Total pages in book: 34
Estimated words: 32259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 32259 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 161(@200wpm)___ 129(@250wpm)___ 108(@300wpm)
My blood boils at the thought of my enemies being so bold as to think they could walk through my fucking front door and take what’s mine. My hand tightens on the leather handle of my sword, and my heart steals itself for battle. I’ve got four men guarding the door to my quarters—good, loyal, strong men. Men who I know would fall on their own swords before allowing harm to come to Una. And knowing that is the only thing that’s gotten me down here, ready for battle instead of up there guarding her.
Up ahead, I can hear the pitched sound of men roaring, and iron clanging together. My jaw tightens, I grip the sword tight, and I go barreling out of the stairwell into the courtyard.
Gods…
Men are fighting all over the damn place. The intruders haven’t gotten the main gates open, but they’ve gotten one or two side-doors open from the inside, and it’s around these that the battles are being fought. Off to the side, the roof of one of the stables is ablaze—flames licking high on the stone walls as stable hands rush to free the screaming horses.
I take a deep, measured breath. There’s no panic. No falling apart. Nothing but my trained senses taking it all in and strategizing where to go first. My eyes lock on one of the side-doors, half smashed off its hinges with savage looking Vikings rushing through. And there, planted right in front of it with their swords swinging and battle cries on their lips, are Callum and Malcolm.
My eyes narrow, my hand tightens on my sword, and I rush in. I give them both a double-clap on the shoulders, alerting them to my presence and letting them know it’s me as I join them in facing the horde rushing through the door.
“Happy wedding,” Callum hisses, roaring as he swings his sword down, cleaving through a screaming Viking.
“Now, Hamish,” Malcolm grunts, blocking a blow from another marauder before kneeing the man in the gut, sending him crashing to the ground. His sword follows, silencing the would-be conqueror.
“I must admit, I came expecting drink, food, perhaps some dancing. Hopefully some pretty lasses to warm my lap.” He turns, shaking his head as he sighs dramatically. “I feel as though you might have warned us about the ‘pitched battle’ part of the festivities. I might have worn different boots.”
Laughing might seem out of place at the moment, but I do it anyways, chuckling at my friend as I parry a blow from one of the raiders and shove my sword through his gut. Only Malcolm would bring sarcasm to a pitched battle.
The three of us rush forward, roaring as we shove the Vikings back—hacking and slashing and grunting as we begin to stem the tide of marauders streaming through the door. Callum turns, roaring orders at some of my men and beckoning them as Mal and I shove the last few Vikings back through the broken door frame. My men come rushing over, and with Callum’s direction, they begin to shove one of the stable wagons across the courtyard. We all dig our heels into the dirt and grunt, heaving and shoving, until finally, the damn thing tips onto its side, totally blocking the doorway as it crumples.
Across the courtyard, the other door is being secured, and I grin savagely as I watch the other flanking force of Viking marauders begin to retreat.
“Hamish!”
I whirl, following Malcolm’s finger up to the high tower—my quarters. There’s a scream, and suddenly a figure of a man dressed in Viking garb goes crashing through one of the high windows, tumbling through the air to land with a sickening crunch on the roof of my armory.
I shoot one look at my friends before suddenly, I’m off, running faster than I’ve ever run before. And I’m roaring like a beast as I storm the curved stairway up the tower, my blood thundering like waves against the cliffs through my veins as I charge, my sword thirty for blood. I round the last turn and bolt down the hallway, the sounds of men yelling and….
My heart stops,
…It’s the sound of Una, screaming.
I bellow a roar, rounding the corner and lunging into the fray. The four men I’ve left to guard Una are dead, but so are about ten Vikings—eleven if you count the one that went flying through the window. The remaining dozen or so are clamoring at the door to my chambers, slashing at it with swords as they hurl crudeness at her.
At my queen.
I see red. I see blood, and rage, and hatred as I rush into them, bellowing like a wild beast. My sword claims two of them before they even know what’s hit them. I take two more souls as they try and turn to rally against me. And by the time they start to rush me, I’ve cut another one in two.