The Warrior (22 page)

D
uncan and Alex crept through the courtyard to the gate as silent as shadows while
the four other MacDonald warriors went up on the wall to take out the guards above.
There were more guards at the gate than Duncan had counted before, but they were not
expecting an attack from within. Before the men knew they were in danger, Alex and
Duncan had them bound and gagged.

Duncan shoved back the bar that braced the wooden doors of the gate. As soon as the
MacDonald warriors who had gone up on the wall rejoined them, Duncan motioned for
two of them to go inside the gatehouse and crank up the portcullis. The weight of
the iron grille, which had spikes at the bottom to impale attackers, made it easy
to drop quickly, but slow to raise.

While the iron chain creaked and moaned, making an ungodly noise, Duncan stood next
to Alex with his back to the gate, his claymore ready, and every sense alert. With
each turn of the crank, he expected to see MacLeods pour out of the keep.

Finally, the portcullis was up. Duncan and the other men kept watch over the courtyard
while Alex went out to alert Connor and Ian. If something had gone wrong on their
end, Duncan and Alex would learn of it now. Duncan recognized the sound of Alex’s
dove call. A short time later, he heard two faint dove calls in the distance.

“Is that them?” the MacDonald warrior next to Duncan whispered.

“Aye,” Duncan said. “Be ready.”

His blood pounded in his veins in anticipation as he heard the muffled footfalls of
a hundred MacDonald warriors running up to the gate. The time had finally arrived.
This night, the MacDonalds would retake Trotternish Castle from the MacLeods.

Tonight, Duncan would take it from Erik and be made keeper in his place.

Though it was dark, Duncan recognized the familiar shapes of Connor, Ian, and Alex
as they came through the gate at the front of the men. Connor clasped Duncan’s arm
in greeting.

“I don’t know if he still is, but Hugh was here,” Duncan said to him in a low voice.

“Hugh?” Connor said. “Catching him here would be good luck. ’Tis past time I settled
matters with my uncle.”

“The MacLeods are bound to hear us soon,” Duncan said. “We should go quickly into
the keep.”

“Lead the way,” Connor whispered back. “You deserve the honor.”

Duncan raised his claymore high and waved it for the men to see in the darkness, then
started running for the keep. As planned, they did not shout their battle cry. Surprise
and cunning would win this night.

Duncan burst into the keep and through the doors of the hall. Some of the MacLeod
warriors, who were sleeping on the floor and benches, sprang to their feet with their
weapons in their hands, while others seemed slow to recognize the invasion for what
it was. In moments Duncan’s clansmen had encircled the room.

“Put down your weapons and ye won’t be harmed!” Duncan shouted.

The clank of swords and shouts of alarm filled the air as some of the MacLeods began
to fight. A few recognized that too many of their warriors had been caught off guard
for them to prevail and relinquished their weapons. Others charged the doors to escape.
Duncan knew that the MacDonalds would not capture them all, but holding too many captives
had its own risks and was generally more trouble than it was worth.

After fighting a short time, Duncan could see that victory was close at hand. He clenched
the hilt of his claymore in frustrated fury as he scanned the room.
Where is Erik?

Connor appeared at his side and shouted over the noise. “Have ye seen Hugh?”

“I don’t see him or Erik,” Duncan said. “Hugh could have left the castle before tonight,
but Erik is here somewhere. I’m going to find him.”

The devil take me, this is a disaster.

One glimpse into the hall and Erik could tell that the castle would be lost. Though
he knew he must get out quickly, he stood for a long moment staring at Duncan MacDonald.
How could he have been fooled into believing this powerful warrior was a piper? Erik’s
men were falling before the man’s sword like oats to a scythe.

Yet the captain of the MacDonald guard was not as tough as he ought to be. Any MacLeod
warrior who gave up his sword to him, Duncan spared. He had a weakness for honor that
could be used against him.

Erik remembered the lad.

A hostage would increase his chances of escape—and what better hostage could he hope
for than the MacDonald chieftain’s heir. If he held a blade to the lad’s throat, they
would let him out the gate. Later, he would decide whether to give the boy to Hugh
Dubh or slit his throat himself. He would enjoy telling Duncan MacDonald how he did
it the next time they met.

And Erik would make certain that they did meet again.

