Now, all she could do was pray for a miracle. For that’s what it would take to rescue Arthur from the virtually impenetrable Dunstaffnage Castle before it was too late.
Arthur let them come. Honing his senses on each scamper and squeak, he let the rats get close enough to catch, then was able to snap their necks with one hand against his leg. Which, as he had only one working hand, was fortunate. Unfortunately that hand was attached to a dislocated arm, so every movement was excruciating. He’d tried to pop the arm back into his shoulder by himself, but he didn’t have the strength or the leverage.
Being eaten alive by starving rats wasn’t the way Arthur had hoped to die, but he didn’t know how much longer he could fend them off. Each time he passed out, their gnawing bites would wake him. But he’d lost a lot of blood, and with each hour that passed he was getting weaker and his senses were dulling. Soon he wouldn’t wake at all.
He thought he must have killed fifty of the disgusting creatures already, but there were hundreds of them down here. He shuddered. When they’d held the torch to the hole to drop him in, the entire floor had been swarming in them.
With the hole closed up it was pitch-black in the pit. He was dependent on his senses, which were slowly fading.
His eyes started to close. He was so tired, he just wanted to relax for a ...
“Ah!” He let out a sharp cry of pain, snapping back to attention as razor-sharp teeth sunk into his ankle. He kicked, sending the rat flying.
He supposed he had Dugald to thank for his lasting this long. Those hours spent in the dark storage outbuilding had taught him well. He knew what to listen for and how to anticipate the rats’ movements.
But his reactions were slowing. More were escaping his grasp, and more of their teeth were finding his hand. He knew he couldn’t last much longer.
They wouldn’t come for him until the battle was over. As he’d lost track of time hours ago, he didn’t know when that might be.
Damn
. It wasn’t just the horror of the swarming rats that was driving him mad, but the knowledge that his friends were out there marching into a trap and he couldn’t help them.
He’d failed.
Failed
. He closed his eyes, wanting to blot out the bitter truth. The heaviness bore down on him. It was getting harder to resist the pull, the drag toward the blissful darkness of unconsciousness. He was so tired.
This time his eyes stayed closed.
Nothing could wake him. Not the rats, and not the blast of thunder that sent the guards running to the gate a few minutes later.
Someone was shaking him.
“Ranger! Ranger! God damn it, wake up! We don’t have much time.”
Who was Ranger?
His eyes snapped open, only to close again as the beam of light from the torch pierced his skull like a dagger.
He
was Ranger.
But how …?
He opened his eyes again. Slowly this time, letting them grow adjusted to the light.
MacRuairi.
He could see the relief on the other man’s face. “I wasn’t sure you were alive.”
Arthur’s mind felt dull and sluggish. “I wasn’t sure either.”
MacRuairi shuddered, and even in the torchlight Arthur could see that he didn’t look well. His face was gray and his eyes flickered around anxiously. He almost looked panicked. “Let’s get the hell out of here. Can you walk?”
Arthur nodded, trying to scoot himself up to a sitting position. He was careful not to look down. The torch was keeping the rats away for now. “I think so.”
“Good, I wasn’t looking forward to trying to carry you out of here.”
He held out his hand, but Arthur shook him off and managed to struggle to his feet. “You’re alone?” he asked.
MacRuairi’s gaze flickered over him, quickly assessing the damage. His mouth hardened as he realized the reason for Arthur’s refusal of aid. “Nay. Saint and Templar are with me. Hawk wanted to come, but someone needed to stay with the fleet. You didn’t hear the blast?”
Arthur shook his head. “Is that how you got in?”
MacRuairi helped secure the rope around his waist and between his legs. Arthur’s legs trembled like those of a newborn foal, but he managed to stay upright.
“Nay, but it’s good for a distraction.” MacRuairi grabbed hold of a second rope and quickly climbed up. Then he hoisted Arthur up with the rope, which wasn’t easy as he was virtual dead weight on the other end. But MacRuairi, in addition to being as mean as a snake, was as strong as a bloody ox.
The sense of relief that hit Arthur to be out of that hellhole was nearly overwhelming. He felt like bawling like a babe. MacRuairi unwrapped the plaid he was wearing and handed it to him. Arthur had forgotten he was naked. He accepted it gratefully, securing it around his waist and shoulders as best as he could with his mangled hand.
“The stench of rat shite will eventually wash away.”
