Prologue
The Prophecy
Highlands, Scotland 1218
“Every Maitland has a Prophecy,” he said to the sixteen
year old laird.
“I doona believe in that, old mon,” he said, casting a sidelong glance. He stood tall and proud, in his blue and green plaid. The flames of the fire burning in the hearth shined an orange hue on his face. His eyes fairly glowed.
“Ye should, lad, for it became truth for yer father,” he responded.
A furious breath exited the young laird’s flared nostrils. His chest was on its way to massive proportions. Years of hard practice under the supervision of his disciplined father had made him this way. It had also made him hard, unyielding, and cynical. His silver gaze turned icier and glowed eerily.
Aye, this was the Dark Wolf, the old man thought. Every bit the Dark Wolf, as the Maitland legend told.
“My father died in battle, honorably fighting,” said the young laird, irritated.
“He died because he was careless. He thought himself invincible. He entered into a fight of which he had no hope of winning.”
“Ye’re wrong, old mon,” the young laird said, turning blazing silver eyes onto the old seer. They were almost incandescent.
“Yer father’s Prophecy proved to be true.”
“What was this Prophecy, this fantasy of yers?” he asked, menacingly.
“‘Twas no fantasy.” The seer paused. “Yer father’s Prophecy read:
Bear no illusions,
Ye have a weakness,
Bear no delusion,
‘Tis nay bad to carry yer meekness.
Bode the season well,
Doona be so bold,
Lest in battle ye fell,
And so ye’ve been told.
Ye’ll be the cause of yer own death,
And when the time comes,
Ye shall utter with yer last breath,
Words that shall transfer responsibility to yer son.”
The young laird shook his head, his black hair moving around his shoulders. “Ye’re wrong, old mon.”
“Nay. And yer Prophecy shall come true, if ye doona heed it.”
The young laird rolled his eyes. “If it humors ye, old mon, seer as ye claim to be, what is mine, then?” the young laird asked heatedly, threateningly. His eyes flashed at the challenge he issued.
“Are ye sure ye wish to hear it, young laird?” the seer asked amused, narrowing his gaze to angry laird’s face. “Yer father was yer age when he heard his.”
“Aye, old mon, tell it,” he ordered.
“Verra well, laird. Yer Prophecy reads:
The Dark Wolf shall fall prey to weak,
Blindness shall lead him to both darkness and light,
Danger comes through the darkness’s heat,
It leads ye towards a difficult fight.
Hair of wheat and eyes of honey,
Defeat will come in stealth,
Blind ye will be, for she will be bonny.
Fool you she will, with her lust of title and wealth,
A child she carries,
A child to bear,
And ye shall be married,
To her, for love and to care.
Ye’ve been told of this foresight,
To save ye and yers,
Failure to act in the shadow of light,
Makes ye exist no more.
When the time draws near, ye must make a choice,
Ye must listen carefully to yer inner voice,
In the wrong decision, comes yer end,
The Dark Wolf’s death, never to mend.
Destroy or be destroyed.”
“Ye’re mistaken, old mon,” the young laird snorted, walking to the door.
“Ye will be the legend, The Dark Wolf,” the seer said. “Had yer father spoken of this before?”
“Aye,” came the curt answer. “I am the powerful Dark Wolf, as my father was, and as his father was, reaching far back in our ancestry. I am invincible,” the young laird said, his eyes glowing as he finished the sentence.
“Doona get ahead of yerself, young laird. Ye must nay be so arrogant,” the seer warned.
The Dark Wolf looked at the seer and his eyes glowed menacingly. “I’ll be what I choose to be, old mon,” the young laird said, as the door slammed on his words.
Once outside the door and standing in the dark corridor, the young laird stopped. He was breathing heavily, and his eyes were glowing.
“Dumb old mon,” he whispered in the darkness.
As he stalked down the corridor, he could not help but think of the night his father died almost a month ago.
It was a dark, rainy night. His father had underestimated his opponents. Instead of sending one of his men to alert and bring reinforcements, he’d wagered and lost.
The young laird remembered his father’s final words as he stood by him. The rain pelted down on his father’s face. Silver dimming eyes gazed into silver glowing ones, as he struggled to speak. Breathing harshly, he’d whispered, “Son, I bestow on ye the title of laird. Be invincible, be superior, be the Dark Wolf.”