“Perhaps”—Moira fairly spat the word—“this will be the battle to convince Rory he should leave off wi’ attacking us.”
At first it seemed it might be so. Rhian watched the battle ebb and flow, there at the loch side, certain she was able to pick out Alasdair, their spearhead. He fought like a whirlwind, and the other MacBeith warriors stood firm at his back.
They will defeat the MacLeods,she promised herself, and whispered a prayer over it.Drive them back into the water.
But slowly, slowly and silently for the distance, the battle turned. The dark wave made up of MacLeod warriors pushed out from the water, lapped at the MacBeith forces, and drove them back. Moira quit her pacing. Everyone on the walls stared in dismay.
Rhian stopped breathing as she leaned forward out over the stones, the better to see. The strong line of MacBeith defenders, silenced by the distance, began to break up and form small, fierce pockets of resistance.
A strong hand came out and clutched at the back of Rhian’s gown. Startled, she turned and stared into Farlan’s brown eyes.
“Careful, mistress. Ye could fall.”
Disregarding them, Moira called, “The battle has turned. The battle has turned! Prepare to defend the walls!”
The men on the ramparts scrambled, though there was little they could do so soon.
Moira juggled her weapons and turned to Farlan. “You stay here on the wall.”
“Wha’?”
“I am going out. To fight wi’ them.”
“My love,” Farlan said urgently, “ye canna!”
“I must.” Moira fairly wept. “I canna stand here and watch them slaughtered.”
“Moira.” Farlan seized her shoulders. “One more sword will no’ mak’ a difference.”
“It might.”
“The men here will no’ heed me,” he argued.
Indeed, many of the men on the wall listened to the exchange, their expressions hard.
A cry went up. “Alasdair! He is down!”
“Nay.” Moira threw herself at the wall. Farlan clutched at her. “Where? Where?”
“There, at the center,” Farlan replied. “That is Rory who has him.”
“Is he slain?” The measure of pain in Moira’s voice betrayed her great affection for the big man, far more to her than a war chief.
Impossible to tell from so far. The morning sun had risen, and Rhian narrowed her eyes against the glare.
Another cry went up, still sharper. A small figure had thrown itself at Rory, sword drawn in challenge.
Rhian choked on a cry. “Saerla!”
Horror struck everyone on the wall silent. Rhian strained to see, but the MacBeith forces contracted around the place where Saerla was, blocking her vision.
“Oh, God,” Moira whispered. “Please, God. Nay. Nay!”
Not Saerla. Not their wee sister, full of the mystical. Keeper of their light—
“I canna see,” Moira wept. “I canna see! I am going out there—”
Farlan tried to hold her back. He had no hope. In the end, he went with her, leaving the defense in the hands of a senior member of the guard. Rhian was left terrified and forsaken. Alone.
