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“Like a wildcat,” the guard gasped, nodding weakly. “She screamed. She gave up her position to warn us. I blew the horn… I fired on him.”

“Did ye hit him?” Caelan asked, his voice devoid of inflection though his eyes were black with rage.

“Aye,” the guard nodded again, clutching at his bleeding head. “Put an arrow straight through his thigh. I swear it, Me Laird. But he dinnae drop her. He dragged her into the southern forest. Three horses waiting in the clearing. They rode south.”

“South,” Caelan repeated softly.

“Comyn’s lands,” Duncan stated firmly, looking directly at Caelan. “Fergus Comyn is nae out there on the western wall. He sent his men to die against our stones while he slipped out the back with her.”

Caelan let go of the guard’s collar, allowing two younger soldiers to rush forward and drag the wounded man toward the healer’s quarters.

Caelan stood in the mud, staring blankly at the massive iron gates of his fortress. The flaming arrows continued to rain down around them, hissing as they struck the wet dirt. The deafening roar of Rowan’s men clashing against the invaders at the postern gate echoed loudly over the walls.

If he stayed, he could crush the siege. He could lead the countercharge, break Comyn’s forces against his walls, and secure his fortress.

But Mabel was currently bound to a horse, being dragged into the freezing night by a man who would gladly slit her throat the moment she stopped being useful to him.

He pictured the single drop of blood on her chamber floor.

Caelan turned his head slowly, looking directly at Duncan.

Duncan did not hesitate for a single second. The older warrior tightened his grip on his longsword, his face unreadable in the harsh torchlight.

“Go,” Duncan ordered. The single word cut cleanly through the noise of the battle.

Caelan stared at him. He did not issue a command. He did not ask if Duncan could hold the walls against the overwhelming numbers currently throwing themselves against the stone.

“We will hold Blackthorn Keep,” Duncan said, his voice dropping into a fierce, absolute vow. “Kill the bastards holding the ladders! Push them back!” Duncan suddenly roared at the men on the walls, taking over the command of the courtyard.

For one heartbeat, the Black Laird simply stared at his second-in-command. He looked at the man who had stood faithfully beside him through every single battle, every siege, and every long, freezing night on the borders for the last ten years. He offered no dramatic speech. He gave a single, rigid nod of silent, absolute gratitude.

Caelan turned his back on the western wall.

“Ewan!” Caelan barked, striding rapidly toward the stables.

“Aye, Laird!” a massive, red-bearded warrior yelled, rushing out of the defensive line.

“Saddle me horse,” Caelan ordered, his voice ringing with lethal purpose. He pointed his broadsword directly at a group of heavy cavalrymen waiting near the forge. “You. You. And you.” He rapidly pointed out five of the most vicious, heavily armed riders in his entire clan.

The five men stepped forward, their faces hardened for war.

“With me,” Caelan commanded.

He did not wait for their response. He did not grab his armor. He did not grab his boots. He took the leather reins of his massive black warhorse from Ewan and swung his bare, scarred body directly up into the saddle.

“Open the southern gates!” Caelan roared, pulling his horse’s head sharply around.

The men hauled hard on the iron chains. The massive wooden doors groaned, slowly parting to reveal the pitch-black, freezing expanse of the southern forest.

Caelan spurred his horse forward, abandoning his burning fortress to hunt down the only thing in the world that mattered to him.

28

“Hold the torches lower!” Ewan roared, pulling sharply on his leather reins. His massive chestnut gelding reared slightly, its iron-shod hooves slamming down hard into the freezing mud of the southern forest.

Twenty heavily armed MacCarron riders pulled their mounts to a halt, the sudden clatter of armor and shifting horses cutting sharply through the dense, freezing wind. The deafening clash of steel and the frantic alarm horns of Blackthorn Keep were gone now, swallowed by the miles of ancient oaks and thick brush they had just torn through.

Caelan pulled his black warhorse up beside Ewan.