Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“I’ll nae ask ye again, Ragnar. When did ye last sleep?”
Freyr stood in the doorway of the war room, arms crossed, wearing the expression of a man who already knew the answer and didn’t like it.
“Watch yer tone, Freyr.”
“Nay. Right now, ye’re nae me laird, yer me best friend” Freyr stepped inside. “And I’m askin’ ye—when’s the last time ye slept?”
Ragnar didn’t look up from the map. “I slept.”
“Ye sat in a chair wi’ yer eyes shut fer an hour.”
Ragnar met his captain’s gaze, his eyes hard. “Whatever ‘tis ye came her tae say, either spit it out or leave.”
Two days.
Forty-eight hours had passed since he’d heard that cursed alarm go off, since he’d stood on that ridge and watched the Bergen vessel disappear with his wife aboard it. The tunic he wore still carried the ghost of her scent from the library—heather, ink, warmth and the taste of stolen kisses.
Freyr nodded once. “There are sails in the strait.” Freyr said, his tone matter-of fact. “Three vessels—”
Ragnar was past him before the last word landed.
The watchtower gave him the full view. There were three ships cutting south through grey water on their approach to Uist—The wolf of Skye’s grey and blue at the prow, The Serpent of Barra’s green and gold on the flank, and behind them, The Raven of Mull’s blackened hull.
The sight settled in his stomach.
Ragnar squinted at it, his eyes straining. Then, he saw it.
Behind Ivar Gunnarson’s vessel, was something else—a fourth sail. The Hawk of Lewis’s crimson and white flashing on the horizon.
“By the gods…” he breathed, hope flaring bright and hot behind his sternum.
They came. Every last one of ‘em.
The ships made harbor in under an hour. Ragnar descended to the dock where the bloodstains on the weathered deck had been scrubbed but not quite erased.
Erik came ashore first. No Claricia. No infant. It was just the Wolf of Skye in full war leather, his pale eyes already scanning the defensive positions along the ridge.
“Thank ye fer—”
He gripped Ragnar’s forearm, nodded once, then stepped aside.
Behind him, Magnus was already striding up the gangplank, heavier through the shoulders than Ragnar remembered, every trace of soft fatherhood burned clean away.
“Ada wanted tae come,” Magnus said, clasping Ragnar’s arm. “I told her nae.”
“And ye’re still breathin’?”
“Barely. She threw a boot at me.’” The ghost of humor died before it reached his mouth.
Harald arrived minutes later—windswept, grim-faced, gripping Ragnar’s arm with both hands.
“Harald” Ragnar’s voice almost cracked. “How are they?”
“Enya says she’ll nae have our son grow up wi’out a proper father figure and told me tae get me arse over here, set an example fer him and get back in once piece.”
Ragnar grasped his forearm, the sacrifice of abandoning his newborn—his firstborn––to aid an oath of brotherhood drawing their foreheads against each other.
Ivar stepped off the gangplank last, black eyes finding Ragnar’s face across the dock. No greeting. No dark wit. No theatrical entrance. That, more than anything, told Ragnar how serious this was.
“Where’s the map?” Ivar said.
Twenty minutes later, the four Norsemen stood together around the war table, their expressions bleak. Freyr leaned against the far wall. Bjorn held the door.
“How long has he had her?” Erik asked from his position near the hearth, his one elbow resting on his knee while his hand rested on the hilt of his sword.
“Two days.”
“Dae we ken if she’s alive?”
“His terms demand I surrender territory.” Ragnar tilted his head slightly. “I’d wager he daesnae get any leverage from her bein’ dead.”
“What dae we ken about the stronghold?” Magnus asked, his expression grim.
“Everythin’.” Ragnar said, his voice low.
“Mingary Castle.” Freyr stepped forward, pointing at the map.
“We captured one of the bastards a while ago.” His finger tapped on the map.
““Tis quattin’ on the cliff, ugly, and built tae survive Atlantic gales. There’s a single gatehouse on the landward approach. ” He stepped back, crossing his arms.
Ragnar pushed back from the table. “I reckon Douglas took it through debt leverage—nae by siege or by blood. His garrison’s sixty tae seventy men, if that. And we’ve seen firsthand that half of ‘em couldnae swing a blade straight if their wretched’ lives depended on it.”
“And the other half?” Erik asked.
“Trained. Armed. Loyal tae Douglas’s coin, if nae tae Douglas himself.”
“So, we buy them,” Ivar said, examining his nails, a sharp predatory smile spreading his lips.
“Nay,” Ragnar said, turning to face them. “We’re better than that scum. The world might think us savage, but we fight fair.”
“What are yer orders, me jarl?” Freyr said his spine straightening as he noted the sharpening in Ragnar’s eyes.
“We rip them apart.” Ragnar said, his voice carrying absolute authority.
