The Rose and The Warrior (36 page)

Laird MacTier stood and raised his hand in the air, calling for the mob's silence. But the sight of him in his sumptuous robes and jewels had the effect of exciting the crowd even more, and a deafening cheer rose into the air.

“Hail, MacTier!” they shouted ecstatically. “Hail, the captor of the Falcon!”

They raised their cups and drained them, then roughly shoved each other out of the way as they surged toward the ale carts to procure more drink.

Laird MacTier smiled and waved, clearly relishing the moment. Finally he raised his hands again, and the mob obediently quieted.

“My friends,” he began, “today is a glorious day in MacTier history. Before you stands the nefarious Falcon, the outlaw who has stolen bread from your mouths and boots from your feet, who has callously stripped you of the very plaids you wear, so she could profit from your suffering, and laugh as you limped home to your families, naked and ashamed!”

Angry curses rose from the drunken throng.

Laird MacTier smiled and raised his hands to quiet the crowd once more. “For many months this thief has eluded us, hiding within the depths of the forest, using the cloak of the trees and the dark of the night to carry out her cowardly attacks. 'Twas not until I cleverly drew her into my trap that we were finally able to end the terror she has wrought. Now you can live your lives without fear of you and your loved ones being beaten, robbed, and viciously slaughtered!”

He paused again, giving his audience another opportunity to cheer him.

“She will stop at nothing to continue her evil war upon the innocent,” he continued gravely. “Even I came close to death when she realized that I would finally bring her dark reign of the woods to an end.”

The crowd gasped and murmured among themselves, speculating on whether Laird MacTier had been injured, and if so, where.

“It is my duty, as your laird and protector, to hereby sentence this outlaw to death,” Laird MacTier finished with grand finality. “Her execution shall be carried out immediately.” He gave Melantha a final look of smug triumph, then nodded to the archers below.

Melantha returned her gaze to Daniel and Colin. She wanted her last glance at them to be filled with love and hope, and not with the terrible despondency that was now pulsing through her every vein. She tried to affect a smile, but immediately felt it quiver and crumble. And so she tore her eyes away and fixed them steadfastly upon the gray cloaked line of executioners who had silently assembled before her, each armed with a supple bow and a quiver full of arrows, lest the first volley not be sufficient to stop her pounding heart.

Dear God,
she prayed,
please let it be over quickly.

The archers nocked their arrows and drew back the strings of their bows in one fluid motion.

And then they spun around and released their shafts, neatly piercing MacTier guards in every direction.

“What the hell is happening?” roared Laird MacTier, watching in disbelief as the archers immediately sent a second deadly volley of arrows into the air, cleanly puncturing another round of MacTier warriors. “For God's sake,
somebody kill them
!”

Pandemonium erupted as the bleary mob surged in every conceivable direction, their frothing cups in one hand and their weapons in the other. Most of them could not see the archers and therefore were not quite certain who it was they were supposed to kill, but they were eager to join the fray nonetheless.

At that moment one of the archers threw off his cloak and easily leaped up the steps of the scaffold.

“No,” Melantha whispered, her eyes blurred with tears. “No.”

“I realize I'm not much,” Roarke conceded mildly, slashing at the ropes securing her to the stake, “but I must confess, this isn't quite the welcome I had expected.”

The other archers had also stripped off their cloaks by then. Eric, Donald, Myles, Finlay, and Lewis were thrashing at the enormous wave of MacTier warriors surrounding them with their swords. Each was fighting with powerful determination, but any fool could see it was hopeless. They were six against a thousand. They would be slaughtered where they stood, Melantha realized miserably. And she would be executed anyway.

It had been horrible enough that she was going to die. The added burden of their deaths was excruciating.

“You'll be killed,” she choked, feeling as if her heart was being torn apart. “You never should have come.”

“You know, there was a time when I might have been insulted by your utter lack of faith in me,” mused Roarke, severing the last of her bonds. “Now I find it rather charming.”

“Here, lassie!” called Magnus, his snowy head bobbing up from the crowd below. “Don't forget to keep yer eyes sharp!” He winked and tossed her sword to her.

