On a Highland Shore (40 page)

Nor shouted for his men to gather behind him, heard the clink of metal on metal, the thud of wooden shields. Up the slope the women were screaming, horses shrilling and battering against their pens, and above all was the crackle of flames. Below him Gannon’s force moved steadily through what was left of his men on the beach. Damn the man. He raised his axe and gave the order, then led the charge. Apparently he would have to dispatch Magnusson himself.

Outside the hut, Gannon pushed the man’s weight from him and rose to his feet. The guard, his throat slit, hit the ground with a thud.

Drason Anderson grinned and wiped his bloody sword on the man’s clothing. “I never did like him.”

“Thank ye,” Gannon said, and yanked the door of the hut off its straps. The women poured from the enclosure, wild-eyed and crying. He handed them past him to his waiting men. “Margaret! Where’s Margaret?”

A girl pointed up the hill, to the one structure still standing. “He took her there yesterday. We’ve not seen her since.”

Gannon sprinted up the hill, hearing his men at his heels. He burst through the door and was greeted with silence.

“Margaret!”

There was no answer. But at the far end of the room, atop the bed there, lay a naked woman, unmoving, her face turned away, her head covered. The room stank of death.

He prayed as he moved closer, and for once his prayers were answered. Dagmar, not Margaret, lay dead on the bed. He stared at her for a moment, then threw the bedcovers over her before he left, wondering if the gods thought this a fitting death for her.

Margaret was not in any of the tents—all burnt or slashed open now—not in the few huts that were not burning. Pigs ran by him, squealing their panic, and he could hear horses somewhere in the smoke that was already clearing.

Down in the water, the Scots had done their jobs well. Four of Nor’s ships were ablaze, pushed into the middle of the loch, where they drifted with the tide, headed for the rocks at the bottom of the northern cliffs. And on the beach the Scottish forces had almost subdued the Norsemen, who were retreating up the hill to the encampment, rushing headlong into Gannon and his waiting men. He whirled to avoid a blow from one of them, then sank his sword into flesh.

He was surrounded then, by his own men and Drason, who somehow managed always to be at his side, and by Nor’s men, some of whom he recognized from their imprisonment at Inverstrath. He killed one, then another who had targeted Drason. He worked his way through them like a scythe through barley. And suddenly there were no more to fight, at least not here.

Drason gave him a ferocious grin and lifted his sword. “Let’s find my uncle.”

Margaret smothered her cry of pain as the men cinched the rope that bound her hands tighter; her arms were pulled behind her and the rope secured again. She’d fought, kicking and screaming and even biting, when they’d pulled her through the camp, past the hovel that held the women, and toward the path that topped the cliffs. She tried wrenching herself from their grip, but had failed. One had hit her then, and again when she’d risen. He threw her over his shoulder and carried her far beyond the camp, up to the windswept bluff above the loch.

Still she resisted, and eventually he tossed her on the ground before an isolated standing stone that overlooked the loch, the sort that women long ago had offered sacrifices to in order to ensure fertility. For a wild moment, when they lashed her to the gray stone, whose surface was carved with fantastical animals, she thought they meant to sacrifice her, but the Norsemen were cursing her in their strange language.

No, they weren’t cursing her, for they were staring down into the loch, where ships were pouring in from the passage to the sea. Two of Nor’s ships had moved to close the entrance, but one had been so damaged that it was sinking, while the other drifted slowly around the loch, empty, its sail aflame. On the shore near the camp some of Nor’s ships were burning. And on the slope above, men fought in hand-to-hand combat.

Gannon
.

She could not tell if he was among them. There were Scots and Irish, she could tell by their dress, but it seemed as though Norsemen were fighting on both sides and so many men were blond or wore helmets that it was impossible to be sure. The shouts and sounds of battle could be heard even here, and she watched, but had no idea whom she was watching.

