“I–I dinnae have fondness for yer brother, Lorna. I’m sorry. Pardon me, but he is the most ludicrous person I have met most times, and I loathe him at those times.”
Lorna shrugged, and her smile spread even further. “We'll see.”
Lornajerked on the bridle, and her horse bolted, creating a cloud of dust so dense that Janehad to wave it away from her face.
Shegalloped Sunfoot after her, her mind racing over the words they'd exchanged.
CHAPTERFOURTEEN
He heard screams. Darach lurched out of the courtyard, running at full force towards the wood with his sword in hand. He ran toward the sounds of steel and fire and the distant wailing of a woman's voice.
When he reached the forest's edge, the heat slammed him in the face, the sight of a green and damp day fading in the scorching heat. The woods were on fire, their flames blinding him as he ran through them. Billowing smoke pricked his eyes as a panicked horse galloped past him, a long gash in its hide spilling a liquid red trail after its movement.
Darach could not tell friend from foe, and a blade swung toward him from a figure jumping out of the red-hot night. He lurched backward, the arc of the blade narrowly missing his face. His sword hand lifted quickly to deflect the next blow. He sidestepped into his assailant with force, his shoulder taking the brunt of the impact as he knocked the man to the floor.
He yelled in excitement. He was born for this. In battle, he found himself banishing the hints of his pains and failures and fears. Here it was, the frantic panting and grunting, the whistles of arrows flying all over, steel flashing and clashing, scraping bones and screeching pains.
Another opponent jumped out of the fire, swinging his sword. Darach met him head-on, clashing swords and then kicking his feet hard into his chest. The second opponent fell, screaming and trying to hold himself together with both hands across his stomach.
There was no time to properly dispatch the man. He had a purpose further in the fire. He could hear it. He could feel it. He left the man on the floor and ran deeper into the woods. Fending off blows after blows from assailants, knocking them back with his feet, elbow, and shoulder. He targeted their chin and the stomach, something to quickly destabilize them long enough for him to keep running. The enemy serenaded the entire woods. There were far too few friendly blades around him.
He caught sight of a man recognizable for how he swung his sword in battle but covered in soot. It was clear they'd all been covered in the filth of the wind blowing at the fire that and, at first glance, they seemed no different from the infidels they fought. They might as well have been fighting amongst themselves in the darkness of the woods.
“Where is he?” Darach screamed, his voice breaking. And even though he didn't fully understand who or what he was looking for, the man did. He screamed a reply, but Darach could not hear over the sounds of battle. The man planted his boot on his fallen opponent to rip his sword free of the dead man’s ribcage. He pointed to the cemetery in the western part of the wood, then turned to reengage more foes.
Darach ran toward the cemetery—a crowd was at the edge of the necropolis in the distance. These were the foes, and they were making for the edge of the keep, guarding something.
He suddenly realized what they were guarding, what he was chasing.
It was the king, William of Orange.
This was his chance to put an end to the tyrant right then.
He ran toward the cemetery, his full focus on his target. Something thundered into his shoulder, propelling him off balance. He whirled, expecting the feel of the blade he knew was coming. But none came, just a burning lance of pain racing so hard down his arm that he gasped. He craned his neck to see an arrow sprouting from his shoulder. He reached up, clamping his teeth as he curled his fingers around the long shaft and snapped it off.
He breathed in, out, and in again and waited for the dizzying bout of pain to pass and his vision to regather. Then he clenched his sword in his hand once again and started moving.
He headed for a set of stone steps leading through the back of the cemetery, hoping to catch the attackers unaware. This was the route that no foe would know. He cleared the cobwebs away with a swipe of his sword as he sprinted up the steps.
He reached the top, but when he scanned the tomb, there was no William, no foes either. They had somehow found a way to escape what should have been a trap, and now even if there was too much distance to travel for them to reach safety, there were too few men to deal them a blow.
There were too many enemies and not enough blades.
The rebellion had failed. He could see it in the way the others were fighting. On the way, most of the soldiers had lost hope since the attackers ensured their king’s safe retreat through the postern gate.
He was about to step down when a shadow darted from a corner across his path. With a roar, he raised his sword, aiming to bring it down before his eyes focused on the figure running past.
It was a lass, a woman he knew well enough. No one was closer to him in the face of the law than this person. And for a burning moment, her huge black eyes met his, and she froze. His sword arm dropped, and the weapon fell, striking stone and leaping away from him.
“Maira? Maira, my love.”
He reached toward her, but she scooted away, screaming, speaking too quickly for him to understand. He looked up to see the image of his wife scrambling away from him to press her back against the half wall surrounding a tombstone.
Darach felt a force hit him in the back, and he fell in agony. He could feel the wounded muscle ripping furthermore in his shoulder.
Maira. Maira is in danger.
He pushed himself back up on his left hand, then staggered to the edge of a tomb to help him rise to his feet.