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CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

T he chill rolled down from the peaks that surrounded the glen like a warning. A low mist hung in the air, like a veil drawn over the tall grass. Torrin stood at the bottom of one of the hills, looking up at a starless sky to determine whether or not they should go any further.

All day they had been riding—he, Noah, and a few of his men, selected for their scouting abilities. They were all exhausted, all hungry and cold, and Torrin couldn’t help but think it would be wiser to camp there and continue the next morning.

But he didn’t like the silence. It was not yet fully dark and yet the hawks weren’t flying, the deer had vanished from the ridges, and even the breeze resembled the whispers of the dead, as though they were all haunted by ghosts.

In the dim light, Noah approached with a torch, bringing his horse to a halt next to Torrin.

"Riders from the east," he said, nodding toward a trail of dust winding across the moor.

Torrin narrowed his eyes. He tried to see into the distance, through the mist and the darkness that quickly began to surround them. "One man. Fast."

It didn’t take long for the rider to reach them, pushing his horse to its limits as he tried to reach them.

He was a Gunn soldier, but barely recognizable through the grime and blood on his face.

Had it not been for the colors he wore, Torrin wouldn’t have known him.

When he reached Torrin and Noah, the soldier came to a sudden halt, and though it was his horse that had been doing all the work, he still seemed to be short of breath.

What happened tae him?

Torrin suspected he already knew. There was only one reason why one of his men would come to him like this, bloodied and dirty, covered in mud.

"Me laird," the man gasped, "it’s the castle."

Torrin’s worst fears were confirmed with that one simple sentence, telling him everything he needed to know. Keith’s men, surely; it couldn’t be anyone else.

He had delayed his wedding to Valora for too long, and now Keith had had a chance to attack. He didn’t regret giving her a choice, but he did regret that it had come to this.

"Speak," Torrin said.

"Attacked. This morn, soon after ye left. Keith’s men… fifty, maybe more. They came from the southern cliffs. They—" the man swallowed, drawing in a deep breath, "they came an’ left fast. I reached ye as fast as I could, but… but I dinnae ken what the situation is like in the castle now."

"They came an’ left?" Torrin asked with a frown.

What could they have possibly come for? What was it that they were looking for? Had they retreated because Torrin wasn’t there?

No, that sounded unlikely. It was more likely that they had gotten what they had been looking for.

The wind fell silent. A sharp pain speared through Torrin’s chest.

Valora.

Noah muttered a curse under his breath, his hands already tightening around the reins. "Any sight o’ them since?"

"Nae from me," the soldier said with a shake of his head. "Others were sent out tae follow them but I dinnae ken what may have happened."

Torrin clenched his jaw, doing his best to stop himself from screaming obscenity after obscenity as the blood flowed like lava in his veins.

His anger threatened to bubble over, his hatred for Laird Keith only growing with every passing moment, and he had half a mind to march back to the castle, gather his men—those who were left—and simply attack.

He turned to Noah. "Gather the men. We’re headin’ back."

It would be dark by the time they made it back, the night a pitch-black curtain, but they had no other choice. Torrin had to evaluate the damage himself. He had to see what could be done now that Clan Keith had made its first move.

"It’s dark," Noah pointed out. "It’ll take us hours tae head back."

Torrin’s eyes flared as his head snapped to the side to look at Noah. "Then we ride, an’ we ride fast. Nay pause. We dinnae stop until we’re inside the walls."

I will kill every man who dares tae touch Valora.

He turned to his men, who had by then gathered around him, flanking him on both sides.

"Let us head out," he called. "Let us head back tae our home an’ see what those bastards have done."

The men shouted in assent. Urging his horse into motion, Torrin led them all back toward the path they had taken—the long way home. But no matter how long it took them, he was determined to never stop until they reached the castle.

They rode fast and silently for nearly an hour, cutting through the moor, their only companion the sound of the horses’ hooves against the ground.

Every drum of the horses’ hooves drove Torrin’s fury deeper into his gut.

The thought of Keith attacking his home, his people—the thought of him harming Valora was enough to drive him crazy with fear, and though he knew they were still too far from the castle, he kept waiting to see its walls just around the corner, his impatience getting the better of him.

