Chapter Twenty-Three
There was no way, Elise thought, that she was ever going to make a sailor.
How did people stand it? All that swaying and bobbing, the horizon see-sawing up and down like a drunkard? It made Elise’s head spin and her stomach knot.
Of course, it didn’t help that they were sailing into a hard wind that had whipped the waves up into a frenzy and that as a result, the ship was going up and down so steeply that each time they topped a wave and started down the other side, Elise’s stomach rose up into her throat like she was on a rollercoaster.
The weather had turned foul the second they’d sailed out of Islay’s harbor. If she hadn’t known better, she would have sworn there was witchcraft at work.
She squinted, trying to see what lay ahead, but the wind was howling so fiercely she could barely see through the tears it squeezed from her eyes.
But she did make out that the seas here were punctuated by a series of rocky islets that rose out of the water like the back of some terrifying sea monster, all uninhabited but for sea birds and seals.
She took a deep breath, trying to still her churning stomach, and clenched her fists in both fear and frustration.
Phillip MacClelland stood next to her, eyes narrowed as he gazed in their direction of travel, with the king’s envoy standing next to him.
Both men were tense and snappy, barking orders and answering questions in terse, clipped tones.
Ulster. Phillip’s—and by extension, King James’s—greatest fear. That was why he’d betrayed the Isles and why he’d captured Elise in the first place. All as a way to bolster their defenses against the feared Irish kingdom. And they’d come. All of Phillip and James’s nightmares had come true.
It was no wonder he looked tense.
Around them, the sailors of the king’s fleet worked with practiced ease, no sign of tension in their faces as they trimmed sails, made course corrections, tied ropes.
These were the men who had posed as pirates, who had attacked Islay’s ships, seized her shipments, and sent countless numbers of its people down into a watery grave.
These people had much to pay for, starting with the traitorous bastard standing by her side.
“Sails ahead!” came a sudden cry.
Phillip grabbed her arm, his fingers digging painfully into her flesh. “Look!”
Elise could still see nothing but the shifting gray waves. But slowly, something on the horizon came into view. Ships. Lots of ships. They emerged from the gloom one by one, and from the mast of each a flag snapped in the wind. She squinted to make out the design stitched into it.
A red hand.
“The red hand of Ulster,” Ewan Bruce breathed. The king’s envoy had gone pale and despite the cold wind, he appeared to be sweating.
Elise found herself holding her breath as the ships drew closer. Fear, kept at bay so long by her fury at Phillip, began to break through. She felt like she was sailing into the jaws of some horrible sea beast and that those jaws were about to snap closed around her.
Then suddenly, as they got a good look at the fleet ahead, Phillip laughed. “Is this the best they can do? Is this the fabled fleet of Ulster? Look! It’s nothing more than a rabble!”
The approaching ships were a mix of different sizes and shapes, Elise saw. Most were small fishing vessels by the look of them, with only a handful of the larger, sleek galleys like those of the king’s fleet.
Sir Ewan Bruce grinned at Phillip. “Ha! What were we so worried about? We’ll blast them out of the water! We’ll tear them to pieces and send these Ulster scum hightailing it back to the pit they came from like whipped dogs!”
Phillip barked a command to the captain and the king’s fleet began to pick up speed, clearly aiming to smash straight into the line of Ulster’s ships.
But a sudden shout went up from the stern. “Sails behind!”
Elise turned, peering back the way they’d come. Islay was far out of sight now and the endless gray sea was punctuated only by those rocky islets.
But from behind those rocky islets, something was emerging.
Or rather, somethings. More ships, large and sleek, sitting low in the water and clearly built for speed.
No fishing vessels these, but well-built war galleys sporting three masts and portholes in the sides for oars.
Warriors were lined along the railings, weapons glinting in the dim light.
From the masts flew the red hand of Ulster.
Phillip let forth a string of expletives. “It was a trap and we sailed right into it! Bring us about!”
The crew hurried to obey but they were facing an attack from in front and behind now, and while some of the ships began to turn, others didn’t heed the call and King James’s fleet was thrown into confusion.
The attacking war galleys took advantage. They picked up speed, came racing through the waves towards them, the wind suddenly veering around and filling their sails as though even the elements were on their side.
The king’s ships were slow in turning to face this threat. They had lost the wind and many of them began to wallow side to side as they struggled against the unruly waves.
