He felt it coming now, with every fiber of his body. He watched through the thickening snow, his logic telling him that Cormac was behind them at Turroch, sitting by his warm hearth and cursing them, making plans for later. But his gut told him otherwise.
The hills were craggy, powdered white, cold and empty. He rode on, listening to the creak of leather, the jingle of steel, the strike and thud of horse hooves on stone and ground.
Giric guided his garron ahead to lead the way, setting a walking pace. The horses filed in pairs along the narrow track, which snaked between the sloped bases of two steep, rocky hills.
Starry flakes dusted the Arabian's mane. The wind whistled softly, like a faint, eerie song from the faery world. Sebastien heard the distant croak of a raven. He glanced up slopes so steep that he could scarcely see the tops through the falling snow and gathering mist.
The raven sounded again. Sebastien felt the prickle strongly. He turned to say something to Lulach.
A shriek, long and unearthly, tore from the bowels of the hill. Sebastien reined in his startled horse and looked up one slope, then another, seeing nothing but rock. The sound repeated, short and horrifying in its echo.
He drew his sword, the one-handed Norman blade that fit in his palm like an extension of his strength. The heavier Highland blade was sheathed in a loop on his saddle. Ahead of him, Giric turned, pulling free his own claymore, which he carried sheathed across his back. Behind him, Sebastien heard other swords slither free, and crossbow bolts clicked into place.
Then a roar and a crash, and a boulder shifted and hurtled down the right-hand slope. Sebastien backed up his horse, its flank bumping into the garron behind it. All around him, men shouted and tried to turn their horses.
The boulder slammed into the earth a few feet in front of Sebastien's horse, causing the Arabian to rear and twist. While he hung on and tried desperately to control the horse, another boulder bounded and crashed down the other slope, closing off the rear exit of the pass.
The hillsides erupted as men leaped from behind the crags and rocks on both slopes. Cries and unearthly howls made the air vibrate. Stones and small rocks hurtled down, striking some of the knights. They pulled out their long shields and crouched beneath them, still on horseback, angling the shields to protect the horses' heads as well as their own.
The knights returned a vicious hail of arrows shot from crossbows. Sebastien pulled his own loaded crossbow from the side of his saddle and aimed toward one of the slopes. He could not see clearly through the curtain of snow and missiles, and his scarred left eye hindered his vision.
Giric turned his garron and waded through a tangle of horses and men who had fallen or dismounted. Beside and behind him, the knights drew their weapons, hoisted their shields, and circled their horses around in a protective flank, but some of their comrades had already fallen.
Highlanders swarmed down the slopes toward them, a filthy, bare-legged, bare-headed, plaided host, emitting unnerving shrieks, their faces distorted, their hair flying wild in greased braids. Some held dirks, some hoisted long, huge swords. Others carried spears, slingshots, or rocks.
Fearlessness gleamed in their eyes. A deep chill ran down Sebastien's backbone when he saw it. At the upper part of one hill, he saw Cormac and Struan MacNechtan. He realized that somehow they had arranged the ambush, probably long before the Normans had left Turroch.
He and his men were penned in the narrow pass, unable to go forward, backward, or up the slopes. Impeded by heavy armor and weaponry, and by warhorses unaccustomed to such terrain, they were not only trapped, but at a staggering disadvantage.
He raised his shield against thunking rocks, against the arrowheads and spears that slammed past him. He lashed out with his sword and cut a man down. An arrow sliced into his thigh, catching his armor, tearing it and zinging past. His arms and back ached from the force of the blows he withstood and the blows he gave.
Around him, he glimpsed his friends and comrades struggling with their attackers. He saw some of them fall from their mounts. Highlanders slipped between the jostling horses, bringing down some of the fine-blooded, bold animals with fast, cruel blades, while their riders fell, lost to two-handed swords.
Sebastien leaned low under his shield and slung his leg over the saddle to dismount and gain the ground. He stood and whipped his broadsword in a wide arc to bring down an approaching Highlander. He strived to keep to his feet, to protect his back, and to watch the back of whatever knight was closest to him. He heard his men's screams swell the haunting cacophony that echoed between the hills. His blood went cold in his veins, while he fought on and on.
