Page 92 of The Laird's Dangerous Prize
The battle raged on. Ciaran found himself fighting in a blur of steel and blood, his sword rising and falling as he held his section of wall against the seemingly endless stream of attackers. Beside him, MacAlpin men and his own MacCraith warriors fought with the desperate fury of men defending their homes.
But even through the chaos of battle, his mind kept returning to the keep behind him. Was Isolde safe? Her sisters? The MacAlpin laird? He caught glimpses of the stone tower between sword strokes, reassuring himself that no enemy banners flew from its walls.
"Me laird!" Tavish appeared at his elbow, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead. "The gate won't hold much longer! That ram is bigger than we thought!"
Even as he spoke, the thunderous crash of wood against wood echoed across the courtyard. The massive oak beams bracing the gate groaned under the assault, and Ciaran could see cracks beginning to appear in the heavy timbers.
"Fall back tae the secondary positions when it gives," he ordered. "Make them pay fer every yard!"
Another wave of attackers surged up the ladders, and this time there were too many to stop them all. Three men made it over the wall to Ciaran's left, and suddenly he was fighting not just to hold his position, but to survive. His sword work became a deadly dance, parrying and striking, using his longer reach and superior skill to keep the enemies at bay.
One of the attackers lunged at him with a battle axe, and Ciaran sidestepped, letting the man's momentum carry him past before driving his blade between the enemy's ribs. But even as that threat fell, two more took its place, and he found himself being pushed back along the battlement.
The sound of splintering wood rose above the din of battle, and Ciaran's heart sank as he realized the gate had finally given way. Shouts of triumph rose from Wallace's men as they poured through the breach, meeting the hastily erected barricades in the courtyard.
"The inner walls!" he shouted, knowing his voice would carry to his men even over the chaos. "Fall back tae the inner walls!"
The retreat was a fighting withdrawal, every step contested. Ciaran found himself among the last to abandon the outer battlements, covering his men as they fell back toward the keep. An arrow whispered past his ear, close enough that he felt the fletching brush his hair, and he ducked behind a stone pillar just as another volley struck the wall behind him.
From his new position on the inner defenses, he could see the full scope of Wallace's assault. The outer courtyardwas a seething mass of fighting men, his own forces giving ground slowly but steadily. The sight made his chest tighten with a mixture of pride and despair—pride in how well his outnumbered men were fighting, despair at the mathematical certainty of their defeat.
A flicker of movement in the keep's highest window caught his eye, and his heart leaped as he recognized Isolde's silhouette. She was safe, at least for now. But for how long? If the inner walls fell...
"Me laird! Me laird!" One of the younger MacAlpin men was tugging at his sleeve, eyes wide with panic. "There's fire in the stables! They've set the stables ablaze!"
Ciaran saw the orange glow rising from the eastern side of the castle. Fire was every defender's worst nightmare—it could spread faster than men could move, turning stone walls into ovens and escape routes into death traps.
But even as despair threatened to overwhelm him, a new sound reached his ears over the roar of battle and crackle of flames. At first he thought it was his imagination, the desperate hope of a man facing defeat. But then it came again, clearer this time—the sound of war horns, but not Wallace's horns. These horns created MacCraith sounds.
"Dae ye hear that?" Finlay appeared beside him, his face streaked with soot and blood but his eyes bright with sudden hope. "Those are our horns!"
Ciaran's heart nearly burst with relief as he recognized the distinctive call of his clan's war horns. But more than that—he could hear others too. MacLeod horns, MacBain horns, even the deep boom of the great horn of Clan Campbell.
"They came," he breathed, hardly daring to believe it. "All of them came."
The effect on the battle was immediate and dramatic. Wallace's men, sensing victory within their grasp, suddenly found themselves caught between the castle's defenders and a fresh force of Highland warriors pouring down from the northern hills. The sound of their war cries echoed off the mountains like thunder, and Ciaran saw panic begin to spread through the enemy ranks.
"Now!" he roared, raising his sword high. "Now we show them what our steel can dae!"
The counterattack was devastating. Caught between two forces and demoralized by the arrival of unexpected reinforcements, Wallace's army began to crumble. Men who had been pressing forward moments before now looked over their shoulders, seeking escape routes that were rapidly disappearing.
Ciaran led the charge from the inner walls, his sword cutting a path through the confusion as his men poured out behind him. The courtyard became a slaughter as the trapped enemies found themselves overwhelmed by renewed Highland fury.
He caught sight of a familiar banner through the melee—the red boar of Clan Frasier, carried by his closest ally, Fearchar at the head of two hundred mounted warriors. The sight filled him with savage joy, and he fought his way toward them with renewed strength.
"Braither!" Fearchar called out as their forces linked up in the center of the courtyard. "Sorry we're late! Had tae convince the other clans that yer marriage prospects were worth fighting fer!"
"Tell me that after we've won!" Ciaran replied, but he was grinning as he said it. The tide had turned completely now. Wallace's men were in full retreat, streaming back toward the forest with Highland warriors in pursuit.
"The keep!" he shouted, but his voice was lost in the chaos of pursuit and celebration. Around him, his men were caught up in the joy of victory, chasing the retreating enemy toward the tree line.
Smoke was pouring from several buildings now, and through the haze he could see a small group of Wallace's men fighting their way toward the main tower. At their head was a figure he recognized—Wallace himself, identifiable by his distinctive black armor and the wolf's head banner.
Ciaran abandoned the main battle and sprinted toward the tower, his heart hammering with a new kind of fear. If Wallace was making for the keep, it could only mean one thing—he was going after the most valuable prizes the castle contained.
He was going after Isolde or one of her sisters.
"Me lady." Morag the cook's urgent call drew Isolde's attention.
