Page 64 of Come the Morning

She quickly kept going, up, searching the cliff. There were numerous trails surrounding it, some going higher, some lower. The rock formation stretched like a trail of giant boulders cast down from the sky. They lay in the shadowed streaks of moonlight like strange white, jagged teardrops.

“Are you even a Viking?” she asked sharply.

“Ah, well, yes and no, lady. Viking, Norman, Scotsman, what difference? I am my own man, first and foremost.”

“You are a coward, stealing a woman, leaving Daro to take the blame.”

“What difference does it make? He is betraying you, that is true enough.”

“How?”

“Laird Waryk had arrived for you, my lady. That is the truth. Your uncle intended to hand you over in exchange for Anne MacInnish.”

“He wouldn’t make such a trade. If Waryk had come—”

“At your uncle’s invitation.”

“Then there was a reason.”

“It doesn’t matter. The lion may roar forever. You are one prize he will not be seizing. God knows, lady, he may be dead already. He comes for you in good faith, and you are gone. A Viking trick. Accusations fly, swords are drawn! Perhaps I’ve done you a greater service than you will do me. Ah! I can see it in my mind’s eye, a wondrous picture. The great Waryk arriving with his part of the bargain, Anne, as promised. But alas, the Lady Mellyora is gone—vanished once again. A treachery, played out by Daro! Two such great warriors! Daro the Viking, Waryk, the Scottish king’s great champion. A sword will be pulled in anger, they willeach accuse one another of deceit and treachery and … one will lie dead. The Scotsman must surely die, even if he slays your uncle first. Because if he kills Daro, Daro’s men will kill him.”

She had moved carefully ahead a few feet at a time, feeling more and more sick at heart and desperately worried. She didn’t dare dwell on what might have happened. She had to somehow escape this situation. She was grateful for having spent so much time growing up under her father’s influence. The only time she was completely unarmed was when she was naked. She had taken her sword, and she carried a knife, as well. The Viking hadn’t thought to make any attempt to disarm her.

“Why have we come here—if they will all be dead and accusing one another?” she asked.

“Ah, lady, we are away from the camp, but close enough so that we will know the outcome. Eventually, we’ll head to the border. Perhaps, in time, I’ll even take you home. And then again, perhaps Waryk will survive. If so, I will still have you. His prize. The lady of the land. To be bestowed on him for all the services he has rendered—all the deaths he has brought about. So why else would I take you into the cliffs alone? Dear Lady, that I may plunder all your riches—and take what would be Laird Lion’s.”

She was ahead of him now by several feet, and saw a trail leading downward that crossed onto a second crop of rock. She hurried on up a few steps, allowing him to come nearer, and when she knew he was on a bluff with an edge, she suddenly turned, shoving him fiercely.

He swore, stunned, and staggered back, his sword clanking and falling against him. She knew she hadn’t done him any real damage, but she had given herself precious moments with which to run.

She did so.

Scampering over rocks, cliffs, outcroppings of grass, weed, dirt, and tenacious saplings, she kept moving. Downward first,upward as she saw that the rock just a few feet from her was riddled with dark caverns. She climbed higher, then cried out, pulled back as he seized hold of her cloak. She was captured, pulled inexorably downward. She clung to the rock above her at first; then, realizing that she was losing her hold, she allowed herself to fall. Her weight sent him flying backwards, but he quickly recovered, trying to straddle her. She reached for the knife sheathed at her calf, a small, ornamental weapon her father had given her, but—she prayed—sharp enough to throw him off once again. She had never felt so desperate, so sickened, and so afraid. When he leaned into her, she took careful aim at his side, knowing that she hadn’t the strength to pierce the man’s leather breast armor with her small blade.

She caught him in the ribs. He bellowed with pain, pulling back. She shoved him, and he rolled, and she was up.

He staggered to his feet, drawing his sword. She cast aside her cape, and drew her own. For long fierce moments, she fought for her life. He was powerful. She parried his every thrust, but she didn’t know how long her strength or her slim blade would hold out. He raised his weapon for a lethal blow; she saw the movement, and swirled and swung upward, cutting his thigh, ducking his blow. He bellowed, hunching down with the impetus of his own attempted strike.

She shoved him, and he fell.

She ran, knowing that she hadn’t the strength left in her arms to keep fighting. She headed swiftly along the rock.

“Lady, now I cannot tell you the torment I will inflict upon you, you will not begin to know mercy, I swear it. There will be nothing left of your pride and spirit when I finish, by all the gods!” he roared after her, and she was very afraid, knowing that he meant the threat.

If he caught her again, she’d have to kill him.

Or die.

She ran, escaping him for some distance. Then, praying he did not see her, she raced into one of the caverns. The darkness was, at first, overwhelming. She stood dead still, getting her bearings.

Then she moved more deeply into the shadows.

They followed the trail of the unknown outlaws to the crags by the loch, and there the trail ended. Waryk dismounted, and saw that someone had tried to erase the tracks by brushing the dirt with a branch. But the work had been hastily, carelessly, done, and he could see that the horses had been ridden toward a cave. He raised a hand for silence from those who followed, and mounted Mercury once again. He nudged the great horse, and they started for the cave. He was nearly there when he heard the high-pitched scream of a berserker battle cry, and suddenly, men on horseback stormed out into the night from the cavern by the water.

His mace swinging, a huge bearded man bore down on Waryk. He judged his opponent’s speed and strength, and drew his claymore, ducking the blow of the mace and countering with his blade. The man went down on the wet earth. A second man charged him; as they clashed swords, he was aware that Daro and Angus, behind him, had taken on opponents. The enemy outnumbered them greatly; Waryk thought briefly that if he had been tricked, and if Daro turned and fought with the Vikings, he and Angus would be in serious trouble. He couldn’t dwell long on the thought; staying alive was too fierce a preoccupation.

One after another, the enemy bore down on him. He used only his claymore, swinging right and left with all his might. The man he fought was wearing leather chest armor, but he wore a plate himself beneath his shirt and woolen tartan—he’d never trusted any man far enough to be defenseless. His opponent nearly found his mark, but Mercury was swift and sure, the horse’s dancing steps sweeping Waryk just out of range beforehis enemy’s great blade could slit his ribs. He nudged Mercury, and the horse’s impetus allowed him to slice through his foe’s leather armor, straight to the heart. The second man fell dead.