Page 17 of Chieftain’s Rebel (Chieftain #6)

With two hands Rory grasped the axe, waiting for the moment Finn signalled frae his station at the end of the river that gave him a view down the Ness. As soon as Finn dropped his hand, Rory brought down the axe with all his strength, chopping through the thick hempen rope they had used to attach the dragon-boat to a tree on the bank. He heard a shout frae Ghillie as the twisted strands parted and the straining boat leapt into the current.

Letting out the deep breath he had taken to fuel his muscles, he tossed the axe aside. By the time he turned, Finn was racing away frae the river, bow slung o’er his shoulder, the quiver of pitch-tipped arrows looped on his belt swaying in time with each long stride. “Hurry,” yelled Ghillie racing up to Rory, shield looped on one arm and the other waving his sword ready to take on the Irish. Even in the last darkened moments of gloaming he recognised that his cousin felt nae fear and, strangely enough, because of that, ne’er did he.

Finn Olafsen was swift on his feet. It took the two of them longer than Rory expected to catch up, for all that Ghillie wasnae to blame, his legs burling like a wee linty. They found Finn up above the beach that spread out in front of the wee broch where Ainsel and her bairn lived, where he’d made more than a few memories that made his heart bang inside his chest, racing faster than his sprint to bring him up alongside Finn had managed—memories that filled him full of need to be at Ainsel’s side afore the fight started in earnest.

Aye, she was a grand fighter, fearless; but together they would be invincible.

The folk picked to dance afore the bonfire were the auld and the young members of the settlement, thus freeing the warriors to prepare an ambush. The flames danced too, enveloping the sands and the air above it in a golden, smoky haze. Beyond the beach, billowing red sails reflected the fire’s glow and, as the tide had already turned, flickers of light reflected off the oars as they dipped in and out of the water while the bows of four invading boats lifted up o’er the waves.

Both he and Finn had expected more.

The settlement’s dragon-boats floated, seemingly idly, on this side of the small wharf used for naught much except loading and unloading small stuff, domestic wares. The only warning the warriors aboard the local boats would get was the fire arrow Finn shot onto Olaf’s funeral pyre frae the beach. A task that had to be done just right, for the boat would have picked up speed. Rory squinted into the dark, looking for the boat he had set free. At first it was naught but the white wake sliding off the perfectly lapped planks, then he saw the dragonhead, its fierce expression painted in red, green, made regal with real gold dug frae the surrounding hills that made the dragon’s eyes flash where it caught the light of the bonfire.

“Hurry now, lads, afore Olaf’s boat gets too far down the Ness.” Holding the bow aloft, Finn swung it in the direction he wanted them to follow, the movement filled with an urgency they all felt. And hurry they did, feet digging up clods of wet sand as they ran.

“Send all our folk back home while I light the fire arrows. Quick now!” Finn was taking command, as he should. Young or auld, they were his folk, as Caithness would be his settlement once his grandfather sailed off to Walhalla, leaving this, Finn’s heritage.

Rory took in the grim expression on Finn’s face. The time for laughter was o’er. Tonight they were both learning what it meant to be leaders.

As Ghillie and he rounded up the revellers, Rory could tell they were glad to be away frae the bonfire, the flames that made them perfect targets. He set the young to helping the auld get away frae the light and off the sand; though damp, it still could hinder one’s speed. “Go now,” he told them. “Hide away frae the settlement until the battle is o’er.”

Then came the hard part. He turned to his cousin, “Ghillie, I want ye to go with them.”

“Why? I can handle myself with both sword and shield.”

He didnae have time for this. His exasperation came out more growl than explanation. “That’s not the problem. How could I face yer parents if aught happened to ye?”

Ghillie’s top lip lifted, curled at one corner in derision as he narrowed his green cat’s eyes, more feral than pet. “That’s one way of telling me ye dinnae believe in my gift.”

“Yer my wee cousin. How am I supposed feel? However that’s not the problem.” Rory pushed a few more folk on their way back to the settlement with a tap on the shoulder. Some of the elders had tears streaming down their faces. This kind of attack had almost become an anomaly after many years of peace and, should aught happen to Olaf, they might turn their rancour on Ainsel. His mouth flattened against his teeth. He bit back a growl, as much with frustration of not being able to join Ainsel, as at his cousin’s stubbornness. “Did ye think I wouldnae noticed that we’ve not seen beak nor feather of yer raven all day—that it’s deserted ye?”

“Hah, nonsense! While I’ve been helping ye, Heimdall has been keeping an eye on the enemy.”

Rory wanted to roll his eyes but since there were swathes of easily offended folk in Caithness, he held his tongue, merely informing Ghillie, “Ne’er mind all that. Someone needs to stay with Olaf. If we are o’er-run, someone with a bit of nous will be needed to support him, stop him frae o’er reaching his strength, and I can think of nae one better than yerself. If we’re fortunate, yer raven will fly back to perch on yer shoulder. It might give them a moment’s pause if they believe yer a sorcerer.”

His cousin’s top lip creased in a practiced sneer. It made the lad look a lot of years aulder, and Rory regretted that. “As long as ye dinnae expect me start casting spells. That’s more in Merida’s method; she’s always poring o’er some auld piece of parchment.”

