Dawnflight (43 page)

“We are going to wait until the Scots are committed to attacking Urien.” His gaze locked on hers. “Then we will devour them.”

His face betrayed no emotion save readiness for the imminent battle. Yet his cool appraisal of her sent a tingle down her spine and prodded her into action.

“Good.” If she was ever going to find out how things really stood between her and Arthur, she realized she would have to take the initiative. And there was no time like the present. “Then permit me to thank you for rescuing me.”

She threw her arms around his neck and sought his lips with hers. His surprise didn’t last long. He wrapped his arms around her and began questing with his tongue as though trying to probe her secret depths, a response even more passionate than she had ever dared to imagine! Desire too long suppressed welled up within her with surprising yet satisfying force, finding release through her ravenous lips. As he ran his fingers through her hair and she pressed her body to his, an exquisite ache flared in her loins. Her heart racing like fire through sun-scorched grass, all thought of enemies and battles fled, only for a moment.

But, oh, what a glorious moment!

SECONDS BEFORE crashing into the front line of Scots, Urien glanced up to the ridge and could scarcely believe what he saw: Gyanhumara, free, in the arms of another man. As they parted, the man straightened to his full height. Only one officer in the legion could be that tall.

Arthur. Not with the fleet, as Urien had supposed, but here at his very doorstep. Impossible!

Then Urien saw the relief troops scrambling to the tops of the ridges behind the enemy encampment and realized he had unwittingly provided the distraction Arthur needed to make the Scots’ destruction swift and complete. And it appeared Arthur was going to win the best prize of all. Urien wanted to break off the attack and withdraw his troops to make Arthur fight for every inch himself, but it was too late. He was committed.

Urien’s howl of rage mingled with the battle cries and horses’ screams and the shock of steel on steel as he and his men engaged their foes.

Chapter 24

A
RTHUR’S EYES SEEMED to bore through Gyan. “Can you fight?”

“Absolutely!” She flexed her sword arm. “I have work to do.” Fired by anger and chilled by hatred, her tone was hard as steel. “Revenge work.”

“Then use this.” He unhooked the sheath of the short, double-edged sword from his belt and fastened it to hers.

She would have preferred a longer blade, and one not so blatantly Ròmanach in design. Swords like this had consigned countless Caledonaich to the Otherworld. Yet she could either put the weapon to good use or stand by while others reaped the glory.

She drew the sword and ripped the air with a series of experimental thrusts to get a feel for its balance and weight. A well-wrought weapon, though quite unlike any she had ever used before, it would have to suffice. This day, she’d had enough idle standing to last a lifetime.

Arthur nodded, eyes aglow with approval. “We shall attack soon. Where’s Cuchullain?”

Cuchullain—of course! With everything else that had happened, Gyan had quite forgotten about him. Up rose the memory of that first dinner with Arthur and his barely restrained anger at what the Scáth had done to his emissary. She left her study of the sword to regard its donor levelly. “The leader of the invasion force is a man named Niall.”

Arthur’s harsh oath flew heavenward. Like a lock snapping into place, his iron control returned. “Then Cuchullain’s repayment will have to wait until later.” He gave her a spine-shivering stare. “But there won’t be a later for you, Chieftainess, unless you find a shield. And stay with me.”

He offered his shield, but she waved it away. She yanked off the Scáthinach cloak to pad her shield arm, miffed at the suggestion that she needed his protection.

“Morghe is with Niall. I can lead you there.” As she finished securing the cloak’s ends, she displayed a mischievous grin. “If you wish.” Her tone darkened as mischief transformed into somber warning. “But that stinking Scot is mine!”

“Agreed.” If he was taken aback by her demand, he didn’t show it. “Get ready.”

Holding Caleberyllus aloft, a blazing beacon in the afternoon sun, the Pendragon shouted the charge.

The air hosted a cacophony of yells and cries, the neighing of the horses of Urien’s cavalry unit, the thunder of charging feet, the crash of toppling siege equipment, the clatter of steel and bronze and iron. And behind the manmade din roared the raging sea.

Gyan was oblivious to the passage of time and only dimly aware of the growing fatigue and hunger pangs born of her imprisonment on the ridge. Caught in the relentless dance of thrust and dodge, parry and slash, whirl and kick, lunge and stab, duck and cut, she felt no past and no future, only the present. She could have killed one or a hundred, she didn’t know. The fury she harbored toward her defeat at the monastery and the Scháthinaich treatment of her was unleashed with savage strength upon each new foeman she met.

But her bloodlust would never be sated until she possessed the head, with its rattail auburn braids, of the man who was ultimately responsible.

She found his headquarters tent. The Silver Wolf banner snapped at the entrance, guarded by the best Scáthinach warriors. Their ranks swelled as other soldiers recognized their leader’s danger and ran to help. The numbers didn’t faze Gyan. With Arthur at her side and his column at her back, she plunged into the enemy’s midst.

The general’s defenses were shattered in seconds.

After sheathing Arthur’s cavalry sword, Gyan retrieved a long sword from a Scáthinach corpse and glanced up in time to see Niall’s face disappear behind a flap of muddy canvas. Screaming in triumph like the hawk that has marked its prey, she bolted into the camp headquarters.

