by Mariah Stone
“Shoot the men with the ladders!” Marjorie cried.
She turned to Malcolm and Konnor. “I’ll go to the northern wall. Can ye hold the attack here?”
“I’ll come with you,” Konnor said.
“Aye, I’ll hold command here,” Malcolm said.
Marjorie and Konnor hurried along the wall, through the tower, and onto the northern wall. The MacDougalls were trying to lean the siege ladders against the wall, but the spikes at the base were hindering them.
“It’s working!” Marjorie said. “Konnor, it’s working.”
Konnor nodded, his eyes burning as he stared down at the attackers. They had archers, too. While John MacDougall was at the main gate, his first commander was probably here.
“Take aim,” a man on a horse in full armor cried, and a hundred or so archers lined up a few yards away and nocked arrows on bow strings.
“Take shelter!” Marjorie yelled, and the warriors knelt behind the shutters and behind their shields. Konnor sank to his knees and pulled her with him, covering them both with a shield.
“Loose!” came the call from behind the wall, and arrows thunked around them, jumping off the stone floor, piercing the wood. Konnor grunted a little as an arrow hit his shield.
They had enough time to take a quick breath before the enemy would shoot the arrows again while the archers reloaded their bows. Enough to take another shot and stop them. “Aim for archers,” Marjorie cried, rising to her feet. “Take aim! Loose!”
Arrows flew. The back and forth of arrows continued for a while. After some time, Marjorie looked down and froze. The MacDougall warriors were cutting down the wooden spikes. They’d cut enough to put the first siege ladder, and it already rising.
“Pour hot sand on the bastarts!” she yelled. The men lifted the cauldrons with heavy grunts and turned them over. Steam rose, and the air filled with the scent of hot stone. Men yelled in pain as sand fell on them and burned their skin.
As the men with cauldrons ran down for more sand, the iron hooks of the first ladder landed, clawing at the stone merlons. The attackers had a hard time climbing over the blade-sharp spikes that decorated the crumbled part of the wall. They hurt themselves and tried to avoid them, which slowed them down. If the spikes hadn’t been there, they would have easily climbed up and flooded the wall, but now there would only be one at a time.
The first enemy came, and Konnor stabbed his chest and pushed him back. The man fell with a yell. The next ladder swayed in the air on the other side of the wall, and Cambel warriors pushed it back before it could hook at the merlons.
The battle continued. More and more warriors came, but Marjorie’s men fought well and held the wall. She looked at the main wall and gasped. The siege tower stood directly by the wall, and MacDougall warriors poured from its wooden top. More men climbed the stairs of the tower to the platform at the top. Marjorie rushed to that wall to help fight the onslaught.
The castle shuddered with a loud, wooden knock. The battering ram!
“Cruachan!” she called to raise her warriors’ spirits. As she sprinted to the other wall, Konnor ran by her side. They slashed into the battle on the wall.
Thud. Thud. She wielded her sword against the shield of a warrior. She kicked him and pivoted in an unexpected move. She slashed at his unprotected side and kicked him off the wall.
She fought and fought. The clang of metal against metal, screams, and groans of pain rang out all around her. They’d defended the wall well, and there weren’t many MacDougalls left climbing, but the ram continued battering the gate.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A loud crack thundered through the air, and the MacDougalls yelled in a triumph.
No, no, no! They poured into the courtyard. Colin! He was locked in his bedroom, and Tamhas stood protecting him. She needed to send more men there.
They could win this. The MacDougalls had lost a significant amount of their forces, and now the Cambels had a real chance of victory. She just couldn’t let anyone get to Colin.
Marjorie rushed down into the courtyard with Konnor right after her. They dove into a battle there. She had no idea how long they fought, but it felt like an eternity.
And then she saw John MacDougall.
He was ten feet away and walked towards Konnor, who’d been separated from her and was finishing off the man he was fighting. MacDougall’s sword dripped blood, and his chainmail glistened in the dull dawn light. His white hair was in disarray.
