Chapter 11
Mabrick Castle was not much further when they came upon a body. Marin spotted him first, her heart and mind having trained a lifetime to recognize the Werrick hawk on the familiar green background with the yellow stripe. Even in the moonlight, she could make out her family crest.
She stopped her horse, but before she could leap from its back, Bran was already on the ground. He pulled the man over and her stomach clenched.
“Dinna look, Marin,” Bran said.
But she had to look. She was responsible for the man being there.
He was young and blond, an archer, one not trained to perform in close combat. As a result, he'd been one of the men without chainmail, left unprotected. The gaping wounds glistening in the moonlight and the horror of his death etched upon his face bore witness to his terrible end.
There were many men in her father's forces who said they had seen death so often in battle, it no longer affected them, or so they said. But Marin did not think she would ever be able to make such a claim.
Especially not when several feet away lay another body. And then another. The rain had stopped, but the trail of death continued, their blood an eerie purple in the silvery light.
She covered her face with her hands and tried to still the growing tension welling in her throat. The wind shifted, no longer sweeping from behind them. It billowed toward their faces, carrying with it the odor of blood and the frenzied cries of war.
Marin leapt back onto her horse, but Bran stopped the horse by grabbing the reins.
“Stay back,” he said to Marin. He mounted his stubby-legged horse and shot forward.
Marin ignored his request and followed close behind him.
He bared his teeth at her, his expression dark and ferocious. “Damn it, woman. If ye ever listen to me, listen now. Dinna sacrifice their lives and yers by riding out there without assessing the battle.”
Stunned, she slowed her horse while his men rode onward toward the clash of metal and the piteous wailing of the dying. He was right, she knew. Charging into battle would only cause her sisters to be distracted. Such distractions quickly led to death. The thought made her shudder.
The warrior in her knew this, but the blood the five of them shared, the blood running through her veins, raced with helplessness. Time seemed to drag on for the agony of a lifetime. Her sisters needed her, and she was having to wait.
The horse shifted under her weight, as if he detected her anxiety. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. Every muscle in her body was tensed with the need to charge into action.
Wait.
Her throat burned to scream her frustration, yet she swallowed it down and remained in place.
Finally, finally, finally a bellow came from the tree line, followed by the cries of attacking men.
Marin punched her sword in the air and her voice joined their lusty shouts.
Her horse flew over the bloodied ground where bodies lay, unmoving in death.
It was hard not to see them as she raced past the men who had not been prepared for war.
Marin gritted her teeth as if doing so might tamp down the horror ripping through her. She had ordered her men to charge into a slaughter.
The clashing of blades and grunts of fighting became louder, a sound welcome to her ears.
There were still survivors. Her sisters would hopefully be among them.
And at least in battle, Marin would not be a helpless observer, left to see what the fates had cast her way.
Nay, she would be fighting, with control over where her blade fell and how her body moved.
She would be with her sisters. Three more dead men lay on the ground.
Only one was not a man from Werrick Castle.
The slain reiver lay face up, his eyes staring at nothing, an arrow jutting from his chest with a white sprigged fletching.
Catriona's arrows.
A harsh breath tore from Marin’s chest. There was still hope.
She raced up the hill toward the battle.
As she crested the top, she could make out the swarm of men below, Graham reivers and Bran's reivers blended together in a chaos of bodies.
Marin searched frantically, her gaze moving to the center of the fray.
She caught sight of her soldiers and her heart gave a wild skip.
Only about half of them remained alive by her count, and they had formed a protective circle around Marin's sisters, fighting valiantly even as the Grahams pressed in on them. Catriona's hands flew at her bow, nocking arrows and launching them into the onslaught.
Bran's men hit the outskirts of the Graham reivers and fought with the same degree of merciless ferocity. While the Grahams were a large force, it appeared only a few dozen were outside the castle. Bran's reivers easily outnumbered them.
The odds would be in Bran's favor. Hopefully, time would be as well.
Marin continued to race down the hill toward the maelstrom, unable to tear her gaze from the cluster of Werrick soldiers.
Her soldiers fought bravely, regardless of some being without proper armor.
These were men she had grown up caring for and respecting, men who were sacrificing themselves so that her sisters would live.
Marin met the first Graham reiver with the swing of her blade.
It tore through his neck in a fatal blow.
She didn't stop, not until the bulk of her steed crashed into the solid wall of soldiers.
Only then did she lose sight of her sisters as she fought her way toward them.
She pushed her horse forward, her sword hacking and slashing as she made her way through the outskirts of battle until her horse refused to continue.
The small stout-legged pony was ideal for the difficult border terrain, but it was not prepared for battle. Marin followed Bran's men and leapt from her horse. Her feet landed on the spongy marshland and sank slightly with each step. The small horse abandoned her, leaving her moving more slowly.
Too slowly.
Panic rattled in the back of her mind, threatening to let a wave of fear consume her. But she'd trained for too long at her father's side to give in to such weakness.
She drew a steady breath, even as she lashed out at her enemy. Worry cleared from her and all her thoughts shifted to the moves of her blade. In. Out. Block. Feint. Left, jab.
Sweat trickled down her face and her feet slid and stumbled over the bodies lying beneath her. Still, she did not allow herself to break her concentration.
