Lachlan’s fingers opened without hesitation, and the pages written by Thomas Annesley swirled as if caught in time, twirling, floating, and then sliding into the flames, where they shimmered into red and black and yellow nothing.
“No!” Vaughn Hargrave roared.
And then all hell broke loose in Town Blair.
* * * *
Finley watched with her stomach in painful, stabbing knots as Lachlan stood near the balefire, what appeared to be sheets of parchment clutched in his hand.
“Oh my lord,” Kirsten breathed at her side. “Oh, my lord, Dand is alive.”
“Shh,” Finley said, watching Rory Carson closely now from where she and Kirsten peeked out from behind the corner of a house.
The Carsons were just coming into place around the perimeter of Town Blair’s green on quiet Highland feet, with their great swords, their daggers, their axes and staffs. Hargrave’s guards were not paying any attention to the darkness beyond the ring of houses, didn’t see the scores of Carson men surrounding their positions, waiting, waiting…
“Come on,” Finley whispered. She crouched and ran across the alley separating the houses, and then stepped up on a water barrel, hoisting herself up onto the low, sloped roof. She reached down and pulled Kirsten up, and then the two women crawled to the low peak of the house, looking over from the darkened backside. Finley reached down to ensure she’d not lost the blade attached to her shawl.
Marcas Blair was standing in the center of the green, speaking words Finley could not quite hear.
From the corner of her eye, she saw her father raising a fist in the air.
Then Marcas Blair went slowly, deliberately, to his knees.
Lachlan dropped the pages he was holding into the fire.
The frightening cry of Carson warriors filled the bowl of the green as they charged forward, taking the foreign guards by surprise. Marcas flung the small dagger he withdrew from his shawl, striking the guard nearest Lachlan in the neck, and then he raced to where Blairs roiled from benches and tabletops like the water going over the falls, diving for the pile of confiscated weapons. They came aright and at once sprinted to the perimeter to engage the English guards.
Crossbows twanged, metal on metal rang in the air, screams and grunts and wails sprang up like a fortress wall around the center of the green, where now Marcas Blair and Lachlan, swords in hand, circled slowly, opposite each other. In their midst stood Vaughn Hargrave and Harrell Blair, back to back.
A score or more of the English guards lay dead on the green already, and several were now fleeing—running, limping eastward from town, and Finley remembered the carts waiting in the dark. Was the cargo more weapons? Perhaps even the explosive fire used on Carson Town thirty years ago? If the escaping men were allowed to reach it, if their loyalty to Hargrave was true, they could destroy the populations of both towns in one devastating moment.
Finley raised up, trusting in the commotion below to mask her movements. She could see the shape of the horses in the distance, five or six houses away.
“I’ve got to reach the carts, Kirsten,” she said.
“Fin, if you’re caught, they’ll kill you!”
“If I don’t, everyone here could be in even greater danger. Both towns this time, Kirsten. I can’t let that happen.”
Kirsten stared at her with pleading eyes for a moment and then pulled Finley into a tight embrace. “You’re my best friend,” she whispered.
After a moment, Finley squeezed Kirsten to her. “And you are mine.” She pulled away and went to her stomach, sliding from the roof to land on her feet with anoof.
She slipped her blade from its sheath, crouched, and ran around the house, sticking to the shadows of the overhanging eaves, trying to shield herself from the sounds and sights of battle. One house, two…she paused, pressing her back flat against the wall as an English soldier lurched from between the houses, staggering, falling, his crossbow crashing to the ground. It fired, and the arrow whizzed toward Finley with a sick whine.
She screamed, felt a tug on her sleeve, and her blade fell to the ground as a slow, spreading ache bloomed in her arm. She looked to the right and saw her sleeve ripped open, her upper arm split in a line of fleshy red, the shaft of the arrow still lying against her, where the tip had opened the side of her arm.
She jerked away reflexively, and the arrow remained stuck in the wall behind her. But the pain spread up into her shoulder just as quickly as the blood flowed down her arm. She bent and picked up her dagger with her left hand and then pressed it and her palm against her wound as she struck out once more toward the makeshift corral, staggering into the middle of the widening street, blinking away tears.
The corral ropes had been torn down. Many of the able soldiers had mounted horses and bolted down the road, leaving the dead and dying behind, and Finley was grateful for the mercenary tendencies that prompted them to self-preservation over duty. Riderless horses milled about the track in a dusty panic, the torches sputtering in the road. Finley dodged the spooked beasts and ran toward the nearest cart, where she strained to lift the edge of the thick, heavy covering hiding the cargo to see the shadowy shapes of rows of padded earthen jugs, nestled together and affixed with corks. Finley squeezed beneath the tight canvas and reached in with a hiss at her burning arm to pull at one of the stoppers until it came free. She slipped from beneath the canvas and brought the cork to her nose and sniffed. The sharp odor took her breath, and set her nose and eyes running.
Finley looked around her, fighting the dizziness that suddenly swarmed over her like bees.
Hornets.Remember the hornets in Dove Douglas’s bed? Someone had to stand up to him, teasing all the girls so.
She sheathed her blade before struggling to loosen the cart horses with only one arm. She slapped their rumps, sending them galloping off into the darkness, the cart shafts drunkenly tipping up in the air, the earthen jars giving hollow thunks and rattles.
She shook her head to clear it. Now that the beds of the carts were raised, it was easy to retrieve a corner of the covering and pull it over the side, holding it down by her waist to twist it into a tight, spiraling point. Then she shoved the makeshift wick into the uncorked jug until it was wedged deep inside the neck of the bottle. Finley tipped the jug onto its side and smelled the volatile liquid as it began creeping up the tightly woven fabric and into the maze of batting.