Marjorie ran, her blood seething in her veins. He swung his sword at Konnor, but before he could strike, Marjorie roared.
“MacDougall!”
He stopped and looked at her. His face fell in astonishment, and he stepped back. Marjorie stopped before John with her sword in her hands, assuming a fighting position.
She snorted. “Oh, aye. Did ye think I was going to shrink and die like a crumpled wee flower? Nae. Never. How do ye like this?” She indicated at the battlefield with her claymore. “I’m a sword forged by the fire ye’ve set under me.”
John’s expression changed from surprise to anger.
“Ye are nae a sword. Just a wee lass playing the games of grown men. Ye couldna do anything then. Ye canna do anything now.”
Marjorie shrank back internally. The helplessness she’d known all too well from twelve years ago weighed her down. Her ribs tightened around her lungs, and her insides felt as though they’d been scraped away, leaving her hollow.
“Ye think ye will stop me?” John MacDougall roared. “Come and try, wee bitch.”
Wee bitch—that was what Alasdair had called her. Her arms hung helplessly. Konnor, probably seeing her expression, raised his sword, his face distorted in a furious mask.
But she couldn’t let him. She couldn’t let anyone finish her battle for her. She’d hidden behind the castle walls long enough. Whether she died today or the MacDougall did, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she’d fight her own battles.
“Dinna ye dare, Konnor,” Marjorie called. “He’s mine.”
Konnor grunted and stilled. The MacDougall looked at him like he were a helpless pup.
“Aye, lad. Go and play with the others. This doesna concern ye.”
Marjorie’s heart thumped in her throat. Alasdair was dead. But his father stood before her. As the chief of his clan, he could have returned her home, could have set his son straight, could have ended the madness of everything Alasdair had done right under his nose.
She held her claymore in both hands. They tingled with the need to fight the last man alive responsible for her broken life and for her broken self.
She would be the flame-forged blade. For her son, for herself, and for Konnor, the man who had come from another time to fight at her side.
Her arms filled with energy, like lightning flowed through them. Her claymore became an extension of her arms. Her cheeks hot, her muscles straining against her skin, she planted her feet wide.
The MacDougall limbered up his neck and rolled his mighty shoulders. Despite his age, he was a dangerous opponent. He took his sword in both his hands. A guttural roar escaped his throat, “Buaidh no bas!” He launched at Marjorie.
She cried, “Cruachan!” and darted forward.
Their swords clashed. The impact knocked Marjorie back, stealing her breath. She gasped and attacked again, only to meet the rock-hard resistance of his claymore.
Marjorie and John MacDougall circled each other. She searched for weaknesses in him, her muscles taut. He was big. She was small. He was stronger, but she was faster.
Malcolm’s words echoed in her head, “In a real battle, that unexpected move might be why ye win.”
That was what she needed to do. Surprise him, just like she and her people had surprised the MacDougall camp.
She kept moving in slow circles to disorient John. He came at her, striking down into her sword over and over. Her arm absorbed the impact, and it resonated painfully in her bone marrow. The sound of metal rang in her ears.
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br /> There was a small moment of opportunity, and she stroked with her blade from the side, ripping into his chainmail. MacDougall roared with pain and slashed at her with his claymore. Marjorie stepped back, but not fast enough, and the blade went through her leather armor and bit into the flesh of her shoulder.
“Arghhh!” she cried. Unexpected pain burst into flames. The shock of it, her first real battle wound, caused her to fall still for a moment. That was a mistake. Because MacDougall did not stop. He slashed low. Only the instinct honed over years of daily training helped Marjorie block his blade with hers and avoid her thigh being cut open.
MacDougall raised his sword to give her a death blow, but Marjorie spun out of the way and it hit the ground beside her. She thrust her sword upward, ripping open his chainmail and sinking it between his ribs.
The man roared. She pulled her sword back and pointed it at his neck, about to kill him.
But she stopped.
Did she have to kill him? She could take him prisoner. But she’d won the fight. She’d wounded him. She was strong. That was all she’d wanted to prove to herself—and to the MacDougalls. She didn’t need to take his life or his freedom.