A reiver beside her fell, and Marin whipped right with her blade drawn back. Bran glowered back at her from under his helm.
She hesitated, finding him at her side thus.
She could kill him. Then she wouldn't have to marry him. His men wouldn't notice his fall until after the battle when her sisters were safe. They would no doubt disband, and she could return to Werrick Castle with her sisters. They could all be safe.
And yet she could not bring herself to thrust her sword into him as he was occupied in battle, set on saving her sisters. Instead, it was he who lifted his weapon and charged in her direction.
Bran swung his axe with all his might, so it connected with a satisfying thunk into the head of the Graham bastard lunging at Marin. Her blue eyes went wide beneath her helm and she jerked her attention to the man who was dead before Bran could even pull his axe free.
She nodded her thanks, and her expression blinked from surprise to the narrowed ferocity of determination. He returned her gesture and together they fought, blade and axe, side by side.
She wielded the sword as though it weighed nothing, using its heft to propel the weapon rather than fighting against it, and she moved with an ability wrought by years of repeated practice.
Her skills were admirable for any warrior, but especially so for a woman.
It did not escape his notice that she managed to cut down as many Graham reivers as did he. At least until the scream.
It rent from the heart of the melee. High-pitched and feminine.
“Nay,” Marin cried. Her blade whipped faster, her face set with concentration. But such power could not be maintained. One wild jab went awry and only nicked the arm of the man she fought. The man took advantage and sliced at her. She was knocked back a step and Bran took the place in front of her.
He roared his rage and brought the axe down hard on the man.
“I didn't need you to do that.” Marin appeared at his side, her blade moving with less speed.
He grunted and kept his focus on the man before him, one with a dirk and a frenzied glint in his eye.
“My chainmail protected me,” she offered.
He grunted again and ducked to miss the man's attack. His opponent lifted his head up to the sky and screamed out like a banshee, which gave Bran the perfect opportunity to cut him down.
A clang of metal echoed in Bran’s right ear, where Marin stood. He glanced to his side and found her stopping a man who had intended to strike his killing blow as Bran delivered his own. The corner of her lip curled up. The favor was repaid already, and she was damn proud of herself for it.
“Marin!” The high-pitched voice rose from the center of the battle and Marin's cocky smile disappeared.
Her gaze shot to where the heads of Werrick’s soldiers showed through the battle between the Grahams and Bran’s men. So close. So far.
Bran sliced through a Graham, splitting the man's gambeson as well as his chest, then swung his axe again, catching a man who intended to attack Marin. “We'll save them.”
The shiny helms of Werrick’s soldiers came into view over the heads of several Graham reivers. They were getting nearer. They truly might get there in time.
Marin's blade flashed at Bran's side, blocking a man who sought to attack him. Apparently, the passion they shared was not their only compatibility. They fought together without effort, keeping each other safe as easily as they charged their enemy.
The muscles along Bran's back and arms ached with the effort of his swings. The axe continued to grow heavier in his grip. But he had been more tired in his life, more beaten down. He dug deep in the well of his reserved strength and swung with vigor.
They were close enough now to make out the Werrick soldiers better. Several were bloodied, one could scarcely lift his weapon, doing so with one arm while the other hung limply at his side. They were exhausted, injured and fighting for survival.
A soldier fell, a man with no chainmail or helm. Then another followed, and the line of defense around the women broke.
All of Bran's senses became sharper in battle. He discerned the hiss of a blade over the cries of the dying and the clanging of weapons, the odor of an impending attacker over the horrors of death and dying redolent around him. His awareness worked to keep his body strong and his focus intact.
When a slight blonde woman wearing chain mail and wielding a mace stepped forward into the gap where the soldiers had fallen, however, his focus shattered. She was too little for battle, barely a woman at all.
His body moved with memorized action, blocking and killing as needed, but his gaze remained fixed on where young Ella whirled the spiked metal ball of her mace.
Her lip curled back in a vicious snarl as she let the heavy head of her weapon slam into a man's face, its impact wet and hollow. Blood exploded where the Graham’s face had been.
Ella kept her attention fixed on another reiver and tugged her weapon free with a jerk.
Anice appeared at her side with her arm outstretched, as if the action might keep the two younger sisters behind them safe.
In front of her, Piquette stood like a sentry, his mouth colored with blood and his snout peeled back from his bared teeth.
Like Marin, Anice wielded a blade, arcing and slicing with a skill only slightly less than that of her older sister.
Another man in the distance gave a wild shriek into the air, followed by another and another until the wild cries rose above even the chaos of war. Then it stopped, as suddenly as it'd begun.
The women paid it no mind and continued to fight with their exceptional skill. While Bran didn't know much about the Earl of Werrick, he was well aware the man had trained his daughters to fight like men. And in doing so, the earl had undoubtedly saved their lives.
A bellowed order came from the parapet of Mabrick Castle, one single word that struck fear into Bran’s heart: archers.
The only way the leader of an army of men might readily sacrifice his own men in a volley of arrows was if he anticipated killing more of the enemy. Meaning there were more of Bran's men than there were surviving Graham reivers. And most likely the Grahams knew this when they gave the call.
A neat line of men appeared on the parapet, staggered against the crenellations, their bows jutting up from them like staffs. They drew back in unison, aimed their arrows and let them fly.