BATTLEFIELD
“Go, go! ‘Round the front. Ride!”
Broderick whispered it urgently, wishing he could shout to Blaine to instill him with some sense of urgency. He waved a kerchief – a makeshift signal banner – to Blaine instead, who saw it and whistled back in acknowledgment.
They had split the force in two. The rain had stopped, fortunately, and the night was cool and quiet. Even so, they could not risk any signals besides the fluttering banner. They had to be silent.
Suddenly, the night erupted into noise. The first force of eight men began an assault on the rear of the post, throwing themselves at the wall and the smaller gate, all battle-cries and wildness. Broderick rode to the front, whooping and yelling like a demon, making as much noise as three men.
The concerns about the raid, and the motive for making him do it, dissolved as he swung his sword, grinning fiercely into the dark. He was striking his first blow at those who killed Aisling. He had known it would feel good but had not expected the wild savage delight he took in riding to their fortress with deadly intent.
“Hold back, lads!” he shouted to the men as he saw three run at the gates, a long branch in hand to serve as a ram. “We need to keep them busy.”
That was because this was not the assault.
Blaine led twelve men – their main assault force – ‘round the front. While Broderick and his men formed a distraction, hammering at the rear, he and his troops would capture the main entrance.
Ride fast, lads. And silent. Broderick willed the larger force, and then turned back to the wall. One of the men was howling as he tried to climb the stone wall before them.
“Back, for heaven's sake!” Broderick bellowed. The men on the wall had arrows and were firing down with them. He did not actually want his men slaughtered. They were a distraction, not an assault, and there was no point in needless death. The man blinked but fell back.
“Fire, my lord!” another called. He was waving a pitch torch he had somehow contrived, its thick, ink-dark smoke smudging the air. .
“Yes!” Broderick shouted. “Bring more!”
If the defenders thought they were setting fire to the rear gate, they would redouble their efforts. The man nodded, and soon three other makeshift torches were lit, spilling smoke into the air.
“Wave them!” Broderick commanded. “Let them smell smoke.”
The plan worked.
The instant the defenders saw them, they howled in rage. Arrows slammed down, and Broderick shouted for the torch-bearers to stay out of range. Stooping to scoop up a rock to throw, he surveyed the wall and counted ten men.
That must be the whole force. At least, I hope so.
He threw his stone and saw it connect one of the defenders on the arm. Good. He bent down to grasp another and ran forward into the range of the arrows to cast it. He whooped, blood singing in his veins as his anger was finally unleashed on his foes.
This time, he hit a man in the neck and saw him fall backward sharply, clutching his throat.
Not bad. He remembered how his brother, Duncan, had the best aim. He and the younger man had spent hours as boys aiming at targets with their slings. His brother had always been the one to hit ten targets out of ten. Broderick himself was usually almost as good.
I wish Duncan was here. Duncan was always the more sensible of the pair, or so he told himself. I wish he was in line to be laird, not me.
He stepped up to the wall and felt a sudden sting. He looked down, surprised, and saw an arrow in his arm.
“Bloody thing!”
He swore and ducked into the shelter of the door to inspect the wound. Barbed and wicked, the only way to remove such an arrow, if it had gone in all the way, was to push it through. A closer inspection showed him that half the metal head was still free.
Broderick roared as he pulled it out, shocked by the sudden pain that flowed up his arm. One of the men pushed him out of the way, none too gently, and Broderick was about to shout at him when he realized why.
The defenders had gone.
Blaine had broken through the gate.
He heard howls of triumph coming from inside the fortress, mixed with the clash of steel on shields, the rush and clatter of battle on a stone-flagged floor.
“Come on!”
He drew his sword, a great two-handed one, and ran toward the front gates. Now that the twelve men were inside, they had to support them.
Howling his own wordless battle-cry, Broderick ran through the gates.
The fight was short and at the end, he and seventeen men stood in the fort, exhausted and swaying.
Of their force, only three were wounded. He glanced to where they sat, propped up against the wall, panting and pale-faced. He could see one at least who would need the attention of a surgeon, and soon. The other two were mainly surface wounds. He turned to Blaine, who was doubled over, panting heavily, his stout wooden shield dropped by his feet.
“Well done, Blaine. Thank you.”
Blaine blinked, eyes shining. “'Twas nothing, milord. Your idea.”
Broderick smiled. “You did it.”
“We did it together, sir. We make a good team.”
Broderick blinked. He suddenly understood, or thought he did, why Lord Lochlann had sent him on this mission. Not as an exercise, or proof, but as a means to introduce him to the guard.
Brien wants me to fight his battles and therefore, he wants to establish me in his troops.
He shook his head. What a conniving old fox.
As it happened, the wily old man was helping him, too. The assistance and backing of the powerful Lochlann clan had been exactly what he had wanted.
That would help his vengeance. And he had already started taking it.
Looking around the stone courtyard of the fortress, strewn with bodies and blood, the smoke smudging inky dark across the scene, he realized this was the first step of his quest to send the Bradley family howling to their deaths.
And I was thinking of Lady Amabel.
The thought filled him with a mix of awe and shame. Awe, that his depth of feeling and desire was so great after a single visit. Shame, that he had not thought of Aisling. The vengeance is for her. It was only because of the vengeance that he was here, now, wooing Amabel.
But it had been days since he had thought about that part of the story. He’d thought only of Amabel.
“My lord?”
“Yes?” Broderick asked tiredly.
“What do we do now?”
He blinked. “Go back.”
The faster they returned, the faster they could get succor for the wounded. And, he thought with a self-deprecating frown, the faster he could set the plan in motion. To marry Amabel.
He had struck his first blow at his enemy. And the day following tomorrow, he would wed. Aching, tired, reeking of smoke, his arm throbbing painfully, he was still not sure if he could remember such happiness since Aisling had died. He grinned at Blaine, and the young man smiled wearily back. Together they began the slow, exhausted march to set up camp.