He helped Eithne mount and led the horse out, planning on getting on as soon as they were out in the open. As soon as they were on the road, he would mount, and they would ride away as quickly as possible. Ivor had enough experience losing a trail that he was confident that they wouldn't be found again as soon as they rode off.
To his aggravation and horror, however, they didn’t get that far.
Chapter Nine
The Attack
Eithne screamed as the horse reared up in fright, almost dropping her onto the ground. The arrow that had whistled right past the poor creature’s ear was now lodged in the doorway. A little higher, and it would have been in Eithne’s throat.
Aibreann reared on her hind legs, and Eithne caught the group of MacDuff men, more than she’d suspected, circling the stable. One had a bow that he was reloading; others had knives and swords drawn. They were grinning, growling, staring – and all of their focus was on her.
Have I come this far just to die anyway? Or worse, will they take me back to Rory’s side?
“Go!” Ivor roared, smacking the frightened filly’s side. “Get out of here! I’ll hold them!”
Aibreann shot forward, trampling directly through the men ahead of her. Ivor rolled to the side, drawing his own weapon just quickly enough to catch the blade that was fast approaching his skull.
“Ivor!” Eithne shrieked as she saw this, but Aibreann didn’t stop, her hooves pounding hard on the ground as she ran deep into the forest and away from the conflict. As they flew through the wind, Eithne could hear the clashes and grunts that meant a full out battle was going on.
“He’s there alone!” she cried out to nobody in particular. “There are at least ten of them, and he’s by himself.”
As if she understood, Aibreann whinnied, but she didn’t stop running. The horse obviously had one goal in mind: to escape this battle at whatever cost.
A deep scream ripped through the woods, echoing through Eithne’s heart and soul. It was a scream of pure agony, and a thousand horrific pictures span in her mind as she thought about what could possibly have caused it. She would have recognized that voice, his voice, anywhere.
“Ivor!” she cried. She pulled at the reins, forcing the filly to slow. “Aibreann, we need to go back. Back!”
But the horse refused to move, no matter how she coaxed and begged and even kicked. Aibreann had no intention of returning to the battle.
Another loud shout of agony caused the birds to flutter from the trees in alarm, followed by a string of barely audible curses that were very suddenly cut short. Had they done it? Was he dead or dying or worse?
“Back!” Eithne cried again, but Aibreann just dug her heels into the ground in stubborn refusal.
I dinnae have time for this!
Eithne slid down from Aibreann’s back, grabbing Ivor’s bow and his quiver from the saddle-side. She quickly tied the horse’s reins to a nearby tree trunk and started to run, her lovely new dress bunched up to her knees.
Hang on, Ivor! I’m coming!
* * *
Ivor roared in agony when the first arrow pierced his shoulder, sticking fast and killing the movement in his left arm while he battled the swordsmen. It threw him off balance, making him stumble, but he was able to parry the next sword attack with only his right hand to work with.
“Is that all ye’ve got?” he snarled, then spun his sword, dispatching the nearby attacker with the cold efficiency of a trained killer. In truth, Ivor hated taking life – but if it was theirs or his – theirs or Eithne’s – there was no choice at all.
One of the men moved forward in fury when his companion fell. Still, Ivor was already moving, throwing himself to the ground and rolling away from the attacks in his haste to reach the archer.
He’s the one I need to take out. He could still hurt Eithne. If I die, I die, but let her get to her sister.
He reached the archer and slashed at his ankles, crippling the man entirely. He fell to the ground screaming and swearing, dropping his bow in the process, and Ivor pinned him there.
“Stay down,” Ivor advised, his sword shaking in the hand that now pointed it at the man’s throat. “I dinnae want to kill ye, but I will.
The man – he was a boy, really; how young were MacDuff’s soldiers? – was wide-eyed and fearful, but he gave a slight nod. Just as Ivor was about to release him, his already-injured arm was suddenly afire with new flaming pain as someone’s dagger lodged in his shoulder.
Swearing, he dropped his sword and twisted just quickly enough that the next strike didn’t go through his neck. He kicked out at his attacker, meeting his stomach with a satisfyingoof, then scrabbled backward until he could get to his feet again.
The remaining men were advancing slowly, smiling like the hunters who’ve trapped their deer. The one he’d kicked was doubled over in agony – perhaps he’d kicked lower than the stomach – the first swordsman was dead. The archer was incapacitated, but there were still seven sharp-weaponed me. Ivor only had one working arm and no sword.