What has he done tae her?

There was a chance she was perfectly safe.

There was a chance she had been harmed. Torrin knew that Laird Keith wouldn’t dare kill her, but that didn’t mean that he wouldn’t harm her, either, or that he wouldn’t try to take her from the castle.

And if the latter had happened, then there was little hope for them, save for Torrin declaring an all-out war and attacking Clan Keith to take her back.

Whatever it takes, I will dae it. Whatever it takes.

The night and the trees, towering black firs and pines silhouetted against the moonlight, whizzed past them as they rode. Then, over the crest of a hill, Noah raised a torch to halt them.

Torrin and the rest of the men came to a sudden stop, all of them gathering around and looking straight ahead, down the hill.

Below them lay a small valley, protected by the elements by the hills that surrounded it.

There, outlined by a burning fire, two wagons sat in the middle, surrounded by five tents.

A camp, one that didn’t seem to belong to travelers, but rather to soldiers, though from that distance, it was impossible for Torrin to judge if they were Keith’s men or other soldiers who happened to be traveling.

If he had to guess, he would say there were about fifteen men; some at rest, others sitting on crates.

But then his gaze fell on a familiar face. There, tied to a wagon wheel, was Valora, bound and gagged and still screaming herself to death.

Torrin’s heart slammed against his ribs.

The sight of Valora like that, in pain, trying to fight still, filled him with an unbridled rage that threatened to bubble over.

Before he knew it, he was reaching for his sword, his hand closing tightly around the hilt, but Noah’s hand was quick to shoot out and grab his arm, stopping him.

"We could circle around, wait fer them all tae fall asleep?—"

But Torrin wouldn’t hear it. "Nay. We attack now."

"Torrin," Noah warned, his tone tinged with concern. "If we charge down there now, who kens what might happen? There are over a dozen soldiers there. Two tae one odds dinnae sound very good tae me."

It was true that the odds were against them. With eight of them and about fifteen men down there, at the camp, their forces were outnumbered. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean they would also be overpowered.

"I’m nae waitin’, Noah. Valora is down there. If ye dinnae wish tae come, then stay here."

"Torrin—"

But Torrin was already riding.

His men followed him silently, their swords drawn. Torrin didn’t wait for them, though—he barely even noticed when Noah caught up to him, riding right by his side with his sword drawn, his face twisted in a mask of rage.

They hit the Keith camp like God’s vengeance, descending upon the men like vultures.

Torrin’s horse tore into the camp, stomping on anything in its path.

He didn’t pause, not even for a moment. His blade sliced through the neck of the first Keith soldier in his way with a single, brutal stroke.

There was no mercy, no hesitation. Only the flash of his blade and the metallic scent of blood that filled the air as the man collapsed to his knees, then to his side, eyes glassy and devoid of life as blood fountained out of the wound.

Jumping off the horse, Torrin’s gaze searched for the next man to kill. As desperately as he wanted to rush to Valora, he knew he had to deal with the men first. If he wanted her safe, then he had to kill them all, even if he would have to do it single-handedly.

But he wouldn’t; his men were right there with him, throwing themselves into the fight.

All around him, steel rang on steel. Shouts filled the air, some from his men and some from Clan Keith as the soldiers clashed, war cries echoing in the night air.

And through it all, Torrin could still catch waves of Valora’s screams, muffled as they were, as she desperately tried to free herself, and the sound of it broke his heart into a million pieces.

Next to him, Noah fought with the rage of a wild animal, parrying an enemy sword with one hand and stabbing another soldier with the other—the left, which he favored in short-range combat.

One Keith warrior tried to flank him, but Torrin was quick to intervene, piercing the man through the gut with his sword just as he tried to bring his own blade down on Noah.

With a gasp, Noah pulled his knife out of its target—the chest of the man he had been fighting, who was now looking at the blood that poured out of him with wide eyes, as if surprised to have been hurt.

With a growl, Noah kicked him back and then descended upon him once more to finish the kill as another of Torrin’s men swooped in to fight the third Keith soldier.

Torrin, in his search for another enemy, saw Valora struggling and a Keith soldier moving towards her with a blade in his hand.