Arthur was surprised to see the hint of compassion in the other man’s gaze. Suddenly, he realized why MacRuairi had looked so close to panic down there. He’d known what it was like. He must have been through something similar. “And the rest?” Arthur asked.
MacRuairi turned sharply away, as if the chip in his icy armor annoyed him. “The rest takes longer.”
Or never
. Arthur heard the unspoken words.
“How did you find me?”
“The lass told us you’d been taken prisoner. I figured out the rest.”
The lass ...
“Anna?” he asked, his voice sharp with disbelief.
“Aye, it was fortunate we caught sight of her.” MacRuairi explained how they’d been scouting the area and checking the burial cairn in the woods to make sure he hadn’t left any messages when they heard a group of riders nearby. They’d glimpsed Anna and had followed her when she gave her brother and his men the slip.
Arthur was shocked. “She tried to escape?”
“Apparently she wanted to make sure you were all right.”
He muttered an oath. Thank God she hadn’t been the one to find him. He never wanted her to know what her father had done to him. It was too much reality. Let her hold on to some illusions.
But knowing that she cared enough to come find him meant a lot. More than a lot. He owed her his life. It also gave him hope.
“Ah hell,” MacRuairi muttered with disgust. “You’ve got the same silly-arse look in your eye as MacSorley. We don’t have time for this. I’ll tell you the rest later.” MacRuairi wrapped one arm around Arthur’s waist, careful to avoid his injured shoulder, and helped him walk to the door. He knocked twice in quick succession, then once slowly. The door opened.
“Damn, Viper. I was about to go in after you.” Magnus “Saint” MacKay took one look at Arthur and winced. “You all right, Ranger?”
Arthur tried to smile but faltered at the sting of pain. “I’ve been better, but I’m damned glad to see you. How did—”
A loud boom thundered through the night air, cutting off his question.
Night
air. Jesus, the attack! “What time is it?”
“A little after midnight,” MacKay said.
“I have information for the king—”
“Later,” MacRuairi said. “We don’t have time. That was our distraction. If we want to get out of here, we’ll have to hurry.”
With MacKay on one side and MacRuairi on the other, they carried Arthur from the antechamber and into the guard room. A quick glance down told him what had become of the guardsmen. Unfortunately, none of the three bodies was that of his torturer. The henchman had marched with Lorn.
Yet one more reason he hoped to hell they got there in time—and another debt to pay.
They exited the tower housing the guard room into the cover of darkness. The courtyard was deserted, though he could hear a commotion coming from near the gate. Instead of heading in that direction, however, they started up the rampart.
Arthur realized what MacRuairi had planned. On the far side of the rampart opposite the gate and overlooking the loch, they secured three long ropes to the parapet. Normally a guard would be walking the perimeter, but the blast had diverted him to the gate.
Arthur glanced down into the darkness and grimaced.
“We’ll have to fix your shoulder first,” MacRuairi said. He turned him around, grabbing hold of the top of his arm. He handed Arthur his dagger. “Ready?”
Arthur put the wooden hilt between his teeth and nodded. The pain was extreme but quick. After a moment, he was able to roll his shoulder freely in the socket. “You’ve done that before?” Arthur said.
“Nay,” MacRuairi said, a rare smile on his face. “But I’ve seen it done. I guess you’re lucky I’m a quick study.”
With his arm back in position, Arthur was able to shimmy down the rope with their help. When they were all safely on the ground, MacRuairi led them to a dark section of the outer wall. Arthur looked down, noticing a few stones had been removed, leaving a hole beneath. They’d burrowed their way in.
“This is the oldest section of the wall,” MacRuairi explained. “The rocks almost crumble out.”
He must have done this before, Arthur realized. Gordon was waiting for them on the other side.
“What took you so—” He took one look at Arthur and stopped. “Ah, hell, Ranger, you look like shite.”
“So I’ve heard,” Arthur said dryly.
They took time to repair the wall in case they ever needed to use it again, and a short while later they were running along the shore. About a half-mile away from the castle, they found the small skiff that MacRuairi had hidden in a cove.
“You need to get me to the king. As fast as you can,” Arthur said. Already he could see the first light of dawn softening the night sky on the eastern horizon. With the seaway to Brander blocked by Lorn’s fleet, they would have to ride. “I hope we make it in time.”
“What is it?” MacKay said, sensing the urgency. “What have you found out?”