Ivar’s mouth twitched. “Inelegant. But more fun.”
“Aye.” Harald’s voice came. “What’s the plan?”
“From what we ken, the only land approach funnels through open moorland intae the gatehouse.” Freyr traced it with his finger. “Classic killin’ ground. He wants a frontal assault.”
“Then we dinnae give him one.” Ragnar leaned forward, both fists on the table.
“Erik. Southern cliffs at low tide. There’s a sea cave—narrow, knee-deep at its shallowest—that opens intae a gully running up tae the curtain wall’s blind side.
Ye go over the wall before dawn and take the gatehouse from the inside. ”
Erik studied the route. “Tight.”
“Ye’ve managed tighter.”
A flicker at the corner of Erik’s mouth. “Aye. Once or twice.”
“Magnus, Harald—yer ships hit the western beach at first light. Longboats only, oars muffled. Put warriors on the ground and drive ‘em inland. Cut off the moorland. Naebody leaves.”
“Archers on the northern cliffs?” Magnus traced the beach with his thumb.
“Unmanned. Douglas hasnae got the numbers tae cover every approach, and he’s too arrogant tae think anyone would try the beach,” Ragnar said, pushing off the table.
“Harald, ye take twenty men and take ‘em along the outer defenses.”
Ragnar’s eyes drifted over their faces. “I’ll push through the gatehouse once Erik’s opened it.”
His eyes settled on Ivar. “Ivar, ye cover me flank.”
Ivar’s grin resurfaced for a single heartbeat—sharp, predatory, entirely too pleased. “Och, I dae love a good flank.”
“This isnae a siege.” Ragnar straightened, and the room went still. “We hit from three directions at once. We dinnae negotiate. We dinnae offer terms.” His blue eyes swept every face. “And we dinnae take Douglas alive.”
The fire popped and crackled in the grate, sending tiny red embers shooting into the air, a log shifting into ash.
“Where d’ye reckon he’s keepin’ her?” Harald asked quietly.
“East tower. Most defensible position inside the walls.”
“Then let one of us—” Magnus started.
“Nay.”
“Ragnar, if ye’re thinkin’ with yer heart or anythin’ else instead of yer—”
“Magnus.” Ragnar’s voice dropped.
“Ye’re nay good tae her if ye’re—”
“I said nay.” Ragnar’s eyes blazed. “I reach her first. That’s nae open fer discussion.”
Erik looked at Magnus, who looked at Harald, a knowing look passing between them.
“Get some sleep. I’ll need ye sharp by mornin’,” Ragnar said.
The jarls filed out of the solar one by one, their footsteps scuffing against the flagstone floor. Erik paused at the door, his hand on the frame.
“We’ll get her back.”
“Aye,” Ragnar said. “We will.”
The door closed.
Ragnar stood alone, his palms flat against the map, over the ink outline of Mingary Castle where his wife was being held.
Hold on, little wolf. I’m comin’.
The next morning, the signal came from the southern cliff face—two blinks of lantern light peeking through predawn mist. Erik was through.
“Go,” Ragnar said.
The long boats ground against sand and Ragnar was over the side before the hull stopped moving, boots hitting shallow water. Forty men surged up the beach behind him—a dark tide of steel that split around boulders and reformed without breaking stride.
The gatehouse stood open. Two of Douglas’s sentries lay inside the arch, throats cut so cleanly they’d never woken. Erik was pushing forward, his men fanning across the lower courtyard.
Ragnar moved through the compound the way he’d moved through every fight he had ever been in—each flex of his muscles deliberate, controlled.
A man came at him from a doorway, axe raised high.
Ragnar stepped inside the swing, caught the haft below the blade, and wrenched the man off-balance.
His knee found ribs. The axe clattered free. His sword finished it.
Two more, flanking from a corridor. The first lunged.
Ivar turned the blade aside with the flat of his own, pivoted on his heel, and drove his pommel into the man’s temple.
The second hesitated—just a heartbeat’s worth––and it cost him everything.
The Raven’s broadsword opening his guard and cut him down in a single devastating stroke.
“East tower!” Ragnar shouted.
“I see it!” Ivar kicked a man backward into his own comrade, dropped them both, and jerked his chin toward the inner compound. “Go! I’ll hold the yard!”
Ragnar broke from the main assault and drove toward the tower. The corridor was narrow, dim, stinking of tallow and fear.
Two guards stood at the base of the stairwell. The first drew his sword.
“I’d reconsider,” Ragnar said.
The man swung anyway.
Ragnar caught the blade on his own, drove it wide, and slammed his forearm across the guard’s jaw with enough force to bounce his skull off the stone wall. He folded. The second guard stabbed forward—the point of his spear pushing into Ragnar’s ribs through leather, but he barely registered.
He took the stairs three at a time. His blood roared, his vision narrowing to a single point.