Oath of the Brotherhood (37 page)

The warrior at the back exit must have heard the short confrontation, because he was waiting for them. Conor blocked the incoming thrust, then two more. The man was skilled, but compared to the Fíréin, only passably so. A slash to the body took him to the ground.

They burst through the door into the cool night, and for a moment, Conor thought they were free. Then three more guards rushed through the door behind them.

“Do you know where the stable is?” he asked Aine over his shoulder.

She nodded, her eyes wide with fear.

“Go there. Bridle a horse. I’ll meet you.”

“But
 
—”

“Go!” Conor shouted as the guards charged. He didn’t have time to see if she complied before steel clashed against steel and then just as quickly met flesh.

As the first of his three opponents fell before him, he thought he read uncertainty in the others’ eyes, but they pressed forward anyway. They too were skilled, but he defeated them without their weapons finding a target.

“Conor!”

Aine tore around the corner of the stable atop a bay mare, bridled with a rope lead. Conor sheathed his bloodstained sword and leapt up behind her. One arm enwrapped her waist, and the other took the lead from her hand as he spurred the horse toward the exit. Abruptly, he reined the mare to a skidding stop.

The drawbridge, open only a few minutes earlier, was closed.

Aine let out a choked cry, but Conor’s mind whirred, working out an alternate plan. Glenmallaig had been his home, and foggy as his memories were, he knew the bridge was not the only way out.

He wheeled the horse and kicked her into a full gallop. More guards poured into the courtyard to intercept them and then dove out of the way of flying hooves. Their escape route loomed ahead, nearly invisible in the twilight: narrow steps carved into the inner surface of the battlements.

Conor slid from the horse and helped Aine down. He gave her a push in the direction of the steps. “Up there! I’ll be right after you.”

She scrambled up the steep stairs, using one hand to clutch her skirts out of the way and the other in front of her to keep her balance. Conor glanced back at the approaching guards, gauging whether he and Aine could reach the top before their enemies caught up to them. Perhaps, but the steps were far too narrow to turn and fight. He would surely end up with a sword in his back. He had no choice but to meet them here on level ground.

Conor counted five in the dim light. When they saw he intended to face them, they spread into a half circle. He drew his sword and took a moment to steady his breathing.

Now would be an excellent time for another miracle
.

The peculiar calm settled over him immediately. Time slowed and stretched as it had when he fought Master Liam on the crannog. He circled left, bringing his opponents into line so he could face them one at a time.

They assumed he would take the defensive. Instead, he charged.

The first man was wholly unprepared. One ineffective block, and Conor’s blade cut through his middle. He did not even
pause before meeting the second, who fell just as quickly. He fought the third and fourth without any conscious thought, carried by instinct and reflex.

The last he underestimated, based on the marginal abilities of the other four warriors. Too late, he realized the man’s hesitation came not from intimidation or lack of skill, but careful calculation. Conor barely managed to parry his attack, and the tip of the blade sliced across his upper arm. A warm rush of blood soaked his left sleeve.

The pain broke his focus, and he blinked in recognition. “Riocárd?” Even knowing Galbraith’s champion was in command of the fortress, he hadn’t expected to meet him here among his guards.

“Do I know you?” Riocárd asked, unwavering.

“Apparently not.” Conor launched another attack, but the warrior deflected or avoided the blows altogether. With a pang of dismay, he realized Riocárd’s skill matched his own.

They continued to trade offense and defense, both men seeking an opening, the mistake that would lead to a killing blow, and finding none. Riocárd had been among the most proficient of Tigh’s swordsmen when Conor was a child, and time had done nothing to diminish his abilities.

Aine now crouched atop the battlements. Archers would pick her off from a distance in mere seconds. He had to end this. He could not leave her unprotected atop the wall.

“I thought you would have recognized me,” Conor said tightly as their swords clashed again. “I’m told I resemble my father.”

Confusion, followed by recognition, rippled across Riocárd’s face. “Conor?”

In that moment of surprise, Riocárd wavered, and Conor seized the opportunity. He feinted, drawing Riocárd’s guard
open, and delivered a straight thrust to the body. Shock registered on the champion’s face.

Conor withdrew his blade, and Riocárd crumpled to the ground. He stared in disbelief for several seconds, breathing hard, until Aine’s shout alerted him of still more danger.

Archers rounded the corner, arrows already nocked. Bowstrings twanged as he clambered up the steps toward Aine. The first arrows missed their mark and bounced away at his feet, but they would not be so lucky the next time.

“Where do we go now?” Aine asked.

Conor looked over the side to the moat, at least twenty feet down. “We jump.”

“I can’t swim!” she cried, but Conor’s weight already bore them off the wall to the murky waters below.

The cold water knocked the breath from Aine’s lungs,
and she plummeted into the moat like an anchor. Shock stunned her into immobility. Then her lungs started to burn, and she flailed against the pressure of the muddy water. Her skirt tangled around her legs, hampering her unschooled attempts to thrust upward.

