Susan King - [Celtic Nights 01] (41 page)

Sebastien fisted a hand at his side, stared once again at Cormac. "And all this when you betray Ruari MacWilliam to me?"

"All this," Cormac said.

"And what, then, for yourself? Surely you want more than Kinlochan and a bride."

"I will have all the reward I need," Cormac said. "The favor of my king, the land my clan has claimed and fought for generations. Our enemies in the palm of our hand." He smiled. "The bride my father and grandfather meant for me to have."

"All you could ever want," Sebastien said mockingly.

"Indeed. It is a simple choice. What will you do?"

Sebastien glanced at his friends. They were silent as stones, as wolves. He was part of their solidarity, no matter what they had withheld from him. He could never take part in the ignoble plot Cormac suggested. No prize, no ambition, was worth betraying a man, or worth losing the respect of the people whom Sebastien cared for deeply.

No ambition was worth losing Alainna.

If he did nothing to stop Cormac, the man would betray Ruari MacWilliam himself and earn royal favor. If Sebastien returned to Brittany, Cormac could eventually gain not only Kinlochan, but Alainna's hand in marriage.

"All you could want, I am sure," Cormac repeated.

He knew what he wanted, knew it with such clarity that he sucked in a fast, hard breath.

"What shall it be?" Cormac said. "Shall you meet me here in a few days to collect Ruari MacWilliam, or shall I bring him to Kinlochan's gates for his kin to see? Surely they would like to see him before he is taken away to the king's dungeon, and hanged by the heels and quartered apart in a traitor's death. What shall it be?"

"Send word to the king yourself," Sebastien said brusquely. "I am not interested in treachery."

While Cormac gaped at him, he pivoted. Giric, Robert, and Lulach turned with grim precision and strode out of the room in his wake.

"Prepare yourselves, my friends," Sebastien said as they crossed the bailey through spitting, whirling snow. "There will be a storm before long. And we have a renegade to rescue." He heard Giric laugh in relief and agreement.

All he wanted, as he mounted the Arabian and rode through the gate, was to get home to Alainna before either storm, the one that swirled in the sky or the one that brewed among men, hit.

* * *

They rode east over broad, rock-studded meadows and low hills covered in a new mantle of snow. The flakes slanted out of a bleak sky, and the wind gusts were bitter. Sebastien became aware of an unease that had nothing to do with the threatening weather.

"Snowstorms turn dangerous quickly in the Highlands," Giric said. "See there, in the distance, that strange cloud. 'Tis a snow squall over the mountains, heading this way. We must go quickly to Kinlochan, for we cannot turn back and seek shelter at Turroch if we are caught by a squall. No matter the rule of Highland hospitality, they will not take us in," he added grimly.

Sebastien scanned the leaden sky and looked westward, where a large, gauzy formation obscured the mountaintops. "I am not as concerned about the weather as I am about the trustworthiness of the MacNechtans."

"I agree," Robert said. "But we are armed and mounted on warhorses. We are skilled fighters. They are wild savages."

"Lulach and I," Giric reminded them wryly, "are savages too."

"Made civil by good friends," Robert retorted. Giric chuckled and Lulach grinned.

"In this weather, Cormac will keep to his warm hearth. No one will come out here now," Hugo said, riding behind them.

Lulach laughed harshly. "Do not trust what you see out here. Those hills are not empty. Even poor weather does not deter a Highlander with a purpose or a grievance. Though heavy snow might discourage a smarter man than Cormac MacNechtan."

The back of Sebastien's neck prickled. "This way, back to Kinlochan quick as we can," he said, urging his horse ahead.

"There is a faster way," Giric said. "To the left. A track between those hills will take us back directly."

"We must take the longer route," Sebastien said. "We can keep an open view of the countryside the rest of the way."

"Why? There is no one out here," Robert said.

"Sebastien
Ban
is right," Lulach told Giric. "We should take the longer track."

