Chapter 20 #2
They paused for only a moment. But that split second was enough to hear the sounds of the battle already beginning outside the castle walls. Oliver nodded, reaching for Sorcha. James hesitated for only a moment longer before letting go of his sister.
“I will make sure she is safe,” Taryn promised James, leaving the unspoken thoughts to hang in the air between them.
Sorcha pulled out her sword and then reached to squeeze Laura’s arm.
“I am so verra glad ye are here.”
With that, she turned to face the battle.
Hand in hand, Oliver and Sorcha walked out of the castle and into the fray.
James, half a step behind them, raced through the chaos and made it back to his post, ready to lead his men into battle.
Sorcha hardly had a moment to take in the sight of everything before she and Oliver were wrenched into the fight.
To her right, the Frasers in their red, blue and green plaids, braved the first wave of Dudley’s men.
On the left, the McKenzies defended the gates, their dark blue and green tartans marking them.
Arrows from the ramparts fell from the sky like rain.
More often than not, they landed in the chests of their targets, already cutting into the English numbers.
The McGregors and the Kincaids made up the majority of their foot soldiers, the men standing beside each other regardless of the color of their plaid, just so long as they were wearing one.
Each warrior fought earnestly, defending his home.
Had Sorcha not been on the verge of joining the fight herself, the sight of their unity would have brought tears to her eyes.
As it was, there were far more redcoats than tartans. Even with their archers perfectly positioned, even with the strength of their gate, and the valor in their hearts, the English were making much faster progress towards the castle doors than Sorcha could stomach.
She squeezed Oliver’s hand one last time as they reached the front lines.
He cast her a strong smile and ripped his sword out of his sheath, swinging it proudly.
Sorcha did the same and within a few more steps, they reached Lachlan and Aila’s side.
The four of them fought together, back to back and shoulder to shoulder.
“Get back with ye!” Aila shouted as she felled another soldier.
Lachlan moved with silent fury, his claymore, and dagger always moving.
Sorcha found herself at Aila’s side, their years together allowing them to work as a well-oiled machine.
Oliver, the newest to the group, fought with skill that shocked them all.
His height and tightly packed muscle made the swing of his sword sing through the air, the impact of it, taking down each man who dared to stand in front of him.
“Behind ye!” Sorcha warned Lachlan.
“Duck, lass,” Oliver called, driving his weapon into her opponent’s neck.
“What did I miss?”
Taryn’s voice, strong and steady for the first time in weeks, came from Sorcha’s back. Sorcha shot her friend a broad smile at the sight of her bow, already notched.
“Och, nothing. The fun is just getting started.”
Aila’s cheeky remark had all three girls grinning as they quickly moved into the fighting stance that had saved them on more than one occasion.
Creating a triangle with their backs to each other, the three women started to move through the wave of English soldiers.
Sweat poured down Sorcha’s face despite the spring breeze, but she hardly noticed it.
Aila grunted as she lunged forward, just enough to push back the pair of Eglishmen who had tried to attack her together.
Taryn twisted, letting an arrow fly, taking out the man on the right while Sorcha took care of the man on the left.
“Ye would almost think they dinnae need us,” James quipped, having made his way closer to the front with the rest of them.
Lachlan and Oliver dared to direct their attention to the girls for long enough only to make note of their progress.
“It is nae them who needs us,” Lachlan bellowed, pushing back three men at once. “It is us who needs them. We need them,” he grunted, “to help protect our home from these ar—”
His words were cut off by Sorcha’s rage induced shout. She was angry, fuming that the English would dare to attack her home.
She had spent her entire life searching for something worth fighting for, something worth protecting.
After leaving home, refusing to be more than a prize cow sold to the highest bidder, she had promised herself that she was going to find and build the life she wanted.
And now she had it. Friends who were more like family.
A man she admired greatly, perhaps even loved.
Children that would one day inherit this future they were fighting to defend.
And the English thought they could come in and strip that away from them as if it were their right, as if Dudley’s entitlement was enough to crush all that Sorcha had fought for.
She shouted again, killing yet another soldier. Oliver fought a few paces away, then dropped beside her again, eyes blazing with a look of concern and pride. Should they survive this battle, she promised herself that she would fight for him just as hard.
The sounds of battle filled the air. Metal crashing into metal.
Arrows whizzing through the air. Men groaning and shouting and grunting their way through the gore of war.
Horses whined and snickered. Sorcha’s heart pounded in her ears, her blood thrumming through her veins, rushing with determination.
Yet, no matter how hard they fought, the English kept coming.
Bodies lay strewn across the cobblestones of the courtyard, the once cream-colored rocks a shade of red Sorcha was likely never to forget. As more soldiers died, English and Scottish alike, the space to move throughout the battlefield lessened. And still Dudley’s men pressed on.
“We cannae hold them like this,” Taryn breathed.
“Sorcha! Move!”
Oliver’s warning came just in time for her to jump out of the way of an axe hurling towards her head.
Despite their best efforts, the three women had been forced to separate.
There were just too many English soldiers racing towards them.
For every man that fell, three more were ready to take his place.
Sorcha’s muscles burned with the effort it took to raise her sword again and again. In a matter of minutes, Taryn had sent all the arrows from her quiver flying, each one another Englishman down, and had turned to her own sword to keep the fight going.
“Watch yer flank!” James shouted to the men around them. “Hold it steady, lads. Dinnae let them gain any ground!”
His shouts of instruction, of encouragement to keep going, carried little weight.
Their forces were dwindling faster than Sorcha had ever dreamed.
With half of the English cavalry still waiting in the shadows of the forest, Baron Dudley amongst them, her hope started to dwindle too.
A pause in the onslaught gave her the chance to look up and survey the courtyard.
“Och, nay,” she muttered.
“What?” Oliver gasped, thrusting his sword into the stomach of another English warrior. “Are you injured?”
She blinked back tears, unable to explain that the sight in her eyes hurt worse than any injury they could have inflicted on her.
The Scottish forces, once organized and strong, were a riot of color as they were crowded around each other.
The English had managed to encircle them completely, giving them no way to escape.
A heavy thud hammered over and over again. Sorcha glanced behind her just as the crack of wood split the air.
“They have breached the castle doors,” she cried with a horror that reached into the depth of her soul and shook it. “They are inside the castle.”