She covered her head as blood spilled on her shoulders and hands. Marjorie buried her mouth in the crook of her arm, fighting not to scream.
The man crumpled just behind her, and finally she squealed, spinning around to skitter backward down the pier, where she knelt with a hand to the ground. She didn't trust her legs to stand.
Fighting to control her fear, she made herself watch. Her Cormac, the boy she'd loved, had become some other creature: powerful, brave, strangely placid — and ruthless.
One man was down, and Cormac had just stabbed one of the two remaining. It was the burly one, and his torso was so thick, the slash to his chest incapacitated him for only a moment. He quickly regrouped and was coming at Cormac with vengeance in his eyes and a peculiar sword in his fist.
She put a hand to her mouth, frozen in terror. How had she not seen the man's sword before this? It was enormous and curved, a terrible, foreign thing, looking like something from Arabia, and it was ugly, too, its blade gray, with ghastly dings along its surface.
Would this be how Cormac met his end? On a sordid pier, at the end of a ruffian's blade? It would be her fault.
The thought was so painful, she shut her eyes for a moment to withstand it. She couldn't bear another life on her hands. Not Cormac's. She opened her eyes. She wouldn't let him face this alone. Slowly, Marjorie stood.
“Stay down,” Cormac growled. He took a quick step, placing himself between her and the two men. He blindly swung a hand back to push her to the ground, but she bobbed out of the way.
The gesture opened Cormac's chest to his attacker, and the man lunged forward, throwing his whole body behind his sword. Broadsword held close to his chest, Cormac blocked the thrust, grunting with the effort. He edged backward, swinging his blade in short slices, but his opponent kept parrying and hopping closer, too close for Cormac's sword to find momentum.
While Cormac and his opponent fought, the other man homed in on Marjorie. He was gangly and smiling, and it sent a chill up her spine. He nodded at her, waggling his dirk playfully.
Narrowing her eyes, she shuffled slowly to the side, to the man lying dead and bloody on the ground. Swallowing back a rush of bile to her throat, she squatted, snatching a dirk from the scabbard at the dead man's waist. She'd not let Cormac fight alone.
Cormac saw what the fool woman was about, and he snarled. He looked away quickly, not wanting to call attention to her. But he vowed, if they got out of this alive, he'd take great pleasure in tanning her hide. Braw, fool lass.
He redoubled his attack. His opponent struck him as a dim sort, but a canny fighter. Cormac had fought against a few curved sabers in his time, but never a scimitar. Its inner edge was blunt, and his opponent cradled the blade close, thrusting with his whole body.
It wasn't the typical clashing of swords that Cormac was used to, and he couldn't step back far enough to get a good strike in.
“Say a prayer,” his opponent rasped. “'Tis a heathen weapon, but sure. ” Steadying his scimitar below his forearm, the man made a short stab at Cormac's chest.
“A pretty blade,” Cormac managed, dashing the thrust away with the flat of his sword. The man jumped forward, and Cormac edged back, feeling the lip of the pier at his heel. He spied a low post for tying up boats and spun around his opponent toward it. He slashed as he went, grazing the man's calf with his blade. “But pretty is as pretty does. ”
The man looked down at his leg, incredulous. “Enough chatter. ” He ran to Cormac, his scimitar hugged diagonally across his chest.
Just then, Marjorie screamed.
Cormac would die before he let anyone hurt her. But he couldn't spare her a look. His fight had reached a critical point. He had to keep his focus. He'd get only one opportunity, and that but a mere flicker in time.
Balancing along the edge of the pier, Cormac rushed the man. Slamming his free hand onto his opponent's shoulder, he vaulted past him, onto the post.
The man spun, momentarily startled, and Cormac didn't lose a moment. He leapt back down, arcing his sword through the air, cleaving the man between neck and shoulder.
The dead man toppled into the water with a loud splash, and Cormac instandy turned his attention to Marjorie.
The last attacker held a knife to her throat. Though her chest shuddered with fear, she held her chin high.
They locked eyes, hers brave and vivid blue. Pride filled him. Pride and terror.
“I ken you,” the man told her with surprise in his voice. “You're the pretty piece from Saint Machar. Ye gave me sommit once. A heel o' bread. ” The man waggled his brows. “Time tae give me more than that, aye?” The last of Cormac's patience flamed out in a blaze of anger. Not taking his eyes from her, he calmly resheathed his sword.
The movement caught the man's attention. “And what's this pretty piece to you?” he asked, giving Marjorie a shake.
Cormac remained silent, his eyes only for Marjorie. She remained stoic, her blank face belying the shuddering rise and fall he saw clear in her chest.
The man jerked his head to the end of the dock. “Move along, you. ”
“Move along?” Cormac asked placidly, shifting a blank-eyed gaze to the man. Making his body loose, he casually reached behind him, to the dagger he kept tucked in the small of his back. It was long for throwing, but he'd no other choice. Besides, he was confident fury would guide his aim. “Aye, I'll move along. ” Cormac's slackened muscles hardened in an instant, and his arm lashed out, his blade landing with a dull suck into the flesh of the man's shoulder. “But I'll take my woman with me,” he said with utter serenity.
The man shouted, letting go of Marjorie to pull the blade from his body. He was injured but not downed.