Chapter Nine
The clanging of the warning bell didn’t let up, ringing through the castle like a banshee’s wail and bringing Arran’s warriors running.
Some burst out of the great hall, half-eaten food clasped in their fists, some came clattering down the stairs, hastily strapping on weapons, and as Arran stepped into the courtyard, he saw others streaming from the training ground, the stables, the guardhouses.
They gathered around Mal who stood in the middle of the bailey bellowing orders, his voice only just audible above the racket emitting from the bell tower.
Arran ran up to him. “What news?” he yelled. “What’s happened?”
“Raid in progress at Tollman’s Gate.”
Arran went cold. “The same ones who hit the fishing fleet?”
Mal shrugged. “We dinna have any details. Only that Tollman’s Gate is calling for aid.”
Arran turned to survey his hastily assembling warriors. They all knew the drill by now and had responded in quick time the moment the warning bell began to sound.
“Warriors of Clan MacLeod!” he bellowed, his voice carrying over the noise of the bell. “We ride to relieve Tollman’s Gate! It seems the bastards that destroyed our fleet are back! How about we go teach them a lesson that will have them terrified to set foot on Skye for the rest of their lives?”
An almighty cheer rumbled around the bailey and many of his men drew their claymores and brandished them in the air, the sunlight reflecting off their bright blades.
Grooms and pages came running, leading horses that had been hastily tacked.
The stable master led Bran over to Arran and held him steady while Arran swung into the saddle and grabbed the reins.
One of the pages held up Arran’s claymore which he strapped across his back and then his longsword which he belted to his hip.
Yanking on the reins, he pulled Bran around to face the gates.
As he did so, he caught sight of his mother, Ingrid, and some of the other women of Dun Tabor standing on the steps, their faces pale with worry.
He didn’t have time to speak to them. Instead, he rose in his stirrups, drew his claymore one handed, and bellowed, “We ride! Ride for Tollman’s Gate! ”
Then, slamming his claymore back into its scabbard, his set his heels to Bran’s flanks and the horse sprang forward at an urgent gallop. Arran led his men out of Dun Tabor, a long column of horsemen flowing behind him like a river in full spate.
They thundered down the road from Dun Tabor’s gate and through the village, the villagers crowding the side of the road and cheering as they passed.
But Arran took no pride or comfort in their show of support.
He did not feel like cheering. Instead, his gut churned as though it was filled with hissing snakes and a sick sense of dread settled on him.
He and his men had arrived too late to stop the attack on his fishing fleet. They would not be too late today. He could not, would not, allow it.
He led the charge at a blistering pace, trusting Bran to keep his footing, hardly taking notice of the landscape as they sped the ten or so miles along the coastal road towards the southern settlement of Tollman’s Gate.
He scanned the sea as they rode, looking for any sign of ships.
There were none. Whoever these attackers were, they must have come around the southern tip of the island in an effort to evade detection.
In that, at least, the raiders had failed.
Arran had set up a warning system, with a series of strategically placed watchtowers set on high ground where they had a good view of the sea, with access to a series of fast-horsed messengers that could bring the news of attacks to their nearest garrison or to Dun Tabor itself.
It had not been enough to save the fishing fleet, but maybe, just maybe, it would be enough to save Tollman’s Gate.
Finally, they rounded a headland and came in sight of the settlement.
Tollman’s Gate was a prosperous village protected from the worst of the weather by a series of rocky islets that dotted the coast in this part of Skye.
The settlement had become important for both trade and feeding the island due to the abundant shellfish that could be found in its relatively shallow waters.
And this, no doubt, was why the raiders had chosen it as their next target.
Two ships, Norse by the look of them, were anchored in the bay, with several smaller boats pulled up on the shingle beach.
Inland, backing onto the base of a craggy hill, lay Tollman’s Gate itself.
A wave of attackers ringed the settlement and the bellow of men and the clash of steel could be heard even at this distance.
But unlike the fishing boats, Tollman’s Gate was not undefended.