Rory knew what he meant, but he was still glad to see the back of him and the others as they made their way into the settlement and safety. He turned in time to see Finn fire a burning arrow.

“That’s the second,” he said as Rory joined him by the bonfire. The heat was tremendous; his skin felt as if it shrivelled around his bones, and it might have done so if he’d stood in one spot. His sights were set on watching the arrow strike Olaf’s dragon-boat. On board, it would soon feel like a living hell for anyone unfortunate to be caught in the flames.

Standing side by side with Finn, he became aware they were both holding their breath as they waited for something to happen.

“The Irish boats dinnae seem to have noticed it yet,” he muttered, a rough sound that reflected his emotions. If the Caithness boat went up too soon, or even too late, they would both be facing failure.

Finn said naught. He concentrated on picking another arrow, dipping the blob of pine-tar at the tip into the flames until, sizzling, it began to burn. That’s what they were watching when the whoosh and roar took them by surprise, the first arrows making their presence felt.

“God’s blood,” Rory gasped, “it’s powerful.”

Finn grinned at him, his strong features clear to see, the bonfire flaring red as its centre collapsed in on itself. “Aye, now we have to hope that it closes with others fast enough that the Irish have nae time to avoid them,” he said. As Rory continued to watch his plan come to life, the boats seemed to hurl toward one another.

They were coming closer, the Irish boats swinging in towards the shore. Calder felt the water under the hull shift in the choppy wake stirred up by Irish rowers thrashing the water, missing beat after beat in their rush to get away frae the fireboat. Around them, the air glowed bright red, tinging the clouds with colour. Curious, Calder pushed up off the bench where he had been crouched and Gilda pulled him back down beside her. Gilda’s palm was warm on his back, soft, her whisper cauld, harsh, “Keep down, Calder, ye will be seen.”

“We have to know what’s happening lass. Sitting here, we’re near blind but dinnae worry, I’ll be careful. Rory’s plan has them worried. I see only one drawback, they’re rowing toward shore—toward us—but if Olaf’s dragon-boat sets them afire, we could be next.”

God’s teeth, he had to do something, otherwise he and Gilda would be trapped in an inferno. Getting down on his knees he wrapped a long arm around Gilda and squeezed, though with the stiff leather short coat she wore, it was difficult to feel the soft woman he knew lay underneath. A wee niggle lurked at the back of his mind, a wish that she were someplace else—somewhere safe. Gilda would hate him for that—these Norsewomen could be fierce, could be loving—and Gilda was both. He dipped his head closer and spoke into the curve of her ear, “I willnae let aught happen to ye, and I’ll do my best for the others here with us. Ye have my promise on it.”

His next words were for the men crouched down out of sight with them, six in all. “Ye all have more experience of fighting aboard these boats. Chances are that we’ll need to fend off the incoming boats—and more of a chance they’ll be on fire, so let me hear yer advice on countering that. What can we use, to fend them off, oars or something else?”

‘Oars,’ was the consensus of them all. “In that case,” he told them, “tell me how we should use them to counter an attack?”

Crouching low as he ran, Rory finally reached the dip on the landward side of the beach where he could stand up without being seen. He heard a rustling in the rough scrub, heather and blaeberry, and turned to find Finn was following in his sandy footprints. Rory spoke to him, “I have to find Ainsel. I cannae let her face this alone.” He hadnae expected his voice to sound quite so adamant, as if he would set aside any objections to his decision. The way he felt inside, his chest tight, he would most likely hammer anyone whau disagreed with him into the ground without a second thought.

Finn didnae voice any objection; instead he encouraged him. “Guid, ye do that. I expect she’ll be in what she thinks is the middle of the line. I’m going to the other end. There’s a place where this dip almost becomes a channel in the wet weather and curves round letting the water run out on the sands.” He had recovered his shield and tapped his sword against it then raised it high where the light of both fires glinted on the blade. “Take care Rory. Whatever happens this night yer help will ne’er be forgotten.” Then he was gone, a shape in the darkness lost within moments.

It occurred to Rory that if they stayed back frae the light, the Caithness fighters would have the advantage over the Irish coming up frae the beach and the firelight.

Keeping that in mind, Rory set about finding Ainsel.

“Ainsel?”

She turned, hearing her name, her heart leaping as she recognised Rory’s voice. He had found her as he had promised. Ainsel rolled onto her side, facing in the direction of his voice. “O’er here.”

Rory was upon her afore she expected, at first a blur moving in amongst the heather then a looming shadow. “Is that ye, Rory?” She breathed a shakily expelled mouth of air filled with excitement and, aye, fear that she might be wrong.

Thankfully she wasnae mistaken, and he proved it by lying full length by her side. She recognised the scent of him, musky with sweat and exertion, o’erlaid with the oily smell of sheep’s wool frae his plaid that made it shed rain. The scent filled her head as he wrapped her in his arms, held her tight, then covered her mouth with a kiss that made her head spin. “Eh, lass, I’ve spent the whole day missing ye, missing the taste of yer mouth and the feel of ye in my arms.”

