Page 49 of The Heather Wife
Domnhall climbed the outer steps to the wall, his boots sure despite the missing weight of his arm.
From the parapet he could see the dark line of trees beyond the frost-glazed field, movement flickering between the trunks.
The raiders were there—too close.
Figures broke from the cover of the woods, scattering across the open ground, their shadows sliding over the frost.
In the field below, steel already clashed—men locked in combat, cries carrying on the cold air.
Along the slope, more warriors surged from the gates to meet them, their torches flaring as they joined the fight.
The whole of Strathloch had come alive—its people pouring into the night to defend their own.
“Light every sconce!” he commanded. “Give the archers their sight!”
The glow flared outward, catching the glint of steel and the churn of feet in the half-dark.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the reach of the torches, came the distant ring of swords and the shout of men.
From below, a shout rose through the din—raw, desperate.
“Call for the healer! We’ll have need of her—men are down!”
Domnhall’s head snapped toward the sound. The words echoed off the stone, carried by another voice farther down the wall.
“Fetch the healer—make ready the hall!”
He straightened, his tone cutting through the noise.
“Go, lad—see it done yerself! Tell them to prepare the chamber and bring bandages, hot water—whatever they’ll need!”
The young guard nodded once, face pale in the torchlight, and bolted from the parapet, boots striking hard against the stone.
Domnhall gripped the battlement, eyes fixed on the field beyond as the cry for aid spread through Strathloch.
Moments dragged like hours.
Then another voice shouted from the far tower, rough with disbelief.
“They’re breakin’! The dogs are runnin’!”
A ragged cheer went up from the walls. But Domnhall did not share it.
He leaned over the parapet, scanning the field below.
Then came Duncan’s cry, echoing through the night:
“Open the gates! Make way!”
“Open!” Domnhall thundered. “Let them through!”
The great timbers groaned as the bolts were drawn. The gates parted just enough to admit the returning men—blood-spattered, smoke-streaked, carrying one between them.
Even before the light reached his face, Domnhall knew.
“Calum,” he breathed.
He strode forward as the others hurried to meet them.
