The loch side came in sight with boats ranged all along the shore. More boats still floated their way in. Saerla heard Moira’s voice up ahead. She had engaged the enemy.
Please to all the gods. Perhaps Moira would accomplish her task for her. Because Moira was as much a warrior as any of these others around her, and Rory MacLeod would likely be among the first ashore.
Someone touched her on the arm. Calan, having caught up after taking Alasdair back into the stronghold. They often fought near each other in battle and, indeed, had been together when Da took his death wound.
Now he cried, “We are to fire their boats! Come wi’ me!”
Aye, a group of them had brought torches. It made a good plan, but she shook her head.
And ran on.
Later she would wonder what would have happened had she followed Calan instead. Destiny laid out more than one path. A woman had to choose.
Chaos and slaughter already possessed the loch side. The crashing of arms. Wholesale battle, cries of anger and pain. Every instinct bade her retreat from that. She ran into it instead.
She did not know why she’d never taken a dire wound in a battle. Only mere slashes, a cut to the arm, a slice to the fingers. She was quick, aye, but not half so strong as her opponents. ’Twas as if she were charmed, protected. And aye, she spoke charms, whispered them under her breath now. Most everyone did.
Despite the torches, which circled behind the MacLeod forces, she found it hard to see. The colors of tartan faded in the dark. Men seethed together. How was she to find Rory?
He’d be at the center of things. The spearhead. The place where death shone brightest.
She must take herself there.
Though she’d never been badly wounded in any battle, that did not mean she would not meet death this night. As sheadvanced, delivering blows right and left when she saw a face she did not know, the threat of death increased. She could feel it.
A man twice her size engaged her. She had one glimpse of a snarling face before she whirled, faster than he expected, and sliced him across the belly. Not waiting to watch him fall, she rushed on.
She caught sight of Moira up ahead and fighting well. Could this be her sister? She looked like any other warrior. Saerla could not see Rory, but she heard shouting, hollering, roars of hate and demand splitting the night.
She had nearly reached the water. Boats, aflame here and there, provided a weird, orange radiance, against which…
She saw him. Rory MacLeod.
He stood like a wolf at bay, a number of MacBeith warriors ranged against him. One or two of his own men fought at his back, virtually in the water. Not Moira—nay, her sister was not here, and Saerla had outdistanced Farlan.
Killing Rory MacLeod was up to her.
For an instant only she eyed the man, taking his measure. A big man, and lithe with it, he had a flying mop of black hair, his face fixed in a savage grimace.
A sword came at her from the left. Almost without thinking, she knocked it aside, her eyes still fixed on her prize. Without hesitation, she ran forward, howling.
*
Rory fought withthe single-minded concentration that always possessed him on the field. Figures rushed at him out of the dark. He took them down as swiftly as he could, not allowing himself to be caught out.
He had three goals. Take out the MacBeiths’ war chief, if he had somehow dragged himself onto the field. Take out thewoman who had set herself up as chief—Moira MacBeith. After that, the third goal, breaching their walls, should be easy.
He had to find those two targets first. And these bastards just kept coming at him.
He answered the blows with efficient ones. To the belly. To the throat. At his back, many of his boats had been set afire. It did not matter. Once he took the stronghold, he would use it for a temporary headquarters.
Mayhap he’d live here for a time. Fulfill the dreams of his ancestors.
A blade came at him. He ducked and whirled and took out its owner. Time to move forward away from the water and—
A shadowy form flew at him, erupting out of the darkness. It moved with unusual speed, soaring over the turf with a bright sword in its hand. Before Rory had time to blink, the warrior was upon him, nothing more than a slim figure with furious eyes.
Acting on pure instinct, he raised his sword. The MacBeith warrior whirled, his sword becoming a blur, and swung at Rory.
