The Chief (31 page)

“Bugger off, MacSorley,” the surly Highlander growled.

MacKay never talked about women, not like the rest of them. This earned him MacSorley's curiosity, which when he failed to satisfy, inevitably led to more prodding.

“That's the most romantic thing I've heard you say the entire time you've been here,” MacSorley mocked. “Between you and MacLean, it's hard to say who's more of a monk.”

MacLean was newly married, though he became silent when the subject arose. For good reason: He'd married a MacDowell—kin to the MacDougalls and Comyns.

“You don't talk much about your betrothed, Gordon,” Seton said, diverting the attention from MacLean.

Gordon shrugged. “Not much to say, I barely know her.”

“Who is she?” Seton asked.

Gordon hesitated. “Helen, the daughter of William of Moray, Earl of Sutherland.”

Tor happened to be looking at MacKay when Gordon made his pronouncement and saw the flicker of shock and pain that was quickly masked. Gordon must have caught the look in his friend's face, too, because Tor saw the look of silent apology that he shot him.

Tor understood why Gordon hadn't said anything before. The MacKays' bitter feud with the Sutherland clan
was well known. But he wondered whether there was more to it.

The talk returned to politics and the speculation on when they would be called to arms. He was grateful for the change of subject, knowing it wouldn't be long before the Viking turned his prodding in his direction. The last thing Tor wanted to talk about was his wife. He had a job to do, and only when it was complete could he set things right. It would do no good to brood over things he could not change. But the way he'd left her bothered him. He vowed to make it up to her when he returned.

His thoughts turned back to what had happened earlier on the mountain. MacRuairi was seated at the edge of the group, shrouded in darkness, running a sharpening stone over the blade of one of his swords.

Tor got to his feet and walked over to sit beside him. After a moment he said, “It wasn't you—the recent raids on Skye.”

MacRuairi didn't bother to look up, but continued running the stone along the blade. “I was under the impression we'd agreed to a truce.”

“I've been on the other side of one of your ‘truces' before.”

If MacRuairi took offense he didn't show it, but he did set aside his stone. “Aye, but now we are family.” He smiled at Tor's scowl. “Who else do you think it might be?”

Tor's expression was grim. “I don't know. Perhaps Nicolson, but MacDonald assures me he's been appeased.”

“Perhaps they were not aimed at you, but you were merely a convenient target.”

Tor frowned. “Aye, it's possible.”

But the attacks didn't feel opportunistic; they felt personal. It hadn't just been reiving cattle and stealing crops; his people had been targeted as well. That was one of the reasons he'd suspected MacRuairi.

“When did the last one occur?”

“While I was at Finlaggan.”

“And the one before? Were you gone for that as well?”

Tor shook his head but then remembered. “I was supposed to be, but at the last minute I changed my plans.”

MacRuairi eyed him thoughtfully. “Without time for someone to receive word of the change?”

“Nay,” Tor agreed, realizing what he was suggesting. “You think there might be someone spying on me,” he said flatly. Every instinct rebelled at the idea. He knew his men.

MacRuairi shrugged. “It's a possibility.”

As much as Tor didn't like to think that one of his people could have betrayed him, MacRuairi was right. He had to consider it. Who had he angered enough to go to all the trouble? Nicolson certainly. For the attacks that were recent, he would have to add MacDougall to the list.

If someone was spying on him…

He swore. His first thought was of Christina. He forced back the spike of what could only be termed panic. She was safe. No one could get to her in the castle; Dunvegan was impenetrable.

“Who knows how long you will be gone?” MacRuairi asked, reading his mind.

“Too many people,” Tor answered, jumping to his feet, his earlier exhaustion forgotten. “If we leave now, we can be there by midday.”

Brother John was turning into an overprotective nursemaid. “Not today, my lady. Tomorrow will be soon enough. The children are improving and you, forgive me for saying, are looking tired.”

