Bride of Mist (The Warrior Daughters of Rivenloch #3) - Glynnis Campbell Page 0,101

the stables and storerooms, were instead pouring out of the keep to join the fray.

At first, he assumed it was some sort of spontaneous uprising. Weary of subservience, the peasants were apparently taking advantage of the attack on the keep to stage an overthrow.

Their efforts were doomed to fail, of course. They would die, as any untrained commoner would, on the blades of hardened soldiers, crushed by the boots of men who lived and breathed warfare.

But looking closer, he saw that was not the situation. And when he perceived the truth, it felt as if claws of ice clenched his heart.

The servants throwing back their hoods to join the fray looked like no peasants he’d seen before. If he’d given them a second glance, entering the great hall this morn, he might have noticed they were not the usual servants.

These men and women wore chain mail beneath their cloaks. They were broad-shouldered and tall in stature. They brandished, not the mallets of blacksmiths or the fire irons of kitchen lads, but the fine steel swords of seasoned warriors.

A half dozen, then a dozen, then more of the armored fighters unsheathed and engaged his mercenaries. Some wore grizzled beards. Some were beardless youths. Some were maids, as fierce and vicious as the men. They roared and charged, lunged and slashed, felling his knights as if they were pawns in a game of draughts.

“What’s happened?” Gaufrid squeaked as they scurried toward the stairs at the remote end of the wall walk.

Fergus, too upset to explain, merely growled at the whimpering laird. “Just go!”

“Where are we goin’?” Morris asked.

“Down the stairs,” Fergus snapped.

Where they would go after that, he didn’t know. It was clear something had gone very wrong. Who the imposters were, he could guess. It had to be Rivenloch’s forces that had infiltrated the ranks of the mac Darragh clan.

But how? And how many were there? Enough to overwhelm Gaufrid’s army? Enough to seize the castle? If Rivenloch had managed to steal inside the keep, was the castle surrounded? Were there more of them lurking in the wood?

As they scrambled down the steps, he could hear Gaufrid’s petulant whining in the stairwell. “I’m not goin’ a step farther until ye tell me what’s happenin’.”

Fergus suddenly felt in full force the months of sycophantic fawning he’d spent on the laird. All the compromising and placating. Enduring Gaufrid’s tantrums. Easing his fears. Massaging his ego. Licking his damned boots.

It had all been for nothing.

And Fergus would suffer the fool no longer.

Elbowing his way down the steps to seize Gaufrid by the scruff of his neck, he slammed him back against the stone wall.

“Hear me well, ye pulin’ churl!” he snarled, spittle gathering at the corners of his mouth. “’Tis o’er. Ye’ve lost your keep. Ye’ve lost your clan. If ye don’t want to lose your life, I suggest ye keep your tongue in your head and obey my orders.”

His threat worked. Gaufrid stared at him, wide-eyed, his mouth gaping like a landed trout’s.

Sneering in disgust and releasing the laird like the rotten fish he was, he slipped down the last few steps and peered out carefully.

At the moment, the mercenaries were holding their own. They might have been caught with their braies down. But once they engaged in combat, they were like wild boars. Murderous and merciless.

Still, there was no way to tell how long they’d survive. Rivenloch was rumored to be the most ruthless and rabid border clan in Scotland. If anyone could cut down the mac Darragh army, it was these warmongering Lowlanders.

Even before he finished that thought, a mercenary came staggering across the sward to fall at Fergus’s feet. The man clutched at his bleeding throat, then opened his maw in a silent scream as his eyes went glassy with death.

Fergus glanced past the fallen warrior. A lass with a long blond braid and a bloody sword nodded in icy satisfaction before wheeling to face her next foe.

Fergus shuddered, realizing Rivenloch’s reputation was earned. There was no way mac Darragh would escape unscathed. He needed to concentrate on self-preservation.

“Come on!” he barked over his shoulder.

As Gaufrid sidled past the fallen mercenary, his mouth twisted in a grimace of disgust. Fergus felt a similar disgust for Gaufrid. The laird might have a taste for power, but he didn’t have the stomach to do what it took to gain it.

Fergus and Morris did. They had always done what was necessary to better their lot. From whipping that upstart mac Giric bastard so