“Astrid,” he whispered. “I—"
But Astrid’s soft gasp made his words die on his lips. She was looking past him out the window, her face ashen. Heart hammering, he turned, following her gaze.
On the horizon, multiple ships were headed their way. Battleships.
Norse ships.
Chapter 23
As Domhnall took in the ships, he realized that the moment he’d dreaded had come. The Norse had launched their invasion. And they had done so at night, likely thinking that Domhnall and his men wouldn't be prepared.
The Norse were very wrong about that.
He turned to face the woman he loved. He needed to get to his men, and she needed to join the witches. But first, he would tell her how he felt.
Now was not the time for fear.
“I love ye, Astrid,” he said, his voice raw with emotion. “And after we defeat the Norse, I want ye tae stay by my side. Nae as my mistress, but as my lady. As my wife. As the lass who has captured my heart for her very own.” Astrid’s eyes widened, and she opened her mouth to speak, but Domhnall interrupted her. “Ye donnae have tae respond—”
“I want to,” she returned. “I love you too. When I arrived in this time on that shore and you approached me, I felt as if I already knew you. From the moment I met you, I’ve felt safe with you. I think I was always meant to love you, just like I was always meant to seal the Pact. I want to stay by your side. You’re home to me now, Domhnall.”
Joy seized him, momentarily eclipsing his turmoil over the looming battle. He moved toward her, cupping her face, and capturing her mouth with his, pouring all of his love for her, his hope for the future, into their shared kiss. When they parted, Astrid rested her forehead against his.
“Fight well, my love,” she whispered.
And before he could say anything more, his bonnie sea witch stepped back, keeping her eyes trained on his, and murmured the words of a spell before disappearing before his eyes.
He stared at the space where she’d stood, aching for her, fearing for her, loving her.
“And ye as well, my Astrid,” he murmured.
Now was the time to fight for his lands. For his people.
For a future with the woman he loved.
Domhnall made his way across the castle ramparts, shouting orders to his men, who scrambled into offensive and defensive positions. The Norse ships were getting even closer to shore, and his men down below had taken up positions all along the shore and around the castle.
“Archers, provide cover for the men down below. But if the Norse approach the castle, unleash your arrows onto them,” Domhnall ordered. “And remember—these are yer lands ye fight for.”
The men shouted their agreement.
His blood pumping with anticipation, Domhnall turned to make his way off the ramparts as Ruarc joined him.
“Siomha and the other women—they are safe?” he asked.
“Aye,” Ruarc said. “I feared Siomha would fight me when I sent her away. But she kent I'd be distracted with worry for her and our babe had she stayed in the castle.”
Domhnall had arranged for Siomha and the other women and children who resided in the castle to be sent away for their safety. They were at the manor home of an elderly noble farther inland, where guards were positioned to protect them. Should the worst happen and the Norse breached the castle and made their way inland, the guards were ordered to escort them safely to the mainland; he had boats ready to do so. He could only pray that didn’t have to happen.
He and Ruarc made their way down to the shore, joining his men, who stood erect, ready for battle. The conflicting emotions of pride and regret swirled through him. He’d not wanted it to come to this, but he was proud that his men were bravely willing to take a stand once more, so soon after their recent war with the Norse. Determination rose within Domhnall. Tonight, he would fight as hard and as well as he could, to be the leader his men deserved. To be the man his Astrid deserved.
As the enemy ships anchored just off shore and the Norsemen made their way toward Domhnall and his line of men with ferocious roars, the archers above unleashed their arrows and Domhnall shouted for his men to charge.
Domhnall and his men surged forward as one. His sword clashed with the first Norsemen who arrived onshore, their movements frenetic. He managed to knock the man down and turned to face two more, moving quickly to disarm one and fighting off the other.
As he fought man after man, sinking his sword into flesh, knocking men back with his foot and even with the hilt of his sword, he searched the dozens of Norsemen for any sign of his cousin. But he couldn’t spot Ulf through the melee, and panic seized him as he realized that the Norse were quickly overpowering his men, making their way past their defensive lines.
