“Pour hot sand on the bastarts!” she yelled. The men lifted the cauldrons with heavy grunts and turned them over. Steam rose, and the air filled with the scent of hot stone. Men yelled in pain as sand fell on them and burned their skin.
As the men with cauldrons ran down for more sand, the iron hooks of the first ladder landed, clawing at the stone merlons. The attackers had a hard time climbing over the blade-sharp spikes that decorated the crumbled part of the wall. They hurt themselves and tried to avoid them, which slowed them down. If the spikes hadn’t been there, they would have easily climbed up and flooded the wall, but now there would only be one at a time.
The first enemy came, and Konnor stabbed his chest and pushed him back. The man fell with a yell. The next ladder swayed in the air on the other side of the wall, and Cambel warriors pushed it back before it could hook at the merlons.
The battle continued. More and more warriors came, but Marjorie’s men fought well and held the wall. She looked at the main wall and gasped. The siege tower stood directly by the wall, and MacDougall warriors poured from its wooden top. More men climbed the stairs of the tower to the platform at the top. Marjorie rushed to that wall to help fight the onslaught.
The castle shuddered with a loud, wooden knock. The battering ram!
“Cruachan!” she called to raise her warriors’ spirits. As she sprinted to the other wall, Konnor ran by her side. They slashed into the battle on the wall.
Thud. Thud. She wielded her sword against the shield of a warrior. She kicked him and pivoted in an unexpected move. She slashed at his unprotected side and kicked him off the wall.
She fought and fought. The clang of metal against metal, screams, and groans of pain rang out all around her. They’d defended the wall well, and there weren’t many MacDougalls left climbing, but the ram continued battering the gate.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A loud crack thundered through the air, and the MacDougalls yelled in a triumph.
No, no, no! They poured into the courtyard. Colin! He was locked in his bedroom, and Tamhas stood protecting him. She needed to send more men there.
They could win this. The MacDougalls had lost a significant amount of their forces, and now the Cambels had a real chance of victory. She just couldn’t let anyone get to Colin.
Marjorie rushed down into the courtyard with Konnor right after her. They dove into a battle there. She had no idea how long they fought, but it felt like an eternity.
And then she saw John MacDougall.
He was ten feet away and walked towards Konnor, who’d been separated from her and was finishing off the man he was fighting. MacDougall’s sword dripped blood, and his chainmail glistened in the dull dawn light. His white hair was in disarray.
Marjorie ran, her blood seething in her veins. He swung his sword at Konnor, but before he could strike, Marjorie roared.
“MacDougall!”
He stopped and looked at her. His face fell in astonishment, and he stepped back. Marjorie stopped before John with her sword in her hands, assuming a fighting position.
She snorted. “Oh, aye. Did ye think I was going to shrink and die like a crumpled wee flower? Nae. Never. How do ye like this?” She indicated at the battlefield with her claymore. “I’m a sword forged by the fire ye’ve set under me.”
John’s expression changed from surprise to anger.
“Ye are nae a sword. Just a wee lass playing the games of grown men. Ye couldna do anything then. Ye canna do anything now.”
Marjorie shrank back internally. The helplessness she’d known all too well from twelve years ago weighed her down. Her ribs tightened around her lungs, and her insides felt as though they’d been scraped away, leaving her hollow.
“Ye think ye will stop me?” John MacDougall roared. “Come and try, wee bitch.”
Wee bitch—that was what Alasdair had called her. Her arms hung helplessly. Konnor, probably seeing her expression, raised his sword, his face distorted in a furious mask.
But she couldn’t let him. She couldn’t let anyone finish her battle for her. She’d hidden behind the castle walls long enough. Whether she died today or the MacDougall did, it didn’t matter. What mattered was that she’d fight her own battles.
“Dinna ye dare, Konnor,” Marjorie called. “He’s mine.”
Konnor grunted and stilled. The MacDougall looked at him like he were a helpless pup.
“Aye, lad. Go and play with the others. This doesna concern ye.”
Marjorie’s heart thumped in her throat. Alasdair was dead. But his father stood before her. As the chief of his clan, he could have returned her home, could have set his son straight, could have ended the madness of everything Alasdair had done right under his nose.
She held her claymore in both hands. They tingled with the need to fight the last man alive responsible for her broken life and for her broken self.
She would be the flame-forged blade. For her son, for herself, and for Konnor, the man who had come from another time to fight at her side.
Her arms filled with energy, like lightning flowed through them. Her claymore became an extension of her arms. Her cheeks hot, her muscles straining against her skin, she planted her feet wide.
The MacDougall limbered up his neck and rolled his mighty shoulders. Despite his age, he was a dangerous opponent. He took his sword in both his hands. A guttural roar escaped his throat, “Buaidh no bas!” He launched at Marjorie.
She cried, “Cruachan!” and darted forward.
Their swords clashed. The impact knocked Marjorie back, stealing her breath. She gasped and attacked again, only to meet the rock-hard resistance of his claymore.
Marjorie and John MacDougall circled each other. She searched for weaknesses in him, her muscles taut. He was big. She was small. He was stronger, but she was faster.
Malcolm’s words echoed in her head, “In a real battle, that unexpected move might be why ye win.”
That was what she needed to do. Surprise him, just like she and her people had surprised the MacDougall camp.
She kept moving in slow circles to disorient John. He came at her, striking down into her sword over and over. Her arm absorbed the impact, and it resonated painfully in her bone marrow. The sound of metal rang in her ears.
There was a small moment of opportunity, and she stroked with her blade from the side, ripping into his chainmail. MacDougall roared with pain and slashed at her with his claymore. Marjorie stepped back, but not fast enough, and the blade went through her leather armor and bit into the flesh of her shoulder.
“Arghhh!” she cried. Unexpected pain burst into flames. The shock of it, her first real battle wound, caused her to fall still for a moment. That was a mistake. Because MacDougall did not stop. He slashed low. Only the instinct honed over years of daily training helped Marjorie block his blade with hers and avoid her thigh being cut open.
MacDougall raised his sword to give her a death blow, but Marjorie spun out of the way and it hit the ground beside her. She thrust her sword upward, ripping open his chainmail and sinking it between his ribs.
The man roared. She pulled her sword back and pointed it at his neck, about to kill him.
But she stopped.
Did she have to kill him? She could take him prisoner. But she’d won the fight. She’d wounded him. She was strong. That was all she’d wanted to prove to herself—and to the MacDougalls. She didn’t need to take his life or his freedom.