She kicked his sword out of his hands and looked around. The battle stopped. Archers stood on the walls, their arrows pointing at the remaining MacDougalls. The men were exhausted, but many glanced at her and John MacDougall with a question in their eyes.
“Leave,” Marjorie spat. “Take yer men and leave if yer life is dear to ye. And never come on our lands ever again.”
“Ye dinna decide over my life. Ye won, wee bitch. Finish me. Kill me. Dinna ye want me dead after what we did to ye?”
Marjorie’s arm jerked a little.
“Oh, I want to kill ye. But I wilna take my son’s grandfather’s life. Take yer loss and crawl back to yer castle, and live with the knowledge that ye’ll never see yer grandson. That the wee bitch won. That she’s stronger in every way than ye.”
Taking someone by force and torturing them wasn’t strength. Strength was coming back from it and choosing not to take a life. Making the choice was the strength.
The strength was hope.
And she had it now.
Chapter 25
Colin peeked from behind the merlon at the retreating remnants of the army that had just attacked his home. Arthur, his wooden sword, shook in his hand. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard as he watched the big man with white hair attack his mother.
“Ye’ll never see yer grandson.”
That was his other grandfather—an enemy of his clan. A MacDougall.
His family had never told him who his father was, but Colin wasn’t a simpleton. He suspected something bad had happened to his mother.
And now he knew that this MacDougall’s son had done bad things to her. He knew his mother was strong and kind and capable. But sometimes, he’d see her stare into the distance with a sad look in her eyes.
Colin knew now that she looked like that when she remembered the bad things that had happened to her. He wished with everything that he was to shield her from the memories, even with his wooden sword.
After all, his mother and Glenkeld were in danger because of him. His evil grandfather could come back and hurt his mother to get to him. He should be like Uncle Ian and his Great Grandfather Colin. Brave. Capable. He should protect his mother and his clan.
No one would suspect a wee lad like him to follow them. He could get close and kill the MacDougall when he didn’t suspect it.
Colin looked around. Everyone was busy. Mother was helping with the dead and wounded. Isbeil commanded the clan about, directing the wounded into the great hall. Tamhas, who had left his post by Colin’s door when the MacDougalls retreated, was helping carry the fallen warriors. Konnor was bandaging a wound on someone’s leg. There was no one on the walls anymore, save for dead bodies.
His grandfather’s sword!
He hurried into his bedchamber. After Konnor had fought Colin’s attackers, the sword had been cleaned and oiled and hung on the wall, glistening like new. Colin stood on a chest and took the hilt with both his hands. With a grunt, he lifted the weapon, only to have it sink back down and fall on the floor. It was almost as long as he was. No. He needed something smaller and lighter.
A dagger!
Colin hurried back to the wall. He saw a dagger lying next to a dead warrior. He grasped it, hid it behind his belt, and quickly sprinted down into the courtyard, through the broken gates, and after the MacDougall army, unnoticed by anyone.
Konnor frowned as he watched a tiny figure run through the castle gates and crouch behind a bush. He’d came to take any wounded from the northern wall down into the great hall where Isbeil could help them.
Given the disadvantage in numbers, Konnor was relieved at how few casualties they had. Most of the dead bodies belonged to the MacDougalls. As far as Konnor could see, Glenkeld had lost about fifteen men, though every single one who was still alive had wounds of some sort.
The small figure peeked from behind the bush, rose, and sprinted after the MacDougall army. A boy. There was something familiar about him… A white stick swung violently attached to the boy’s waist as he ran. A sword?
A wooden sword?
That couldn’t be…
Konnor’s blood chilled. Someone went passed him. “What the feck are ye looking at, man?” Tamhas asked him as he walked towards the nearest body. “Dinna have nothing to do?”
“Where the fuck is Colin, Tamhas?” Konnor growled.
“In his chamber, of course.” But his voice didn’t sound confident at all. Tamhas stopped and followed the direction of Konnor’s gaze.
