“One of his own men,” Sorcha said. “Sir Marshall betrayed him.”
“And where is Marshall?”
“Dead as well.” Bjorn’s fingers clenched his sword in a death grip.
“So that leaves the castle to …” Tadd’s eyes swung to Anne, who was still pale, but managed to square her shoulders.
“Aye. Lady Anne is in command,” Sorcha said, reading the turn of Tadd’s thoughts and stepping between her brother and the single heartbeat that controlled Erbyn. Anne stood at the window and gazed down at the bailey. “And … and … Lady Anne commands everyone to lay down their weapons,” Sorcha added, shooting a meaningful glance in Anne’s direction.
“Yes … yes,” Anne said quickly. “To meet Garrick of Abergwynn, we will go unarmed.”
“The Baron of Abergwynn is here … now?” Tadd asked, disbelieving. “I think not—”
“Have you not heard the commotion in the bailey?” Sorcha asked, her heart pounding as loudly as the heavy tread of more soldiers’ feet in the hallway.
“Aye,” Anne said, “I’ve seen him. He is with his army, and one of his men has Sir Brady by the throat. Now, as the lady of the castle, I ask you to lay down your weapon, Baron Tadd.”
Tadd looked unsure but held his ground. He listened for a second to the noise from the bailey, and the end of his tongue nervously rimmed his lips. “What matter if Garrick of Abergwynn is here? It is of no consequence. ’Twould still be easy to turn the tables on Erbyn, would it not? As for Garrick, I’ve no use for the bastard.” Tadd’s face was taut, but he managed a smile that looked like pure evil as he reached for his sword. “I’ll take Lady Anne as a hostage, and bargain with her for Erbyn.”
“Nay!” Anne cried.
“Why not?” Tadd lunged then, and Sorcha shoved Anne aside, for though Lady Anne’s words were strong, she could still barely stand from the potion she had drunk.
“I will not allow it,” Sorcha proclaimed as Anne nearly lost her balance and leaned against the wall.
“You will not allow it, sister?” Tadd barked out a sinister laugh. “We are not in Prydd any longer. No one here believes you to be their savior. Here, you are just a small woman with a sharp tongue. Now, get out of my way, you stupid bitch!” He swung at Sorcha with his blade. Her dress ripped with a sickening rending of threads.
“Nay, Tadd, do not …” Her dagger seemed a poor weapon against the sharp blade of his sword. “There has been enough death. Run!” she screamed to everyone in the room as she kicked a stool in Tadd’s direction and he fell over the upturned wooden legs. “Run!”
“Nay!” Tadd roared, holding his shin. “You will not—”
Bjorn led Anne and Leah through the doorway, pausing only to run each guard through with his sword before guiding them through the dark corridors of Erbyn. Rushlights flickered as they passed, and Sorcha hurried through the door, trying to close it. Tadd threw his body against the oaken slats, and she could do nothing but run down the stairs and into the bailey, where the very depths of hell were breaking loose.
Tadd scrambled after her and caught her at the door of the great hall. She stumbled out the door.
Tadd swung his horrid sword, and Sorcha jumped.
Bjorn rounded the corner, his knife raised.
“Halt!” Hagan’s voice reverberated through the bailey.
Hagan! Sorcha could barely believe her ears. He was alive! Her spirit seemed to soar. Turning her back on Tadd, she began to run to him.
“Watch out!” Hagan shouted as Tadd twisted and, growling in fury, swung again at Sorcha. Bjorn intercepted the blow, his arm gushing blood against the walls. He stumbled and knocked Sorcha backward to teeter on the stairs.
With a roar, Hagan hurdled a cart and vaulted up the stairs. He caught Sorcha, then, seeing that she was unharmed, turned and jumped upon the man who would dare hurt her. His fist connected with Tadd’s jaw, and the burly man staggered backward.
“Nay, Hagan! He’s mine!” a strong, male voice insisted, and Hagan, muscles bunched and the cords in his neck straining hard, spat on the steps near Tadd’s face. Though he seemed to want to tear his enemy limb from limb, Hagan stood aside.
As Sorcha watched, a tall man with a cleaved eyebrow strode up the stairs with measured gait, so slowly that she believed he was enjoying Tadd’s discomfort, as if he was stretching out this scene that would surely be a battle to the end. The blade of his sword glinted in the early morning light.
Sorcha’s throat turned to sand. Death lingered in the air.
“You … But you are only a messenger,” Tadd said, his voice trembling slightly as he took up his sword.
“Aye, a messenger from Lucifer,” the tall man said. “Remember me not, Tadd of Prydd? I’m Wolf, the outlaw, but before that I was Ware of Abergwynn. We’ve met before, you and I—”
Remembrance flashed across Tadd’s face, and along with it came fear.