The Warrior Trainer Read online

  The Warrior Trainer

  by

  Gerri Russell

  KINDLE EDITION

  * * * * *

  PUBLISHED BY:

  Gerri Russell on Kindle

  Copyright © Gerri Russell

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including photocopying, recording or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law.

  ISBN: 978-0-9838-9970-9

  To women warriors everywhere who fight every day to better their lives, overcome great obstacles, and work tirelessly to make the world a better place.

  To the bravest warrior woman I know, my mom.

  You are my guide, my strength, my inspiration.

  Acknowledgments

  The saying goes that "it takes a village to raise a child," but in my experience I have also found the saying holds just as true when it comes to publishing a book. I'd like to take a moment to thank my "village," those people who have made it possible for me to follow my dream into publication.

  Chuck, the hero of my heart, you are proof that reality is better than fiction. Pamela Ahearn, the most amazing, supportive, and savvy agent on the planet, you have my undying gratitude. My critique partners: Pamela Bradburn, Teresa DesJardien, Karen Harbaugh, Heather Heistand, Judith Laik, Nancy Northcott, Gina Robinson, and Joleen Wieser, you helped me keep the faith for so many years, the words "thank you" hardly seem big enough to encompass what that has meant to me.

  To RT BOOKreviews magazine and Dorchester Publishing for sponsoring the American Title II competition. Leah Hultenschmidt, thank you for seeing something special in my entry and for helping to make my dreams come true. And finally, to each and every person who voted for me. Thank you from the bottom of my heart for believing that The Warrior Trainer deserved a chance to become a published book.

  Prologue

  Scotland, 1308

  The ominous thunder of hooves echoed through the village of Glenfinnon. Four men on horseback, each with a weapon in one hand and a torch in the other, charged forth with one purpose in mind—to destroy the small village and everyone in it.

  For three months now, the Four Horsemen had resurrected their roles as the apocryphal riders, rampaging through Scotland.

  "Where is the warrior woman,” the White Horseman growled as he brought his horse's hooves down on one of the villagers, crushing him. The others nearby scattered right and left, grasping for survival.

  "Yes, run away. It makes the chase more thrilling," the White Horseman taunted. For days, months, even years he and his fellow Horseman would continue their quest for the Stone of Destiny and the woman who protected it. Then the Stone, and the legendary good fortune it brought, would belong to England. His king would reward him handsomely.

  The relentless hunt had driven them to the edge of this tiny village near the coast. Like a force of fury, the White Horseman shot forward, ready to kill. His bow sprang, launching an arrow into the chest of his enemy.

  Today was a day for revenge, and a day for answers. Someone must know where the Stone and the Warrior Trainer were hidden. And someone would talk, or they would all die.

  The White Horseman reloaded his crossbow, then kicked his heels into his horse's side, urging the beast forward. With a swing of his torch, a dry thatch roof caught fire. A whoosh of sound and light were followed by the crackle of hungry flames.

  A child's screams cut through the piercing cries of war and death. A little girl, no more than eight, raced out of the burning house, her yellow skirt on fire. Tears streaked down her cheeks as she batted at the flames, feeding their ravenous tongues instead of dousing them.

  Easy prey. The Horseman reined his mount to follow the child. She would die, just as they all would, merely because they were Scots, savage barbarians, and different from their English superiors. Three more steps and the child would be his, crushed and lifeless. He charged forward, a surge of euphoria taking root in his veins. He held the power of life and death. Death was what the Scots deserved for withholding such a valuable treasure as the Stone. Once he had it in his possession, he could carry it into battle for England wherever he went. And he would never lose.

  One more step. One last petrified scream. A pull on the reins brought the horse's hooves up, ready, primed, when a dash from the side startled the horse. The beast nearly toppled over. A woman raced toward the child, batting at the flames before thrusting her out of the Horseman's way, to the safety of the nearby woods.

  Rage, hot and hard, roared through him. He turned his horse again, this time toward the woman. She ran away from the woods—no doubt trying to save her child's life. He would show her. After he finished with the mother, he would go after the child.

