Page 46

Chapter

Forty-One

Adara

H er father’s men were a seething mass among the rear field. It was as if he’d called up every knight in his realm to squash them. She bit back the panic that boiled up her chest into her throat.

“How did he assemble them so quickly?” Grahame asked in a strained tone, reining up next to her. There was not a spot of wheat to be seen.

Before she could answer, Ridley and Yrsa were there. The skin around Yrsa’s eyes was tight. Ridley wasn’t much better, though he refrained from showing an ounce of fear in front of the men.

“How many?” Ridley asked her.

Adara swallowed. She had no way to know. Her father only briefly made her privy to his forces. She knew more about the breadth of his territory. It was never her job to know the exact details. It would be their downfall.

“I am not sure. His territory expands up to Hadrian’s Wall, then cuts down the center of Northumbria. It bottoms out at the Kingswood, however I do not believe anyone lives there.”

“Can you guess?” Ridley’s hazel eyes were steady on hers.

Adara settled her shoulders, quelled the churning in her middle. She would not falter.

“Around forty knights, though they are likely older men, and their sons. Territory disputes have broken out in the past. Our lands are not as prosperous as Deircia’s.

Every few years, the nobles fight one another to claim more.

It’s left few in the way of actual lords.

But this,” Adara gestured to the mass of people past her home, “he’s gotten these men from somewhere.

Perhaps they are the northerners. He was trying to marry me off to a Briton prince.

They could have been coming for the wedding or to raid, I do not know. ”

“But you killed him,” Grahame said.

“I’ve heard the Britons are savages,” Yrsa offered, her lips curling back in a snarl.

“Said the Viking,” Grahame pointed out. His brow was wrinkled with worry, his handsome face cast in stone. He looked stronger, heartier than he had in the last week, for which Adara was grateful.

Yrsa continued without acknowledging him. “Would they not have conflict with your father if they’d come for a wedding to find their leader dead?”

Adara turned back to her men. Many spoke among themselves, pointing to Clayton House while others sat stoic on their steeds awaiting orders.

A fondness for them swelled in her. They had accepted a new alliance and were marching for her.

Their wellbeing was hers. She doubted her father cared one ounce for the men he commanded.

“He likely told them the truth. If the prince is dead, it is because of me. He would offer his daughter to the wolves to gain an army. Revenge is an excellent motivator.”

Ridley’s attention remained on the forces undulating in the far field while Yrsa’s was glued to their own sparse band of warriors. Grahame’s green eyes scoured her features as if to read her thoughts.

“We don’t have enough men.” Adara’s voice cracked as she spoke, her gaze falling to her hands on the reins. She would not drag these good people into a fight they would surely lose. “I will go to my father. Try to make it right.”

“No.” The word was impenetrable. Grahame tried to catch her thigh with his good hand. He missed.

“I am the only one who can convince him—”

She flinched when Grahame’s shout cut her off.

“Of what, ’Dara? To let your people go? That you had no choice but to kill the man who was going to kill me? He will either slay you on the spot or marry you off to the next Briton in the ranks. I will not sacrifice you to appease a monster.”

“Keep your voice down,” Ridley hissed.

He turned his horse, a look of concentration replacing the concern etched in his features. The men needed confidence in their leadership. Adara’s respect for Hyrstow’s chieftain grew.

“How many men would you guess?” Yrsa asked. Her fingers drummed the short-sword at her side.

“About two hundred,” Hagan answered, riding up from the group’s left flank. He squinted beneath the sun’s glare.

“And we have less than half that.”

Adara tilted her chin, straightened her shoulders. There was no question what had to be done. She could make a run for the house if she wouldn’t get leave to go.

“They’re moving,” Yrsa said, drawing Adara’s gaze back to the house.

Indeed, the main gates were open, men on horse pouring out. Banners flew as the animals began to gallop. With horror Adara watched the warriors shift into formation. The men on horses were the head of an arrow, and behind it, a marching column.

There would be two waves.

“We must retreat,” Grahame breathed as Uhtread rode up. Grahame rotated his injured arm, gaze locked on the convening men.

