Page 41 of Marin’s Promise

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Bran braced for the impact of several arrows. They soared through the air in a unified hiss and landed in errant thunks on the battlefield. For the briefest of moments, the battle seemed to pause in wait for the impact, for the powerful hit upon the band of battling men and women. Some sank harmlessly into the ground or against shields, but others buried into flesh. Men cried out in surprise and agony, and opponents took advantage of their weakened state.

Two of Werrick’s guards were struck by arrows and fell. They were immediately replaced by Leila, who put her small body in the space once occupied by two men. Catriona stood in the shelter of men and her sisters, pulling arrow after arrow to feed into her bow. Graham after Graham fell around them as a result.

Bran swept his axe at a reiver who lunged in his direction. The weapon caught the man on the side of the head and sent him to his knees, before crashing to the blood and dirt below. The circle of English soldiers and the sisters was in view. Finally.

If the older sisters' skills were exceptional, young Leila's were truly extraordinary. Her small hands lashed out with daggers at such speed, he could scarcely make out her movements. A call sounded from the parapets above once more, and the archers readied another volley of arrows.

Marin rushed forward to her sisters with a desperate speed Bran could not match. A man headed her off, too far for Bran to stop him, and whipped a blade at her head. She arched backward, but it still came so close, Bran heard a ping as the edge of the weapon glanced off the bottom of her helm as it was pulled free from her head. She spun around, dazed and blinking.

Anice cried out and ran forward, her sword drawn to cut down the man who had struck out at Marin.

The sky hummed with the impending rain of arrows and every man and woman tensed for its impact. Everyone save Anice, whose determination propelled her forward. And Leila, who stopped fighting as suddenly as she started, and darted protectively toward Anice.

Leila braced herself, small and brave, at Anice's back, and stared up at the arrows with steely determination as they continued to suck down toward the earth. Bran's voice rasped out with his cry. He tried to run toward her, through the layer of bodies at his feet and the blood-slick ground.

The harder he tried to get to Leila, the further away she seemed. The arrows thrust down upon them. One glanced off his shoulder, but he barely registered it as he saw two arrows punch through Leila's body–one in the arm and one in her narrow chest.

Something heavy and massive struck Bran in the back of his head. Stars winked in and out of his vision. But Leila needed him.

He swung his weapon blindly until it connected with a body, and the grunt of death sounded. The ringing in Bran's head left his mind thick, as though it'd been stuffed with wool. The sharpness of his hearing went muffled and distorted, as if underwater.

He shook his head and turned back to Leila in time to see her body curl around her injuries as she began to pitch toward the ground. Bran reached out to her, nearly falling himself, and snagged her in the safety of his arms. Blood dotted her cheeks and narrow chin. She'd lost her helm and her dark hair spilled free. Pain shone in her large blue eyes.

Nay, this was not Leila. This young girl was Ena. His sister.

Panic locked around his heart and gripped its erratic pounding in a vice. Suddenly, he was a scared boy again, tucked up beneath the cabinets with his hand pressed over his ears to block out the screams. Ena was crying for him. He had to go to Ena. To save her. Because he had not been able to save anyone else.

“Ena, I—”

“Behind you,” she said in a weak voice.

He had to save her. He must.

Gingerly, he set her down. He exploded upward while swinging his axe with all the power of his roiling emotions–the blaze of rage and the enormity of his fear. The man fell amid a spray of blood.

Bran stood over the dark-haired girl, his breath coming in great huffs, while his blood pounded molten through his veins. Men continued to come, and he continued to fight.

The rain had started once more in a heavy downpour that stung at his eyes and made him blink hard to clear his vision. Still, on he fought, until a cry sounded from the castle and the Graham men eased back, defeated.

They had won.

And yet it was a sad victory when faced with so much loss.

The fight dropped out of Bran and he crashed to his knees at Ena's side. His body was heavy with exhaustion. He pushed aside the pain. It was not uncommon to receive flesh wounds in battle. Nor was it rare to be so tired.

Nay, mayhap not this tired. His eyes began to close. He wanted to lay his head in the dirt and sleep.

But he could not.

Ena.

He said her name aloud and her eyes fluttered open. Blue. Not brown. Confusion prickled through him. Not Ena's eyes.

He scooped her into his arms, trying as hard as he could to be mindful of her wounds. The arrows lay on the ground, glistening with her blood. Who had taken them out? His thoughts were too slow in his mind, muddy as they swirled in a fog of confusion.

“We must get her to safety.” A blonde woman reached for Ena.