Chapter 4
Rhys wrapped his arms around his wife and draped himself over her just as arrows pinged off his helmet and bounced off his leather armor.
He did not shout to his warriors, for they were well-trained for such a surprise attack.
He hastily brought his stallion to a halt and dropped off him, his body wrapped tightly around his wife as he took her with him.
His stallion fled to do what he was trained to do—hide until the attack was over and to let no one take him.
He hit the ground hard, taking as much of the blunt force as he could, then he quickly got them to their feet and hurried her to a large boulder. He pressed his palm to her chest and ordered, “Do not move from this spot.”
He flung his black cloak off and drew his sword as he turned and faced the onslaught of warriors pouring out of the surrounding woods.
Heather’s heart pounded with fear. It was as if she had been plunged back to the day she had been abducted.
Only this time the warriors who attacked did not wear the white face paint of the ghost warriors.
These warriors’ faces were smeared with dirt and their fierce screams echoed through the woods as they attacked.
She did as her husband ordered and braced herself up against the boulder, terrified she would be taken captive once again.
Her eyes grew wider as she watched her husband battle the warriors that came at him.
Never had she seen a man fight with the ferocity and power that her husband displayed.
He felled warrior after warrior. It was as if he grew in strength and determination with each deadly blow he inflicted.
When he suddenly turned around, his sword in the air, she cringed, thinking for a moment he meant to use it on her, but it caught a warrior perched on top of the boulder, slicing into his neck, his lifeless body dropping off to the side.
Heather looked to her husband, but he had already turned to battle another enclave of warriors advancing on him. Her eyes darted anxiously, watching as the ghost warriors fought the attacking horde, bodies dropping like swatted flies. She wrapped her arms around herself, frightened beyond belief.
Get a weapon! Protect yourself! Her sister’s voice resonated in her head so loudly that she cast a quick look to see if Patience was actually there and was disappointed when she saw that she was nowhere to be seen.
Patience had trained her and Emma in the use of various weapons.
She had warned that fear would be the greatest enemy in such an attack.
Turn that fear to anger Patience had told them and do not go down without a fight.
Heather rarely got angry, but what did spur her into action was watching a wounded ghost warrior trying to crawl off the battlefield to safety.
Without hesitation or care for her own safety, she quickly slipped behind the boulder and made her way along the outskirts of the fighting.
When she reached the wounded warrior, she ducked down by him.
He had suffered a serious wound to his leg, making crawling difficult.
She reached out and grabbed his hands and when he saw who had latched onto to him, he grabbed her hands tightly.
With strength born of determination, she pulled him into the woods and behind an enormous bush.
It provided a modicum of safety for the time being.
One look at his injured leg told her it was serious.
Such a sizeable gash often proved difficult if not impossible to heal, but Heather did not intend to let that stop her.
She slipped off her tunic, tore it in half at the shoulders and wrapped his leg with one of the pieces.
Once done, she helped him sit, bracing his back against a tree trunk.
“Hopefully, you will be safe here while I go and see if other wounded warriors require my help.”
He grabbed her wrist. “I cannot let you go, my lady. The Dragon would want you kept safe.”
Heather twisted free, his strength having waned from the injury or else she would never have been able to escape his grip. “I will be fine. I will stay on the outskirts of the fighting.” She turned and took off, ignoring his pleas.
Crouching down to remain as inconspicuous as possible, Heather made her way along the fringes of the battle.
She managed to pull another warrior to safety and, with him leaning heavily on her shoulder, got him to where she had left the other warrior.
He had taken a sword to his side and from what she could see it had gone straight through, giving him a better chance to survive.
She wrapped the other half of her tunic around him and ignored his warning for her to remain with them.
It was too late to help the next two wounded she came across—they were dead.
The two that followed she was able to help to safety, their wounds preventing them from fighting, but she doubted they would prove fatal.
She tore the hem of her shift to make more bandages and once finished tending the warriors, she went in search of more wounded.
The next ghost warrior she came upon could not be helped, he lay dying.
She dragged him away from the battle that seemed to be dying itself and sat on the ground beside him, taking his hand in hers.
One thing she had learned about dying was that no one wanted to die alone.
Those she had seen through death had gripped her hand tightly, as if by holding onto her death could not take them.
She offered the warrior what she had offered all those she had seen through dying, soothing words and her presence.
She had often wondered if someone had been with Quinn when he died or if he had faced death alone.
She hoped someone had been there for him as she was now for this warrior.
She held his hand firmly, caressed his brow, and offered comforting words.
Before he took his last breath, he barely got out a whisper. “Thank you for...kindness.”
A tear slipped down her cheek at the senselessness of his death.
She closed his eyes with a tender hand and left him to, hopefully, help the wounded who could be saved.
When she came upon the battle once again, she crouched down so no one could see her.
She was horrified by the amount of men who lay dead or dying.
From the looks of it, there seemed to be more of the warriors who had attacked dead on the ground than ghost warriors.
The few left fighting remained determined, though outnumbered and would soon meet their fate.
When she saw that, Heather hurried further out onto the battlefield to see who she could help.
* * *
Rhys tore through the last few attacking warriors, wanting this done and Heather safely deposited at the McComb keep.
He swung his sword with a heavy hand, easily slicing down those who dared to challenge him.
The area around him was littered with bodies and the few left fighting stepped over them to get to him and certain death.
Battle always fired his blood, and he grew stronger with each thrust of his sword, taking life after life. Until one last frenzied warrior lunged at him and with one mighty blow of his sword, his body crumpled to the ground, blood pooling out from beneath him.
With no more warriors left to fight him, Rhys turned to Heather only to find her gone.
He hurried behind the boulder to see if she had taken shelter there from the mayhem but did not find her.
Had someone snatched her or had she fled on her own?
Either way, how could he have not heard?
The question left only one possibility. Heather was lighter on her feet than he realized and had fled on her own.
If not, she would have screamed and fought her attacker and he would have heard.
He yanked his helmet off his head as he made his way back around the boulder to cast a glance over the battlefield littered with fallen warriors.
More of the attacking warriors lay dead than his men, though several of his men appeared injured.
He let his glance wander over every inch of the area and it was at the far end, near a copse of trees that he spotted her, though if she had not stood, he would have missed her.
She brushed loose strands of hair out of her face, though they stubbornly returned.
Her tunic was gone and the hem of her shift was ripped in several places as was one sleeve.
He watched as his wife gave a yank to the other sleeve and pulled it off her arm, then she hunched down and began wrapping the sleeve around the fallen warrior’s arm.
She spoke with him while she did, all the while maintaining a smile.
When she finished, she rested her hand to his chest, gave him a nod, and moved on to the next fallen ghost warrior.
That she braved the battle to tend his injured warriors spoke of her courage, but she had also disobeyed him and that he would not tolerate.
He slipped his helmet on, knowing full well he appeared more frightening with it on.
Perhaps when she saw his true nature, she would think twice of disobeying him.
As he approached, he heard her give orders to a few of his warriors who had survived the battle unscathed. They hurried off without question, while she returned to tending the fallen warrior, and he grew annoyed and hastened his step.
“No one orders my warriors but me.”
Heather glanced up quickly from where she hunched over the injured warrior and gasped loudly when she saw her husband. Blood drenched his sword and was splattered across his helmet and much of his leather armor.
She hurried to her feet. “Are you wounded?”
Was that concern he heard? He thought her gasp and rounded eyes were from fear, but were they?
“I am fine—”
“Thank God!”
“God had nothing to do with it. It was my skill that saved me.”