"The horses will tire faster carrying armored men over these hills in such cold," Giric said. "Your horses are not as nimble as Highland garrons on slopes, and the snow on the hills can be treacherous."

Sebastien sighed, realizing there was little choice. "We will follow the pass between the hills. Keep alert for danger."

He felt it coming now, with every fiber of his body. He watched through the thickening snow, his logic telling him that Cormac was behind them at Turroch, sitting by his warm hearth and cursing them, making plans for later. But his gut told him otherwise.

The hills were craggy, powdered white, cold and empty. He rode on, listening to the creak of leather, the jingle of steel, the strike and thud of horse hooves on stone and ground.

Giric guided his garron ahead to lead the way, setting a walking pace. The horses filed in pairs along the narrow track, which snaked between the sloped bases of two steep, rocky hills.

Starry flakes dusted the Arabian's mane. The wind whistled softly, like a faint, eerie song from the faery world. Sebastien heard the distant croak of a raven. He glanced up slopes so steep that he could scarcely see the tops through the falling snow and gathering mist.

The raven sounded again. Sebastien felt the prickle strongly. He turned to say something to Lulach.

A shriek, long and unearthly, tore from the bowels of the hill. Sebastien reined in his startled horse and looked up one slope, then another, seeing nothing but rock. The sound repeated, short and horrifying in its echo.

He drew his sword, the one-handed Norman blade that fit in his palm like an extension of his strength. The heavier Highland blade was sheathed in a loop on his saddle. Ahead of him, Giric turned, pulling free his own claymore, which he carried sheathed across his back. Behind him, Sebastien heard other swords slither free, and crossbow bolts clicked into place.

Then a roar and a crash, and a boulder shifted and hurtled down the right-hand slope. Sebastien backed up his horse, its flank bumping into the garron behind it. All around him, men shouted and tried to turn their horses.

The boulder slammed into the earth a few feet in front of Sebastien's horse, causing the Arabian to rear and twist. While he hung on and tried desperately to control the horse, another boulder bounded and crashed down the other slope, closing off the rear exit of the pass.

The hillsides erupted as men leaped from behind the crags and rocks on both slopes. Cries and unearthly howls made the air vibrate. Stones and small rocks hurtled down, striking some of the knights. They pulled out their long shields and crouched beneath them, still on horseback, angling the shields to protect the horses' heads as well as their own.

The knights returned a vicious hail of arrows shot from crossbows. Sebastien pulled his own loaded crossbow from the side of his saddle and aimed toward one of the slopes. He could not see clearly through the curtain of snow and missiles, and his scarred left eye hindered his vision.

Giric turned his garron and waded through a tangle of horses and men who had fallen or dismounted. Beside and behind him, the knights drew their weapons, hoisted their shields, and circled their horses around in a protective flank, but some of their comrades had already fallen.

Highlanders swarmed down the slopes toward them, a filthy, bare-legged, bare-headed, plaided host, emitting unnerving shrieks, their faces distorted, their hair flying wild in greased braids. Some held dirks, some hoisted long, huge swords. Others carried spears, slingshots, or rocks.

Fearlessness gleamed in their eyes. A deep chill ran down Sebastien's backbone when he saw it. At the upper part of one hill, he saw Cormac and Struan MacNechtan. He realized that somehow they had arranged the ambush, probably long before the Normans had left Turroch.

He and his men were penned in the narrow pass, unable to go forward, backward, or up the slopes. Impeded by heavy armor and weaponry, and by warhorses unaccustomed to such terrain, they were not only trapped, but at a staggering disadvantage.

He raised his shield against thunking rocks, against the arrowheads and spears that slammed past him. He lashed out with his sword and cut a man down. An arrow sliced into his thigh, catching his armor, tearing it and zinging past. His arms and back ached from the force of the blows he withstood and the blows he gave.

Around him, he glimpsed his friends and comrades struggling with their attackers. He saw some of them fall from their mounts. Highlanders slipped between the jostling horses, bringing down some of the fine-blooded, bold animals with fast, cruel blades, while their riders fell, lost to two-handed swords.