“Protect the castle!” he shouted, gesturing for a section of his men to fall back, to assist the guards protecting the castle.
A sword blade whizzed by his head and he ducked and countered, slashing at the Norseman who’d attacked him. As he fought the man, a sudden, heavy fog settled over the shore.
It became even more difficult to see, and Domhnall realized this was an unnatural fog—one that had appeared suddenly, and it hovered primarily over the defensive line Domhnall’s men had formed. Terror gripped him as instinct told him this was a fog caused by magic. Erskina must be near.
Where were the stiuireadh? Lachina had told him they would be near the castle to fend off Erskina should she approach and help with their defenses. Had Erskina harmed or killed them? Killed Astrid?
Grief tore at him at the thought, but he had to keep his focus through the increasingly dense fog, parrying against the various swords that slashed at him. As he continued to fight them off, purely on the defensive now, a man several yards away became visible even in the heavy fog—a man he’d been looking for. His cousin.
Ulf was fighting off Domhnall’s men, his eyes trained on Domhnall, moving toward him with deadly purpose. A spear of regret stabbed at his heart, that it had come to this, but he forced himself to push it aside, charging forward toward his cousin with a roar, fighting off Ulf’s men as he did so.
His sword met his cousin’s with a deafening clash, and they met each other blow for blow. Ulf’s blue eyes were shot with fury, and Domhnall realized in horror that his cousin did intend to kill him.
Domhnall landed a successful blow, causing Ulf to stumble back. Now would be the time for a killing blow, but Domhnall couldn’t make himself do it. His hesitation cost him as Ulf used it to his advantage, charging forward with a roar, sinking his blade into his stomach.
Pain like he had never known tore through him, sharp and acrid. Stunned, Domhnall collapsed to his knees, feeling his strength ebb from his body. Ulf withdrew his sword, and Domhnall looked up to meet his cousin’s eyes. Grief and regret lurked in their depths, and Ulf’s eyes filled with tears. As his life bled from him, Domhnall realized dimly that he’d never seen his cousin cry, not even during their fathers’ funerals.
“You made me do this, cousin,” Ulf spat, his eyes wet with tears. “You did this by betraying your blood.”
Too weak to respond, Domhnall fell onto his back as he clutched his stomach, his eyes glazing over as his grief-stricken and enraged cousin held his gaze. Ulf was watching him die.
He closed his eyes, not wanting Ulf’s fury and grief to be the last thing he saw before he left this earth. Instead, he allowed his mind’s eye to fill with images of his Astrid, her curled up in his arms, her laughter, the feel of her hand in his, her confession of love.
As darkness claimed him, there was a smile on his lips . . . and a sense of peace.
Chapter 24
Astrid arrived to find Lachina, Fyfa, and two other witches she recognized from the local coven on the shore just south of the castle where they’d agreed to meet. The witches were standing in a semicircle, their hands linked.
Lachina gestured for her to join them, and feeling a sense of kinship with the other witches for the first tim
e, Astrid obliged, joining them and grasping Fyfa’s and Lachina’s hands.
“We’re performing a powerful spell—one that affects the wind,” Lachina informed her. “Focus all your energy on commanding the elements. Repeat after me.”
Lachina began to chant a spell in Gaelic, and Astrid repeated the spell along with the other witches in a litany.
Astrid didn’t recognize the spell; she had never attempted such a powerful spell on her own. She closed her eyes and sent out her request to the natural elements that surrounded them, repeating the words of the spell, over and over, until the words became as familiar to her as her name.
“Cluinnidh feachdan nàdair ar feachdan gairm nàdur a ’cluinntinn ar tagradh ag iarraidh feachdan gaoithe, gan toirt a-mach.”
Gradually, the wind picked up around them, responding to their command. Astrid opened her eyes, and though it was dark, she could see two other boats, illuminated by the moonlight, drifting toward the castle—boats that were likely filled with more Norsemen to attack. Astrid poured all of her energy into the spell, imagining that she was propelling the boats away from Domhnall, her love.