A lightning-fast scan of the pass and the hills revealed the snow-frosted bodies of the fallen, lending them a strange pristine beauty. The wind muffled the cries of terror and rage and agony.
Sebastien felt an anguished cry of rage build within him. He felt will surge within him like fire. He shouted, loud and raw, a bellow from his depths, summoning the power and the pride innate in him, drawing strength and anger from his soul. He swung the sword and lunged, turned, thrust, swiped, and cleared his way out of a corner.
Unaware if he killed or hurt or merely pushed back the savages that swarmed and smothered the knights, he knew only that he was trapped, that he must free himself, that he must defend his comrades. He turned again, lunging, slicing. He saw a Highlander drag Hugo from his saddle. Leaping sideways, he locked blades with the man, deflecting his spear.
Robert turned from another direction and stood over Hugo's fallen form, swinging his sword to knock the Highlander to the ground. Sebastien glanced anxiously at Hugo and saw him stir, saw his rise to his knees and fall again. Robert dropped to a knee to pull at him.
Sebastien spun away again when he heard another terrifying savage shriek. He saw another Highlander charge at him, spear brandished, face wild. He balanced his sword, swayed his weight, ready to thrust, swinging his sword as the man lunged at him.
Each movement, each thought took on terrible clarity. Sebastien felt wrapped in fog, yet his core was crystalline. He saw what he must do at each moment to ensure survival for himself and for whatever comrade was near him, each way that he turned.
Every moment of the struggle showed him that victory was not possible here. Yet he had never lost, and would not allow the thought to enter his mind now.
Thrust, swing, lunge, turn, thrust: a chant formed in his head like a litany, until the words became one with the blows and the thrusts. He was fed by pure wrath.
He turned again, and saw Giric jerk backward, struck by a hurtled rock, then fall from his saddle.
Giric struggled to his feet, swaying, face bloodied, and swung his own great sword around his head to take down a man who lunged at him. Sebastien turned away as another Highlander advanced toward him, yelling. He could not look back to see if Giric had survived the moment.
Everywhere men twisted, shrieked, and fell among the graceful, whirling veils of snow. Sebastien fought fiercely, aware only of the instant, following instinct, abandoning slower thought.
The snow thickened and the wind grew wild, and the storm became a bitter fury, a stinging, unforgiving new foe for all, enemy and attacked alike. Sebastien spun and shouted and strived, constantly searching for a channel of escape that could take them all to safety. But none was evident.
Two Highlanders surged toward him, and he turned to take them both on. A third came from behind, and a fourth. He felt the heavy strike of a blow to his side. Slowly, in sharp and eerie focus, he glanced down and saw the torn surcoat, the ragged edges of mail, the red sheen of his own blood on the steel tip that withdrew. Yet he felt no pain.
He struck out in defense, and took the man down, then whirled. A fifth Highlander appeared beside him, wielding a claymore, as did many of the Gaels. As Sebastien turned to strike at him, he realized that this particular Highlander was fighting the men who surrounded Sebastien.
The man cut down one MacNechtan, then another, with vicious, powerfu
l blows of his sword while Sebastien fought the others, who dropped away, wounded.
Breathing hard, Sebastien paused, turned, and looked into keen blue eyes beneath dark, arched brows. He recognized the man who had once struggled with a wolf.
Ruari nodded to Sebastien abruptly and turned away, raising his sword again to aid Giric, who had risen and fought off two MacNechtans.
Stunned, deeply grateful, Sebastien lifted his shield and his sword and fought on through the whirling, bitter, engulfing whiteness.
Chapter 26
Alainna bent over the stone propped on her workbench, frowning in concentration. She maneuvered the chisel with a delicate hand, driving it with light taps of the mallet, as she carefully edged the tip around the elaborate twists and turns in an interlaced border. The chisel's path was a detailed design, drawn with chalk on the stone, which required caution and focus to follow.
Finan, lying in the warmth near the iron brazier, lifted his head and barked softly, then stood. Over the thunk of the mallet and scrape of the chisel edge, Alainna heard shouts in the bailey, and looked up.