She
was
tired. Her menses were about to start, and as always, she had cramps and a headache. But she could hardly explain that to a churchman. “I'm fine, and I'm not going to miss this beautiful day. I've forgotten what the sun looks like. Come, we won't be gone long.”

But she was wrong. The children had indeed improved
and had decided to entertain her with a special song and dance. It wasn't until near midday that she and Brother John started to make their way back to the boat for the return ride to the castle.

“Slow down, Brother John,” she said with a laugh. “I've never seen you walking so fast.”

He smiled. “Was I? I'm sorry, my lady. I must be hungry.”

“After all those tarts that you ate?”

He blushed. “I have a fondness for plums.”

“As do I. What a wonderful treat this late in the season.”

All of a sudden Brother John jerked to a stop. “Did you hear that?”

“Hear wh—”

But her question was cut off by the far-off sound of a horn. The blood drained from her face. She looked to the clerk and could see her panic reflected in his gaze. “What is that?” she asked Colyne, one of the guardsmen who'd accompanied them.

She suspected the answer, but it didn't lessen the shock when it came.

“It's a warning from the castle, my lady.” His face looked grim. “We're under attack.”

Tor saw the first plumes of smoke from the village about a mile away, just as Campbell and MacGregor returned with a report.

Their expressions were grim. “At least a hundred and fifty men—mostly mercenaries, by the looks of them,” Campbell said. “I counted four galley warships in the harbor, but I think more must be at the castle to prevent additional men from reaching the village.”

She's safe
, he reminded himself. He forced his mind to lock down, knowing he couldn't allow himself to be distracted. Mercenaries, Campbell had said. This was not a raid, but a full-scale war. He'd stationed a guard to protect the village, but his score of men would be heavily outnumbered. “Casualties?”

“A few dozen,” MacGregor replied. “Mostly theirs. Two of your men. Your guardsmen have set up a shield wall where the path from the harbor leads into the village.”

Tor nodded, not surprised. His men were well trained, used to facing larger forces. It was a favorite tactic of his. As King Leonidas had done at the Battle of Thermopylae, they'd chosen to fight at the narrowest part of the village, taking away some of their enemies' advantage in size. For a time. But they would not be able to hold out forever
against such odds. And like what doomed the fabled stand of the three hundred Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae, there was more than one way into the village.

“The villagers?” he asked.

MacGregor's mouth thinned. “Three men, a woman, and a child that I could see. The rest must have found shelter, but the attackers are showing no mercy.”

Tor's fists clenched with barely repressed rage. He honed the anger surging through him into a steely sword of retribution. Whoever his unknown enemies might be, they were about to pay.

He wasn't the only one eager to fight. Though the team had been marching all night across miles of rugged landscape, Campbell and MacGregor's news acted like a lightning rod. Nothing invigorated a warrior like the promise of battle. And these warriors had been held at bay for too long.

But this was not their war.

The men had gathered round him in the trees. Despite the rigorous training they'd endured the past week and the nightlong journey without sleep, the elite guard looked intense and deadly. Their ragged, unkempt appearance only added to the fearsomeness of their grizzled, battle-hard faces. He met each man's gaze. “You joined to fight for Bruce, not for me. You've heard what Campbell said: They have at least a hundred and fifty men; I have eighteen, maybe less.”

“Nineteen,” MacSorley said, stepping forward. “No way in hell I'm letting you have all the fun.” The big Viking smiled. “Let's give the skalds something to sing about.”

The other men stepped forward behind him—except for one. “Time to put all that training to the test, captain,” Boyd said.

Tor looked to the man who'd stayed back. MacRuairi slumped lazily against a tree. He shrugged and uncrossed
his arms. The dual hilts of his swords rose behind his shoulders menacingly—like the smile that curved his mouth. “Someone needs to watch MacSorley's back.”

Tor nodded, moved by the unanimous show of support.

Knowing they had to move quickly, he set out the plan. Half the team would move in to bolster the men at the shield wall; the other half would move around and try to outflank them, attacking from both sides. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, captain,” they said in unison, determination and anticipation in their fierce visages. Beneath the metal mask of his helm, Tor smiled—a terrifying curl of the mouth that promised no mercy. “Then let's give them a surprise before we send them to the devil.” He lifted his dirk in the air. “Death before surrender!”

