Connor said, raising his claymore. "They shall not cross it!"
* * *
Lachlan fought until sweat rolled into his eyes and the blood of his enemies drenched his sleeves. The odds were terrible, but he was accustomed to worse. After two and a half years of leading clandestine raids against the MacLeods, he was glad to finally let loose his rage in open battle against the occupiers of his homeland.
So far, the MacDonalds had held the line and kept the huge MacLeod force from gaining a foothold on the Trotternish side of the river. But the MacLeods kept coming.
Lachlan understood now why the four warriors who returned from France had become legend in such a short time. Connor, his cousins, and Duncan were at the center of the MacDonald line, and no matter how many MacLeod warriors converged on them, none got through. Though Lachlan could spare no more than a glance now and then, he saw how, in the midst of the chaos of battle, they coordinated their movements and fought as one deadly force.
Some might say it was foolish of the chieftain to risk his life, but their situation was desperate, and his example inspired the others to fight harder.
On a slight rise behind the MacLeod warriors, Lachlan saw a massive warrior with white hair, regal bearing, and the telltale hunched shoulder, watching the slaughter at the river. After a half day of bloodletting, he raised his arm, and his warriors withdrew to regroup.
* * *
Connor dunked his head in the river to wash off the sweat and blood. When he looked up, he met the hard gaze of the MacLeod chieftain who stood fifty yards away.
Give up, old man. This land belongs to the MacDonalds.
He found Ian, Alex, and Duncan with the other men a few yards back from the river.
"How's that leg?" he asked Ian, who was tying a strip of cloth around a wound to stanch the bleeding.
"Good," Ian said.
Alex had also been wounded. Connor scanned the dead bodies along the riverbank. There were far more MacLeods than MacDonalds, but he had fewer to lose.
"I fear they'll break through next time," Connor said in a low voice to the three, and none of them argued. His only hope was that the MacLeod was losing more men than the lands were worth to him. Connor looked again for some sign that the men across the river were dispersing, but he saw none.
"What order will ye give if the line breaks?" Ian, always the pragmatist of the group, asked. "Everyone makes for the castle?"
Connor did not have a chance to answer.
"Grab your weapons!" Duncan shouted and was on his feet pointing behind them with his claymore.
Two hundred warriors were streaming down the slope behind them.
Chapter 43
Is that my brother Niall?" Ian asked, looking up at the descending horde. "I thought he was with Ilysa."
"Put down your weapons!" Connor shouted, breaking into a grin. "These are friends."
Torquil MacLeod of Lewis had come, and they had Ilysa to thank for it. When she told him she did not trust Sorely, Connor had dismissed her concern at first. But Torquil's lack of response to the message he had sent with Sorely troubled him. On the chance Ilysa was right, he had sent Niall with a second message.
"A thousand welcomes to ye, brother. I'm glad to meet ye at last," Connor greeted Torquil, a rough-looking warrior of about thirty years, who had the same jet-black hair as Connor and Ian. "These are your MacDonald cousins, Alex and Ian, and our friend Duncan."
"I accept your offer," Torquil said. "My warriors will fight with yours today in exchange for you doing the same for me when the time comes."
Torquil was a chieftain without lands. After his father had supported the last rebellion, the Crown had punished him by taking away his clan's traditional lands on the isle of Lewis.
"I gladly give ye my pledge," Connor said, grasping forearms with his brother.
"Good," Torquil said with a broad smile. "My men are ready for a fight."
* * *
All day, Ilysa and Flora had kept busy while they waited for news. Malcom had left a couple of hours before dawn. The cottage was fairly close to the mouth of the Snizort River, so they had been among the last to receive the crann tara.
After hours of sewing, Ilysa had worked her way through the pile of children's clothing that needed mending. She stuck her needle in a scrap and carefully set it in her medicine basket. As