Her captors turned to the rocks on her right. Norsemen were pouring over the rise, their cries harsh and axes raised as they rushed toward her. She screamed, expecting to be cut down, but was left untouched as they passed by her without a glance and attacked Nor’s men. The struggle was brief; both men were cut down quickly. Then the Norsemen turned to her, and the world seemed to stop.

Let it come, she told herself. But despite her brave thoughts, she shrank back when the closest man moved toward her with a drawn knife.

Her bonds were cut and tossed on the ground.

“Leod sends his regards, miss,” he said with the unmistakable accent of a Skye man. “Go north. Ye’ll be given shelter at Dunvegan.” He raised his arm to his companions, leading them toward the melee without a backward glance at her.

She followed them, running as quickly as she could, faster when more arrows rained flame on the encampment. She could hear the women’s screams from here, and darted to the left when cattle rampaged past her, their eyes wild with fear. A horse ran toward the mountains, whirled to face the water, then whirled again, neighing shrilly as it raced away. She ran on, panting now, passing camp followers who stared at her as though she were mad to be returning instead of running, and perhaps she was, but she would not stand and watch.

The Inverstrath women running toward her tried to stop her, to get her to run inland with them, but she shook herself free. “No! Gannon is there,” she cried. “And Davey! Have any of ye seen Davey?”

They shook they heads and tried again to persuade her to go with them, but she ran on, toward the burning encampment.

Gannon reached the water, then turned again and fought his way back up the slope, looking for Nor. He could no longer count the men he’d killed. Nor’s forces were whittled away to small spots of resistance, many of the others left fleeing up the slope.

It was then, when the ranks had thinned and the battle was all but over, that he saw Nor. The Norseman stood above him on the edge of the encampment with what was left of his troops. He looked exactly as Gannon had imagined him, in his middle years, lean and strong, battle-axe in hand. He looked both fit and ruthless, his eyes narrowing as he watched the fighting on the water.

“Is that Nor?” he asked Drason, who was still shadowing him.

“It’s him,” Drason said, a strange note in his voice.

Gannon raised his sword high. “Nor Thorkelson! I await ye!”

Nor shifted his gaze and looked down at Gannon with a wolfish grin. “And I you, Gannon Magnusson. And Drason at your side. Of course.”

“Uncle,” Drason said defiantly.

Gannon gave the boy a sharp glance, no longer doubting that revenge was what drove him; he’d seen that look before. He turned back to Nor. Drason might justifiably lust for Nor’s blood, but the honors would be his own.

“Are ye,” Gannon called, sensing his men gathering behind him, “the same Nor Thorkelson who ran from Inverstrath?”

Nor’s grin faded a bit. “Who burned Inverstrath to the ground.”

“Who murdered innocent people at Somerstrath?”

“Who killed your brother. He begged for his life before he died, Magnusson. Did you know that? Your brother shamed himself and your line with his groveling.”

It was not true; Gannon knew it. Still, it took a moment for him to control his rage. It would be so easy to rush forward, blinded by his thirst for this man’s blood, but he would not be so easily manipulated. There was a sudden silence as Gannon and Nor stared at each other.

They gave their signals to their men at the same moment, steel meeting steel. Steel meeting flesh. Men died quickly. Gannon shouted to his men as he moved forward again. Their battle cries echoing off the cliffs. He met Nor in the middle of the melee. Nor wasted no time, leaning into a wide swing. Gannon leapt back, and the axe cut only through air. They circled each other then, ignoring the fighting raging behind them, the shouts of triumph from the beach.

Gannon leaned into his thrust, his blade clashing against Nor’s, the impact shivering down his arm. He struck again, his blow met again, the sound of metal on metal shimmering above them. Again, this time lower, slashing through the leather padding that covered Nor’s thigh. And drawing blood at last.

“That was for Tiernan,” Gannon said. “One of many.”

Nor did not even look at his leg. He didn’t need to; he could feel the wound, could feel the warm blood that seeped through his trousers. But he would be damned before he’d let this Irishman see that he was in pain.

