Page 91 of Marin’s Promise

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Bran was in the full glory of combat. His movements glided in rhythm with the countless motions he'd practiced since he was a youth, and his senses were tuned in to everything around him. While his heightened awareness focused him, it was impossible to not hear the grunts and pathetic cries of the dying coming from behind and beside him.

The odor of death clung in his nostrils, tinged with the metallic note of fear. He roared with energy and swept his axe down with all his might. It sank into the skull of the man attempting to plunge a sword into his side. The man fell and another took his place, forcing Bran a step backward.

Bran gritted his teeth. It was not the first time he'd moved back. In fact, he had been steadily pushed in the direction of the castle with each man he killed or maimed. Ahead of him, the carpet of bodies grew larger, many colored with the Werrick livery.

Beside him, Drake's sword whipped and jabbed effortlessly, the weapon light in the warrior's grip. “They keep pushing us back,” Drake said between attacks. “Is it so we can see how many of our men have died?”

“Aye.” Bran jerked his battle axe upward to block a blow aimed at his face. “’Tis meant to fluster us.” He readjusted his grip and swung his axe into the man's neck.

Drake slid him a glance and plunged with his blade once more.

The tactic wouldn't work on Bran, or Drake, or even most of the castle’s soldiers. His reivers were another story altogether. Already many of them had been restless within the keep. Even as they'd run out for battle, several had slipped away. Whether they survived or not, he did not know, but he wagered he'd see some of the fine coat of arms cloth for sale in the market in the future.

And there would be a future, because he would win this battle, damn it. He would see Ena saved, and he would see his wife again.

Once she forgave him, of course.

“Let's kill these bastards and go home,” Bran gritted out.

Drake bellowed out a war cry in response and speared the man in front of him. Together they fought on, empowered with the need for victory.

Movement caught in Bran's periphery. A considerable amount of movement. It pulled his attention momentarily from the fight. He was not alone. A unified respite hummed through the melee at the cluster of a few dozen soldiers rushing toward them. They did not cry out as they descended. Nay, they were silent, their faces grimacing with savagery. Their armor was tarnished and spattered, their clothing beneath unkempt.

Bran's heart fell at the state of their dress. These were not soldiers who happened upon them to help. They were more reivers. The reinforcements had come through, and they were Grahams.

* * *

All around Marincame the cries of heartbroken women and their fearful children. The few men who remained behind held somber, desolate expressions at their own sealed fates.

Bernard made his way from person to person, offering his blessing and his ear. The awkward priest had cast aside his public discomfort and prayed so fervently with each desperate soul that his bald head glistened with his efforts.

The thick stone walls of the castle left it impossible to hear the fight raging on. Part of her was grateful for the reprieve from the cries of the dying, and yet part of her wanted to cling to the battle, to the men who were still alive. Panic threatened to break her, fear for those who fought for them and for the man she loved. But she swallowed it down and remained resolute. Her people needed her. As lady of the castle, she had to remain strong.

Everyone had been accounted for and were gathered in the great hall. Everyone save Leila and Isla. Marin rushed to her sisters’ shared chamber and found the girl curled up by the hearth once more, her chainmail glinting in the firelight.

“We must go,” Marin said with urgency. “The reivers have brought reinforcements. Leila, the castle will fall.”

Leila shook her head.

Panic jabbed hot at Marin. “There are lives depending on us.”

Her youngest sister slid a gaze to the seat beside her where Isla sat. “You may leave us,” Leila said, as if it were the simplest decision.

“I will not leave you.” Marin came around the chair and reached for her sister.

Leila simply shook her head. “It isn't as it seems.”

“It isn't as it seems?” Marin shook her head, her nerves scraped raw and her patience expired. “That makes no sense.”

Isla lay a sympathetic hand on Marin’s shoulder. “Yer sister knows more than any of us ever will.”

But Marin had seen the battle being lost with her own eyes, as clearly as she'd seen the reiver’s reinforcements arrive. It was all too certain what lay in store for Bran and the men he led. There would be no escape.

She clenched her fists. This hope her sister tried to offer was too much, especially when such loss would be Marin’s destruction. She pressed her hand over her chest, but the pain burning there did not cease.

“Is Marin here?” Ella's voice cut through Marin's lamentation. “You must come. Quick!”