Chapter 22 #3
“Three,” Fergus barked, ripping himself free from Sebastian’s grip with a fierce shove.
“Three of me best track-finders, MacGregor! She didnae ask for me bloody permission! She went straight to the stables, saddled the bay herself, and told me boys she didnae need a MacKenzie’s leave to go back to her own home! ”
Sebastian swore violently, a string of raw, feral Gaelic curses ripping from his throat as he turned back toward his steaming stallion. He grabbed the pommel of the saddle, his mind spinning out of control. Three men. She had three men in a forest, crawling with Malcolm Kerr’s advance scouts.
“Hamish, remount!” Sebastian ordered, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Get the men back on the horses!”
“Me Laird, the beasts are spent,” Hamish warned, even as his hand dropped to his broadsword. “They willnae make the Ridge trail again without collapsin’.”
“Then we change mounts,” Sebastian said, already hauling himself into the saddle of the freshest horse he could reach.
“Fergus has a full stable, and every one of them is faster than a foot soldier. If they give out on the trail, we go the rest of the way on foot. She’s out there in the dark, Hamish.
I am nae waitin’ for the beasts to catch their breath. ”
“MacGregor,” Fergus said, grabbing the horse’s bridle to hold the beast steady. “Wait. Ye cannae go out there blind. If Kerr’s scouts have the Ridge, ye’re ridin’ into a pocket.”
“Let go of the horse, MacKenzie,” Sebastian hissed.
“Look at the Gate!” Hamish shouted suddenly, pointing a thick finger toward the iron portcullis.
The heavy chains rattled violently. Before the guards could even clear the path, another rider burst through the opening. The horse was bloody, its chest heaving in short, broken gasps before it stumbled and collapsed into the mud of the courtyard, throwing its rider forward into the slush.
The man wore Kerr’s coulors, black and grey, his plaid soaked through and clinging to him, his face streaked with mud and rain. He’d been sent, ridden hard on a fresh horse the moment the ambush was done, with orders to reach MacKenzie’s Gates before nightfall.
“Hold!” Fergus bellowed, his guards instantly surrounding the fallen rider with drawn spears. “Who is it?”
The man struggled to his knees, entirely unbothered by the ring of iron pointed at his throat. “Message,” he said, his voice steady despite the spears. “From Laird Kerr.”
Every warrior in the courtyard went completely silent. The blacksmiths stopped their hammers. The archers leaned over the battlements, their eyes fixed on the muddy shape in the center of the yard.
Sebastian slid down from his stirrup, his boots hitting the ground with a heavy, ominous thud. He walked toward the fallen man, his broadsword completely cleared from its sheath now, the iron tip dragging a thin line through the mud.
“Speak,” Sebastian commanded, standing over the messenger like an executioner. “Where is she?”
The man looked up, his eyes wide with a terrifying, hollow dread as he recognized the Blackthorn warlord. "The Ridge. We took them near the Old Kiln." His throat worked once. "Her three guards are dead. Clean work. She wasnae touched."
Sebastian’s fingers tightened around his hilt until the bone clicked. “And the Lady?”
“He has the Lady,” the rider gasped, his voice cracking shakily as he squeezed his eyes shut. “Kerr, he took her alive. He sent me to give ye the terms.”
The world suddenly shrank. The sky, the castle, the spears—all vanished until only the burning, monstrous fire in Sebastian’s chest remained.
His heart pounded against his ribs like a trapped beast. He had sent her away to protect her, kept quiet to save his pride, and now she was in the hands of a man who broke bones for sport.
“What are the terms?” Sebastian asked, his voice terrifyingly quiet, entirely devoid of any human inflection.
The messenger swallowed hard, looking at the stone floor before he could force the final words out. “If MacGregor wants her alive… he has to come alone. To the clearin’ at the Weepin’ Stone. Before the sun hits the pine tops tomorrow.”
“He kens ye’ll go,” Fergus added, his voice grim as he looked at the messenger. “He’s usin’ her to draw ye out of the stone walls. If ye go up there alone, he kills ye both.”
Sebastian did not look at Hamish or Fergus. Instead, he stared through the open iron gates of the castle toward the dark, jagged peaks of the North Ridge, where the grey mist was beginning to swallow the pine trees.
He has her.
He could still taste her on his lips. He could still feel the desperate, frantic way her fingers had twisted into his cloak under the moonlight, begging him to give her a reason to stay. She had ridden into the teeth of a winter war because she thought he was in danger.
He looked back at the messenger in the mud. “Tell me one thing. Was she hurt? Was she scared?”
The messenger shook his head weakly. “Nay, me Laird. She was cursin’ them.”
A short, dark smile cut through the grim line of Sebastian’s mouth, though his eyes remained entirely black.