  The White Horseman chased the woman at a full gallop, overtaking her in a few steps. At her side, he reached down from his horse, grasping a handful of her thick, black hair through her homespun snood. Her face twisted in pain, but she did not cry out, merely let him drag her alongside his horse by her hair. The woman was brave. But would she be brave enough to tell him the truth? He slowed his horse, then stopped.

  She struggled against his grip, which held her suspended, lashing out at his hand in her hair. "Let me go!"

  "Perhaps, when you answer my questions, I might feel more merciful," he said with a sneer.

  "What questions?" She stopped flailing her bruised and battered arms.

  He jerked her face toward him. A sense of power shot through him at the fear that paled her mud-streaked face and shadowed her eyes.

  "Where is the Warrior Trainer? Where is the Stone?" he asked, giving her body a light shake to add emphasis to his words.

  "I doona know what ye mean." Again, she tried to wrench free of the hand in her hair.

  "Tell me now!" He shook her harder, until her teeth rattled in her head, reveling in the surge of power his dominance over her brought.

  "What stone?" she gasped, as her body sagged forward. He pulled her roughly back to face him. "The Stone of Destiny. I know it still resides in this godforsaken land."

  "Have you not heard?" Steely resolve replaced the fear in her eyes. "Your king stole it years ago, to the shame of us all."

  The Horseman sneered. "A monk from Scone told us that Stone was false—after we cut off each of his fingers and toes." He smiled at the stark fear glittering in her eyes. "We know the real Stone remains here, guarded by the woman warrior." He watched his victim closely for signs she knew more.

  "Nay." Tears spilled down her cheeks, leaving white streaks as they washed away the grime. " 'Tis not true."

  The Horseman thrust the woman to the ground, no longer willing to listen to her lies.

  The woman scooted over tree branches and rocks that should have impeded her progress, but did nothing to slow her down. Fear had an amazing effect on these worthless creatures. The Horseman raised his bow. "I shall find the warrior woman and the Stone, if I have to kill every Highlander to do so."

  She gained her feet and broke into a run. He gave her just enough distance to taste her freedom before he took aim. With a single shot, he stole her future as payment against the debt the Highlanders still had to pay. Then he turned his horse to the woods to pursue the child. No one made a mockery of England, nor of him, and lived to tell the tale.

  No one.

  Chapter One

  Ian MacKinnon dismounted outside the gatehouse of Glencarron Castle and looked around as he patted his mount's sleek neck. The morning mist had rolled back across the Highlands, leaving a startling blue sky as a backdrop against rugged green peaks that dropped dramatically toward the sea.

  The waves, la
pping at the shore below, sounded like a constant whisper—not the rhythmic beat he heard in his village of Kilninian. The whole place seemed peaceful and quiet. Too quiet for a place where a mighty warrior resided.

  Ian tied his horse in a copse of heather nearby and searched the outbuildings and the towers for signs of inhabitants or guards. The entire place looked deserted, further proof of his suspicions that the Warrior Trainer was only a myth, despite his foster father's words to the contrary. He should turn back now, return to the clan that needed him to keep them safe, and stop wasting his time. But the promise he had made to his father to learn to fight in the ways of the ancients kept him moving toward the gate. He had come all this way. He owed it to his father to see it through, trainer or no trainer.

  As Ian approached the wrought-iron gate, the soft sounds of voices and the lowing of cattle could be heard. "Greetings," he called. He was about to shout again when a thin old man, leaning heavily on a cane, shuffled toward him from the gatehouse.

  "What do ye want?" The man peered up at Ian through the iron bars with hazy, watery eyes.

  Ian's frown deepened. "I seek the Trainer."

  "What's that ye say?"

  "I seek the Trainer," Ian shouted, enunciating each word.

  The man pulled back and stared at Ian with a mixture of surprise and irritation. "No need tae shout, laddie. I'm no' deaf."

