He spun just in time to see a sable blur come streaking around the bend into the clearing. Snaffles! The giant dog leapt, slammed into O’Connell, and sent him sprawling to the ground. And just like that, everything changed. With O’Connell’s knife gone from his throat, Magnus was suddenly free. In a flash, he knelt and ran his bonds back and forth along O’Connell’s dropped dagger, sawing them through.
McRae’s shock swiftly turned into seething rage. “Restrain him! Get that damned dog off O’Connell!”
Magnus grabbed O’Connell’s dagger, jumped to his feet, and spun to face the oncoming tide. He took a fighting stance, but a voice suddenly cut through the hubbub.
“Stop right where you are or your lord dies!”
He knew that voice.
He turned to see Isabelle standing behind Eamon McRae. She’d got a knife from somewhere and was pressing the point against the back of McRae’s neck. What? Where had she come from? He should have guessed that where Snaffles was, Isabelle wouldn’t be far behind. But here? Now? In the middle of all this?
Somehow, as they’d all been distracted by Snaffles, she’d managed to sneak around the outside of the clearing and come up behind Lord McRae.
“I mean it!” she yelled, her eyes flashing. “Stop or he dies!”
For a moment, everything was still. Every eye was on Isabelle, the delicate maiden who had suddenly become a fierce warrior.
Magnus drank in the sight of her, hardly daring to believe that she was really here. Her chestnut hair was a wild halo around her face, her cheeks were flushed with determination and her hazel eyes blazed. His chest filled with pride. She was here, his Isabelle. She was like some warrior goddess of old.
“Ye heard her,” Magnus growled, breaking the silence. “Drop yer weapons.”
“Ye dinna have it in ye, lass,” McRae taunted her. “Ye are too soft-hearted to kill.”
Isabelle’s eyes flashed dangerously as she pressed the blade deeper against McRae’s neck. “Try me.”
McRae’s lips curled in a sneer. “Look around ye, lass. How do ye expect this will turn out?”
McRae’s men were beginning to creep closer, weapons drawn. Magnus brandished his knife, Snaffles at his side, but he knew the two of them wouldn’t be enough to defend Isabelle against so many.
McRae laughed harshly. “Ye are outnumbered and if ye dinna put down that knife, neither of ye will get out of this alive. We had a deal, Magnus. Reneg on it now and I swear by all that’s holy that each and every one of yer Order brothers who came here today will die. Along with this woman ye seem to care so much about. Ye canna win. Do the smart thing and give it up.”
Magnus’s chest tightened. McRae was right. There were at least twenty of McRae’s men gathered around them. Fartoo many for Magnus to face alone. If he wanted Isabelle and his sword-brothers to live, he had to agree to McRae’s terms.
“All right,” he breathed, throwing down the knife and raising his hands in surrender. “Give me yer word that Isabelle and my Order brothers will live, and I’ll stick to our bargain.”
Isabelle’s eyes widened as she looked at him. “What are you doing? You can’t give up!”
“Look around, lass,” Magnus replied. “There are too many. I willnae let them hurt ye or Snaffles or my brothers. This is the only way.”
Slowly, he saw despair seep into her eyes. The arm that held the knife began to shake. “But...but...”
Snaffle’s head suddenly came up, his ears pricked, and he gave a low ‘uff’ of warning. Magnus stilled, wondering what had caught the dog’s attention. Then he heard it: a low sound like thunder which Magnus recognized instantly.
The tramp of boots. Many boots moving quickly, coming closer. And then another sound, louder, drowning out the thunder of feet. An almighty roar, as from many throats, and the sudden clash of steel on steel coming from around the bend.
“What the blazes?” McRae snapped. “Somebody go and see what’s going on!”
But before any of his men could obey, a host of people suddenly burst around the corner, flooding into the clearing in an unstoppable wave.
Magnus’s eyes widened. These were not warriors. They were villagers, men and women both, brandishing anything they could get their hands on—pitchforks, axes, even oldmuskets. Amongst their number he made out Morwenna and Able, and at the head of the group strode another man he recognized. It was the same man who had blamed Magnus for the death of his father and brother and vented his grief through fists and bitter words in the ruined village. What was his name? Drew? Now he’d become the villagers’ focus, leading them against the men who had truly caused their suffering.
“Yes!” Izzy whooped in delight. “I knew they’d come!”
“Throw down yer weapons!” Drew shouted at McRae’s men. “Or it will go ill for ye!”
The villagers formed an angry, bristling line facing McRae’s men. They might not be trained warriors, but they outnumbered McRae’s forces three to one and even villagers armed with pitchforks and rusty blades could do a lot of damage with such odds in their favor.
“What are ye waiting for?” McRae bellowed at O’Connell. “Destroy this rabble!”