Blind fear threatened to seize her by the bones. Her people were supposed to have the upper hand. The burnt fields, the time to gather forces, was a distraction. They would have been ambushed all along. Adara felt as if she could not draw a breath.

“Too late,” Ridley muttered, turning his horse.

He galloped in front of the line of their soldiers.

Men were already dropping supplies and retrieving shields.

Sword belts were slipped on, axes readied.

Squinting into the sun, their gazes were locked on the group of horsed men that thundered past Clayton House’s gates.

“Adara,” Grahame said, his tone steady.

It startled Adara from her thin breaths. There was no time for panic. Only sheer will.

Adara kicked herself into action, moving in the opposite direction of Ridley, calling out to their bowman to ready their arms. When she whirled back, she could see her father at the forefront of the attack, his sword pointed at them as he charged down the hill.

She would recognize his helm, a snarling badger, anywhere.

“Weapons!” Adara shouted, her hand diving for her own sword-belt slung across Ulrich's back.

Men scrambled, tossing weapons to one another, while Ridley rode up and down the line, advising on how they would advance.

Yrsa threw herself from her horse, grabbing the shield strapped across its back.

She secured it onto her left arm in one swift movement, then scooped up her short sword.

Shouting commands to fall in line together, she placed her shield up against others to form an interlocked wall, planting her feet.

Thor was right beside her. Uhtread, Hagan, Ridley, Grahame, and Adara remained horsed.

“Adara,” Grahame snarled.

Adara turned, her breath catching in her throat at the devastating sight of him. Windblown curls pressed his forehead. His cloak hugged his broad shoulders. But it was the haunted shadow in his usually bright green eyes that held her still.

He reached for her, his fingers skimming her knee. Adara’s lip dared tremble at the warmth of his skin. A surge of fright hit her. They were out of time. Again. After all the time apart, their reunion, they were out of time with one another.

“Stay beside me,” Grahame commanded. He gestured for her to steer the horse beside him.

Hooves thundered. Steel helms glinted beneath the sun, banners flapping as the line of her father’s men rode at them. The first wave consisted of around thirty. Each man had a sword and wore some sort of mail. Adara’s party looked paltry in comparison. The men on horse did not slow.

“We do not stand a chance,” Adara whispered.

Terror for her men, for Hyrstow’s, reached up and clasped her throat.

There was no way for them to win against such a force.

It was her folly that had brought them all there.

She had incited her father’s wrath. If she’d only accepted his decree and married the Briton, all of those with her would have been spared.

“We must stand as one,” Grahame said, his voice strained.

It was like a punch to the chest. Adara looked away as her eyes filled with tears. She tightened her grip on Ulrich’s reins.

Her mind scrabbled over ways to halt the impending massacre.

If she could only reason with her father, give herself up, perhaps he would listen to her.

Then she remembered the coldness in his face when he’d shoved her to the ground, the way he enjoyed relaying the news that Grahame was to be killed. There would be no mercy.

“I have to stop him,” she muttered to herself. “I’ve done this.”

“’Dara,” Grahame warned.

He would be further injured or killed. He was innocent. Hers to protect. And he would not die defending her. Adara swallowed. There was nothing to be done other than offer herself up to her father. Perhaps she could halt the massacre. Perhaps she could bargain…

“Grahame, I love you,” was all she said before spurring ahead to where Hagan was barking orders.

“Get back,” Hagan snarled, his eyes flaring with concern as she rushed to join the line of men preparing for battle.

“No,” she growled.

“Goddamnit, Adara! Get back!” Hagan shouted again, allowing his horse to lag as if to force hers to turn the other way. She spurred Ulrich forward, passing Hagan, outrunning Grahame.

A man in black leathers and a metal helm rode at her. He held a longsword, his body tucking in tight to his steed as his gaze narrowed on hers. There was no turning back. Blood rushed through her, charging her limbs. Steady.

Twenty five yards.

Hagan fell in beside her.

Twenty.

She tucked herself close to Ulrich’s neck.

Fifteen.

Beneath a mop of grey hair, the man ahead grinned.

Ten.

The man lurched up in his seat, longsword ready to pierce her breast. She withdrew the small dagger from her belt.