  Ian bit back an annoyed reply. "Please," he said. "My need is urgent."

  The old man hobbled away and soon the bellow of a horn cut through the air. Moments later, shuffling sounds came to Ian from the battlements as fresh-faced youths with arrows and swords peered over the ramparts, their attention focused on him. And yet he did not feel threatened by their presence. Instead, he felt an odd sense of relief that there was someone, no matter how young, protecting the castle and the mythical Trainer.

  The rattling of chains and the creaking of wood sounded as the gate slowly lifted from the ground. As soon as he was able, Ian slipped under the portcullis, then moved to the old man's side to help him lower it again. "Where can I find the Trainer?" he asked.

  "She be in the keep."

  So she was real after all. "I must see her."

  A puzzled expression moved across the old man's face. He sighed as he waved Ian toward the keep.

  Ian offered his thanks, then hurried across what appeared to be a seldom used outer bailey and into the inner courtyard. Servants carried pitchforks filled with hay toward the stables, where cattle awaited their meal. The bang and rattle of a hammer striking iron punctuated the air with a constant beat. Women strolled across the expansive courtyard carrying loaves of fragrant, yeasty bread from a brick oven near the kitchen shed.

  As he strode past, he could almost feel the gazes upon him like fingers—some urging him forward, others holding him back. He ignored them with the same skills he had developed against his own clan when they stared at him. He was accustomed to being an outsider. When he made it to the great door, he gave it a confident rap with his gauntlet-covered fist. "I have come to see the Trainer," he announced, and instantly a hush fell over the courtyard.

  "Put yer weapon down if ye want tae enter here," a man ordered from behind the door.

  Ian narrowed his gaze. "I shall see the Trainer before I give up my weapon."

  "Then ye'll not see the Trainer this day."

  Give up his weapon? "What kind of warrior will only see unarmed men?"

  " 'Tis my rule, not hers. Now put yer weapon down or go away."

  He just wanted to get this task over and done with. Once he fulfilled his obligation to his father, he could hunt down the Four Horsemen and exact his revenge. Family honor demanded no less.

  With a grunt of frustration, Ian drew his claymore from the scabbard at his back and set the weapon at his feet. "I am unarmed."

  The door creaked open and a wizened old man with white hair stared at Ian from beneath bushy white eyebrows. "Yer dagger, too."

  Ian complied, but kept his gaze trained on the ancient creature before him. He might be disarmed, but he was far from defenseless. "I must see her now."

  The stooped man moved aside and signaled for Ian to enter. He searched the cavernous space before him. Except for the fire that crackled in the hearth at the far side of the chamber, the room was empty.

  "What purpose have ye here?" The wizened man stared up into Ian's face as though he were searching for something.

  Ian fixed his attention on his adversary, revealing nothing in his calm, steady gaze. He had no secrets to share with anyone here.

  Yet he could not help wondering what secrets the legendary warrior had hidden in her keep. For she must have a truly dark reason for staying so concealed. All Scotland had assumed she'd died twelve years ago when the Four Horsemen had ravaged their country and conquered the Abbey of Scone.

  Then three months ago, news of her survival began to circulate among the clans. He had heard the tale and dismissed it as wishful thinking, some fantastic story fabricated to bring the clans hope for survival from the chaos the Four Horsemen created. Fantasy or reality, that hope had driven him here, to her.

  But Ian had no time to ponder the Trainer's mysteries. He had come to train quickly, then leave. He tamped down his growing irritation at the delay. "I have no time to waste. I shall see the Trainer now."

  The man's expression instantly darkened. "So ye've come tae fight."

  "Aye."

  "Another fool then," the old man muttered as he turned away, walking toward the hearth. "If ye must see the Trainer, come this way."

  Ian followed the old man through a doorway at the side of the great hall and into another chamber. A single candle stood in the center of the room, leaving a ring of dark shadows everywhere he looked.

  "Wait here."