Erik must have been asleep when the attack began, but Duncan wondered why he had not
come down when he heard the fighting. Well, Duncan would bring the fight to him.

As keeper, Erik should have the bedchamber right above the hall. Duncan pushed men
aside as he ran to the arched doorway that led to the stairs. After racing up the
circular stone steps, he paused outside the bedchamber on the next floor. Unlike the
keeper, the men who guarded his bedchamber door had left their post to join the battle
downstairs.

Battle lust pulsed through Duncan as he slowly lifted the latch. At long last, he
would have his revenge for the shame Erik MacLeod had brought upon him and his mother.
All the years of fighting to prove himself worthy and to raise himself to a position
of respect within his clan would come to an end in this room with Erik’s death.

Duncan eased the door open. His sword made a soft
whoosh
as he swung it in front of him and stepped inside. No one was waiting on the other
side. With his heart pounding, Duncan waited until his eyes adjusted and he could
make out the curtained bed.

As much as Erik deserved an ignoble death, Duncan would not kill him in his bed. It
was not Duncan’s own honor that held him back as much as his pride. Duncan wanted
to do battle with his enemy, fight him warrior-to-warrior, and crush him.

When he heard the rustle of bedclothes, he tensed. He held his claymore at the ready,
waiting for Erik to emerge through the bed curtains with a blade in his hand.

But nothing happened.

“I’ll give ye time to get your sword,” Duncan said, “and then I’m going to kill ye.”

“I don’t have a sword!”

The voice was a woman’s. Duncan backed up, turning his head side-to-side, searching
the shadows for Erik.

“Don’t kill me!”

The lass sounded terrified. Duncan moved the curtain aside with the tip of his sword.
She was fair-haired, pretty, and far too young to be here. And she was alone in the
bed.

“I’ve come for Erik,” Duncan said. “Where is he?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “He left when we heard the shouting coming from the hall.
Then he came back in a fury and said he was looking for the lad.”

Duncan’s blood turned to ice. “What lad?”

“The quiet one with the red hair,” she said. “Sarah’s friend.”

Please, God, don’t let Erik find Ragnall before I reach him
. Surely, Erik would not think to look in the turret for him.

Duncan flew down the circular stone steps three at a time. He was moving so swiftly
that he almost crashed into the small figure before he saw her. Just in time, he lifted
her up. He carried her down several steps before he could stop.

“Sarah,” he said as he set her on her feet again, “what in God’s name are ye doing
wandering the castle?”

“I was looking for ye,” she said, slipping her small hand into his. “Erik has Ragnall,
so ye must come quickly.”

No!
The devil had his son. “Where, Sarah?”

“I followed Erik into the other building and up to the turret.”

“Get back into your bedchamber and stay there!” he shouted and took the rest of the
stairs in one leap.

By the time he reached the long room that led to the turret, Duncan’s heart was pounding
hard enough to explode. He flung the door to the turret open and froze.

The room was empty.

D
uncan tore at his hair. Where could Erik have taken Ragnall? MacDonald warriors were
guarding the gate so he could not get out that way. Erik could have taken Ragnall
over the wall. It was a long drop, but that’s how many of the others were escaping.

From the corner of his eye as he left the turret room, he saw the rope they had left
hanging out the window. Something bothered him. He started down the three steps to
the other room, then halted abruptly and looked back. The rope was taut.

“No!” he shouted and ran to the window.

The wet wind lashed at his face as he leaned out, trying to see down the rope through
the darkness. A rush of terror went through him as he imagined Ragnall falling down,
down the side of the cliff into the black swells far below.

Then, finally, he spotted what he was looking for—a movement halfway down the cliff.
In the darkness, he could barely make out a shape against the black rock. He could
not tell if it was one person or two.

Duncan climbed out the window and started down. Moving dangerously fast, he let the
rope slide through his hands as he rappelled off the wet, slippery side of the cliff
with his feet.

He felt the rope strain under his hands and hoped to God the knots would hold under
the weight of the three of them.

“Don’t come any closer,” Erik shouted when Duncan was fifteen feet above them, “or
I’ll drop the lad.”

“You do that, and your life is over,” Duncan shouted back. “Are ye all right, Ragnall?”

“I’m scared!”