She broke the surface long enough to suck in a panicked breath before her sodden dress pulled her under again. Then strong hands grabbed her and pulled her back up. An arm encircled her chest, just barely keeping her face out of the water.

“Stop fighting, or you’ll drown both of us,” Conor said in her ear. She stilled her movements and let him tow her to safety. He pushed her up against the bank, and she scrambled for a handhold while he levered himself up beside her.

She lay on the ground for a moment, panting and blissfully happy to be alive. Shouts rang from Glenmallaig’s courtyard, followed by the cranking of the drawbridge’s huge gears.

Conor hauled her to her feet. “Can you run?”

“We made it,” Aine said, dazed.

“Not yet. Make for the trees. We’ll be out of the archers’ range.”

Conor propelled her forward, but waterlogged wool tangled between her legs. She hauled up handfuls of her skirt and struggled onward. Only a few more yards and they’d be free.

The drawbridge thudded on the outer bank, but she didn’t dare look back. When at last they reached the safety of the tree line, she doubled over. “I can’t run in this.”

Conor glanced back at the men now pouring from the fortress and pulled his knife from his belt. “Stand up.”

Aine straightened, still too stunned to question him. He cut the lacings of her bodice and pulled the wet dress from her shoulders. It fell in a sodden heap at her feet. She shivered in her thin linen shift, now plastered to the contours of her body. Her teeth chattered uncontrollably.

“Let’s go.” Conor took her hand and pulled her deeper into the forest.

The speed with which he moved through the trees astounded her. She struggled to match his pace, afraid she would put a foot wrong in the dark and crash to the ground, but Conor drove her on mercilessly. Her labored lungs began to burn and her muscles cramped from the unaccustomed exertion. She could barely force herself to stay upright.

Conor stopped at last at the bank of a small stream. Aine gasped for breath, palms braced on her knees. “Are they gone?”

“No,” he said finally. “A few minutes behind us. And they have dogs.”

Despair sapped the last of her strength. She fell to her knees. They couldn’t escape. The dogs would follow their tracks until their strength ran out, which judging from her trembling legs, would not be long. A sob escaped her lips.

Conor knelt beside her and gripped her shoulders. “Aine,
look at me.” When she continued to cry, he shook her and said more forcefully, “Look in my eyes.”

She raised her tear-streaked face and saw no fear in his eyes, only determination.

“You can’t break down now. We have to keep going. Do you understand?”

She nodded, though her tears continued to fall. He stood and held out a hand again. “Come on.”

She followed him, thinking they would cross the stream, but instead he led her up it. The water ran around her calves. She lifted her shift to her knees and pressed forward against the current. Her limbs felt heavy and clumsy, and more than once she fell with a splash. Each time, Conor turned back, helped her to her feet, and started off again.

She lost track of how long they traversed the stream bed, but after a while, she heard the baying of hounds behind them. Conor paused to listen and bit off a frustrated oath.

“They’re coming? We didn’t lose them?”

“No. Keep moving.” He took her hand and pulled her up the opposite bank. He must have seen her fear and weariness, because he gave her a slight smile. “Don’t worry. We’ll make it. You just have to hold on a little bit longer.”

His words heartened her. After everything they had survived, she believed him. He squeezed her hand, and they started into the trees again.

A few minutes later, Conor stopped. “I don’t believe it. Look.”

Aine followed his gaze. Barely distinguishable in the dim forest was a tiny cottage made of mud and reeds. They tramped through the brush toward the structure. Conor drew his sword and gestured for Aine to wait while he went inside. She heard a rustle, and something thudded to the floor. A moment later, he poked his head out and waved her inside.

Somehow, he had managed to light a candle stub on the single small table. The flame illuminated a musty, cobweb-strewn interior. A blanket covered a small double bedstead, and clothing still hung on pegs.

“What if the owners come back?” she asked.

“They won’t.” Conor opened the door and pointed to a symbol painted in lime.

The mark Fergus’s enforcers left on Balian homes after the owners were executed. She shuddered.

“Rest here,” he said. “Collect anything that might be of use. Food, herbs, clothing, whatever you can find.”

“Where are you going?” Her heart knocked her ribs. He was leaving her?

“I need to make sure we’ve lost them.” He pulled her tightly to him. “Don’t give up now. I’m coming back. Have faith, Aine.”

His words and the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear cut through her fear. Conor took the knife from his ankle and pressed it into her hand. “Take this. If anyone comes through the door, wait until they get close enough to use it.”

She pulled his head down to kiss him. “Be careful.”

He smiled reassuringly and slipped out the door.

Conor left the cottage and melted soundlessly into the trees. His brave words aside, they could no longer run. Aine was exhausted to the point of collapse, and his arm had continued to bleed more than it should have. He cut a strip from the hem of his tunic and bound the wound, then cinched the knot with his teeth. Aine could sew it up later. The dogs had almost certainly picked up their scent by now, and if he didn’t end this soon, they would find themselves in a fight they couldn’t win.