  Frowning at the further delay, Ian turned to demand entrance, but the old man had disappeared into the shadows. Even so, Ian sensed he was not alone in the room. As his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he saw a shape hidden in the shadows at the top of the stairs. All his senses sharpened, alert to the danger. "Show yourself."

  "What murdering deed brings ye here?" The female voice sounded old and gruff, not what he had expected from the Warrior Trainer.

  He had no intention of murdering anyone except the Four Horsemen, and they would feel his justice, painful and swift, for attacking his clan and murdering his brother Malcolm. He would seek justice against the man responsible as soon as he satisfied his duty to his father.

  "Step into the light," Ian ordered as he moved closer to the stairs, trying to make out the shape above him. A robust silhouette reflected against the hazy gray of the room.

  "The darkness serves my purpose," the figure replied in a low, almost imperceptible tone.

  Seconds clicked by and silence hovered in the room. Ian's body tightened, intuition flared. Something was amiss. His hand moved to his sword only to come away empty, and he remembered too late that his weapons remained outside. "Why should a woman fabled to be the greatest fighter in all the land have to hide in the darkness against an unarmed man?" he asked, seeking the shadows in the room for an answer.

  "I'll ask the questions here."

  The voice quavered ever so slightly. Why?

  "What is yer purpose here?" she said. "To fight like all the rest?"

  The faint glow of a candle lit the room from behind Ian, but he did not turn around to see where it came from. Instead, he could only stare at the illuminated vision before him. An aged female with stark white hair stared back at him in fear.

  Ian relaxed at the lack of threat. " 'Tis not possible. An ancient woman . . . the Trainer?" he said.

  "Were ye expectin' someone else?" The creature, the Trainer, appraised him warily.

  There must be a logical explanation. This stooped crone could not teach him any skills he did not already possess. Yet his father had been convinced the woman could teach him special fighting techniques from foreign lands—ways of moving his body, anticipating his foe, of wiel
ding a sword that would help to defend himself and his clan against the Four Horsemen. Martial arts, his father had called her ways. Ian was still skeptical.

  "Why are ye here?" she repeated, remaining where she stood.

  "To train with the Warrior."

  Her face brightened. "To train? Not to fight?"

  "Aye," Ian drawled out the word as he narrowed his gaze. What manner of deception existed here? The woman wore her steel breast plate on her back and a back plate on her breast. A couter covered her right elbow, but not her left. A gauntlet covered her left hand, yet she held her sword in her right. Either she had dressed in haste, or she was not who she claimed to be.

  "Are you the Train—"

  "Burke, cease!"

  Ian turned to see a black object hurling toward him. Pain exploded against the side of his head and a sickening thud reverberated in his skull. Ian gaped at the grinning old man who clutched an iron kettle.

  That vision stayed with him as the light receded and darkness swallowed him.

  Chapter Two

  "I told ye to halt!" Maisie exclaimed as the huge man slumped to the floor. If her instincts were right, he was the one they'd been waiting for. As promised, Abbus had finally sent him, a warrior worthy of continuing the lineage of Scotland.

  "I tried, but the kettle was already swingin'," Burke said, offering her an apologetic shrug.

  "Did ye have to use the kettle?" Maisie marched down the stairs, her hastily donned armor rattling with each step. When she reached the downed man's side, she frowned at her stooped helper, who was no taller than her shoulder. "Scotia might not like him if his head is bashed in on one side."

  " 'Twas the only thing I could find tae hit him with," Burke replied.

  Maisie tsk'd. "Never send a man to do a woman's job— at least not in this castle." She bent down beside the big and well-muscled man. He was dressed in a plaid of red and green and blue and white—definitely a MacKinnon, as had been agreed upon years ago between Abbus MacKinnon and Scotia's mother. It had been many years since she'd seen the likes of the clan MacKinnon near Loch Glencarron. She poked a finger into the large muscle on his upper arm, then smiled when it did not yield to her assault. "He's a bonny lad, and the first to come knockin' on our door in search of real trainin' in a fair long time."