Without saying a word, Konnor ran to check Colin’s bedroom.
Empty!
Tamhas stopped behind his shoulder. “No, no, no!” He darted towards the round stairs and down. “I left to help with the wounded when the MacDougalls started leaving.”
Konnor dashed after him, his heart beating heavily in his chest. His legs didn’t move fast enough, as though his feet weighed a ton and felt as cold as ice.
Tamhas ran towards the stables, and Konnor followed him, but all the horses were unsaddled.
“Goddamn it,” Konnor growled. “I’m going after him on foot. He isn’t that far.”
“Aye, man. I’m coming.”
Konnor’s muscles were tired from a sleepless night full of physical strain, battle, and nerves, but he gathered the remnants of his strength and willed his body to ignore the burning pain in his ankle. He sprinted after the boy.
The grass flashed under his boots, and a breeze chilled his sweaty body under the tunic and the leine chroich. There, he saw Colin about a mile in front of him, a small figure, about to run into the forest. He and Tamhas ran faster.
Konnor hoped the MacDougalls wouldn’t see the boy. If they did, and John MacDougall realized who the boy was, that was it. There was no way he’d let the boy go. The battle would start again, and no matter how wounded John was, there was no way the Cambels could win out in the open like this.
They’d lose Colin.
Konnor couldn’t imagine what that would do to Marjorie.
He had to retrieve him. He and Tamhas had to. Konnor sped up.
By the time they reached the first trees, Konnor was out of breath, and sharp pains from running stabbed his stomach. Tamhas and he stopped and hid behind the trees and peeked.
“There he is,” Konnor said.
A white tunic flashed between the trees half a mile or so before them.
“Let’s go, man,” Tamhas said.
Panting, they both resumed the pursuit. Konnor’s whole body felt like it was on fire. He was so tired. At some point, his mind went blank with exhaustion while his body kept running. He blinked the sweat from his eyes and saw that about two hundred yards before them, one of the MacDougalls had caught Colin and dragged him forward by his shoulders.
Konnor went cold. His foot caught a root, and he tumbled down, scraping hi
s palms raw.
“Go!” he yelled to Tamhas while he was getting up.
Goddamn it! He didn’t believe in magic, or God, or much of anything, but at this moment, he prayed. To God, to the universe, even to Sìneag the Highland faerie. Please, let us save the boy. Please, let us get him back.
Tamhas sped up, his long, dark hair flying on the wind behind him. He drew his sword.
“Stop!” he yelled, and the MacDougall stopped and turned.
His eyes widened.
“Tamhas!” Colin cried.
The MacDougall brought his dagger to Colin’s neck. “Stay back,” he said, “or I’ll cut his neck. I ken who this is. The MacDougall’s bastart grandson. I will take the lad to him. He wants him alive, but he willna mind if the lad is scratched a wee bit.”
Konnor stopped and panted, trying to steady his breathing. He drew his sword and pointed it at the man. He wasn’t tall, and he didn’t look strong, for that matter, but he did have their boy.
“One movement, and I will cut his neck open.”
Where was the rest of the MacDougall army? Konnor and Tamhas could take the man easily. He glanced farther into the forest and saw the backs of men and carts moving away in the distance between the trees.
Konnor looked at Tamhas, who caught his eye. Konnor made a barely noticeable movement with his head, indicating to Tamhas that he should circle the man from the left side while Konnor did the same from the right. Tamhas gave the tiniest nod.
But the MacDougall’s nostrils flared, and he whistled.
Oh, for the love of—
The men who were last in the procession looked back at him, and three of them hurried towards their companion.
Hell. Four against two, and one hostage.
One of them had a long spear with a single-edged blade and a sharp end. The other one held a long-handled ax, and the third had a mace.
The spear gave the first one the advantage of distance, and Konnor had seen how a mace could smash helms and armor. It could crush a man’s skull easily. The ax was a simple weapon, but its long pole also gave the enemy the advantage of distance, while having a larger blade to injure a man.