Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The horn blast shattered the dawn.
Moyra jerked awake in Euan’s arms, her heart already racing before conscious thought caught up. That sound—three short bursts—meant only one thing.
Enemy sighted.
Euan was already moving, rolling from bed with the efficiency of a warrior who’d woken to alarms his entire life. He grabbed his breeches, his shirt, armor appearing on his frame with practiced speed that spoke of years conditioning his body for exactly that moment.
“Stay inside,” he said, buckling his sword belt. “Get tae the keep’s center with the other—”
“Nae.” Moyra was on her feet, pulling on her own dress with shaking hands. “I’m nae hiding while yer people fight.”
“Moyra—”
“Dinnae argue with me. Nae now.” She met his gaze steadily despite the fear coiling in her gut. “I can help. The women and children—they need organizing, need someone tae keep them calm. And the provisions, the medical supplies—”
“Fine. But ye stay away from the walls. Away from the fighting.”
They raced through corridors already filling with organized chaos. Warriors rushed to their posts, servants herded children toward safer quarters, the entire castle mobilizing with the smooth efficiency of a clan that had drilled for exactly this scenario.
The battlements offered a view that made Moyra pause.
Ships. So many ships. Black sails on the horizon, growing larger with each passing moment as they cut through waters toward Dunvegan’s shores. She counted—eight, nine, ten vessels, each carrying dozens of warriors. Keith MacKenzie’s invasion force, come to destroy everything she’d built there.
Come to kill her.
“Saints preserve us,” Calum breathed from beside Euan. “That’s the entire MacKenzie fleet.”
“Aye.” Euan’s voice came cold as winter steel. “And every man aboard is here tae burn me home and murder me wife.” His hand found Moyra’s, squeezing briefly. “Get the women and children tae the keep’s center. Bar the doors. If MacKenzie forces break through—”
“They willnae.” David’s certainty carried weight. “Ye’ve got three clans standing with ye, Euan. Keith may have numbers, but we’ve got position and motivation.”
“And we’ve got the most important advantage of all,” Archibald rumbled, his massive frame blocking half the morning sun. “We’re fighting fer home. They’re fighting fer a madman’s ambition. That matters.”
The first longship hit the beach with a crunch of wood on stone.
Warriors poured out like ants from a disturbed nest—MacKenzie colors bright against grey sand, swords already drawn, war cries carrying across the distance. More ships followed, disgorging their human cargo at three separate landing points. Exactly as the prisoner had described.
“Archers!” Euan’s command rang across the battlements. “First volley—fire at will!”
Arrows flew like deadly rain. They were dark lines against pale sky. Moyra watched them arc and fall, watched MacKenzie warriors stumble and drop. But more kept coming. Always more. The beach swarmed with enemy forces, and the first wave was already advancing toward the castle walls.
“I need tae go.” Euan turned to her, his eyes blazing with emotions he didn’t have time to voice. “Moyra—”
“I ken.” She rose on her toes, kissing him hard and fast. “Come back tae me.”
“Always.” He kissed her again, desperate and claiming. Then he was gone, taking the stairs three at a time, his Covenant brothers following close behind.
Moyra forced herself to turn away from the battle. Forced her feet to carry her toward the great hall where frightened women and children needed her calm presence more than the warriors needed another body on the walls.
But saints, it was hard. Walking away while Euan rode toward men who wanted him dead. While her father’s forces crashed against Dunvegan’s defenses like waves against cliffs.
She’d promised to stay away from the fighting.
She just hadn’t specified for how long.
Euan hit the courtyard at a run, his destrier already saddled and stamping with battle eagerness.
Around him, MacLeod warriors assembled with grim efficiency—archers taking positions on the walls, men-at-arms forming defensive lines at key choke points, cavalry preparing to meet the MacKenzie advance before it could reach the outer gates.
Three separate invasion forces meant splitting their own strength, but the Covenant brothers had brought enough warriors to make the math work.
Barely.
“Calum, take the northern approach with yer MacKinnon forces!” Euan swung into his saddle, the familiar weight of armor and weapons settling over him like a second skin. “David, ye’ve got the eastern landing! Archibald, with me—we’ll hit the main force head-on!”
“Aye!” The Covenant brothers scattered to their assigned positions, their own warriors following like well-oiled machines.
Euan wheeled his destrier toward the main gates, where the largest concentration of MacKenzie forces advanced. Through the gatehouse, he could see them coming—hundreds of warriors in clan colors, weapons gleaming, their formation professional enough to make his gut clench.
These weren’t farmers pressed into service. These were trained soldiers. Mercenaries, probably. Men who fought for coin rather than loyalty, which made them both predictable and dangerous.
“Hold position!” he commanded the men at the gates. “Let them come tae us! Make them fight uphill, make them work fer every bloody inch!”
The first MacKenzie warriors hit the outer defenses with a crash of steel on steel that Euan felt in his bones.
His archers continued their deadly rain from above, thinning enemy ranks.
