Chapter 31 #2
The first volley sliced through the dark, arrows whistling down like rain. A second followed, closer, then the answering roar of steel against wood as the MacLeod force struck the outer gate. The impact shuddered through the stone beneath their feet.
Aidan drew his sword. “Hold!”
He moved through the ranks, the torchlight glinting off the blade. The air was thick with smoke and sweat, with the smell of fear that clung even to the bravest of them. He felt none of it. Only the steady rhythm of control.
When the gate splintered, he was already there.
The wind howled across the battlements and then came the sound Aidan had been waiting for—the deep, splintering roar of wood giving way. The first assault struck like a wave, crashing against the gates with a force that made the very stones shudder.
“Hold!” he bellowed.
The men braced themselves, shields pressed shoulder to shoulder, the air thick with breath and smoke. Arrows whistled from above, thudding into the dark mass of MacLeod men at the base of the gate. The smell of pitch and blood mingled in the wind.
Aidan’s knuckles were white around his sword hilt. “Ready!”
The second impact came harder. Wood cracked. Iron bolts groaned. A moment later, the gate burst inward, flinging shards of timber across the yard.
“Cameron! Cameron!” the cry went up, desperate and raw, as the MacLeods surged through the breach; a tide of men in muddied tartan, eyes wild, blades catching the torchlight.
Aidan met them head-on.
The first swing split clean through the man before him, steel biting flesh and chainmail with a wet, final sound.
He turned before the body hit the ground, catching the next strike at his ribs, twisting his wrist to throw it off balance, and driving his blade upward through the attacker’s throat.
Hot blood sprayed his arm. He didn’t flinch.
His movements were clean, merciless, every strike efficient, every parry angled with intent to kill. He moved like a storm contained within a man, every motion sharp with purpose.
The courtyard was a blur of torchlight and shouting. The clang of steel against steel rang off the walls, drowning out everything else. Men fell and stumbled over the bodies of their kin, blood running in thin streams through the rain-soaked mud.
“Tòrr! Close the flank!” he roared over the din.
Somewhere near the gatehouse, Tòrr’s voice answered him. Michael was beside him, hacking through a line of MacLeods with the brute strength of a man who’d grown up fighting for survival.
“Push them back!”
Aidan’s voice cut through the chaos. He lunged forward, struck low, then rose with a brutal sweep that took another enemy off his feet. His men followed his rhythm, fighting as he had trained them to in tight, disciplined movements, turning brute violence into strategy.
But there were too many.
Every time they gained ground, another surge pressed through the broken gate. The air was heavy with smoke and rain, each breath tasting of iron. Somewhere behind him, Gordon shouted an order. Aidan turned just in time to see a Cameron soldier fall, an arrow lodged deep in his neck.
He caught the dying man before he hit the ground, eased him aside, then lifted his gaze, and in that moment, saw it.
The fire.
It wasn’t the steady burn of torches anymore. It was rising, orange and hungry, from somewhere inside the keep.
“Keep them from the hall!” he called, voice low, almost drowned in the roar of battle.
But it was already too late.
The ground shook with a deep, booming crack. The sound rolled through the courtyard like thunder, vibrating through his boots and up his spine. The great doors.
For the briefest moment, the world seemed to stop.
He turned toward the hall. Through the smoke, he could see the glow of the fire spilling from the cracks in the timber. The hinges buckled, trembling under the assault from the other side.
And then, he heard a single scream.
Catherine.
Catherine was inside. She had been there since the fighting began, tending the wounded with trembling hands while the doors shuddered under every blow. And now she was screaming.
Aidan froze, the blood draining from his face. His body moved before his mind caught up, muscle and instinct fusing into one.
“Gordon! With me!”
He cut through the line before him, sword flashing in a precise arc that cleaved through two men. One went down clutching his chest; the other barely had time to scream before Aidan’s blade silenced him.
“Hold the gate!” he shouted behind him. “Hold it!”
He pushed forward, every heartbeat louder than the last.
MacLeod soldiers had already reached its doors, their axes slamming against the wood, sparks flying with every blow. The sight clawed at his chest. He sprinted, mud splashing up his legs, vision narrowing to a single point at those doors, and the thought of what waited behind them.
A body lunged at him from the side. Aidan pivoted, caught the strike on his blade, then turned the momentum into a counter, a smooth, savage thrust that cut through the man’s ribs. He pulled the sword free and kept running.
Every sound became distant. There was only the pounding of his boots and the crackling roar of fire while he reached the steps, cutting down another man as he went. The air was thick with heat and ash. He slammed into the great door with his shoulder, forcing it open.
The sight inside froze him where he stood.
Tables overturned. Blood across the stone. Smoke coiling through the rafters. And among it — the shape of a woman struggling against the grasp of a soldier, her hair catching the firelight like gold.
Catherine.
He moved without thought, slicing through the man nearest her, his blade catching the torchlight as it came down. The soldier fell, gurgling, blood pooling fast beneath him.
Aidan pushed forward, breath harsh in his throat, his arm slick with blood and sweat. Every muscle burned, but he barely felt it. Each strike brought him closer to her, closer to the sound of her voice, closer to the one thing he could not lose.
He saw Edwin then, beyond the flames, dragging her toward the far door, shouting orders to retreat. Aidan’s pulse spiked, his vision sharpening to a knife’s edge.
“Catherine!”
Her head turned just once, enough for him to see the fear there, and the trust. Then Edwin pulled her through the archway, and both vanished into the smoke.
Aidan charged after them, sword raised, cutting through the last of the MacLeod warriors in his path. Each swing was heavier than the last, his breath ragged, his heart hammering like a drum of war. Every drop of blood he spilled felt like penance. Every enemy he cut down brought him closer to her.
He didn’t think of strategy, or honor, or the war he was meant to win. Only of her name, and the vow that he would reach her before the night claimed them both.