At Arran’s command, the settlement had been fortified by a deep ditch and rampart up which an attacker would have to scramble while being attacked from above. He’d left a small garrison of trained warriors here as well, and every able-bodied man in the settlement had been trained to use a bow.
That training was in evidence now as a cloud of arrows rained down from the rampart.
Some found their mark, embedding themselves in throats or limbs, but most thudded harmlessly into the round wooden shields that the attackers held above their heads.
The defenders of Tollman’s Gate seemed to be holding their own though, and only a few of the raiders had made it over the rampart and these had been swiftly dealt with.
But this state of affairs could not last. The raiders far outnumbered the defenders and, as Arran watched, he could already see gaps springing up in the defender’s line, and attackers hurrying to take advantage.
“Mal, yer men take the left flank, Angus, ye take the right,” Arran bellowed. “The rest of ye, with me!”
His men peeled off to right and left while Arran led the charge in the center, straight up the road that led to Tollman’s Gate’s fortifications.
He drew his longsword, nudging Bran to the greatest speed the horse could muster, and felt his lips pull back from his teeth in a feral snarl.
A cold fury burned in his gut as his eyes swept over the sea of attackers.
Here were the men who thought it their right to take what they wanted, to kill and pillage, and shatter the lives of Arran’s people.
He would make them regret their arrogance.
He heard a high, wild screaming sound, and realized that it was coming from his own throat, a vocalization of all the fury and helplessness that had dogged him for months.
He slammed into the raiders without slowing, scything left and right with his longsword, feeling it bite into flesh and bone, and sending a spray of iron-tasting blood across his face. Bran fought too, kicking and bucking, and staved in the head of a man coming at Arran from the left.
All became chaos. All became a seething melee of bodies and blades, of shouting and screaming, of the stink of blood and voided bowels.
His men moved to his left and right, cutting and parrying with their longswords and trying to drive a wedge through the attackers to reach the defenders on the fortifications.
But the raiders weren’t just mindless barbarians. They too were well trained, and seeing Arran’s tactics, they quickly pulled back and formed a shield wall with their interlocking shields, thrusting long spears between the gaps, designed to negate the advantage of the horses.
Arran growled in frustration, pulling Bran around in a circle, looking for a way through.
As he did so, a hooked blade caught the hilt of his longsword and yanked him out of the saddle.
He slammed into the mud and had an instant to register a blade swinging at his face.
He rolled away as it slammed into the mud where he’d been lying and then kicked the man who wielded it in the knee.
The man grunted in pain and staggered, giving Arran enough time to climb to his knees and draw his claymore from across his back, which he held in a two-handed grip.
The man facing him was huge. Taller and broader even than Arran, he wore a sleeveless leather vest that showed off his tree-trunk arms, light linen trews, and soft knee-high boots.
His long hair, matted and knotted, was hung with all kinds of charms: bones, twigs, feathers.
On one arm he carried his round shield while with the other, he brandished his hooked blade.
“What are you waiting for, islander?” the man rasped in a guttural voice. “An invitation?” His accent was clipped, with a slight emphasis on the ends of words. Aye, definitely Norse.
Arran didn’t answer the taunt. He’d been in enough fights to know when an enemy was trying to bait him, and the last thing he needed to do against this brute was lose his concentration.
So he kept his stance, treading warily to his right, eyes fixed on his opponent.
The man moved the other way and they began circling each other like predators.
Around him, Arran was dimly aware of the battle beginning to turn, of the defenders of Tollman’s Gate opening the barricade and storming out to join Arran’s men, but he had no time to spare for them now.
“Who are ye?” Arran asked the giant. “What do ye want here?”
The big man grinned, revealing white teeth that had been sharpened to points. God’s blood. What kind of man was he?
“I?” he said. “I want nothing. My master though? He’s another matter.”
Arran said nothing, but continued circling, assessing his opponent’s weaknesses. From the way he moved and the way he carried his weapons, it was clear he was well trained.
“Who is yer master?”
He did not expect an answer and had in fact only asked the question to catch his opponent unawares.
