Page 82 of Winter Longing
Cole's gaze fell on the fallen Sinclair soldier and his breath caught—Domhnall.Shit.
“On yer left!” someone shouted, spinning Cole around, just in time to ward off another menacing swing of a blade. Just barely though, the enemy’s blade slicing shallowly across the side of his neck before Cole could respond, lifting his shield to push off the blow, keeping it from becoming fatal. Again, he swung out wildly, with more a mind toward defense, keeping himself alive. Like a lightbulb going off, he realized in an instant that trying not to die meant, as had been proven already, that he would and did have to strike out against the aggressor. He did so now, not having any use for parts of Dersey’s teaching, howto aim for vulnerable places in the thicker English chainmail, since this guy wore no armor. His blow was easily thwarted and so was the next. And while Cole managed to block the strikes aimed at him, he realized this guy was not going down easy. Despite his best efforts, Cole felt himself beginning to falter, his opponent’s proficiency with the sword becoming overwhelming. Desperation clawed at him. For a moment, doubt crept into his mind—he was no match for this man.
He thought of Ailsa, being told he’d been killed in battle, that he hadn’t lasted long. With every strike and parry, he thought of never seeing her again, never knowing another kiss, thought of Tank’s words, how they should fight for what was behind them. He felt a surge of purpose and his grip tightened on the sword. With a roar of determination, Cole forced the momentum in his favor, his want of a life with Ailsa greater than even wanting only to survive. His next strike was cunning and swift, coming on a backhand, catching the enemy off-guard. With a final, decisive blow, Cole dropped the man, emerging victorious.
He paused to catch his breath.
Nearby, Tank was locked in his own fight, his massive frame working to his advantage as he deflected blows with sheer brute force. He carried no shield, but a sword in one hand and an axe in the other. He was bleeding from a cut on his forearm but showed no signs of slowing. Cole caught a glimpse of him swinging his axe in a wide arc, taking down an opponent with grim determination.
And on it went, Cole progressing, meeting one combatant after another.
Just as in fighting the big, raging fires, where smoke, heat, and noise flood his senses, the battlefield churned with a storm of sounds and sights. Steel clanged, warriors shouted, grunted, and roared, and the raw smell of blood and earth overwhelmed him, much like the smell of burning materials or the roar offlames. In lacrosse, he was used to moving quickly through a crowded, noisy field, where every second mattered, and any distraction could mean getting hit, losing the ball, or failing to make a play. Cole drew on this ability to focus amidst the deafening sounds and chaotic movements surrounding him. Though he was used to body checks, fast hits, and falls on the field, and he’d learned to take hits and keep moving, this was different—these strikes were lethal, and he worked harder to avoid them.
The fighting field shifted, men moving forward after each kill—gaining ground, Cole reasoned, assuming the term must have originated in war—which put Cole and Tank somewhere in the middle of the decimated English camp by the time it stopped, slowly becoming quieter, clangs and groans growing fewer and farther between.
In the eerie quiet that followed, Cole stood amidst the wreckage of a conflict barely begun, his breath ragged, chest heaving as the first light of dawn began to spill over the hill. The bodies of fallen men—both Scots and English—lay scattered like broken toys, their twisted forms half-hidden by the morning mist that curled like ghostly fingers along blood-soaked earth that glistened where it caught the dull light.
Though there hadn’t really been any doubt of the outcome, that the Scots would prevail over the sleepy enemy camp, Cole felt no sense of victory, only gladness that he’d survived.
He did not have long to savor the fact that he still lived while the English force retreated in disarray. Within minutes, calls to regroup shouted all around the scattered battlefield.
Nearby, Tavis repeated the call.
“Regroup! Regroup!” he shouted as he rode through the Sinclairs on his massive warhorse. Red life dripped from his sword, one drop splattering against Cole’s boot as Tavis passed.
“More coming!” Tavis continued to shout. “Come to avenge these dead men, they do!”
Cole watched nearby Sinclairs rearm themselves with weapons confiscated from dead men before he and Tank exchanged startled glances.
“I just killed a man,” Cole breathed raggedly, still not having come to grips with it. “A lot of men,” he bemoaned. “Jesus, the one wasn’t more than—”
Tank grabbed him by the shirt front, his fist taking hold of tunic, mail, and gambeson. He drew Cole close to him.
“Yeah, me too. And we’re gonna talk about it—we’re gonna deal with that, but right now, we’ve got to fight, man. We gotta get through this. Keep going, man. Don’t leave me.”
Cole nodded, grim but resolute, though his arms felt like lead and his legs threatened to buckle. He tightened his grip on his sword and the handle of his shield, the leather warm, nearly comforting.
“Close in!” Tavis barked, bringing the Sinclairs around him.
Tavis didn’t wait to be met but charged forward, taking the offensive, his men following, once again with robust war cries.
The second clash was fiercer. These English soldiers were fresh while the Scots were still breathless from the first skirmish, and the fighting grew more brutal. Cole took a hard blow to the shoulder, the impact knocking him to the ground. His opponent loomed over him, sword raised for a killing strike. Panic surged through Cole, but he rolled to the side, onto his back again, driving his sword upward into the man’s side. The English soldier fell with a guttural cry, and Cole scrambled to his feet, gasping.
Alarmingly—impossibly—they were not done, even as more English bodies and blood littered the cold earth. They hadn’t yet gained a decisive victory when a third division of the enemy arrived, likely from the furthest of the three English camps.
Though exhaustion weighed on every Scot, they fought on, desperation fueling their strength.Do or die, Cole thought. His movements became automatic, his mind focused solely on survival, which meant putting down as many of the enemy as he could. His body ached—his heart ached for what he was doing, for what he was part of—but he kept going, the roar of battle drowning out everything else.
Hours later, when the final English force was routed and the battlefield fell eerily silent once more, Cole stood amid the carnage, his chest heaving. Blood smeared his face and arms, his sword hung heavy in his hand. Blood oozed from a glancing blow he’d taken to his shin, and more flowed from what he hoped was only a superficial hole in his side. A moment later, the surviving Scots raised triumphant cries, but Cole felt no victory, only a hollow exhaustion.
Tank, who had embraced the idea of fighting from the beginning, his hulking frame a natural advantage on the battlefield, now stood frozen, his eyes wide as he scanned the aftermath. His fists, still clenched from the previous moments of combat, trembled ever so slightly, betraying the shock that rattled him. He was good—damn good—at this. His years in the Marines had honed his physical strength, his reactions, had prepared him better for war than Cole had been. But this was different. This wasn’t structured training or even the sharp—distant—conflict of war zones he was familiar with. The look in his eyes, glassy and remote, told Cole everything he needed to know. The fight was over, but the reality was settling in—this wasn’t a movie, not a dream, this was real life.
“Hey,” Cole called his attention.
Slowly, Tank turned, giving himself a shake as if to dispel whatever gripped him right now.
“You good?” Cole asked.
Tank swallowed, dropping one arm until the head of the axe rested on the ground. “Yeah, I’m good.”