As they sailed west, slipping through the barricade of ships where Loch Etive met the open sea at the Firth of Lorn, Arthur quickly explained Lorn’s treacherous plan—both the details of the ambush and of planning to attack before the end of the truce.
Gordon swore. “The treacherous whoreson.”
MacKay echoed his sentiments in far more colorful terms, then added, “The king won’t be expecting it.”
“Aye,” Arthur added. “Lorn has chosen his place well.” He explained the narrow pass and steep-sided gully of Ben Cruachan.
“I know the place,” MacRuairi added. “The scouts will be hard pressed to find them.”
“Which is why we have to warn them.”
MacRuairi shook his head grimly. “They are marching at first light. Even if we get there before they reach the narrowest part of the pass, it won’t be easy to turn three thousand troops around. This entire area is dangerous.”
“They won’t need to turn around,” Arthur said. “I have a plan.”
His three fellow guardsmen exchanged looks.
“What?” he asked.
It was Gordon who said what they were all thinking. “You aren’t in any condition to fight. We can get the message to the king.”
Arthur grit his teeth together. “I’m going.” Nothing would stop him from fighting. If he had a chance in hell of facing Lorn on the battlefield, he was going to take it.
“You’ll only slow us down,” MacRuairi said bluntly. “You don’t look strong enough to sit a mule, let alone travel at the pace we’re riding. And how the hell are you going to hold the reins with that hand?”
Arthur shot him a venomous look. “Let me worry about it.”
MacRuairi met his gaze. After a moment, he nodded. “We’d better find something for you to fight in.”
They made it in time, and Arthur didn’t fall off his horse—although he’d come embarrassingly close.
With MacDougall’s men already in position, they’d been forced to flank around them from the south. They caught up with the king less than a mile from the pass.
The king didn’t give way to temper very often, but he did so when Arthur informed him of Lorn’s plan.
He swore and called Lorn every vile name under the sun. “By the rood, how did we miss this?” he demanded of no one in particular, but each of the warriors felt blame for what could have been a disaster—including the king. He knew better than to trust in the code of chivalry.
“They’re hiding high in the rocks on a steep hillside,” Arthur said. “It would be easy to miss them if you aren’t looking for them.”
From the looks MacLeod was giving the scouts, Arthur knew—understandable or not—there would be hell to pay.
“You said you have a plan?” the king asked.
“Aye.” Arthur knelt down and drew a map in the ground with a stick. “We can beat Lorn at his own game. A few hundred men are positioned here.” Arthur marked the position halfway up the hillside. “The rest of his army will attack at the mouth of the pass, as you are trying to flee—catching you from above and from below.” He pointed to a place a little above Lorn’s men. “If you send a group of men above them, Lorn’s men will be trapped. When the ambush fails, Lorn will be overwhelmed.”
Bruce frowned. “Are you sure we can get men up there? From what you describe, the terrain is steep and treacherous. If they discover us before we are in position it will not work.”
“My Highlanders can do it,” his brother Neil said. “They know this ground.”
“You’re sure of it?” Bruce asked.
“Aye,” Neil said. “They fight like lions but they move like cats.”
“I’ll lead them,” Arthur said. “I know the terrain well.” Neil was still one of the most formidable warriors in the kingdom, but he was fifty and not as fleet-footed as he once was.
Bruce’s gaze swept over him and Arthur could read his uncertainty. Though he’d washed most of the blood and filth from him before donning his borrowed battle garb, wrapped his hand and wrist, and ate and drank enough
uisge-beatha
to put color back in his face, he knew he still looked like he’d been chewed up and spit out by a rabid beast from hell.
Before the king could deny him, he added, “I can do it, sire. I look worse than I feel.”
It was a lie, but not much of one. The knowledge that he was close to the reckoning with Lorn had invigorated him.
“You’ve earned the right, Sir Arthur,” the king said. “Without your information, this could have been a disaster.” Arthur knew the memory of Dal Righ, two years before, where Lorn had sent him fleeing for his life, was still too fresh on Bruce’s mind. Bruce called forward one of his youngest but most trusted knights, Sir James Douglas. Douglas’s chief rival, the king’s nephew and former turncoat Sir Thomas Randolph, was with MacSorley in the west, readying the sea attack should it be necessary. “Douglas, I want you to go with him.” He motioned to one of the other warriors. Gregor MacGregor, Arthur’s original partner in the Highland Guard, stepped forward. To him he said, “Arrow you’re in charge of the archers.” To Arthur he ordered, “Take as many men as you need.”