“WHAT’S THE matter, General?” Morghe taunted. “Problems?”

The stocky Scot jerked his head back inside the tent and spun to face her. “Problems,” he snarled. “I’ll show ye who be having problems, lass.”

He lunged and snatched her arm, yanking her close. A startled cry escaped her lips as he twisted the arm behind her back. Naked steel froze her throat.

Chieftainess Gyanhumara burst into the tent.

She looked positively ghastly. Her braids ringed her head with a ragged copper aura. Glowing with hatred that burned like wildfire, her eyes matched the flaming cheeks. Cuts covered her shield arm between tattered remnants of a cloak. Yet to Morghe’s surprise, most of the blood spattered across Gyanhumara’s armor did not appear to be hers.

Despite how she felt toward the woman, Morghe wanted to cheer.

“Any closer, and the lass dies.”

The blade nipped Morghe’s flesh. Her heart started pounding so hard, she was sure it would kill her before the Scot could.

“Whether she dies or not,” growled Gyanhumara, “you are mine. Hiding behind a woman won’t save your worthless skin. When I am finished with you, General, there won’t be enough left for the rats.” Raising the sword in both hands, she stalked toward them.

Before Niall could carry out his threat, Morghe raked her booted heel along his shin with all her strength. His yelp seemed to carry more surprise than pain, but it was all the distraction she needed. She whipped her free hand up and pitched forward to push away from his sword. She landed on hands and knees in the dirt and hurried for cover under the field table at the back of the tent.

“You can’t seem to keep hold of your captives.” The chieftainess’s face twisted into a wicked sneer. “What a pity.”

“Bah! I shall deal with her later.” Niall’s posture shifted into combat readiness. “Ye handled your captivity well, Chieftainess. Let us see if ye can die as bravely.”

As the warriors crossed swords, Morghe peeked outside. From what little she could see through the handspan crack between the canvas and the ground, the battle appeared to be drawing to its bloody close. There were no living Scotti invaders in sight. The air reeked of death. And the name on the lips of every Bryton was: Arthur.

“Morghe!”

She knew that voice.

Morghe crawled clear of the table and stood. Brushing the dirt from her knees, she schooled her expression into neutrality. Her feelings toward her brother were no one else’s business, least of all his.

Arthur filled the tent entrance. Caleberyllus was red to the hilt, matching the pommel’s ruby. The sun at his back created an Otherworldly glow about him as it glinted off his bronzed shoulders and lit the gold tips of his helmet’s scarlet horsehair crest like a halo. The gold dragon pinned to the short, gold-trimmed, scarlet cloak seemed to writhe within its round tricolor enamel prison as he fought to steady his breathing. Compared with the chieftainess, his face was calm. Only his eyes betrayed eagerness for more action.

It was the first time Morghe had seen him during a battle. And, she hoped, the last.

He beckoned. She inched around the tent’s perimeter to avoid the deadly dance in the center. Tolerating his arm around her shoulders, she gave him a false smile of gratitude before turning full attention to the fight.

While not a warrior herself, Morghe had witnessed enough practice sessions to make a fair evaluation of these combatants. Gyanhumara was taller and had the better reach, but the Scot was heavier. She was quicker, he was more experienced. But she was a woman. Though they traded blows with seemingly equal force and frequency, she was sure to tire soon and lose.

Yet Gyanhumara was not tiring. Even when Niall opened a nasty gash high on her sword arm, it only seemed to double the ferocity of her attack. It was an incredible display. Morghe could not suppress the upwelling of respect.

She glanced up at her brother. Respect for the woman was etched into every line of his face. Admiration too. Perhaps something more.

Niall retreated from Gyanhumara’s swift, furious blows. He stumbled against the table, and she jammed her sword’s pommel into his shoulder with a sickening thud. His arm went limp. The sword slipped from his fingers. In half a heartbeat, her weapon flashed. His head thumped onto the tabletop. Spurting blood, his body crumpled to the ground.

It was utterly revolting. Worst of all was the look of bald-eyed shock, frozen forever on the bloody head. Morghe wanted nothing more than to flee to some private place and retch her guts out. For pride’s sake, she stayed.

Chest heaving and head bowed, Gyanhumara dropped her sword to brace herself against the table. After a moment, she stooped to snatch Niall’s head by the braids. Arthur left Morghe’s side to approach the chieftainess. Trophy in hand, she straightened and turned to him. And collapsed into his arms.

Carefully, Arthur lowered Gyanhumara to the ground. Propelled by her healer’s training, Morghe stepped forward. While Arthur peered over her shoulder, she unfastened her borrowed cloak and tore away several strips to bind Gyanhumara’s arm.

“Will she be all right?”

Morghe studied the unconscious woman. “I believe so. The wound is deep, but she hasn’t lost a dangerous amount of blood yet. The rest are scratches.” A pity the Scot couldn’t have done any better. “You may want to get another physician to check on her later, but she looks to be suffering more from exhaustion than anything else.”