She set aside her tools and went to the door to pull it open. The snow had thickened, and the light had a lavender sheen. The floor of the bailey was white and drifts had gathered at the base of the palisade. She wrapped her plaid over her head and shoulders against the wind, and stepped outside. The dog went out with her, and they moved side by side through a pale, stinging haze of snowflakes.
She saw Lorne, Niall, and some of the others running toward the gate, and she quickened her step while Finan ran ahead, barking furiously. "What is it?" she called to her kinsmen. "What has happened?"
Niall turned, gesturing with his single hand toward the entrance. "Giric and the knights are back! Aenghus saw them coming through the snow. Something has happened. Some of the men are wounded."
"Who is hurt?" she called, feeling the chill of true fear as she thought of Sebastien and her kinsmen wounded—or worse.
Niall ran past to join Lome and Aenghus as they lifted the wooden beam that secured the palisade gate. After they swung the gate wide, horses and riders began to straggle into the bailey. Giric rode in the lead, and Lulach followed behind.
Alainna sighed out with relief to see them safe. She scanned past him to see who followed, recognizing Robert, Etienne, Richard, and several other knights. Blood smeared their faces and darkened their armor and weapons. Lulach looked haggard but unhurt, while Giric's face was bloody. Alainna scanned them all frantically. Nineteen men had left that morning, but only thirteen came through the gate.
Sebastien was not with them. Her heart plummeted.
While her kinfolk helped the knights dismount, she ran toward Giric. He looked at her, his brow bruised and bleeding.
"Ach Dhia," she cried, reaching up to him. "Oh God, what happened? Where... where are the rest of them?" She looked toward the empty gate, then again at Giric.
She saw shock and sadness and devastation in his eyes, a look she had seen too often before in other kinsmen returning from battle. Sobs tore at her throat.
"Giric, what happened?" She reached for his hand.
"Ambush," he said hoarsely. His fingers did not grip hers. "Cormac betrayed our trust."
"He gave you no chance to speak with him?"
"We spoke. We met with him at Turroch," Giric answered. He wiped a hand over his face, streaking blood across his brow from a wound beneath his hair. "Sebastien gave them the king's message. We left for home." He sighed out, shoulders bowing. "They attacked us and trapped us in a pass between two hills. Cormac and Struan must have planned it well ahead of time, to be so many waiting for us. They must have taken a quick route to get there when we left Turroch. The Normans were trapped in their heavy armor, with their horses—not suited to—"
"Get down," she said, seeing him lean forward, weakening. "Let Morag or Una tend to your head quickly. Save the tale for later." She reached up to help him as he dismounted.
Around her, her elderly kinfolk assisted those who had returned, helping them to dismount and walk toward the hall, while the three squires came out and led the horses to the stable. Niall and Donal half carried Robert, who seemed unable to walk on his own. Lome led Etienne, whose arm was saturated in blood. Una approached with bandages and stanched the bleeding as they stood in the whirling snow.
Alainna gazed at the gate, but no others came through. Sebastien had not returned. She felt stunned, as if the breath had been knocked from her. She swallowed another sob as she supported Giric standing beside her.
"Giric... where is Sebastien?" she asked, dreading, hoping.
"He... I do not know,"—he gasped and shook his head—"I do not know where he is. I did not see him when we made our escape. Alainna, he fought like Fionn himself."
Her heart froze. Just then, Giric lurched and she instinctively slid her arm around his waist. He leaned his weight on her. Blood seeped down his face.
"Ach," she said. "Wait. You should not try to walk."
"It is nothing," he said. "I gave worse than this." More blood darkened his brow. He lifted his hand to cover the wound and stepped forward, Alainna under the weight of his arm.
"Una! Lome!" she called. They left the knights they were with to Morag and Donal's care and hurried toward them. Alainna handed Giric over to Lome's sinewy embrace, and Una pressed Giric's brow with a cloth. He nearly collapsed against Lome, and roused himself to look at Alainna. "I must tell you—" he began.
"Later," Alainna pleaded. "Not now. Go inside."
"You must know. Ruari was there," Giric rasped out.
Alainna stared at him. "Ruari?" She heard Lome echo her.