And again, more kept coming. They surged up the approach road like a dark tide, and even with high ground advantage, the sheer numbers were overwhelming.
“Now!” Euan kicked his destrier forward, leading twenty mounted warriors through the gates in a devastating charge.
They hit the MacKenzie front line like a battering ram.
Euan’s sword sang as it cleared its sheath, the blade catching morning light before it descended in a brutal arc that split a man’s helmet and skull together.
His destrier trampled another, iron-shod hooves crushing bone.
Around him, his warriors carved through enemy forces, their charge breaking the MacKenzie advance before it could gather momentum.
But the enemy adapted quickly. Spears appeared, thrusting at horses’ bellies. Grappling hooks flew, trying to drag riders from saddles. Euan felt his destrier stumble as a spear grazed its shoulder, felt the animal’s fear and pain transmitted through the saddle.
He rolled as the horse went down, hitting the ground hard enough to rattle his teeth. A MacKenzie warrior loomed over him, sword raised for a killing blow—
Archibald’s massive blade took the man’s head off in one clean sweep.
“Up!” The big warrior hauled Euan to his feet with one hand. “We’re too exposed here! Fall back tae the gates!”
Euan wanted to argue. He wanted to press the attack, to drive these bastards back into the sea. But tactical sense overrode pride. They were outnumbered, surrounded, and losing horses faster than they could afford.
“Retreat!” The command tasted like bile. “Fall back tae defensive positions!”
His warriors disengaged, forming a fighting withdrawal that cost MacKenzie forces dearly for every foot of ground gained.
Euan fought rear guard alongside Archibald, their blades working in practiced harmony born of years of training together.
When a MacKenzie warrior got past Archibald’s guard, Euan was there.
When two attacked Euan simultaneously, Archibald’s blade removed the threat before it could land.
They reached the gates with half their cavalry and all their infantry intact. As the portcullis crashed down, sealing them inside, Euan allowed himself one breath of relief.
Then the battering ram hit the gate.
The impact shook stone walls. Dust rained from ancient mortar. On the battlements above, archers redoubled their efforts, but the MacKenzie forces had brought shields—professional siege tactics that spoke of planning and preparation.
“They’re nae raiders,” Niall observed grimly from beside him. “Keith brought a bloody army.”
“Aye.” Euan wiped blood from his sword. “And he’s committed tae breaking us.” He looked around at his defenders, at warriors already showing signs of exhaustion though the battle had barely begun. “We need tae hold until reinforcements arrive. If the king got our letter—”
“That’s a big if.” Archibald leaned on his sword, breathing hard. “And even if he did, crown forces take time tae mobilize. We might be on our own fer days.”
Another impact against the gate. Wood groaned but held.
Euan’s mind raced through options. They couldn’t hold the outer defenses indefinitely—not against those numbers. Eventually, the gates would break. Eventually, MacKenzie forces would pour into his courtyard.
When that happened, he had to be ready.
“Prepare fallback positions,” he ordered. “Inner walls, keep defenses, anywhere we can bottleneck them. We’ll make them bleed fer every inch of ground. And someone check on the women and children—make sure they’re secured in the keep’s center.”
Moyra had to stay safe.
Because if Keith’s forces broke through, if they reached the keep itself, his wife would be the primary target. And Euan would be damned if he let that bastard anywhere near her.
The battering ram hit again. Cracks appeared in ancient timber.
“Here they come,” Niall said quietly.
And the gates exploded inward in a shower of splintered wood and twisted iron.
MacKenzie warriors flooded through the breach like water through a broken dam. Euan met them head-on, his sword already moving, already killing. Beside him, Archibald roared a battle cry that echoed off stone walls. Behind them, MacLeod defenders formed a wall of steel and determination.
The courtyard became hell.
Euan lost himself in the rhythm of combat—strike, parry, kill, move to the next threat. His scarred shoulder screamed protest with each swing, but he ignored it. Ignored everything except the need to hold ground, to keep those bastards away from the keep where Moyra waited.
A MacKenzie warrior came at him from the left. Euan’s blade took him through the gut, withdrawing in time to block an overhead strike from another attacker. He spun, using momentum to drive his shoulder into a third man’s chest, sending him sprawling backward into his fellows.
“Fer MacLeod!” The cry went up from his warriors, renewed vigor in their voices.
“Fer MacLeod!” Archibald echoed, his massive blade clearing a semicircle of space.
They held. Barely. The MacKenzie advance slowed as bodies piled up at the breach, as the narrow opening forced them to funnel through in numbers small enough to manage.
But Euan could see more warriors massing beyond the broken gates.
Could see the dark sails of ships still disgorging fresh forces on the beach.
This was just the beginning.
And somewhere in the chaos of battle, a guard came sprinting through the melee, blood streaming from a gash on his head.
“Me laird!” The man’s voice cracked with urgency. “The keep—they’ve breached the eastern wall! Lady Moyra is under attack!”