The first Ulster galley slammed into the flank of one of the king’s ships with a sound like splintering bones. Wood screamed. Men shouted. The sea surged in, white with foam.
Phillip rounded on Elise, his eyes burning with fury. “Do something!” he bellowed. “Destroy those ships!”
Elise stared at him, her heart pounding so hard it felt as though it might burst from her chest. But she shook her head defiantly. “Not a chance.”
Phillip blinked, as if he hadn’t heard her properly. “What did ye say?”
“You heard me! I won’t do it! I won’t be your weapon!”
“Those are Ulster ships, woman! They will sink this ship and send ye down to the deeps with the rest of us!”
“I don’t care!” she bellowed, hands fisted at her sides. “Rather that than become your pet monster!”
An impact rocked the deck. A man howled in pain as he was thrown against the rail. Arrows hissed through the air. A ballista bolt thudded into the water close enough that spray soaked the deck beneath Elise’s feet.
Phillip leaned closer, his voice dropping. “Ye misunderstand me, Elise. I’m not asking.”
She shook her head, backing away from him until the cold rail pressed into her spine. “You can’t make me. It doesn’t work like that.”
“Oh? We’ll see.” He barked an order over his shoulder. “Bring them up.”
Heavy footsteps sounded on the stairs and two king’s men emerged on deck, dragging a pair of struggling figures between them.
Elise’s breath left her in a strangled gasp as she recognized them. “Martin? Bryn?”
The lads’ heads jerked up at the sound of her voice. Martin’s face was pale beneath the grime, his hair plastered to his forehead. Bryn looked worse—his lip split, one eye already swelling shut—but when he saw Elise, relief flickered in his eyes, sharp and bright.
“Elise!” Bryn croaked. “Thank the saints!”
“What are they doing here?” Elise demanded, rounding on Phillip. “They’ve got nothing to do with this!”
“On the contrary. They’ve got everything to do with this. They are here to act as yer…how shall I put it? Incentives.”
The soldiers hauled the lads over to the rail.
“Get your hands off them!” Elise bellowed.
Phillip caught her arm, his grip iron hard. “I had hoped it wouldnae come to this, I really did. But yer stubbornness leaves me no choice.”
He gestured to the sea in the direction of one of the Ulster galleys that was bearing down on them.
“Throw them over,” Phillip commanded.
The soldiers hoisted Martyn and Bryn over the rail and tossed them into the sea.
Elise screamed, tore her arm from Phillip’s grip, and leaned over the rail, frantically searching the heaving gray water below. Two heads broke the surface, arms flailing as the swell dragged them apart.
The Ulster ship sped closer—right towards the spot where Martin and Bryn were struggling.
Elise’s heart felt like it would burst in her chest. “Oh God,” she sobbed. “Please—please—”
There was no more space for thought. Only terror and fury and a single, desperate need clawing its way up from somewhere deep inside.
Save them.
The world drew in on itself. The air around Elise cracked and power surged through her, wild and unstoppable. She screamed as it left her, not in pain, but in raw, feral release.
Her War Weaving slammed into the Ulster ship like the fist of an angry god.
Wood exploded into tiny fragments. A jagged hole tore open just above the waterline and the galley lurched violently, oars snapping, men thrown screaming from their feet.
Its forward momentum died in an instant, and it began to slew sideways, turning away from the battle as the crew scrambled in chaos.
Below, Martin and Bryn bobbed in the water, coughing and clinging to one another. Ropes were thrown. Strong hands hauled them back aboard, dragging them onto the deck in a sodden heap.
Elise dropped to her knees beside them. “Are you hurt?” she demanded, grabbing their shoulders. “Tell me you’re all right.”
They were shaking violently, teeth chattering, but there was no blood. No broken bones.
“We—we’re fine,” Martin stammered. “Cold. Gods, so cold.”
Elise wrapped her arms around them both, relief crashing over her so hard it left her dizzy. Boots came to stand in front of her and she looked up to see Phillip smiling down at her.
“Ye see? Not so hard is it, when ye have the proper motivation?”
She surged to her feet, fury burning away the last of her shock. “You bastard,” she spat. “You cruel, heartless bastard.”
