Chapter Twenty-One #2
She was groggily aware of the guards grabbing her arms, of marching her out after Andrea, of leaving the keep and entering the courtyard. It was raining, the cold sting of the droplets feeling like barbs against her skin.
She raised her head. Her head wobbled on her neck but she fought her eyes into focus.
A large chopping block had been placed in the center of the courtyard with a huge, double-handed ax propped against it.
A man wearing the black mask of an executioner stood beside it, arms crossed as he waited patiently.
Appalled terror shot through Elise. No. This could not be happening. It couldn’t.
Struggling and fighting, Andrea was dragged towards the chopping block and forced onto her knees. One of the guards held her arms pinned behind her as the other forced her head down and then lashed her to the block with a thick leather strap.
Time seemed to slow. Phillip’s words sounded slurred and elongated as he began speaking Andrea’s doom. Raindrops glinted on the head of the axe as the black-masked man lifted it high above his head. Andrea blinked once, twice, as her fear-filled gaze met Elise’s.
And then something in Elise shattered.
She screamed wordlessly, a sound of terror and fury. Power erupted out of her in a wave. It was molten gold in color, like the sparks from a smelting furnace, and it roared with the force of a tornado.
It slammed into the executioner, sent him flying across the cobbles like a rag doll.
It picked up the axe and shattered the heavy weapon into a thousand pieces as though it were made of brittle glass.
It incinerated the leather strap holding Andrea and then wrapped itself around the housekeeper in a thick, impenetrable shield.
“Lay a hand on her again and I’ll kill you,” Elise snarled at Phillip.
If she expected Phillip to be troubled by her sudden display of power, she was disappointed. He didn’t look disconcerted. He didn’t look scared or angry. He looked… jubilant.
A fierce grin lit his face. “Ha!” he cried. “I knew it! Ye just needed the right motivation in order to master War Weaving.”
Elise’s hands curled into fists. “What are you talking about?”
“Isnae it obvious?” Phillip replied, grinning. “War Weaving doesnae respond to instruction. It responds to threat. It is defensive, not offensive. It responds only to a threat to life.”
Elise staggered back a few steps. Could this be true? Could this be what she’d been missing? It would explain why she’d been able to use it against those pirate ships when they threatened Jamie and his crew but not at any other time. And it also meant…
“You bastard,” she breathed. “You set this all up. You threatened Andrea’s life just to see if your theory was right!”
“And it was,” he replied.
“And if you were wrong?” she hissed. “Would you have just let Andrea be killed?”
Phillip shrugged. “We all have to make sacrifices.” His gaze sparked with something like avarice as his eyes fixed on her. “And now we know how to trigger yer power, ye will become everything ye were born to be. Ye will become our greatest weapon.”
*
The wind off the Sound of Barra tasted of salt and iron, sharp enough to sting the back of Jamie’s throat as he stood on the shingle and watched the fleet take shape.
Sails snapped and billowed, canvas straining as the first of the ships caught the breeze.
Ulster flags—newly sewn, rough-edged, some still bleeding dye—fluttered proudly from mastheads.
Fishing boats. Trading cogs. Long, lean island vessels built for speed rather than battle.
They looked nothing like an invading armada but by the time the king’s ships got close enough to realize this, Jamie hoped it would be too late.
He folded his hands behind his back as the ships slipped their moorings one by one.
There were more ships in the bay than he’d ever dared hope for.
Yesterday, when he’d sent out the call for volunteers, he’d braced himself for hesitation, for fear.
Instead, they had come forward in a flood.
Men who’d sailed since boyhood. Women who had buried husbands lost to storms and raids.
Lads barely old enough to shave, eyes bright with a fierce, reckless pride.
They had come not for him alone, but for the Isles.
For their home that teetered on the brink because of a mainland king’s greed.
Jamie’s chest tightened as he watched Barra’s ships move out, falling into a line that angled west and south towards Islay, sails gleaming pale against the dark water.
“They answered,” he said quietly.
Arran stood at his side, arms folded, his expression grim but resolute. “Of course they did. Did ye expect anything else? They are islanders, and we always stand with our own.”
Jenna, standing by her husband’s side, remained silent, her gaze fixed on the horizon as if she could already see the king’s ships turning to meet the bait. The wind tugged at her dark hair, pulling loose strands across her face.
“They’ll fall for it,” she said at last, as though trying to convince herself. “Ulster colors, coming in force from the west. Phillip and the king’s men won’t dare take the risk. They’ll sail out and meet us.”
Jamie nodded. He hoped Jenna was right. He could almost see the scene in Dun Arach when Cailean and his fleet were spotted: messengers running, orders shouted, anchors hauled up in haste. The fleet that strangled Islay loosening its grip, moving out.
Gods willing, moving far enough.
The Barra fleet was little more than a dark line now, sails shrinking as they merged with the sea and sky. Jamie watched until the last sail vanished beyond the curve of the world. Only then did he let himself breathe.
“All right,” he said to Arran and Jenna. “Now it’s yer turn.”
Horns sounded again—three long blasts from the northern headland. Jamie turned as the second fleet began to move.
Where Barra’s ships had been a patchwork of size and shape, Skye’s were unmistakable: lean, predatory vessels with low profiles and dark hulls, built for speed and surprise. They slipped from the harbor like shadows, oars dipping in perfect unison before sails were raised.
“Ye know yer position?” Jamie asked.
“Aye,” Arran replied. “We’ll hold fast, just beyond sight, and strike from the rear, stop them turning tail and running back to Islay.”
Jamie clapped him on the shoulder. “We’ll meet again in the great hall of Dun Arach. When this is done.”
Arran nodded, something fierce flickering in his eyes. “Aye. When this is done.”
Jamie stood back as Arran and Jenna walked down to the quay and boarded Arran’s flagship. One by one, the Skye ships slipped away with barely a sound, sails dark against the glittering water, until they too were swallowed by distance.
The shore felt suddenly empty. A chill wind blasted along the coastline. That was it, then. Everything was set in motion and there was no going back.
Taking a deep breath, he turned and strode along the beach to where his own ships waited.
Three vessels only. That was all Barra could spare without leaving herself exposed—but they were the fastest she had, their hulls narrow and light, their crews handpicked by Cailean himself.
Warriors seasoned by storms and steel, men who could fight on deck or shore with equal ferocity.
They waited now in disciplined silence, weapons stowed but ready, eyes bright with anticipation.
Jamie climbed aboard the lead ship and scanned the faces of his crew.
“Ye know what we need to do,” he said, pitching his voice so all could hear. “Speed over strength. Surprise over numbers. We strike hard, we strike fast, and we dinna surrender.”
That earned him a low growl of approval, blades thumping against shields. Jamie stepped back as the lines were cast off. The sail went up, catching the wind eagerly, and the ship lurched forward.
As the shoreline of Barra began to slide away, Jamie moved to the prow and planted his feet, gripping the rail. The wind tore at his hair and cloak, cold and bracing, carrying the tang of open sea.
The Isles were at war. And he was coming home.