“I have to go!”
Without another word, he spun on his heel and ran from the library.
Chapter Nine
The clanging ofthe warning bell didn’t let up, ringing through the castle like a banshee’s wail and bringing Arran’s warriors running. Some burst out of the great hall, half-eaten food clasped in their fists, some came clattering down the stairs, hastily strapping on weapons, and as Arran stepped into the courtyard, he saw others streaming from the training ground, the stables, the guardhouses.
They gathered around Mal who stood in the middle of the bailey bellowing orders, his voice only just audible above the racket emitting from the bell tower.
Arran ran up to him. “What news?” he yelled. “What’s happened?”
“Raid in progress at Tollman’s Gate.”
Arran went cold. “The same ones who hit the fishing fleet?”
Mal shrugged. “We dinna have any details. Only that Tollman’s Gate is calling for aid.”
Arran turned to survey his hastily assembling warriors. They all knew the drill by now and had responded in quick time the moment the warning bell began to sound.
“Warriors of Clan MacLeod!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the noise of the bell. “We ride to relieve Tollman’s Gate! It seems the bastards that destroyed our fleet are back! How about we go teach them a lesson that will have them terrified to set foot on Skye for the rest of their lives?”
An almighty cheer rumbled around the bailey and many of his men drew their claymores and brandished them in the air, the sunlight reflecting off their bright blades.
Grooms and pages came running, leading horses that had been hastily tacked. The stable master led Bran over to Arran and held him steady while Arran swung into the saddle and grabbed the reins. One of the pages held up Arran’s claymore which he strapped across his back and then his longsword which he belted to his hip.
Yanking on the reins, he pulled Bran around to face the gates. As he did so, he caught sight of his mother, Ingrid, and some of the other women of Dun Tabor standing on the steps, their faces pale with worry. He didn’t have time to speak to them. Instead, he rose in his stirrups, drew his claymore one handed, and bellowed, “We ride! Ride for Tollman’s Gate!”
Then, slamming his claymore back into its scabbard, his set his heels to Bran’s flanks and the horse sprang forward at an urgent gallop. Arran led his men out of Dun Tabor, a long column of horsemen flowing behind him like a river in full spate.
They thundered down the road from Dun Tabor’s gate and through the village, the villagers crowding the side of the road and cheering as they passed. But Arran took no pride or comfort in their show of support. He did not feel like cheering. Instead, his gut churned as though it was filled with hissing snakes and a sick sense of dread settled on him.
He and his men had arrived too late to stop the attack on his fishing fleet. They wouldnotbe too late today. He could not,wouldnot, allow it.
He led the charge at a blistering pace, trusting Bran to keep his footing, hardly taking notice of the landscape as they sped the ten or so miles along the coastal road towards the southern settlement of Tollman’s Gate. He scanned the sea as they rode, looking for any sign of ships. There were none. Whoever these attackers were, they musthave come around the southern tip of the island in an effort to evade detection.
In that, at least, the raiders had failed. Arran had set up a warning system, with a series of strategically placed watchtowers set on high ground where they had a good view of the sea, with access to a series of fast-horsed messengers that could bring the news of attacks to their nearest garrison or to Dun Tabor itself. It had not been enough to save the fishing fleet, but maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to save Tollman’s Gate.
Finally, they rounded a headland and came in sight of the settlement. Tollman’s Gate was a prosperous village protected from the worst of the weather by a series of rocky islets that dotted the coast in this part of Skye. The settlement had become important for both trade and feeding the island due to the abundant shellfish that could be found in its relatively shallow waters. And this, no doubt, was why the raiders had chosen it as their next target.
Two ships, Norse by the look of them, were anchored in the bay, with several smaller boats pulled up on the shingle beach. Inland, backing onto the base of a craggy hill, lay Tollman’s Gate itself. A wave of attackers ringed the settlement and the bellow of men and the clash of steel could be heard even at this distance. But unlike the fishing boats, Tollman’s Gate was not undefended.
At Arran’s command, the settlement had been fortified by a deep ditch and rampart up which an attacker would have to scramble while being attacked from above. He’d left a small garrison of trained warriors here as well, and every able-bodied man in the settlement had been trained to use a bow.
That training was in evidence now as a cloud of arrows rained down from the rampart. Some found their mark, embedding themselves in throats or limbs, but most thudded harmlessly into the round wooden shields that the attackers held above their heads. The defenders of Tollman’s Gate seemed to be holding their own though,and only a few of the raiders had made it over the rampart and these had been swiftly dealt with.
But this state of affairs could not last. The raiders far outnumbered the defenders and, as Arran watched, he could already see gaps springing up in the defender’s line, and attackers hurrying to take advantage.
“Mal, yer men take the left flank, Angus, ye take the right,” Arran bellowed. “The rest of ye, with me!”
His men peeled off to right and left while Arran led the charge in the center, straight up the road that led to Tollman’s Gate’s fortifications. He drew his longsword, nudging Bran to the greatest speed the horse could muster, and felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a feral snarl. A cold fury burned in his gut as his eyes swept over the sea of attackers. Here were the men who thought it their right to take what they wanted, to kill and pillage, and shatter the lives of Arran’s people.
He would make them regret their arrogance.
He heard a high, wild screaming sound, and realized that it was coming from his own throat, a vocalization of all the fury and helplessness that had dogged him for months.
He slammed into the raiders without slowing, scything left and right with his longsword, feeling it bite into flesh and bone, and sending a spray of iron-tasting blood across his face. Bran fought too, kicking and bucking, and staved in the head of a man coming at Arran from the left.
All became chaos. All became a seething melee of bodies and blades, of shouting and screaming, of the stink of blood and voided bowels. His men moved to his left and right, cutting and parrying with their longswords and trying to drive a wedge through the attackers to reach the defenders on the fortifications.
