Page 39 of Marin’s Promise

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Mabrick Castle was not much further when they came upon a body. Marin spotted him first, her heart and mind having trained a lifetime to recognize the Werrick hawk on the familiar green background with the yellow stripe. Even in the moonlight, she could make out her family crest.

She stopped her horse, but before she could leap from its back, Bran was already on the ground. He pulled the man over and her stomach clenched.

“Dinna look, Marin,” Bran said.

But she had to look. She was responsible for the man being there.

He was young and blond, an archer, one not trained to perform in close combat. As a result, he'd been one of the men without chainmail, left unprotected. The gaping wounds glistening in the moonlight and the horror of his death etched upon his face bore witness to his terrible end.

There were many men in her father's forces who said they had seen death so often in battle, it no longer affected them, or so they said. But Marin did not think she would ever be able to make such a claim.

Especially not when several feet away lay another body. And then another. The rain had stopped, but the trail of death continued, their blood an eerie purple in the silvery light.

She covered her face with her hands and tried to still the growing tension welling in her throat. The wind shifted, no longer sweeping from behind them. It billowed toward their faces, carrying with it the odor of blood and the frenzied cries of war.

Marin's leapt back onto her horse, but Bran stopped the horse by grabbing the reins.

“Stay back,” he said to Marin. He mounted his stubby-legged horse and shot forward.

Marin ignored his request and followed close behind him.

He bared his teeth at her, his expression dark and ferocious. “Damn it, woman. If ye ever listen to me, listen now. Dinna sacrifice their lives and yers by riding out there without assessing the battle.”

Stunned, she slowed her horse while his men rode onward toward the clash of metal and the piteous wailing of the dying. He was right, she knew. Charging into battle would only cause her sisters to be distracted. Such distractions quickly led to death. The thought made her shudder.

The warrior in her knew this, but the blood the five of them shared, the blood running through her veins, raced with helplessness. Time seemed to drag on for the agony of a lifetime. Her sisters needed her, and she was having to wait.

The horse shifted under her weight, as if he detected her anxiety. She tightened her grip on the hilt of her sword. Every muscle in her body was tensed with the need to charge into action.

Wait.

Her throat burned to scream her frustration, yet she swallowed it down and remained in place.

Finally, finally, finally a bellow came from the tree line, followed by the cries of attacking men. Marin punched her sword in the air and her voice joined their lusty shouts. Her horse flew over the bloodied ground where bodies lay, unmoving in death. It was hard not to see them as she raced past the men who had not been prepared for war.

Marin gritted her teeth as if doing so might tamp down the horror ripping through her. She had ordered her men to charge into a slaughter.

The clashing of blades and grunts of fighting became louder, a sound welcome to her ears.

There were still survivors. Her sisters would hopefully be among them.

And at least in battle, Marin would not be a helpless observer, left to see what the fates had cast her way. Nay, she would be fighting, with control over where her blade fell and how her body moved. She would be with her sisters. Three more dead men lay on the ground. Only one was not a man from Werrick Castle. The slain reiver lay face up, his eyes staring at nothing, an arrow jutting from his chest with a white sprigged fletching.

Catriona's arrows.

A harsh breath tore from Marin’s chest. There was still hope. She raced up the hill toward the battle. As she crested the top, she could make out the swarm of men below, Graham reivers and Bran's reivers blended together in a chaos of bodies. Marin searched frantically, her gaze moving to the center of the fray.

She caught sight of her soldiers and her heart gave a wild skip.

Only about half of them remained alive by her count, and they had formed a protective circle around Marin's sisters, fighting valiantly even as the Grahams pressed in on them. Catriona's hands flew at her bow, nocking arrows and launching them into the onslaught.

Bran's men hit the outskirts of the Graham reivers and fought with the same degree of merciless ferocity. While the Grahams were a large force, it appeared only a few dozen were outside the castle. Bran's reivers easily outnumbered them.

The odds would be in Bran's favor. Hopefully, time would be as well.

Marin continued to race down the hill toward the maelstrom, unable to tear her gaze from the cluster of Werrick soldiers. Her soldiers fought bravely, regardless of some being without proper armor. These were men she had grown up caring for and respecting, men who were sacrificing themselves so that her sisters would live.