“Cluinnidh feachdan nàdair ar feachdan gairm nàdur a ’cluinntinn ar tagradh ag iarraidh feachdan gaoithe, gan toirt a-mach.”
She watched in amazement as the boats struggled against the force of the magic-powered winds, which were pushing them back—away from the castle, away from Barra. Eventually, whoever was steering the boats seemed to give up as the boats began to drift in the opposite direction, no longer fighting against the force of the wind.
Elation rose within her at the sight, elation that quickly dissipated, because she felt it again . . . that sense of darkness that only the presence of an aingidh could usher in.
Panicked, she looked at the other witches, and she could tell by their expressions that they could sense it too.
But they kept chanting, giving power to the Wind spell. Astrid looked northward to the castle, and she could see a heavy fog descending, but only on one part of the shore, the part closest to the castle, where Domhnall and his men would be warding off the Norse. And she knew with a chill that magic had conjured that fog. Dark magic.
“Lachina, it’s Erskina!” Astrid shouted over the force of the wind. “She’s near. I think she’s causing that fog!”
“Aye!” Lachina shouted back, her expression grim. “I ken!”
Lachina ordered the witches to keep chanting and moved away from them, murmuring the words of a spell beneath her breath. After a moment, she repeated it again, and Astrid could tell she was getting frustrated.
Astrid broke away from Fyfa and the other witches, instinctively realizing what Lachina was attempting to do—a Searching spell to pinpoint Erskina’s exact location.
“Let me try,” she said, moving to Lachina’s side, praying that Lachina’s stubborn pride wouldn’t make her refuse. But Lachina said nothing, standing aside and allowing Astrid to hold out her arms, murmuring the words of the Searching spell.
“Thoir an sealladh Erskina thugam.”
A shot of darkness seemed to jolt right into her heart, and she stiffened, her eyes landing on one of the boats that hovered just off the shore. Her magic had just shown her Erskina’s location.
“She’s on that boat!” Astrid shouted. “We need to get to her.”
“You and the others stay here. Keep chanting tae keep any other boats away,” Lachina said. “I’ll Transport myself tae Erskina.”
Before Astrid could protest, Lachina was gone.
Astrid bit her lip, uncertainty flaring. She couldn’t obey Lachina and stay here . . . something in her gut told her this wasn’t Lachina’s fight. She was the one who’d unknowingly sensed Erskina the moment she’d arrived in this time; her magic had alerted her to Erskina’s presence.
Taking a deep, shuddering breath, she uttered the words of the Transport spell to make herself apparate. There was that dizzying blur of darkness that always claimed her whenever she apparated, and she found herself on a boat.
Adrenaline flooding her veins, she looked around. There were no men on the boat, just Lachina and Erskina, hurling spells at each other.
As soon as Astrid appeared, Erskina’s focus turned to her. Her eyes filled with hatred, and she hurled a spell toward her. The force of it tossed Astrid back, slamming her against the side of the boat, sending a fissure of pain down her spine. Erskina stalked toward her, her features taut with fury, opening her mouth to issue a spell. Panic slammed into her chest as some instinct told her it was a Killing spell, and as Erskina shouted the spell—
Lachina hurled herself in front of it, instantly slumping to the boat’s deck as Erskina’s spell struck her, her body going eerily still.
Both panic and rage tore through Astrid, and she stumbled to her feet, shouting an Offensive spell that sent Erskina flying through the air, slamming her against the side of the boat. She then shouted a Binding spell, but Erskina dodged it, raising her hand, and once again Astrid found her throat closing.
As she fought for air, Erskina hurled yet another spell at her, sending Astrid’s body sailing into the air and over the boat’s edge, then plummeting her into the ocean’s dark, churning waters.
Chapter 25
Astrid sank beneath the waves, fighting to breathe, knowing that it was only a matter of time before death claimed her.
Despair gripped her. She had lost; she would never see Domhnall again.