Five.

In a motion that felt as easy as breathing, she let the dagger fly.

Men and horses met with a shrieking, whinnying impact, swords and shields clashing. Adara’s sword dug into the man’s side as she passed. He didn’t reciprocate. Her dagger had lodged in his throat. With a grunt, she yanked her sword from him as he fell to the side, sliding off his horse.

There was no time to relish the small victory.

The clang of metal burst around her. Grunts and wails and blood splattered.

She reined to the side as another soldier sliced at her leg, missing her by inches.

His menacing gaze narrowed on her as she maneuvered.

Then he was shouting in pain as Hagan’s sword punched through his chest from behind.

Blood flecked her legs as the man slumped forward.

Adara clenched her teeth in a grin of thanks to Hagan. His eyes widened, locked on something behind her.

She twisted in her seat, sword up just as metal came down. The blow fell short of her arm. Adara turned Ulrich, glaring at the horsed man only for her mind to go blank when she saw it to be her father.

“Daughter,” Eadric of Bernira snarled, his eyes shadowed beneath his shiny helm.

“Stop this,” Adara commanded.

Eadric laughed, a dirty, grating sound.

“You set this in motion, girl. You caused upheaval; you betrayed Bernira. And I see you’ve brought your own warriors.”

A moan of agony cut through the din of metal on wood. Adara forced herself to keep her gaze fixed on her father and not frantically search for Grahame in the melee.

Adara’s heart rammed into her throat. Her hands trembled as she said, “Take me and halt this assault. I will go with you. I will do what you wish.”

From somewhere behind her, Grahame shouted, “No!”

A grin slid its way up her father’s mouth. He kept his horse moving, sidestepping to and fro, so as not to become a stationary target.

“You will come with me, Adara,” he said.

Equal parts relief and dread speared her.

The feelings were quashed immediately when her father continued: “Though I will not stop this. These people need to learn their place. You’ve led an uprising that needs to be silenced.”

A sinking feeling heavier than any anchor dropped in her middle. She tightened her grip on her weapon as she frantically scanned the clash of armies. Ridley was unhorsed, locked in battle with two men. Hagan drew his sword from a man’s chest.

“’Dara!”

Despair clawed at her. She had to go, had to get her father to listen.

“ Please,” she shouted, her panic rising. “Call back your men. I will go.”

Too soon, Grahame was beside her. His leg was drenched in blood.

“Ah, the husband still lives,” Eadric said. He spat at the ground.

Grahame was like a feral dog beside her, advancing with his sword raised high. His cloak billowed around his heaving shoulders.

“Stand down,” Grahame shouted. Quick as an adder, Eadric spurred forward, swiping at Grahame’s middle with his sword. Adara felt her heart stall as Grahame ducked back, his horse nearly tripping on a fallen body.

“No!” Adara couldn’t help her strangled scream as the blood-stained metal swiped too close to Grahame’s side.

Adara barely thought as she slipped a dagger from her belt and let it fly. The blade lodged in her father’s shoulder. He grunted, cold eyes slicing to her from beneath his helm.

“’Dara,” Grahame’s voice was strangled.

The shift of his gaze to her right alerted Adara to an impending strike.

All she could do was twist, hoping her father didn’t carve up her other side.

Ulrich whinnied as another horsed warrior came at her from the left.

She ducked, plunging her own weapon into the man’s leg.

He wailed, clutching his wound, before falling to the ground.

Adara yanked her sword back before it fell with him.

The clash of metal and an oath from Grahame rang in Adara’s ears. When Adara whirled back, Eadric was withdrawing his weapon. Grahame’s face was awash with pain. She scanned her husband’s body but could not see an injury around his robes and tunic. She prayed he’d not been struck.

Adara swore something like pride shone in Eadric’s narrowed eyes.

“All my life, I wanted sons. Yet here you are.”

Adara could barely hear him over her ragged breaths. The stench of unwashed bodies and fear stuffed up her nostrils. Eadric made sure to shout his next words so they would fall on her like a sword strike.

“You’re lucky you are the link to my line. I intend to spare you. I know you likely think you killed him, but Galan lives.”