Before the sentence was even finished, he dashed forward, swinging his claymore in a flashing arc that would have taken the man’s head had it connected.
The man threw up his shield and sword to block the blow and that’s what Arran was waiting for.
He adjusted his swing slightly, taking it above and away from the shield, allowed its momentum to carry it around and down, and then reversed the slash, bringing it low and slicing through the man’s legs.
At least, that’s what should have happened. But the man moved like lightning. As Arran’s blade came down, somehow the man’s blade was already there to meet it and the two blades slammed together with enough clanging force to send a jolt up Arran’s arm and into his shoulder.
“Oh, you are good!” the man crowed. “My master was right about you!”
He was grinning manically, as though this was the most fun he’d had in a long time. Now that they were so close, Arran saw that the man bore a strange design inked into the side of his neck, an interlocking design of three spirals, with an angular rune above it.
“Who are ye?” he growled. “What do ye want?”
The grin widened. “You can call me Ingold. And what do I want? Nothing. But my master? Oh, he only wants your island is all.”
With a grunt, Arran shoved the man away and attacked again, his sword moving in a blur of motion.
Ingold parried everything Arran threw at him, the grin never leaving his face.
Arran was soon sweating and blowing, but he did not let up.
All the rage he felt, all the guilt and pent-up frustration came pouring out of him, at last finding a focus in this grinning madman.
The clang of steel on steel filled the air, along with the stink of sweat and the rusty tang of blood. He could hear his own labored breathing and his heartbeat thundering in his ears, but this was inconsequential against his need to end this leering fool.
He began pushing Ingold back, away from the ramparts around Tollman’s Gate. He spared a quick glance for his men. The raiders were being inexorably surrounded. It would soon become a blood bath.
As if sensing this, the grinning man looked around, eyes narrowing as he surveyed his forces.
Arran seized his chance, springing forward and swinging his blade in a series of lightning ripostes aimed at Ingold’s ribs.
The man deflected them all and Arran’s frustration mounted.
How could such a massive man be so fast?
Then, so suddenly it took Arran off guard, Ingold disengaged, lowering his weapon and backing away.
“Njord sends his regards! And sends his thanks for keeping his island warm for him!”
“This is my island!” Arran snarled.
The inked man laughed. “Not for long! Do you think your witch can save you? She can’t! This land belongs to Njord. You just don’t know it yet!”
Then he turned and ran, putting his fingers to his lips and whistling as he did so. The rest of the raiders battled their way free and fled, sprinting in a disorderly rabble towards the beach where their boats waited. Arran’s men set off in pursuit, but Arran didn’t join them.
A ball of ice seemed to have formed inside his belly. Do you think your witch can save you?
Jenna. The raiders knew about Jenna. And that meant she was in danger.
He slammed his claymore back into its scabbard and looked around for Bran.
The warhorse was standing over by the entrance to the rampart, reins trailing.
He’d lost his saddle in the melee and his flanks were crusted with dried sweat but his neck still arched gracefully and there was fire in his eyes as he shifted and stamped at two of Arran’s men who were trying to calm him.
Arran put his fingers to his lips and whistled. Bran’s ears pricked and swiveled towards him, then he came trotting over, whinnying in greeting. Arran reached up and patted the horse’s sweaty neck.
“Ye did well, boy,” he murmured. “But I’ve got one last favor to ask of ye and then I promise ye can spend the next few days eating carrots and lazing in yer stable. How does that sound?”
As if he understood every word, the horse snorted and bobbed his head. Grabbing the reins, Arran vaulted on the horse’s back, gripping with his knees.
“Mal is in charge here,” he shouted to Tollman’s Gate’s defenders. “Do as he tells ye.”
“Where are ye going, my laird?” one of them cried.
“To Dun Tabor. I have urgent business there.” Patting Bran on the neck he said, “One last run, boy. Run home like the wind, Bran. Like the wind.”
Nudging the horse’s ribs, he urged him into a gallop towards home. Towards Jenna.