Halvard was there, as was Callum, both already armed, their expressions grimly resolute. A handful of the best soldiers followed. Kenneth spurred Arkan forward, and they thundered out of the gate at a gallop, hooves striking sparks from the frozen ground.
The trail was not difficult to follow. Footprints had scored the snow beyond the walls, leading away from the postern gate and into the sheltering line of trees. The marks grew deeper and more erratic as they went. The signs of struggle reassured him that Selene had been taken alive.
He leaned low over Arkan’s neck, urging him faster, his eyes never leaving the trail through the snow.
They rode through the woods where branches clawed at their cloaks and the air smelled of damp earth and pine. Beyond thetrees, the sea rose and fell, its hollow roar echoing along the shoreline.
Kenneth’s heart hammered against his ribs, each beat a brutal reminder of what was at stake. He raged at the men who had dared lay their hands on Selene, at the boy who had been used to draw her out, and at himself for hiding the truth of danger so that she went, unwitting, through the postern gate into Aidan’s hands.
Beneath the heat of his rage lay an icy fear, one he refused to name, driving him onward with merciless force.
He would find her.
And when he did, God help the men who had taken her.
They saw the thin, grey plume of smoke rising above the line of the dunes, before they saw the men.
Sending up a silent prayer that this time the men had not left their encampment, Kenneth reined Arkan to a halt and lifted a hand, signaling the others to stop. The riders silently gathered behind him.
Kenneth studied the shoreline ahead and the sweep of scrub and rock that could conceal far more than it revealed. Even from that distance he sensed the imbalance of numbers. There were too many tracks heading toward the direction of the campfire.
A moment’s grim calculation told him they were seriously outnumbered.
He understood then what that was.
Selene was the bait. Aidan would be counting on Kenneth’s pursuit. He had set his trap, now it lay open, its jaws ready to snap shut.
Kenneth’s gaze hardened as he considered their options. Surprise was their only weapon, a slim, chance, but better than surrendering the ground altogether. If they could strike fast and fracture the enemy’s line before it was fully formed, they might prevail.
He leaned toward Halvard and Callum, keeping his voice low. He gave the order to spread out, dividing their small force, sending half along the rocks to the left while he led the others along the rise to the right, with Halvard’s men taking the rear. They would come in from both sides, hit hard without warning, creating confusion where they could not match strength.
The men nodded, understanding without need of further explanation.
Kenneth cast one last glance toward the smoke curling into the darkening sky, then shouldered his loaded flintlock.
There was no element of surprise after all.
Aidan’s men had been waiting, weapons primed, fingers steady on triggers.
The first shot split the air with a deafening crack, followed instantly by another, then several more in quick succession. Flame flared from the muzzles of flintlocks hidden among the scrub and trees, and the sharp stench of powder slammed into Kenneth’s nostrils. Arkan screamed and reared as a musket ball tore past.
“Down!” someone shouted, the warning swallowed by gunfire.
Kenneth drove Arkan forward regardless, urging him through the chaos as musket balls tore into the earth around them, spitting dirt and stone. As shots rang out again and again, one of his men went down hard to the left, pitched backward from the saddle with a cry that was cut short.
Then the muskets were spent.
Steel rang as bayonets were fixed with practiced efficiency, and the distance between hunter and hunted vanished. Kenneth drew his sword and charged, the world narrowing to movement and sound — the roar of blood in his ears, the scream of metal onmetal, the guttural shouts of men throwing themselves into the fray.
Smoke rolled through the trees, turning the battlefield into a shifting maze of shadow and flame. Figures loomed and vanished within it, friend and foe indistinguishable.
Kenneth fought as though possessed, every strike driven by fury and fear. He parried a bayonet thrust, stepped inside the man’s guard, and cut him down without slowing. Another came at him from the side. Kenneth twisted, his blade flashing, the steel biting deep.
The noise was overwhelming – steel clashing, men shouting orders or screaming in pain.
Kenneth felt nothing but forward momentum.
He cut through Aidan’s men one after another, his sword rising and falling with lethal precision, his instincts honed by years of battle. Blood slicked the ground beneath Arkan’s hooves, dark against the melting snow. His breath burned in his chest, his muscles screaming for relief.
