“Where’s the map?” Ivar said.
Twenty minutes later, the four Norsemen stood together around the war table, their expressions bleak. Freyr leaned against the far wall. Bjorn held the door.
“How long has he had her?” Erik asked from his position near the hearth, his one elbow resting on his knee while his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Two days.”
“Dae we ken if she’s alive?”
“His terms demand I surrender territory.” Ragnar tilted his head slightly. “I’d wager he daesnae get any leverage from her bein’ dead.”
“What dae we ken about the stronghold?” Magnus asked, his expression grim.
“Everythin’.” Ragnar said, his voice low.
“Mingary Castle.” Freyr stepped forward, pointing at the map. “We captured one of the bastards a while ago.” His finger tapped on the map. ““Tis quattin’ on the cliff, ugly, and built tae survive Atlantic gales. There’s a single gatehouse on the landward approach.” He stepped back, crossing his arms.
Ragnar pushed back from the table. “I reckon Douglas took it through debt leverage—nae by siege or by blood. His garrison’s sixty tae seventy men, if that. And we’ve seen firsthand that half of ‘em couldnae swing a blade straight if their wretched’ lives depended on it.”
“And the other half?” Erik asked.
“Trained. Armed. Loyal tae Douglas’s coin, if nae tae Douglas himself.”
“So, we buy them,” Ivar said, examining his nails, a sharp predatory smile spreading his lips.
“Nay,” Ragnar said, turning to face them. “We’re better than that scum. The world might think us savage, but we fight fair.”
“What are yer orders, me jarl?” Freyr said his spine straightening as he noted the sharpening in Ragnar’s eyes.
“We rip them apart.” Ragnar said, his voice carrying absolute authority.
Ivar’s mouth twitched. “Inelegant. But more fun.”
“Aye.” Harald’s voice came. “What’s the plan?”
“From what we ken, the only land approach funnels through open moorland intae the gatehouse.” Freyr traced it with his finger. “Classic killin’ ground. Hewantsa frontal assault.”
“Then we dinnae give him one.” Ragnar leaned forward, both fists on the table. “Erik. Southern cliffs at low tide. There’s a sea cave—narrow, knee-deep at its shallowest—that opens intae a gully running up tae the curtain wall’s blind side. Ye go over the wall before dawn and take the gatehouse from the inside.”
Erik studied the route. “Tight.”
“Ye’ve managed tighter.”
A flicker at the corner of Erik’s mouth. “Aye. Once or twice.”
“Magnus, Harald—yer ships hit the western beach at first light. Longboats only, oars muffled. Put warriors on the ground and drive ‘em inland. Cut off the moorland. Naebody leaves.”
“Archers on the northern cliffs?” Magnus traced the beach with his thumb.
“Unmanned. Douglas hasnae got the numbers tae cover every approach, and he’s too arrogant tae think anyone would try the beach,” Ragnar said, pushing off the table.
“Harald, ye take twenty men and take ‘em along the outer defenses.”
Ragnar’s eyes drifted over their faces. “I’ll push through the gatehouse once Erik’s opened it.”
His eyes settled on Ivar. “Ivar, ye cover me flank.”
Ivar’s grin resurfaced for a single heartbeat—sharp, predatory, entirely too pleased. “Och, I dae love a good flank.”
