Page 91 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

"And we let hundreds of men walk through our walls without hearing a damn thing."

The words struck harder than the blade against Marcas’s sword.

"They didnae come through the walls," Marcas snapped. "They came through our blind spot."

His gaze swept the corridor. Men were pouring through the far archway now, boots hammering against stone, steel flashing in the torchlight. The castle was no longer a place they were defending from the outside.

The enemy was already inside . Fearchar bared his teeth.

"Then we drive them back out."

Marcas tightened his grip. "Aye."

A MacRath warrior rushed them. Marcas met him head-on.

"MacKinnons!" Fearchar roared. "Hold this corridor!"

Steel rang through the passage as the three warriors surged forward with him.

Marcas struck once, twice, forcing his opponent backwards. The man stumbled against the wall, and Marcas drove his hilt into his jaw before finishing the fight. Another came at him immediately.

There was no time to think about the passage, the walls, or how Cailleach had managed to turn their own castle against them.

Only one thought cut through the noise. Neilina.

He shoved another blade aside.

"Where is she?" he demanded from the warrior that raised his sword at him.

Marcas ducked beneath it and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest, sending him stumbling into the wall. Before he could recover, Marcas’s blade was at his throat.

"I said…where is she!"

The man spat blood at his boots. Marcas shoved him again.

"Where is Neilina?"

The warrior laughed and Marcas struck him down and turned towards the sound that had caught his attention. A scream from far away.

"Neilina!"

He ran. Fearchar caught up with him.

"Where?"

"East wing. I just heard her scream."

They rounded the corner and nearly collided with six MacRath men pouring through the passage.

"Hold them!" Marcas shouted.

Fearchar grabbed his arm.

"Marcas—"

"Hold them!"

He did not wait for an answer. He drove straight into the first man. Their blades met so hard the sound rang through the corridor. Marcas twisted, caught the man’s wrist and forced the sword wide, then drove his own hilt into the man’s face.