Lord help him.
Duncan was close enough now to see that Ragnall was on Erik’s back and holding on
to Erik’s neck—which meant he did not have a hand on the rope.

“I’ll let ye go, Erik,” Duncan shouted. “Just let me have the boy.”

Erik continued climbing down the rope. Soon he would be near enough to the water to
risk dropping. It was not far to shore for a grown man who was a strong swimmer. But
in this rough sea, a boy would never make it. And if Ragnall fell, it was far from
certain that Duncan could find him in the water before his son disappeared under the
black swells of the sea.

He thought of Moira’s suffering if he failed to save their son—and knew he simply
could not fail.

“Let him go, Erik,” Duncan said over the wind as he closed the distance between them.
“He’s just a wee lad, an innocent.”

“There are no innocents!” Erik shouted.

“I can’t grab you and also save the boy,” Duncan shouted. “Let me take him, and you
can escape.”

“How do I know ye will choose his life over taking mine?” Erik shouted back as he
continued climbing downward.

“He’s my son!” Anguish tore at Duncan’s heart.

Duncan was nearly close enough now to grab hold of Ragnall. He stretched his arm out,
praying Erik would not pitch the boy into the sea before Duncan’s fingers grasped
Ragnall’s shirt.

Erik released one hand from the rope to swipe at Duncan’s arm with his dirk. As Erik’s
body swung to the side, Ragnall cried out. Duncan’s heart stopped as his son was rammed
against the sheer rock cliff.

“Hold on, Ragnall!” Duncan shouted.

In one motion Duncan kicked Erik’s face with his boot and swept down to catch Ragnall
by the back of his shirt. He felt the shirt ripping as he jerked the boy up. Before
it gave way, he caught his son’s small body between himself and the rope.

“I have ye.” Duncan held his son against his chest and gasped for air.

“Arrgh!” Erik started up the rope, swiping his dagger at Duncan’s legs.

Why in the hell wasn’t Erik going down the rope and escaping with his life while he
had the chance? Erik was coming at him like a madman. Duncan kicked him in the head,
hard enough to stun him. This time, Erik dropped like a stone. The sound of the splash
was lost in the wind and the roar in Duncan’s ears.

Duncan feared Ragnall’s thin arms might be too tired to hold on to Duncan’s neck—and
he just did not want to let go of him—so he started climbing up the rope one-handed.
It was slow going, hauling the two of them up with one arm, then wrapping his feet
in the rope to give him the leverage to push up and grasp the rope higher again.

Duncan’s hand slipped on the rope. Ragnall screamed as they dropped a foot before
Duncan could brace his feet and stop their downward slide.

“It’s all right,” he said. “It’s all right.”

Damn it. His hand was wet with blood. Erik’s blade must have sliced his arm. Now every
time Duncan moved up, he had to stop and wipe the blood on his shirt so he could grip
the rope again.

Duncan was breathing hard when he finally reached the top and heaved himself up to
the window. The light from the lamp still burned in the turret room with a welcoming
glow. When he looked down to lift Ragnall inside, he saw that the boy’s eyes were
squeezed shut and his fingers were latched on to Duncan’s shirt like barnacles on
to a rock.

“You can let go now, son,” Duncan said. “We made it.”

Erik fixed his gaze on the castle he had lost while Hugh’s boat carried him farther
and farther away. As he watched the castle’s outline disappear against the dawn light,
he thought of all the wasted years. He had devoted himself, utterly and completely,
sacrificing all else to his goal of rising from his poor beginnings to the exalted
position of keeper of one of his clan’s strongholds.

In one night, that damned Duncan MacDonald had ruined everything. Erik had escaped
with his life and nothing else. After losing Trotternish Castle, he would never have
the respect of his chieftain or clan again.

It did not improve Erik’s mood to know that he had the slippery devil standing next
to him to thank for his escape. He was tempted to kill Hugh Dubh for that black favor.

“You’ll want revenge.” Hugh said.

“Revenge,” Erik repeated, and the word tasted sweet on his tongue.

“I know how ye can get it,” Hugh said.

A new purpose took root in the ashes of his ruin. Erik would pursue it as ruthlessly
as he had pursued his ambition to rise in his clan.

He would destroy Duncan MacDonald and everyone he cared about.