Sebastien leaned low under his shield and slung his leg over the saddle to dismount and gain the ground. He stood and whipped his broadsword in a wide arc to bring down an approaching Highlander. He strived to keep to his feet, to protect his back, and to watch the back of whatever knight was closest to him. He heard his men's screams swell the haunting cacophony that echoed between the hills. His blood went cold in his veins, while he fought on and on.

A lightning-fast scan of the pass and the hills revealed the snow-frosted bodies of the fallen, lending them a strange pristine beauty. The wind muffled the cries of terror and rage and agony.

Sebastien felt an anguished cry of rage build within him. He felt will surge within him like fire. He shouted, loud and raw, a bellow from his depths, summoning the power and the pride innate in him, drawing strength and anger from his soul. He swung the sword and lunged, turned, thrust, swiped, and cleared his way out of a corner.

Unaware if he killed or hurt or merely pushed back the savages that swarmed and smothered the knights, he knew only that he was trapped, that he must free himself, that he must defend his comrades. He turned again, lunging, slicing. He saw a Highlander drag Hugo from his saddle. Leaping sideways, he locked blades with the man, deflecting his spear.

Robert turned from another direction and stood over Hugo's fallen form, swinging his sword to knock the Highlander to the ground. Sebastien glanced anxiously at Hugo and saw him stir, saw his rise to his knees and fall again. Robert dropped to a knee to pull at him.

Sebastien spun away again when he heard another terrifying savage shriek. He saw another Highlander charge at him, spear brandished, face wild. He balanced his sword, swayed his weight, ready to thrust, swinging his sword as the man lunged at him.

Each movement, each thought took on terrible clarity. Sebastien felt wrapped in fog, yet his core was crystalline. He saw what he must do at each moment to ensure survival for himself and for whatever comrade was near him, each way that he turned.

Every moment of the struggle showed him that victory was not possible here. Yet he had never lost, and would not allow the thought to enter his mind now.

Thrust, swing, lunge, turn, thrust: a chant formed in his head like a litany, until the words became one with the blows and the thrusts. He was fed by pure wrath.

He turned again, and saw Giric jerk backward, struck by a hurtled rock, then fall from his saddle.

Giric struggled to his feet, swaying, face bloodied, and swung his own great sword around his head to take down a man who lunged at him. Sebastien turned away as another Highlander advanced toward him, yelling. He could not look back to see if Giric had survived the moment.

Everywhere men twisted, shrieked, and fell among the graceful, whirling veils of snow. Sebastien fought fiercely, aware only of the instant, following instinct, abandoning slower thought.

The snow thickened and the wind grew wild, and the storm became a bitter fury, a stinging, unforgiving new foe for all, enemy and attacked alike. Sebastien spun and shouted and strived, constantly searching for a channel of escape that could take them all to safety. But none was evident.

Two Highlanders surged toward him, and he turned to take them both on. A third came from behind, and a fourth. He felt the heavy strike of a blow to his side. Slowly, in sharp and eerie focus, he glanced down and saw the torn surcoat, the ragged edges of mail, the red sheen of his own blood on the steel tip that withdrew. Yet he felt no pain.

He struck out in defense, and took the man down, then whirled. A fifth Highlander appeared beside him, wielding a claymore, as did many of the Gaels. As Sebastien turned to strike at him, he realized that this particular Highlander was fighting the men who surrounded Sebastien.

The man cut down one MacNechtan, then another, with vicious, powerful blows of his sword while Sebastien fought the others, who dropped away, wounded.

Breathing hard, Sebastien paused, turned, and looked into keen blue eyes beneath dark, arched brows. He recognized the man who had once struggled with a wolf.

Ruari nodded to Sebastien abruptly and turned away, raising his sword again to aid Giric, who had risen and fought off two MacNechtans.

Stunned, deeply grateful, Sebastien lifted his shield and his sword and fought on through the whirling, bitter, engulfing whiteness.