Marshall smiled wickedly. “Break his other leg, then kill him.”
Eighteen
ever before had the gates of Erbyn been closed to him. Now, as the wind keened across the heavens, Hagan glared up at the looming castle that had been his home all his life—a fortress impossible to scale. No battering ram could break through the gates, no catapult could throw stones large enough to pierce the thick curtain walls, and no ladder was long enough to reach the battlements. Laying siege was not an answer, for it would be months before the supplies ran out, and in that time Darton would have married Sorcha, taken her to his bed, and got her with child.
Curses filled his mind, and his fingers curled around the reins of his mount. If given the chance he would strangle his own brother—his twin—for all the evil Darton had brought to Erbyn.
Astride an unfamiliar horse, wearing the hauberk and surcoat from Abergwynn, Hagan eyed the castle and wondered if, even now, as the first gray light of dawn pierced the clouds to touch the forests of Erbyn, if Sorcha and Darton were married. Wolf had finally admitted that he had several spies within the castle, and one girl, Ona, had a loose tongue. It had been she who had told one of Wolf’s men of the impending marriage.
Again he silently cursed the fates. Though his head was hidden by a skull cap and helm with a nose guard, he felt the sentry’s eyes upon him. In the darkness of early morn, he appeared just another knight in the vast army of Abergwynn, though he was not far back, his own horse stood close to the flank of Garrick’s steed.
His lips pressed together as he waited. If his plan failed, then all was lost. Desperation scraped at his soul until he heard the surprised shout of a guard and the unlikely clang and grind of the gears of the great portcullis as it was raised.
“The gods are with you this dawn,” Wolf said as he leaned closer from his own horse. He, too, was dressed as a soldier rather than the ruffian outlaw who had terrorized the forests of Erbyn and Prydd for years.
Garrick held up his hand, and Wolf and Hagan rode forward with him at a slow trot.
“State yer business,” the first guard said, his surly gaze, in the thin light, passing over Wolf and Hagan without much interest.
“I’m Garrick of Abergwynn. My army and I come seeking shelter. Some of our men were wounded by outlaws in the forest, and we cannot ride on without them.”
“You are out late, m’lord.”
“Aye … The battle was long and hard, the ride tedious. It took us all night to outwit the bastards.”
The guard did not doubt him, for Garrick’s face was streaked with grime from hours in the saddle and the lathered, mud-spattered horses were weary.
“Lord Darton bids you welcome,” the guard said, standing aside to let them pass.
“I thought Hagan was baron here.”
“Aye, he was, but he was killed recently.”
“A pity,” Garrick said, and Hagan felt his lips curve into an evil smile.
Sorcha turned and faced her tormentor. “I’ll not be locked up,” she said to Marshall. Quick as lightning, Ralston reached for his sword.
But Bjorn was fast. He struck first, springing like a cat and shoving his knife deep between the stunned soldier’s ribs. Ralston let out a groan, faltered, stepped back, and swung wildly with his sword. Blood spurted, spraying the walls and the front of Sorcha’s hated dress.
“Idiot!” Marshall roared, grabbing his own weapon as Ralston’s sword clattered to the ground. Marshall aimed for Bjorn, but the stableboy twirled away and scooped up Ralston’s weapon.
“So now we’re even, Marshall.”
“Hardly.” Marshall grinned with an evil leer, and Sorcha felt as if death was surely upon them all. Marshall was an accomplished knight, and Bjorn, though lithe and strong, was no match for him.
Quickly Sorcha reached into her boot, her fingers searching for her knife. She heard shouts from the bailey and then the thunder of hooves, as if a hundred horses had raced through the gates, but she could not worry about whoever had intruded, not while there was an ounce of breath left in her body.
Her fingers coiled around her knife as Marshall pressed forward, pushing until Bjorn was backed to the window.
“Stop!” Sorcha commanded.
But Marshall drew back as if to cleave Bjorn in two. “Go now and meet Satan,” he said as Bjorn ducked. The sword struck the windowsill, showering sparks through the room. Anne screamed as Bjorn whirled, and Sorcha threw her knife as she had so many years ago when she’d first learned how to use a dagger. The blade sliced through Marshall’s tunic and delved deep into his back. With a hideous roar, the traitor spun around, his eyes round in horror, spittle collecting near the corner of his mouth to run down his beard, as he faced the woman who dared attack him.
“You … By the Gods …” He staggered.
Bjorn swung his sword without mercy. The blade sliced Marshall’s shoulder before hitting bone, and the evil knight crumpled with a sickening squeal. He writhed on the ground before his soul swiftly fled this earth.
“Thank God,” Anne whispered.