Phillip didn’t flinch. “War Weaving,” he said, as though lecturing a student, “isnae a weapon of aggression. It never was. It is defense. And now,” Phillip’s gaze flicked pointedly to Martin and Bryn, huddled together behind her, “ye have innocent lives to defend from the enemy trying to kill them.”
He gestured to the sea, where the Ulster fleet was regrouping, circling, preparing to strike again.
“Ye are a War Weaver now.” He smiled and it was full of cruelty and triumph. “Ye are my War Weaver. And ye will be my weapon.”
*
The wind howled like a living thing, tearing at the sails and driving the ships of Islay hard across the gray water. Jamie stood at the prow of the lead vessel, his eyes fixed on the distant clash of ships ahead.
Even from here he could hear it—the dull thud of impacts, the screams of men carrying across the water. It turned his insides to ice.
“Harder into the wind!” he bellowed. “Give me everything she has!”
The helmsman nodded grimly, jaw clenched, and the ship surged forward, its timbers groaning under the strain.
Spray lashed Jamie’s face, cold and stinging, but he barely noticed.
He had no attention to spare for anything but the battle ahead.
A battle where, if he didn’t get there in time, his people were going to die.
Where Elise might…
No. He didn’t finish the thought.
A blinding flash suddenly lit the gloomy day, washing the churning seas with light.
The air twisted and up ahead, something slammed into a ship flying the red hand of Ulster—one of Skye’s galleys in reality—and Jamie watched in horror as its side exploded.
Wood burst outward in a spray of splinters and foam.
The ship lurched violently, men thrown screaming into the sea as it sheared away from the fight.
Jamie staggered as though he’d been struck himself.
“No,” he breathed. “No—”
Only one person could cause that kind of damage. Elise.
“Gods damn ye, Phillip,” Jamie snarled. “What have ye done to her?”
Another shockwave rippled over the water, smaller this time, but enough to send a second ship reeling out of formation. Panic rippled through the ‘Ulster’ line. The king’s fleet surged forward, emboldened.
Jamie spun, shouting orders. “Signals! Now!”
A sailor scrambled to obey, hauling out the flags. Jamie seized one himself, his hands shaking as he tried to unfurl the heavy fabric. “Raise the Isles flags! All of them—now!”
The flag went up, snapping violently in the wind—the black galley of Islay catching the light as it unfurled.
“Signal Cailean and Arran!” Jamie barked. “Tell them to do the same! Drop the Ulster flags. Raise the Isles flags. Pray they understand!”
The flags danced wildly as the message was sent, colors flashing and shifting in frantic sequence.
Please, Arran, Cailean, Jamie thought. Please see it. Please understand.
He scanned the chaos for their ships, heart in his throat. They were closer to the fighting now, dangerously so. If Elise struck again—
A third blast tore across the water, this one glancing wide but close enough that the waves reared up in a violent swell. In response, a fierce wind lashed out from the vicinity of Barra’s ships behind, slamming into the sails of the king’s fleet and sending them shearing off to port.
Was that Rose? Was she trying to counter Elise’s War Weaving? And—God help them—were they about to be caught up in a battle between MacFinnan spellweavers? This had never been part of the plan. This was not the way things were supposed to go.
He peered anxiously into the chaos and caught a glimpse of the flagship—taller than the rest, banners streaming from her mast, flying the king’s colors.
And there, on the raised deck, he saw a figure.
Even at this distance, he knew her. Elise stood rigid at the rail, her midnight hair whipping loose around her shoulders, her posture stiff with strain. She looked small against the vastness of the waves, swallowed by the machinery of war around her.
Another pulse of power gathered around her, the air shimmering.
“No,” Jamie whispered fiercely. “Elise, dinna do it.”
Skye and Barra’s ships hesitated now, their line faltering as confusion spread. Some were already trying to turn, flags shifting as captains tried to make sense of the message that Jamie’s men were desperately trying to send.
On Skye’s nearest galley, the Ulster flag was suddenly lowered from the mast.
Jamie’s heart leapt. “They see it,” he breathed. “They’re changing—”
But the king’s ships surged forward again, taking advantage of the confusion.
Jamie rounded on the helmsman. “Cut closer. Get me to the king’s flagship!”
“Aye, my lord!”
The ship angled sharply, spray exploding over the bow as it slewed forward. Jamie braced himself against the rail, eyes locked on Elise.
He hoped against hope that he reached her in time.