“Twenty or so.” Grant was the only archer of their small group, now that Duncan was dead. He pulled his bow off his saddle. His quiver full of arrows was already on his back.
“That will have to do. Come on.” Without waiting for an answer, Patrick drew his sword and headed toward the southwest corner of the forest, where the attackers had been.
Twenty arrows wasn’t much. With a queasy feeling in his stomach, Ciaran swung his leg over Horace and dropped to the ground, knowing his horse was well trained and would be right there when he got back. He’d follow Patrick into battle anytime and anywhere, but God help him, he truly wondered if this would be the last time.
Ram was there to meet him. “Ye okay?”
“Aye. Ye?” Ciaran pulled his sword from his scabbard.
“Aye.” Ram nodded and took his sword to hand as well.
They all fell in line behind Patrick, walking swiftly but quietly so as not to give away their position. The closer they got to the edge of the forest, the louder their attackers’ voices got. They were still some ways away from the sounds of it. Not in the forest, thank God.
As they neared the tree line, Patrick held up a hand, bringing them to a halt. The forest wasn’t large, but it was dense. They should still be out of view. They certainly couldn’t see their enemy.
Patrick crept forward slowly, then motioned for all of them to follow.
One by one they did so, positioning themselves behind trees.
The voices grew louder now. They spoke English, but Ciaran could only make out a few words here and there. The men were dressed all in black, and as soon as night fell, they’d be nearly invisible. It was not a comforting thought.
A branch popped behind Ciaran and leaves rustled.
“Fuck,” Ram hissed.
Ciaran glanced over his shoulder and saw Ram.
A bolt of light zipped past his shoulder, and Ciaran flinched, ducking back behind the tree. Another bolt hit the oak, tearing through the bark with a sizzling crack. Bits of wood flew, and a splinter lodged into his arm. Moving his sword to his left hand, he nearly dropped it, his hands were shaking so badly. He covered his shoulder with his right hand, wiping away blood and barely feeling the pain. “Bluidy hell. What the devil? Who are they?”
“I don’t know. Stay behind cover,” Patrick gritted out just ahead and to the left of Ciaran. His voice sounded tense. Patrick usually calmed down in a fight, as though he were in his element. He was the best swordsman in all the highlands, but this was not a normal fight. There were no clashing swords or flying arrows like they were used to. This was an ambush with advanced technology the likes Ciaran had only ever heard of in stories. “Ramsey, are you all right?”
“Aye. Just tripped over a fuckin’ rock.”
More shots were fired, and more tree bark splintered.
Bluidy hell! Ciaran frowned. They were pinned down. The woods offered cover, but there was little hope of defeating their attackers if they couldn’t leave it without risk of getting shot.
Someone, it sounded like Grant, shouted, “Och!” from behind them.
Ciaran turned his head to see Grant stomping on the forest brush. A small cloud of smoke infused the air around his foot. Damnation. What chance did they have if these weapons could start fires? They were surrounded by kindling, and to make matters worse, Ciaran could swear some of the enemy had advanced forward while shooting.
“Uh, Patrick? They’re advancing. How many of them are there?”
“I see,” Patrick said. “Grant?”
An arrow came out of the trees and hit one of the attackers square in the chest. The others stopped, backing up some, but did not relent in their firing. Grant quickly fired another and hit the man beside the first. This time the shooting stopped, and the men retreated back before continuing their assault.
“There are about three dozen of them, from what I can tell.” Patrick turned to look behind Ciaran at the remaining three men in their party. “Get ready.” He lifted his sword and turned back to the front. “If they come through the trees, cut them down.”
There was another yelp through the volley of lights, and they were down a man as Boyd fell. He dropped to the carpet of moss, clutching his thigh.
“Are you still with us, Boyd?” Patrick asked.
“Aye, ye radge wee shite.”
Patrick chuckled. “A crazy shit, am I?”
“Aye,” Ciaran answered with a grin at the same time as Boyd. His heart beat so hard, he swore he could actually feel it on the outside of his chest, but he welcomed the fight. Being pinned down was like waiting for the guillotine to slice off your head. His mind kept wandering back to poor Duncan. He preferred to bring the fight to his enemies, though Patrick had taught him the value of waiting.
At eighteen summers, Ciaran had been in several battles, but he’d never faced anything like this, and for the first time in a long time, he was actually scared. It was like fighting an unseen unknown assailant. If he had not seen the men, he could almost believe they were fighting a supernatural presence. This reminded him of the time he’d gotten lost in these same woods, playing hide-and-seek when he was seven, and spent several lonely hours in the dark surrounded by terrifying sounds. He’d feared bogles and the bean-nighe, not men with lights. Then his father had finally appeared through the mist and trees like an avenging angel. Ciaran could still see his father in a glow of torchlight, making him look almost heavenly. That night was just like this one, warm with a fog hovering about knee level. The moonlight was scarce, but of course it always was—Skye had perpetual cloud cover. It gave Ciaran an idea.
“Patrick?”
Patrick turned his head to glance at Ciaran. He stared for the longest moment, not saying anything.
“I’m going tae send Boyd tae my father and have my father and his men flank the enemy. If we continue tae draw their fire, my clan can attack when they run out of shots.”
“They don’t run out of shots,” Patrick said, as though he knew what he was talking about. Were these enemies from Patrick’s home?
“Never?” A never-ending supply of ammunition? Ice ran through Ciaran’s veins. How were they going to get out of this?
“Not until they run out of energy, which can take days, but if there is sunlight, they can recharge. So no, never.”
A blast hit the tree next to Ciaran, making him wince. Shields! Like the trees were providing for them. It was either that or hope the men got tired of shooting at them and gave up. Which was highly doubtful. Unlike a bow and arrow, it didn’t appear they used any effort to fire their weapons. “What if they use shields?”
“Metal or wood?”
“We have both.”
Patrick was quiet for several moments, then nodded. “Do it. It’s our only chance. Metal shields are better, but wood is better than nothing.”
Ciaran didn’t wait for further instruction. Sheathing his sword, he hurried to Boyd, then helped him up. Together they hobbled their way toward the horses, with Ciaran supporting most of Boyd’s weight. Boyd was not light, but Ciaran was big for his age. Already he topped six feet two inches, matching Boyd’s height. “Ye are going tae my father and telling him tae bring help. They need tae bring shields. Metal ones. And archers.”
“Aye. Son of a bitch!” Boyd winced in pain as they went over a fallen log. “What of bogles? And the wee fairy folk?”