Beyond a Darkened Shore(4)

“Séamus,” I said, and his whole body tensed. “I will need your skills at the top of the cliff—you’ll be able to cut the Northmen down faster than anyone.”

“Yes, milady,” he said, keeping his eyes on his saddle—on anything but me.

A flash of pain cut through me at his formal address. There was a time when I was only Ciara, his friend, not “milady” . . . not the heir to the throne . . . or worse, someone to be feared. Just me.

I watched him for a moment more, his long fingers making quick work of the saddle’s cinch, but he never looked up.

“May God keep you safe,” I whispered, and hurried toward my own horse.

I threw open the stall door to my horse, Sleipnir, a stallion as black as pitch. I named him after the Norse god’s eight-legged horse, mostly as an insult to Northmen I defeated, but also because if any horse had the personality of a god’s horse, it was Sleipnir. He charged out of his stall, impatient as always for war. Despite his massive size, he pulled himself to a dead halt in front of me. With a fistful of his long black mane in one hand, I leaped astride.

After my short, painful conversation with Séamus, I wanted nothing more than to touch my heels to Sleipnir’s sides and gallop until every thought in my mind disappeared. Instead, I held Sleipnir in check until the men rode out ahead of me, their chests bare and their faces painted. The smell of sweat, metal, and paint from the battle-hungry men, and the sweeter smell of horses, filled my nostrils. It was better than the coppery tang of blood, which would be all I could smell soon.

I took up my position in the rear after everyone had passed by, and Sleipnir tossed his head in annoyance at being behind the other horses. It couldn’t be helped, though—my power was more useful after the enemy had already been engaged.

I kept my eyes on the sea as Sleipnir descended the steep, rocky slope. Small stones dislodged beneath his heavy hooves as we wound our way down. There were two cliffs near my father’s castle: one that was closest to shore with an easier climb and a second with a much more treacherous path. It was on this second cliff, one that jutted out into the sea itself, that the castle was located. Between the two cliffs was a small valley, and it was at this descent that we found ourselves. Our horses were used to the cliff that was our home and protection, but any other army would find it difficult not to break a leg.

When we climbed to the top of the outcropping, which allowed us to view the length of the shore, I pulled Sleipnir to a stop and surveyed the twenty men before me. Compared to the Northmen, our armor was practically nonexistent: light leather leggings, soft leather boots, and no helmets. Unwilling to join my fellow clansmen in simply covering my chest with paint, I wore a leather chest piece over my linen tunic. Most of the men had broadswords, though a few fought with axes. The Northmen would come with their chain mail and their shields, but we would be faster, and more agile.

The waves viciously beat against the worn rock, sending sprays of white water into the air. It should have been deterrent enough, but the Northmen were relentless. Their longship had already landed. Men poured from its side like a wave of death. As I took in the square sail—white with a skeletal crimson dragon—my heart beat a furious rhythm in my chest. I’d fought countless Northmen in battles throughout our kingdom, but the sight of that sail still made every muscle in my body clench in warring fear and anger—and memory.

My clansmen’s blood staining the earth red—

—my sister’s hand in mine as we tried to escape—

—her eyes wide as the blood trailed down her throat, and me, screaming, screaming—

I shook my head, banishing the memories before they could weaken my mind further. Sleipnir snorted and pawed the ground in response. Like other horses, he could sense my emotions. But unlike other horses, my apprehension only made him bolder.

Fergus wheeled his horse over to me and spat on the ground. “Let us pray the blood of the raiders will flow this day.”

I glanced at the men assembled beside me and frowned. A Northman longship of the size of the one on our shore could hold at least sixty men, far more than our own crew. “The battle can go no farther than this cliff—not this time.”

“I will cover you as best I can,” Fergus said. “You search for their leader.”

I tightened my grip on the hilt of my sword. My arm muscles tensed, and my heart pounded. Anticipation of the battle was always the hardest: the prickling adrenaline, the torrent of memories, the cold dread. I endured it all because my sisters and mother were huddled in fear in their room. We were the only things preventing them from being killed.

I snapped my attention back to the battle. The Northmen had begun the treacherous climb to our stronghold. With any luck, we would pick them off as they emerged at the top of the cliff. The Northman raiding strategy was always to ambush. Instead of recognizing such actions as dishonorable, they seemed happy to live to fight again. They wouldn’t expect us to be waiting for them, and if we could defeat their leader quickly enough, they might retreat. There was no dishonor in retreat in their eyes either, not when their strategy to ambush meant they were usually slinking into a castle and catching its warriors unawares.

Holding the high ground was our advantage. We had to make it count.

With a shout, the first man made it to the top. He showed a momentary flash of surprise that we were lying in wait for him, but he recovered quickly. Battle-axe raised and shield in front of his chest, he charged. More of the enemy followed, their armor and long beards making them indistinguishable from one another. My clansmen made rivers of their blood.