“Stay close to me, Melantha,” ordered Roarke as he crashed his blade against the weapon of a MacTier who had ascended the steps of the scaffold. “And see if you can't take care of that fellow over there.”

Melantha lashed at a warrior who was climbing up the other side of the platform. Her swordplay was quick and true, but ultimately the enormous MacTier gained the advantage, deflecting her blow and trapping her blade against the wooden platform.

“Is the terrible Falcon going to run me through with her sword?” he taunted, vastly amused. His mouth split open, revealing a dark cave of rotting teeth.

“No,” came a hard voice from behind. “I am.”

The warrior started to turn, but found his movement severely limited by the silver shaft that suddenly burst through his gut. His rotting smile vanished as he groaned and fell to the floor.

Melantha stared in shock at Lewis. “You killed him,” she said, unable to believe her shy, diffident friend was actually capable of such a feat.

“Aye,” said Lewis, nodding. He whipped past her and began to confidently clash with another warrior who was scrambling up to kill them.

“Damn it,” swore Roarke, withdrawing his dripping blade from one warrior only to immediately begin fending off another, “what the hell is taking them so long?”

Melantha raised her sword high and hacked it deep into the shoulder of a MacTier who was almost up the steps of the platform. He bellowed with pain and clutched at his injury, enabling Melantha to shove him off the steps and into the roiling crowd below. Another warrior instantly replaced him, and she gripped her sword tight as she began to fight him. Whatever Roarke was waiting for, she hoped it happened soon. They were trapped in the midst of this mob, and could not possibly defeat every warrior who scaled the scaffold.

“Fire!”
came a startled cry from across the courtyard, only to be echoed in every direction.

“Fire!”

“Fire!”

“Fire!”

Thick black smoke spewed from the bakehouse, the brewery, and every window of the castle, as well as from giant torches of flaming straw around the courtyard. Panic streaked through the horrified mob. Their efforts at routing the invaders were instantly abandoned, and the entire assemblage deteriorated into a crashing tangle of yelping, shrieking bodies. Some valiantly tried to douse the flames with their precious ale, but most seemed more concerned with quitting the MacTier holding altogether. They clamored over everything in sight as they charged toward the gate, upsetting heavily laden carts of food and ale, and sending dozens of enormous barrels rolling into the melee.

“Stop them!” bellowed Laird MacTier, waving his hands in helpless frustration as he watched a pair of men on horseback appear suddenly from the back of the castle leading two mounts. “Somebody stop those riders!”

Melantha watched in amazement as Ninian and Gelfrid rode toward them, completely unheeded by the crowd that was surging in the opposite direction.

“Jump!” said Roarke.

“No!” Melantha raised her sword to engage the warrior who had crept up behind Roarke.

“For God's sake—”

Roarke impatiently shoved her off the platform, watching as she landed with a thud upon her waiting mount.

“Roarke!” she cried, “behind you!”

Roarke started to turn, but it was too late. A hot slash of steel burned into his back, severing the flesh across his shoulder blade. He clenched his jaw and spun about, whipping up his blade to meet his opponent.

His eyes met the shocked gaze of James, a young warrior who had been trained by Roarke himself, and fought bravely in his army for nearly two years.

“What are you doing?” James demanded, appalled that he had injured his former commander, and unable to comprehend how Roarke could possibly be betraying the clan he had fought his entire life to protect.

“I'm freeing the Falcon,” Roarke replied quickly, his sword poised to deflect another blow.

“Why?”

“Because she does not deserve to die,” he answered simply.

James considered this for barely an instant.

And then he turned and rammed off the scaffold the warrior who had climbed up behind him.

Roarke wasted no time offering thanks, but turned and leaped onto his horse, which Ninian was holding steady for him below.

“We have to fetch Daniel and Colin!” said Melantha urgently.

“Myles and Finlay are freeing them.”

“They can't get past the guards—look!”

Roarke turned his head to see Myles and Finlay valiantly trying to fight their way onto the laird's dais. Wounded MacTiers littered the ground below them, but as quickly as they were felled, more guards appeared.