She thought of all she’d overcome since she’d arrived in this time—her self-doubt, her shame, her denial. She hadn’t fought so hard against all of that just to lose to a dark, vengeful witch. With those thoughts, and her love for Domhnall propelling her, Astrid used her waning reserve of strength to silently cast an obscure Flight spell she’d learned from Fyfa—one that Fyfa told her rarely worked. She prayed that it worked now; it was her only hope.
Propel mi suas pro adhair.
Her magic immediately responded to the command of the spell, and she felt the force of her power propelling her body upward, out of the water and onto the deck where she gasped in deep gulps of air.
Once her breathing was steady, she looked around. Erskina was gone, and other than Lachina’s still form, the boat was empty, tossing about on the restless waters. Trembling in her wet gown, she crawled toward Lachina, feeling for a pulse. Relief skittered through when she found one; she’d learned during the past few weeks that Killing spells only killed those it was intended for and wounded anyone else, but Lachina had looked frighteningly still.
She pressed her hand to Lachina’s chest, uttering a Healing spell. Lachina came to with a startled gasp. She looked around, eyes wild, before her frantic gaze settled on Astrid.
“Erskina?”
“Gone,” Astrid said, frustration surging within her. “She almost drowned me and fled.”
“I’m tae weak—ye have tae go after her. Ye have a connection with her that I donnae,” Lachina said firmly.
Their eyes locked, and for the first time since she met her, Astrid saw trust in her eyes—trust in Astrid.
Astrid gave Lachina a nod and got to her feet, a renewed determination in her heart.
She cast a Transport spell to get herself to shore and looked around. The heavy fog had dissipated, likely because Erskina had been preoccupied with fighting Lachina and Astrid. Around her, illuminated only by moonlight, Domhnall’s men fought the Norse, their swords clashing with metallic clangs. She noticed with trepidation that many of Domhnall’s men had been beaten back, and the Norse were now storming the castle. A dark chill coiled around her, alerting her to Erskina’s presence. She was in the castle.
She turned to head toward the castle, but froze when she spotted a familiar form lying on the beach only several yards away from her.
It was Domhnall. He was lying still, his tunic soaked through with blood.
A strangled sob tore from her throat, and she stumbled toward him. She sank to her knees next to him, grief swelling in her chest. He was ashen and
unmoving, and for a moment she was too afraid to reach for his pulse, only to find there wasn’t one. But she forced herself to do it, reaching out a trembling hand to press to the side of his neck.
Relief flooded her like a tsunami at the feel of a pulse; it was there, but weak. But she had to think quickly. Just because he was alive now didn’t mean he would stay that way; he’d lost a great deal of blood.
It was time to put both her medical and her magical knowledge to use. She reached down to her wet gown and tore the very bottom of it off, using it as a tourniquet to wrap around his abdominal area to staunch his bleeding. She mentally reviewed every Healing spell she knew until she thought of the best ones, and pressed her hands to his abdomen, not caring how much this drained her of her magic. Keeping Domhnall alive was more important to her than stopping Erskina, than even her own life.
“Slànaich lotan an duine seo, cuir air ais am fuil.”
Domhnall didn’t stir, and panic rippled through her. Was she too late? Had he already lost too much blood?
“Domhnall!” she shouted, over the sound of clashing swords, roaring wind, and churning ocean waves. “I love you. I love you, and you’re going to live. Do you understand me?”
Tears stinging her eyes, she poured every ounce of her energy, of her love, into the Healing spells, uttering them over and over until her voice was hoarse.
But he remained still.
Astrid let out a sob, resting her head on his chest. Despair and anguish seized her; she couldn’t have traveled back centuries in time to find the love of her life only to lose him.
Through her tears, she felt a hand on her hair. Assuming it was one of Domhnall’s men, she pushed it away, but stilled.
Because the hand belonged to Domhnall.
Domhnall's Honor: A Scottish Time Travel Romance (Highlander Fate, Lairds of the Isles Book 3) Page 13