“Death before surrender!” they repeated in unison.

Knowing they would only weigh them down, they left their packs behind and ran. In a little more than five minutes, they'd reached the outskirts of the village.

The distant clamor of battle mixing with the desolate quiet of the shuttered stone houses was eerie. Some of the attackers' flaming arrows had found their mark on the thatched roofs. Heavy in the smoke-filled air was the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

As they drew near, Tor swore, realizing they were too late to implement his plan to outflank them. Heavily armored attackers were pouring through the village. The shield wall had broken.

He quickly changed tactics. It wouldn't be a carefully orchestrated surprise attack, but an all-out brawl of strength and skill.

The odds were against them. If he were alone, he knew he wouldn't have had a chance. But he wasn't alone. And he never worried about odds. He fought to win.

Reaching behind his back, he slid his two-handed great sword
claidheamh da laimh
from its scabbard and gave the
sign they'd been waiting for. With a fierce war cry, the team attacked.

MacGregor let go a rapid stream of arrows, fired with perfect aim and angled trajectory to pierce any armor—mail or leather. Six men fell before Tor had even swung his sword.

In one deadly swoop he added two more. Spinning around, he fended off the blade of an attacker. Steel clanged against steel. Despite the full-bodied attack of the other man, Tor's blade barely moved, his muscles flexing as hard as stone.

No mercy
. With an angry growl, he pushed the man back, lifted his sword over his head, and brought it down full force on his enemy's head, splitting his skull like a gourd.

He felt nothing. Only cold purpose.

Hacking, swinging, and thrusting, Tor forged a path of blood and destruction through the startled attackers with his sword. Like the thunderbolt the sword was named for,
bheithir
struck down all in its path. Battle lust roared through his veins. His senses flared—heightened—as the strange euphoria washed over him. His mind cleared of everything but the only truth that mattered in war: Kill or be killed.

Death surrounded him. But in the face of mortality, he'd never felt more alive. With every stroke he felt stronger. Harder. More invincible.

And he wasn't alone.

Together they were a terrifying sight. Eleven of the greatest warriors let loose in one violent charge. They were wild and fearsome, yet even more awe-inspiring working in tandem. It was a deadly medley of expertly wielded swords, battleaxes, hammers, and spears.

The enemy had never seen anything like it.

Instead of helpless villagers, they'd run headlong into a phantom army of seemingly indestructible warriors. It was
clear this wasn't what the mercenaries had expected or signed up for. Not a quarter of an hour passed before they were in retreat. As Tor's guardsmen had done, the attackers formed a shield wall at the head of the path, enabling them to fall back to the harbor and ready their galleys.

Tor and the team fought through, but the warships were already pulling away.

“Go after them,” he shouted to MacSorley and MacRuairi. The two Norse-blooded kinsmen didn't hesitate, jumping into a small
birlinn
that was used as a ferry from the castle, and with a handful of men, giving chase to the departing galleys.

A few attackers had been unable to reach the ships in time. Wanting to question them, Tor attempted to take them alive. It was a mistake.

MacGregor had put down his bow and was seeing to one of Tor's wounded guardsmen when one of the remaining attackers unfurled a spear.

Tor cut him down and shouted a warning, but MacGregor turned too late. The spear sliced through the air on a deadly path right for his head.

If Tor hadn't seen what happened next he wouldn't have believed it.

Campbell reached out and snagged the spear with his hand, catching it only inches from MacGregor's face. In one smooth movement he brought it down hard on his knee, snapping the thick wood in two and tossing it at his partner's feet.

A hush descended over the battlefield.

It took MacGregor, who'd been looking death in the eye, a moment to recover. “Hell, Campbell, where did you learn how to do that?”

The quiet Highland ranger shrugged. “It was a game my brothers and I used to play.”