“Take Melantha out of here,” he commanded Ninian and Gelfrid.

“I'm not leaving without my brother and Colin!”

“I will bring them safely to you, Melantha.”

“And I'm going to help you—”

“All you would do is bring more MacTiers charging after you, which will only make things more difficult,” Roarke countered impatiently. “I know it is hard,” he conceded, gentling his voice on seeing the torment in her eyes, “but the best way you can help them is to ride out that gate.”

It was impossible, what he was asking—surely he could see that? She bit her lip and stubbornly shook her head, struggling to gain control of her fear.

“Trust me, Melantha,” pleaded Roarke, knowing he had barely seconds before the warriors coming toward them would be close enough to attack. “Just this once.”

His gray eyes were large and imploring. In that instant she felt as if she could see into the deepest recesses of his soul. And suddenly she knew.

Roarke would honor his vow to her, or die in the attempt.

“Be careful,” she implored, her voice a ragged whisper. “Please.”

With that she dug her heels into her mount and headed toward the gate, with Gelfrid and Ninian flanking her on either side.

Laird MacTier was still roaring at the crowd, angrily bellowing orders that could not be heard. His poor wife looked as if she wanted to swoon but did not dare to without his permission, while his son was happily gnawing on his nails as he watched the magnificent chaos. Meanwhile, Daniel and Colin had loosened each other's bonds, unheeded. The council members behind them were preoccupied with swatting at the flames now licking up the scarlet-and-gold curtains of their dais, and all the guards had left the platform to prevent Myles and Finlay from advancing.

“Let's go!” said Colin, gesturing for Daniel to follow him.

Instead Daniel reached into his boot, withdrew his sharpened stake, and charged with murderous fury at Laird MacTier.

Sensing the attack, MacTier turned. The pike did not puncture his back as Daniel had planned, but burrowed deep into his shoulder, ripping open the still raw wound Melantha had created with her dirk.

“You little bastard!” swore MacTier, clutching at the stick protruding from his bloodied robe. “This time I'm going to kill you!”

He lunged at Daniel. Colin grabbed Daniel and threw him out of the way, then hurled himself into Laird MacTier, knocking him to the floor.

“You fools!” hissed MacTier, grabbing the dirk at his waist.

“Colin, Daniel—let's go!” shouted Myles, who had finally made it onto the dais.

Laird MacTier stared at Myles in complete bemusement. “Just what the hell do you think you're doing, Myles?”

“We're freeing your prisoners,” he said in a flat voice.

A veil of smoke was swirling round the platform, forcing Laird MacTier to blink.

When he opened his eyes, Roarke was standing before him.

“Have you gone mad?” Laird MacTier demanded.

“I don't believe so.”

“Then what in the name of God are you doing?”

“I am trying to right past wrongs,” said Roarke. “Come here, Daniel.” He extended his arm.

Daniel did not hesitate, but obediently went straight to Roarke.

“You cannot do this!” sputtered Laird MacTier, watching in helpless fury as Roarke shepherded Daniel off the platform, with Myles, Finlay, and Colin following.

“Your castle is burning, Laird MacTier,” said Roarke, lifting Daniel onto his horse before mounting behind him. “I suggest you try to engage whomever you have left here in trying to preserve it.” He began to ride toward the gate.

“Stop them!” shouted MacTier, rising. “Somebody stop them!”

But Laird MacTier's crowd of admirers had all but vanished. Most of the throng had emptied through the gates, leaving the smoke-shrouded courtyard empty but for a sickly mess of spilled food, broken cups, leaking casks of ale, and countless groaning bodies.

“A hundred pieces of gold to the man who shoots them!” he bellowed wildly. “Two hundred!”

That generous incentive managed to bring four intrepid warriors scrambling after them. But their gait quickly became slow and uncertain, and their hands were clumsy as they positioned their arrows.

“What are you waiting for?!” Laird MacTier screamed. “Shoot!”

The archers dutifully released their shafts, which sailed crazily through the air.