The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(96)

She suspected the answer, but it didn’t lessen the shock when it came.

“It’s a warning from the castle, my lady.” His face looked grim. “We’re under attack.”

Twenty

Tor saw the first plumes of smoke from the village about a mile away, just as Campbell and MacGregor returned with a report.

Their expressions were grim. “At least a hundred and fifty men—mostly mercenaries, by the looks of them,” Campbell said. “I counted four galley warships in the harbor, but I think more must be at the castle to prevent additional men from reaching the village.”

She’s safe, he reminded himself. He forced his mind to lock down, knowing he couldn’t allow himself to be distracted. Mercenaries, Campbell had said. This was not a raid, but a full-scale war. He’d stationed a guard to protect the village, but his score of men would be heavily outnumbered. “Casualties?”

“A few dozen,” MacGregor replied. “Mostly theirs. Two of your men. Your guardsmen have set up a shield wall where the path from the harbor leads into the village.”

Tor nodded, not surprised. His men were well trained, used to facing larger forces. It was a favorite tactic of his. As King Leonidas had done at the Battle of Thermopylae, they’d chosen to fight at the narrowest part of the village, taking away some of their enemies’ advantage in size. For a time. But they would not be able to hold out forever against such odds. And like what doomed the fabled stand of the three hundred Spartans at the pass of Thermopylae, there was more than one way into the village.

“The villagers?” he asked.

MacGregor’s mouth thinned. “Three men, a woman, and a child that I could see. The rest must have found shelter, but the attackers are showing no mercy.”

Tor’s fists clenched with barely repressed rage. He honed the anger surging through him into a steely sword of retribution. Whoever his unknown enemies might be, they were about to pay.

He wasn’t the only one eager to fight. Though the team had been marching all night across miles of rugged landscape, Campbell and MacGregor’s news acted like a lightning rod. Nothing invigorated a warrior like the promise of battle. And these warriors had been held at bay for too long.

But this was not their war.

The men had gathered round him in the trees. Despite the rigorous training they’d endured the past week and the nightlong journey without sleep, the elite guard looked intense and deadly. Their ragged, unkempt appearance only added to the fearsomeness of their grizzled, battle-hard faces. He met each man’s gaze. “You joined to fight for Bruce, not for me. You’ve heard what Campbell said: They have at least a hundred and fifty men; I have eighteen, maybe less.”

“Nineteen,” MacSorley said, stepping forward. “No way in hell I’m letting you have all the fun.” The big Viking smiled. “Let’s give the skalds something to sing about.”

The other men stepped forward behind him—except for one. “Time to put all that training to the test, captain,” Boyd said.

Tor looked to the man who’d stayed back. MacRuairi slumped lazily against a tree. He shrugged and uncrossed his arms. The dual hilts of his swords rose behind his shoulders menacingly—like the smile that curved his mouth. “Someone needs to watch MacSorley’s back.”

Tor nodded, moved by the unanimous show of support.

Knowing they had to move quickly, he set out the plan. Half the team would move in to bolster the men at the shield wall; the other half would move around and try to outflank them, attacking from both sides. “Are you ready?”

“Aye, captain,” they said in unison, determination and anticipation in their fierce visages. Beneath the metal mask of his helm, Tor smiled—a terrifying curl of the mouth that promised no mercy. “Then let’s give them a surprise before we send them to the devil.” He lifted his dirk in the air. “Death before surrender!”

“Death before surrender!” they repeated in unison.

Knowing they would only weigh them down, they left their packs behind and ran. In a little more than five minutes, they’d reached the outskirts of the village.

The distant clamor of battle mixing with the desolate quiet of the shuttered stone houses was eerie. Some of the attackers’ flaming arrows had found their mark on the thatched roofs. Heavy in the smoke-filled air was the unmistakable metallic scent of blood.

As they drew near, Tor swore, realizing they were too late to implement his plan to outflank them. Heavily armored attackers were pouring through the village. The shield wall had broken.

He quickly changed tactics. It wouldn’t be a carefully orchestrated surprise attack, but an all-out brawl of strength and skill.

The odds were against them. If he were alone, he knew he wouldn’t have had a chance. But he wasn’t alone. And he never worried about odds. He fought to win.

Reaching behind his back, he slid his two-handed great sword claidheamh da laimh from its scabbard and gave the sign they’d been waiting for. With a fierce war cry, the team attacked.

MacGregor let go a rapid stream of arrows, fired with perfect aim and angled trajectory to pierce any armor—mail or leather. Six men fell before Tor had even swung his sword.

In one deadly swoop he added two more. Spinning around, he fended off the blade of an attacker. Steel clanged against steel. Despite the full-bodied attack of the other man, Tor’s blade barely moved, his muscles flexing as hard as stone.