Raising her hand, she cupped his jaw in her palm and planted a swift hard kiss on his lips nipping at the fullness of the bottom one, which had the ability to drive her wild. She looked into his eyes. The dark couldnae hide the glimmer they held, not frae her. Ainsel turned her head, brushing against the bristly side of his cheek to look back at her grandfather’s funeral boat as it hit one of the Irish vessels. “This is it, then?”

Rory dragged her face round to him with a fingertip. She felt his breath dance across hers as he said, “Dinnae look at the light, bonnie lass. That’s what made it difficult to see me. For some reason it takes our eyes a some time to see aught because of the change frae light to dark.”

His features darkened even after that brief period; her next worry needed answering. “How are we supposed to know when they’re about to attack?”

“We’ll hear them coming. First they have to get past the lads on board.”

“Lassies as well. Gilda wouldnae let Calder go without her. I hope naught happens to her. Its ages since she even lifted a sword in anger.” The reality of what they were intent on doing hurt, sat beneath her ribs like weighty boulder too heavy to shift.

“Trust Calder. He’ll see she comes to nae harm. I think he’s fallen in love with her.”

“As Gilda has with him. This morning she acquired a horse. She intends to ride beside him when he returns to Dun Bhuird. She’ll willnae know a soul there.” She dug her teeth into her lower lip to stem a burst of resentment she didnae want to feel and settled for saying, “I cannae help but feel that has to be love.”

Abrupt, he said, “She’ll have Calder.”

Ainsel chewed at her lips as if merely to plump them up, when truthfully she wanted to be in Gilda’s shoes, but travelling with Rory, not Calder. “And she’ll know Rory Farquharson.”

She had hardly finished speaking when Rory gripped her by the chin, his fingers digging into the edge of her jaw so hard it hurt, and as he began to speak his voice was hard, rough edged. “Gilda will ne’er know me the way ye do—nae woman will.” That’s when she realised that Rory was hurting too.“

Aye, they were both hurting, but there was naught to be done about the pain nae matter how much they wanted to throw their sense of caution to the winds and let danger take them where it may as long as they were together. In the distance they heard shouts and screams a dull thump of steel upon wood and sharper, the clash of steel meeting then sliding across steel.

The battle had begun, and soon she and Rory would be in the thick of it.

There was nae hiding, not if they wanted to escape the flames. Two of the Irish boats were alight and the others trying to avoid them as Calder and the others on the boat with him were attempting to ward them off. They were on the sharp ends of three long oars, two to an oar, putting their backs into it, with muscle, bone and desperation shoving on the end of the oars, fending off the burning Irish vessel. The plan had worked, mayhap too well. They were in the hands of the gods, and whau could claim to know what they wanted, or when they would change their minds and set all agley?

Calder wanted to groan at the horrendous crack and splintering sound that came frae his right. One of the biggest men was on the end of that oar but, like Calder, he had discovered that against the weight of a whole laden boat, the force of two men was a pitiful thing.

“Get ready, Gilda,” he shouted, though in his own ears it sounded like a shriek as with one last heave his oar shattered.

“I’m with ye, Calder,” Gilda’s voice came to him, thin and urgent as he drew his sword, nae time for his shield. He could hear Gilda screaming, banging hard the ring of metal on wood as he leapt up in the bow.

This had to be what hell was like: flames, smoke and demons rising out of them shouting, “Death to the Norsemen! Die! Die! Die!” That was the moment the Irish boat rammed theirs and a bearded monster with a dearth of teeth lunged at him, tangles of hair lifting into the air, dark against the red behind him as he sailed across the gap onto Calder’s sword.

Others took the same road out of this world, dead or drowned as they sank under the water. Calder braced himself to meet the next assault as he heard Gilda’s screams. His heart sprang into his throat, the instinct to protect the woman he loved first and foremost in his thoughts. He turned in time to see Gilda thrust the metal edge of her shield in her opponent’s throat.

Reason enough for him not to catch sight of the warrior whau came up on his right side, leaping frae one bow to another. He heard the thump of feet near the dragonhead prow and turned, slashing out with his sword at the hairy bare legs above the crossed bindings, slicing into the knee. “God’s blood,” he yelped as, bent o’er the side, he felt the Irishman’s steel slide into his ribs below his armpit.

“Gilda-a-a,” her name the last word to slide o’er his lips as he fell after the Irishman.

He hit the water, the salt taste of it filling his mouth, his nose. Pain swamped him as he tried to swim, as though the sea filled his chest through the wound in his side. His plaid bubbled up around his waist, air and water held by his belt. Calder opened his fist and let the sword drop frae his fingers, let it sink to the bottom, for steel couldnae float; it could only kill.

Kill him if he held onto its weight.

He felt the sough and sigh of the waves pulling him away frae the gap betwixt the boats and he used his guid arm to propel himself away frae the gap. Away frae the beach…

The air o’er-head was filled with sparks, red stars flying into the dark night sky … peaceful but not for long. He could see flames eat the sails and climb up the mast. Hear the death throes of a dying boat as the hull burned away and let water rush in.

Afterwards there was naught but the mast toppling toward his head and the tide pulling him out into the Ness.