“Bloodthirsty family you have there,” MacGregor said wryly.

Not missing the hidden jab, Campbell smiled, giving his feuding-clansman-turned-partner a provoking look. “Never say a Campbell didn't lift a hand to save a MacGregor.”

Instead of snapping back as he usually did, MacGregor threw his head back and laughed.

Now Tor
knew
he'd seen it all. Unless he was mistaken, Campbell and MacGregor had started to see beyond the feud. The camaraderie among the team was growing—even he was not immune. Perhaps there was hope for Boyd and Seton yet?

He wouldn't hold his breath.

Shaking his head, Tor turned back to finish securing the prisoners, only to realize it was too late: All the attackers had been slain. He cursed, knowing that discovering who was behind the raid from one of the regular mercenaries would have been a long shot anyway. Perhaps if MacSorley and MacRuairi caught up with the boats, he would learn more.

There were only a few men who could raise this large a force of mercenaries, but one came to mind: MacDougall.

Could the news of his marriage have done this? This attack wasn't like the others. These men had come to destroy and slaughter.

His blood chilled when he looked down at the dead body of a woman and her child. The lad was no older than three. The mother had obviously tried to protect him with her body, but the sword had sliced through both of them. Anger, regret, and bitterness soured in his mouth.

This was exactly what he'd wanted to avoid.

He turned away from the bodies, but the image would be burned in his mind.

Cognizant of the danger, he ordered the team back to the broch before too many people saw them. Their work was done here.

He owed them much, knowing he would never have been able to do it without them. It was an odd position for
him—relying on others. Fighting with them had been a unique experience. He'd trained plenty of men before, but none like these. These men were his equals, with skills that surpassed his own. As the leader, he was used to being apart. The irony of his job was that he was to foster camaraderie but could never be just one of the team. But today had been different.

Slowly, the village came back to life. Doors opened and shaken clansmen emerged from their homes. He was surprised to see Colyne and a handful of guardsmen coming toward him from the chapel.

“What are you doing here? Why weren't you fighting with the others?”

“Thank God you came when you did,
ri tuath.”

“Why—”

But Tor's question strangled in his throat when he glanced past the guardsmen at the person emerging from the chapel door.

He went stone still. His face drained, as what could only be described as blood-curdling fear rushed through him. It wasn't possible.

But it was. His wife stood before him. Her big, tear-filled eyes locked on his, dominating her pale, heart-shaped face. For a moment time seemed to stop. They stared at each other, something big and powerful passing between them. An emotion so foreign Tor didn't even know how to describe it, except that it filled his chest with a hot ball of pain and horror.

She could have been killed
.

He wanted to let out a primal roar, but what she did next stopped him cold. Heedless of anything around them, or the blood and gore that stained the ground and him, she catapulted herself into his arms.

His heart slammed against his ribs. Something shifted inside him. Something warm and powerful.

Holding her tight in his arms, he murmured soothing
words, comforting not only the sobbing woman in his arms, but also himself.

Through her tears, Christina gazed up at the filthy, bloodstained man holding her. She'd never been happier to see anyone in her life. Her eyes widened, noticing the large cut on his face and the bruise near his eye. “You're hurt,” she cried, reaching up to cup his face.

But he shook her off. “I'm fine,” he said gruffly.

Christina frowned. He could play big, invincible warrior with his men, but once she got him back to the castle she would see to that wound whether he wanted her to or not. “I'm so glad you are safe. There were so many galleys.”

They couldn't see the fighting from the church, but when they'd heard the roar go up, she
knew
it was her husband.

Tor was dumbstruck. “Me?” She could see his incredulity slip into anger. He held her by the shoulders and seemed to be fighting not to shake her. “Are you daft? What about
you?
Do you know what would have happened had I not arrived?”

He's scared
. Worry for her was making him angry. Why had she never realized it before? It shed an entirely new light on his blasts of temper. “I was safe in the sanctuary of the church with some of the others. Brother John thought of it.” She smiled at the clerk, who'd come up behind her.