"Poor lad, he's having visions of those who have gone before," Una said.
"He lives there," Giric insisted. "He helped us, Alainna. When Sebastien was put upon by five men at once, Ruari fought at his back. And then he came to my aid, and saved Robert's life too. I saw that with my own eyes. We all did."
"Giric—" Lome began.
"Where is Ruari now?" Alainna asked quickly.
Giric shook his head. "I do not know."
Lome, frowning thoughtfully, nodded. "If Ruari is out there," he said, "we will find him. I will ask Donal and Aenghus to search for him."
Alainna looked at Giric, who nodded. She knew he felt the same tremendous relief that she felt. "Send them to the island on the loch," she said.
Lome agreed, while Una stared at all of them in disbelief, but neither of them asked questions. They guided Giric toward the tower, while Alainna turned away.
She lingered, watching the open, empty gate, where the snow blew in gusts. She felt as if a hole had formed in the center of her being, as cold and desolate as the deserted entrance.
A few men still stood in the bailey, though most had been helped into the tower. Two Norman squires soothed a restless horse and pulled him toward the stable. She saw nothing else. No one else.
She walked toward the gate and looked out. A gauzy white veil diminished the world beyond the fortress. She could barely make out the loch, and could see neither the Stone Maiden nor the forest and mountains.
The snow stung her cheeks, and the cold wind whistled around her, tugging at her plaid. She should go inside, she knew, and help those who had returned.
Yet she could not leave the gate. She stood like a pillar, alone in the whipping wind and snow, and wanted to plunge into the freezing haze to find him. Hugging her arms about herself, she stamped her feet against the cold, and waited.
She walked back and forth or stood prancing from one foot to the other for so long that darkness began to gather, lit eerily by the constantly falling snow. Numb and exhausted, Alainna paced, or stopped to scan the endless curtain of flakes. She was aware that she was watched now and then from the firelit doorway of the tower. But she could not go inside where it was warm, and where she was undoubtedly needed. She was needed here, too, to stand like a beacon at the gate.
To leave her sentry position would be to give up h
ope. She could not do that, for she was sure that she sensed Sebastien's presence like a heartfelt pull between them. She could only pray fervently that it was his living spirit she sensed, homing toward her through the increasing blizzard.
At long last, when she thought she could stand upright no longer, she saw a blur of figures emerging through the whiteness. A man on horseback slowly mounted the hill toward the palisade, leading other horses behind him. Riderless horses. Alainna gasped and ran forward as he cleared the top of the rocky slope and came toward the clearing that fronted the gate.
Sebastien swayed in a weary rhythm with the horse, a dirge of movement that tore at Alainna's heart to watch. In one hand he gripped the reins of three horses, which bore the bodies of five fallen knights. She nearly cried out, hands covering her mouth.
He rode through the frozen veil of snow, his face still and fierce. His mail coif sagged on his shoulders, his surcoat was torn and bloody, and his hair was matted and darkened. But he was alive. He was here, and her relief felt like golden sunlight.
She ran to him, skirts flying, feet wading through the powdered snow. "Sebastien!" she called, her voice catching on a rising sob. "Sebastien!"
He halted his horse. Alainna stopped an arm's length from the Arabian, whose creamy coat seemed eerily pale in the lavender light. The horse snorted, blew out, hung his head with weariness, and pawed at the snow that collected around his hooves.
Alainna looked up at Sebastien as the snow danced and deepened around them. He watched her, mouth hard, cheeks drawn, his silvery eyes vivid with sorrow, deep with a need that she had not seen in him before, as if she saw clear through to his soul.
She reached out. He grasped her hand fiercely, his fingers cold on hers, and let go. She sensed the devastation he felt, and tears filled her eyes.
She glanced past him at the bodies arched over the backs of the three horses he led. "So many," she said.
"Too many." The mellow voice that she craved to hear was wooden, flat. "Hugo is gone, Alainna. Hugo."
A sob wrenched her, but she stifled it, pressing a hand to her chest, looking at the sad burden of lost friends on the horses behind him. She knew Hugo had been like a brother to him.
Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] Page 28