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“Cruachan!” Sir Colin called the Cambel battle cry, and the clan picked it up. The word ran through the field in a rumble and united them all as one.

Death might await them, but they would die for their kin. For what was right.

And Craig would gladly die saving his sister.

They launched. Shielding themselves from the arrows raining over them like hail, they came at the tower. Their own archers sent fire arrows up into the castle, and the first ones found wood among the stones.

Death picked its victims among the Cambels. Warriors cried in pain. Flesh tore. The iron tang of blood hung in the air, spurring Craig’s fury and fear.

Craig ran forward and finally reached the castle wall.

The ram beat against the gate. The ladders were erected, but the enemy pushed them back, and some of them fell. Others stood, and his men began climbing.

Craig’s pulse beat violently against his temples. He looked to the left and to the right, trying to see past his clansmen. How could he sneak into the castle without the enemy noticing?

Holding his shield above his head, he ran to his right, along the line of his clansmen who were climbing the siege ladders. The chief’s plan was to storm the front and western walls, both low. So that the MacDougalls’ attention would be in those locations.

Not east.

He turned the corner and ran along the western wall of the tower, which led into the curtain wall. He stopped under three windows, one on each floor.

So far, no one from the tower had noticed him. All of the archers were looking to where most of his clansmen were.

And Craig was a good climber.

He put his shield on his back, took out his two climbing knives and looked up. He just needed to make it to the lowest window.

“’Tis just a steep mountain,” he muttered to himself. “Ye’ve climbed steep rocks dozens of times.”

‘Tis for Marjorie.

The grooves between the stones were perfect for his knives. He drove the knife into the first slit, and the gesture brought satisfaction, almost like piercing a MacDougall in the heart.

He pulled himself up with one arm and dug the second knife in higher.

Traitors.

He pulled himself up again, the muscles of his shoulder, the biceps of his arm singing with the strain, his fury finding a small relief. Another hit, higher, sand and dust pouring from the hole. The third one—

Someone yelled high above, and an arrow swooshed by him, hitting the ground.

He looked up. Men on the roof aimed their arrows at him.

Faster. Faster!

Another arrow brushed against his shoulder.

He hurried, stabbing the wall faster and pulling himself up. Something sharp burned his shoulder—one arrow had scratched him.

He was almost at the window. Another stab of the wall, and he was pulling himself up the small ledge of the windowsill. He put the knife into the slit between the wooden shutters and pushed the latch up. It gave, and the shutters flew open.

Craig peered inside. His muscles burned from the tension of the climb. It was a bedchamber. The shadow of a person was cast from the candle flickering slowly in the corner. Someone stood against the wall to the right of the window.

Craig took a small rock that cracked out of the wall and threw it into the room.

A wooden plank flew past the window. He pushed himself up, and into the room. Landing, he grabbed the attacker—a woman—and clasped her arms behind her back.

He put the knife to her throat.