Chapter 8 #4
Both men now disarmed, Aiden pounced on the winch.
The furious beat of boots on the steps accompanied every crank of the winch handle.
He barely got four turns in before the garrison soldiers reached the top of the stairs.
He threw the lock to hold the portcullis in its partially opened state and then leapt for the dark stairs to the third level.
He counted the stairs as he climbed, and when he reached the eighteenth stair, he dove to the left.
Crashing through a wooden shutter, he fell out a small window and landed on the slate roof of the stable one story below.
The impact temporarily robbed him of breath, but he managed to roll off the roof to the hay piled next to the animal stalls.
The metallic clash of swords told him the rest of the Black Warriors had entered the close through the partially opened portcullis and engaged the soldiers. He pushed to his feet and raced to join them.
Cormac had already taken out several of the archers on the walls, but Aiden played it safe and veered left and right with erratic movements as he closed the gap between himself and his men.
The moment they saw him, the Black Warriors began a strategic retreat—they ran for the three-foot opening beneath the iron spikes of the portcullis.
A shout went up from the captain of the garrison. “Drop the portcullis! Quickly.”
Aiden knew it would take only a well-aimed slice of a sharp blade to sever the rope and drop the portcullis to the ground. He ran. He was still ten paces away when he saw an ax swing toward his head from the doorway of the gatehouse.
He parried the ax with his sword but felt the weight of the mighty two-handed blade vibrate up his arm, numbing his fingers. The sword slipped from his grip, flying off into the dark, and his boot slipped in the mud.
Mourning the loss of a good weapon, he recovered his balance and resumed his run for the gate. He could only pray his delay was not costly—if he rolled under the portcullis at the wrong moment and it fell upon him . . . well, Niall would be forced to wear the mantle of chief.
Aiden sent a prayer skyward and dove for the mud under the gate.
* * *
Isabail bit her lip, trying not to panic. She was trapped in a secret room in the dark of the night, with no one aware of her location. Even if Muirne came in search of her, the maid would never realize she was buried behind a huge rock.
Isabail’s hand massaged her throat.
Breathe, Isabail. Do not assume the worst. Perhaps there is another way out.
Holding the torch aloft, she turned away from the door and faced the tunnel.
Several feet along, it changed direction, making it impossible to see what lay ahead.
Praying that none of the other tiles in the footpath were about to bring the ceiling down upon her head, she walked forward.
Thankfully, the only sounds she heard were the shallow draws of her breath and the soft pad of her boots on the stone floor.
She rounded the corner and entered a small chamber. A sepulcher, it would seem, complete with a large stone burial chest. Atop the chest, a loose bolt of purple silk served as a bed for several silver items.
Isabail stepped closer.
One of the items lying on the silk was a sword.
Half as long as the chest and clearly well maintained, the sword gleamed in the torchlight.
But it wasn’t the sword that held her attention.
The centerpiece of the display was a simple silver band set with the most glorious sapphire Isabail had ever seen.
Perfectly cut to catch the light, it glowed with a noticeable fire under the torch.
It was clearly a crown.
One worn by a Pictish king, perhaps?
Isabail wrinkled her nose and studied the markings on the burial chest. Quite likely, whoever had worn the crown lay within this stone box. Unfortunately, there were no symbols or words on the stone chest that Isabail could read.
She stepped back.
An unexpected treasure, but no help to her. It was neither the necklace she sought, nor the answer to her escape. There were no other exits, no other tunnels leading into the mountain.
Her only hope for a rescue lay with the MacCurran. Had he not just marched off to do some sort of battle, that hope would have more weight. Back by morning, he’d said. But how much longer after that would it take him to realize she was missing?
She might well starve to death before anyone came.
Isabail licked her lips. For some reason, most probably because water was beyond reach, she had a sudden thirst. Lifting the torch high again, she explored the entirety of the small room. There was no miraculous second exit. The only way out was the way she had come in.
Swallowing a cold lump of fear, she made her way back to the huge granite slab that held her prisoner.
Surely there must be some way to open the door from this side.
She tried stepping on the tile that had sealed her in, tried several other tiles, and even tiles in combination.
The door and the smaller rock on the ledge above her that held it shut remained exactly where they stood.
Isabail slid slowly to the floor and sat with her back to the tunnel wall. She remained surprisingly calm as she ran through her options and once again came up dry.
Her calm held, despite her desperate situation.
Until the torch began to flicker.