Fortunately, he was back in his element. The men followed
the dogs blindly in the dark, focused on their quarry. They thought only of the pursuit, unaware they were now the pursued.

Conor summoned energy he thought he had already exhausted and moved swiftly into the trees. Hounds bayed in the distance. He would have to eliminate those first. He crossed their original path and headed away from the cottage, hoping the hounds would pick up the newer, stronger trail. Then he hunkered down to wait in a man-sized hollow beneath the roots of an ancient oak.

True to his prediction, the dogs’ baying became louder and more insistent as they approached. Their handler crashed along behind them. A single man. Luck was on Conor’s side. He gripped his sword as the dogs barked and scrambled toward his hiding place.

He waited until the hounds rounded the tree and silenced them with two quick thrusts of the sword, then faded back into the shadows.

The dog’s handler spun, searching the trees wildly, his sword in hand. Conor waited until the man relaxed his guard and sprang from cover. The warrior managed a single inefficient parry, but he only deflected Conor’s blade, which opened his abdomen in a gush of blood. He screamed, dropping his sword to clutch at the horrific wound.

Conor silenced him with a second swift blow, pushing down his horror. A messy, ugly death, the last thing he had intended. He would have to deal with the others more efficiently.

It didn’t take him long to locate the next two trackers, brought his direction by the commotion only a hundred yards apart. He moved silently through the trees toward them.

The first man remained unaware of his peril until Conor’s dagger took him from behind. The second man was more alert. He held his sword at the ready, and his eyes passed over Conor’s
hiding spot in the scrub several times, as if he sensed his presence. If Conor engaged him now, it would turn into a fight he could ill afford.

Hand stones, then. Conor selected a large stone and crept from the bushes to throw. The projectile cracked into the man’s temple. The warrior fell into a patch of ferns and lay motionless.

Conor listened carefully, but he heard only silence. Could he have been mistaken? Were there only three pursuers and not four? His uneasiness mounted. Exhaustion was flowing into the place determination once occupied, and he still didn’t know if others still sought them.

He picked his path back to the cottage with care, numbness creeping into his legs. Several times, he staggered and barely caught himself before he fell. “Concentrate,” he muttered. “Not much further. You’re just tired.”

But he could no longer ignore the truth. He’d chosen tactics that didn’t require his left arm, which now hung uselessly by his side. His sleeve was bloody, the bandage soaked through, and he left a trail of drops from his dangling fingers. He knew better, but he couldn’t lift his arm to cradle it against his body.

The scenery wavered and shifted around him. He was concentrating so hard on staying upright that he almost missed the sound. Not a loud one, merely a crack of a twig that could have been his own misstep. While his pain-fogged mind tried to process the information, instinct screamed at him to draw his sword. He tried, but his right arm obeyed him no better than the left.

The last warrior, a mountain of a man with arms like tree trunks, stepped out from behind a clutch of slender birch. Ordinarily, it would not have been enough to conceal him, even in the dark, but Conor now struggled to focus his vision on a single point. A slow smile spread across the warrior’s face. He raised his great sword two-handed and lunged at him with a cry.

Conor sidestepped clumsily, tripped, and hit the ground in a hard roll. He scrambled to his feet and disappeared into the scrub.

“Not so brave when you have to face me one-on-one, are you, boy?”

Conor darted across an open patch to the safety of another group of trees, bent into a crouch. The swordsman whirled at the sound of his now-audible movements, but his eyes passed over the place where Conor knelt.

He had to focus. If he didn’t finish this, he would die here. Then the man would take Aine back to Diarmuid.

That thought snapped him out of his stupor. He had to think logically. His aim wasn’t worth risking the hand stones. The sword, then.

Conor gathered his strength, forced the fog away by sheer will, and eased his sword from the scabbard. The weapon, usually so light and responsive, now felt like lead in his hand.

He leaned the sword against his leg, point in the dirt, and took one of the stones from his pouch. He drew a deep breath and lobbed it as far as he could into the trees. The man whirled. With one last burst of energy, Conor took up the sword, threw himself into a staggering run, and drove the blade through his foe’s back.

The momentum carried him forward even as his strength gave out, and he crashed to the ground onto his wounded arm. Pain burst in his shoulder and spread like fire through his body, blanking his vision and stilling his breath. He recognized, somewhere beyond the pain, he might not have killed the brute, but he could only writhe in agony.

Then the pain faded into numbness. Conor turned his head and looked directly into the sightless eyes of the dead giant. The sword still impaled him, a lucky strike through the heart. An
inch to either side, and the man would have lived long enough to kill him.

I have to get back to Aine.
Conor tried to push himself up, but his muscles refused to respond. In the corner of his vision, a man emerged from the trees. His mind screamed at him to defend himself. With every bit of strength left in his body, he wrenched the weapon free from the dead man beside him.

Before he could think about what he planned to do with the sword, the world went dark.