Both he and Gannon stepped back, breathing deeply, then rushed forward again. This time Nor’s axe grazed Gannon’s shoulder, laying the flesh open. Gannon slashed low again, meeting Nor’s thigh for the second time, but still Nor managed to keep his feet, willing himself not to feel the pain.

“Where is she?” Gannon demanded. “Where is Margaret MacDonald?”

Nor grinned. Predictable. “Gone.” He stepped forward, but Gannon jumped out of range of the swing that would have decapitated him.

“Where is she?”

“I used her. Then gave her to my men. They buried what was left.”

Gannon’s mouth drew back in a snarl and he leapt forward, delivering blow after crashing blow. It took all of Nor’s strength to defend himself. He felt himself weakening. But then, above from the encampment, Leod’s battle cry. Reinforcements, Nor thought, his strength returning. He’d have Gannon’s head on a spike yet. His heart stopped as he realized that Leod’s men were not coming to aid his men, but to murder them.

The battle here would soon be lost. He would have to be swift.

Leod’s men ran through the middle of the knot of fighters, forcing Gannon and Nor back from each other. When they’d passed, Gannon was on the other side of the fighting, his attention caught by one of Nor’s best.

Nor stepped back and looked around. His ships were afire, burning on the beach. His camp was in ruins, and, more important, so were his troops. How could these be the same men who had fought so well at his side in earlier battles? How could they have collapsed so quickly under this siege? They’d failed him. He owed them nothing. He spun around and battled his way up the hill. And then, standing directly before him was Gannon.

His rage exploded. This man had thwarted him at every turn, and here he was again. Nor stepped forward, felt the gash in his thigh burn, and swung blindly. His axe met only air, and he called to one of his men for help. Miraculously, the man did as he was bidden, attacking Gannon from the back. As Gannon spun around, Nor took the chance the gods offered, sprinting up the last of the slope.

He skirted the ruined tents and hut, did not even give his own shelter a glance, but hurried along the path that ran along the cliffs. He’d get to Dunvegan overland and abuse Leod’s hospitality one more time. Or, he thought, remembering that Leod was now the enemy, he’d steal one of Leod’s ships and spread the word throughout the Norse world. Leod would pay dearly for his perfidy. Before Nor was finished, Haakon himself would avenge Leod’s betrayal.

Margaret ran through the deserted camp. All was in ruins, not a tent still standing, the pens that had held the pigs and cattle and horses all broken open. The hut where the women had been imprisoned was doorless and empty, the guard dead just outside. She’d passed more of the Inverstrath women—and some of Nor’s men—fleeing inland.

But no Gannon. No Davey. There was only one structure left standing—Nor’s—and she hurried up the hill toward it.

The door hung open, swaying in the sudden wind that came from the north, pushing the last of the smoke away from the encampment, letting her see the destruction. Nothing moved there, no man or animal left alive. The fighting continued on the slope below, only a small band of men remained, none she recognized. But there, on the path that ran along the cliffs, a man hurried northward, limping, an axe hanging from his hand. Nor? But no, surely Nor was not running from his own battle. She hurried up the steps and into the hut.

“Davey?”

There was only silence in answer to her call. No small boy came out of hiding; there was no sign of him here. The chair where Nor had sat like a king was empty. But the bed on the far side of the room was not.

Dagmar had died struggling, that much was obvious. Her throat was mottled, her eyes bulging, and Margaret’s stomach heaved. Despite all the times she’d wished this woman ill, she’d never have chosen this. Margaret leaned over, her breaths coming in huge, gulping gasps. Then she straightened. Davey was not here, not anywhere in the encampment. No one had seen him.

And with a sudden certainty, she knew he’d never been here, that he’d been a lure Nor had used to try to gain her cooperation. And that it had been Nor running along the cliffs. She spun on her heel.