“I will come down once my bolts are spent.” A glance told her that her kin would soon be upon them. “Hie to your master. Keep him provided with the weaponry he needs. Now!” She knocked an arrow. “Or I will shoot you.”
They stared up at her with their hands fisted, looking like a pair of sullen children. “M’lord will not be pleased with this!” Tasgall shouted with a stomp of his foot.
“Not one bit,” Hendry added as if that would sway her.
She truly didn’t wish to waste any more time on these two, nor have to climb down and retrieve the arrow after she purposely missed them. With a tip of her head toward the approaching horde, she aimed at Tasgall, figuring him to be the more persuadable. “They are nearly here. Leave now, or I shoot at the count of seven. One, two, three…”
Tasgall grabbed Hendry by the shoulders and herded him back toward the stairs leading down from the parapet.
At last. She relaxed the bow and returned her attention to the Northmen charging them. It pleased her to see that the number of villagers joining Alrek’s forces had dwindled. The poor folk must have finally realized that he used them for shields, always placing them at the front to meet the enemy first.
Her focus found Thorburn at the front and center of his fearsomeGallóglaigh, flanked by his brothers. A massive wall of muscle and fury clad in spiked helms and chain mail. Each of them was strengthened by centuries of warring passed down through their bloodline. From this vantage point, she could deter any who might attempt to breach any vulnerable spots in the fortification, as well as watch after her Scottish bear. Her brother always sent guards to creep in where least expected. She would be prepared.
As she had thought, two of the Northmen slipped over the edge of the rocky promontory providing the foundation for the castle. Their intent to clamber unseen along the cliffside was foiled by her vantage point. With patience born from years of battling to stay alive, Adellis waited for the perfect mark. A pale neck was revealed by a loosened helm on one and the upturned face of the other. Her arrows found them both and sent them tumbling into the sea.
A familiar roar shot through her, yanking her attention back to the front of the stronghold in time to see Thorburn fell three of Alrek’s best. She recognized them by their breastplates, stained blood red, then marked in the center with a trio of white chevrons. If those three had made it this close, Alrek wouldn’t be far behind. He kept himself surrounded by his chosen.
At last, she spied him. Even though the cowardly fool fought at the rear, he set himself out by wearing their father’s helm. A red bascinet fitted with an inky black ventail and twisted horns wrought from iron. His spiked breastplate was stained red as well, lending to the effect of a demon rising from the deepest levels of Hell. While she wished to look him in the eyes when she killed him, she dared not risk him engaging Thorburn. Cowardly, Alrek might be, but also evil enough to do whatever it took to win and torture his opponent.
Adellis nocked an arrow in place and pulled back, waiting for the perfect shot. While she might be too far away to kill him, she could at least bring him to his knees. As he turned and prepared to lob a spear, she spotted her mark and released the bolt. It sank deep into his ribcage, and with any luck, made it clear to his black heart. He sagged to one knee, then fell to his side and went still. A shuddering exhale rattled out of her, and a cold sweat soaked her body.
“Forgive me, Mother,” she whispered with closed eyes. When she opened them, he still hadn’t moved, even when another fell across him. Even though she hated him, a jagged sense of loss sliced through her. A feeling like she had somehow killed a part of herself. She broke free of the eerie spell and scrambled down to the parapet. While skimming down the stairs to ground level, she sobbed. Jerking to a halt, she angrily swiped at the tears. What the devil was wrong with her? Why should she cry for one so vile as Alrek? Then it finally came to her. The tears were not from sorrow but release.
The ring of steel and guttural roars as warrior clashed with warrior faded to cries and groans of the wounded and the silence of the dead. She charged through the carnage, determined to look upon Alrek’s face, and mayhap even spit in it.
A powerful hand pulled her about. As she thumped against his chest, she tapped the tip of her dagger against Thorburn’s helm. “You should not startle me, my love, lest you find yourself piked on my blade.”
He grinned before ripping off the simple bascinet and tossing it aside. “And here I thought to allay my lady love’s fears as she searched in earnest for me.”
She stretched to kiss him, reveling in the scent of sweat and blood while his strength encircled her. “I love the taste of a man fresh from battle.” Taking care to sheath her blade, she firmly but gently pushed herself out of his arms. “But I must make sure he is dead.”
“Alrek?”
“Yes.”
He brushed a tender kiss across her forehead. “Lead on, m’love.”
“The one in the red helm, beneath those two.” She pointed as they walked around the dead and dying. A scream startled her, making her turn in time to witness one of theGallóglaighfinishing off a northman with a spear.
Before she could ask, her Scottish bear explained, “I dinna take prisoners.”
A chill swept across her. “You took me.”
“Aye, I did.” He made a long, slow scowling perusal of the bloodbath before settling a much kinder expression on her. “Ye are a woman, and I sensed a kindred spirit within ye.” His face darkened like storm clouds gathering over the sea. “I willna suffer any of these men to live and take up their weapons again once we have returned to Argyll.” His nostrils flared as if he smelled a stench. “I tire of this place and wish to be done with it. Do ye not feel so yerself?”
He was right to end them and hopefully prevent further uprisings. As much as she hated to see these men die, the fact that none of them had ever attempted to help her, nor would have mourned her death, did not escape her. “Yes. I am ready to be done with Mull.” She grabbed the shoulder of one of the bodies across her brother. “Help me. The red helm is who I seek.”
Thorburn dragged the rest out of the way, reached for Alrek’s helmet, then paused. He straightened and took a step back. “Do ye wish me to reveal him?”
“No. This is my task.” She stepped forward and stared down at the closed eyes behind the ventail, eyes blackened with soot to conceal them behind the bascinet. Taking hold of the twisted iron horns of the helmet, she yanked it away, then slammed the horrendous symbol from her childhood to the ground. “It is not him,” she forced through clenched teeth. “It is not Alrek.”
Thorburn stared at her. His features hardened, as if a sorceress had turned him to stone. “We will find him,” he swore with a low growl. “I willna rest ’til we find him.”
The unknown stabbed her like a jagged blade. Mocked her. Filled her with a need to retch. “He may not have even been among them.” She jerked around and stared off into the distance, wishing she had the power to envision where the sly demon hid. Another scream of a dying prisoner jolted her from her fuming. “Any who live must be questioned. Stop killing them!”
“Halt!” Thorburn’s bellow cracked like thunder. All movement ceased. Even the wind stilled. “Kill no more survivors until I order it so. Find the living and call out.” The order rippled from man to man, then the warriors returned to their sifting through the bodies, but slower and with more care.
“Here!” one called from beside the stone stairway leading to the arched entrance.
