low for the size of the room. The oppressive air this created added to the foul odour of blood, sweat and excrement. Swallowing against her gag reflex, her eyes fixed upon the shape directly across from her.

The male hung from wrists raw against the dull metal, the metal would glow and fall into shade with the flickering of the torches, its eerie movement made it seem as if the male was dancing in the shadows. Slumped against the stonework behind him, his chest rising and falling in a slow, but slightly stuttered rhythm. His dark, ragged hair sliding over his forehead to conceal his face from where Isla stood. His form, however, was not what held Isla's attention. That was the collapsed form of her Uncle upon the floor in front of his captive, crumpled in a heap he seemed so much smaller than he did when towering over her.

Tearing her eyes from her Uncle, she tracked along the floor until she found Murray flat on his back, his snores snuffling away, the darkness blanketing him as if welcoming him into his slumber. Taking a tentative step further into the room, she took a moment, as if they would jump up and know that she was behind all of this. Not wanting to be alone, and yet not wanting to take her eyes off the males within, she reached behind her. Waving for the others to come forward, whilst she tiptoed forward, sliding one foot across the smooth stone of the floor.

She tried to keep her eyes upon her Uncle, nevertheless, her gaze stroked over the torture equipment which littered the room. Half of the metal and wood structures were incomprehensible to her mind, the pain they inflicted was palpable in the air, an oppressive feel to the very room, but how they worked was beyond her. The other half were obvious, and yet her stomach turned to know that they were not there for some macabre decoration. That they had in fact inflicted the moist poignant of pain upon enemies of the clan. Enemy or not, she did not know if she could ever say this was acceptable behaviour.

Swallowing past the lump which had risen within her throat, she crouched down, ripping her eyes from the equipment around her to fall upon her Uncle. Leaning over her Uncles' dropped form, she saw the rise and fall of his chest, having to wait at least a minute or two for certainty. For the movement of the torch light over his frame could have made her believe the movement was real. Releasing her own breath, after hearing a rather deep one from Artair, she knew that she had one less thing to worry about, her Uncle was at least alive. But how long he would stay asleep was another matter entirely. Whilst she trusted Gilbarta and her knowledge of herbs, did she want to trust her life upon it?

Looking up from her crouched position, she saw into the face of an unkempt male, who did not look as if he had enjoyed his time at the hands of Clan MacKay. Dried blood crusted his clothing a rusted red, whilst ruby droplets pooled at his feet, flashing orange as the flames danced on the nearest torch.

"Gilbarta, how long will they sleep?" Moira's hushed tones came from the direction of the fallen Murray. Glancing over she watched a Moira checked Murray's breathing before catching Isla's eye and nodding. Even though he was snoring, it was still good to know officially that nothing was wrong with him. Her chest unconstructed a little as she stepped carefully over her uncle to gain access to the main reason they were in the room.

Placing her hand over her nose a moment, trying not to gag on the stench as she closed in on the slumped male. She swallowed convulsively before she gained the courage to reach out, the skin warm and feverish beneath her fingertips as she pressed them against the rough stubble on his cheek. The conversation carried on behind her.