The English attacked with such speed that nobody around Dunstaffnage had time to take refuge behind the stone enclosure. While the first battalion rushed forward to the strident sound of the horn, the entrance to the fort descended into chaos as it was located high up and only accessible by a single staircase. A compact crowd pressed together on the stairs in a flurry of shouting and jostling.
Four rows of about ten soldiers each advanced in formation along the coast to the left of the fortress. A horseman directed them from the flank. His red cape flapped behind him in the sea breeze. The first line was equipped with pikes, and all wore metal or leather armor.
“To me!” ordered Alexander MacDougall, to gather the warriors of his clan. “Let’s buy enough time for everyone to take shelter!”
With his claymore drawn and resting on his shoulder, he organized a first line of defense at the base of the fortress. The northern men were less numerous, barely twenty or so, but seemed awfully fierce. Only a few wore real armor, and at best there were a handful of leather breastplates dotted around. All wore the clan tartan, the scarlet color of which stood out against the green shades of the plain and the whitish stone ramparts behind them.
Rather than withdrawing, Sören decided to stay beside the Highlander. As usual, he did not impose his choice on the members of his group, who nevertheless decided to stay and fight and grouped together at the center of the line. Not even Deorsa retreated, to the great astonishment of Fillan, who had always imagined that the spy was more adept at stealth than the sword.
Only Moira and Edan did not stay, because of Edan’s injury. They were the first to join the protective enclosure of the castle, which did not fail to illicit many curses from the injured mercenary.
“Leave me alone!” he yelled. “I’m going to make them pay!”
“Edan, you do what I tell you, otherwise I’ll knock you out with my stick.”
Faced with the druid’s threats, he stopped arguing.
The sound of the English troops’ footsteps approached like the sound of drums.
“Archers!” yelled MacDougall, brandishing his immense sword. “LOOSE!”
From the top of the ramparts, where the clan chief had posted several of his men, the vibration of bowstrings suddenly resounded. A cloud of arrows flew, whistling into the air, to descend among the ranks of their adversaries.
Some arrows hit their targets, who screamed and grabbed at their wounds or simply collapsed. Many arrows merely planted themselves in the ground. Two more volleys followed before the enemy ranks came too close to the clan’s front line.
Ailéas and Fillan stood side by side, equipped with their Fal swords that seemed to glow brighter than all other weapons under the rays of the sun.
There was a shouted order, then the first row of the battalion broke apart to charge at full speed. More howls from warriors followed, brutal, calling for blood and death. Most of the clansmen managed to avoid the tips of the spears, and some even broke the wooden handles in half with one powerful strike.
Within the multitude of attacks and blocks, bathed in cries and fear, there was only crushing and death. Ailéas narrowly dodged the tip of a spear, struck against the wooden rod, and cut off her assailant’s hand. The man screamed as he grabbed his bloody stump, and she took the opportunity to seize the spear from him and thrust it between the ribs.
The new scream was drowned out by the foaming blood.
Barricade your emotions, feel nothing, only be present in the moment: these were the lessons that Bradley had taught her in order to survive the heat of combat. If she thought for even a second, if she doubted, she was finished. The warriors around her were counting on her resilience.
Another Englishman rushed towards her, his sword raised above his head. She thought she recognized him as one of Bradley’s men, who she had known for many months, but immediately blocked that notion from her mind. She stopped him in his tracks by chopping down a leg with the whistle of her blade. The man fainted instantly, collapsing like a rag doll while a reddish wave smeared the bottom of his gambeson.
Fillan also fought fiercely. Two Englishmen had succumbed to his lightning-fast stabbing attacks. A spurt of blood sprayed the side of his head, spreading through his hair and all across his face. He looked like a warrior who had fallen in battle long ago and returned from the Sidh to get his revenge.
Something was different.
He felt it with every blow he landed, every movement of his weapon. More than once he thought he saw his blade gleam slightly, as did his sister’s. When he noticed it, all the hair on his body had stood up at once. The swords of Fal gave off a curious energy that drove him more ferociously into battle. Stranger still, the twin blades seemed to answer each other. The more his sister swirled through the confrontation, the stronger he felt, and the reverse also seemed to be true, as if the breath of the gods permeated them with their power.
Deorsa brushed past him as he fended off a burly knight. Fillan barely had time to see the glint of two curved daggers in the spy’s hands before his opponent collapsed into the reddened grass.
Sören, Kyle, and Fergus danced with their usual agility, plying dodges, kicks, and hasty attacks. The twins momentarily found themselves back-to-back.
“Who are you?” asked Ailéas, turning to her brother with a mocking look. “Get out of my twin’s body!”
“You’re not doing too badly yourself!” he said, waving his blade to clear some of the blood that covered it.
“Am I dreaming, or are you showing off?”
He gave her a slight shrug and laughed before returning to battle. Ailéas did the same, leaping and swinging her sword, its sharp edge cutting through armor as if it were made of paper.
The first wave was repelled without too much difficulty and the last surviving English warriors retreated, preceded by the Lann Fala on horseback.
The clansmen let out victorious howls and brandished their weapons.
“We did well,” MacDougall said, “but they simply came to see what we were worth. We won’t have our advantage for long. These motherfuckers are smart, and they’ll bring their archers or their cavalry. Inside, everyone!”
With order and discipline, everyone headed into the fort. No sooner had they ascended the steps leading to the main gate did the war horn sound a new alarm, announcing the imminence of a new attack. After the large wooden doors were closed, the clan chief masterfully organized its defenses. He posted some of his best swordsmen alongside the archers on the ramparts of the fort, to greet the English soldiers who would climb up there.
The entire inner courtyard was transformed into a knot of tensions and expectations. Despite the protection of the walls, the rhythmic sound of the English footsteps resounded. Fillan and Ailéas wanted to fight it out, but both had the awful feeling of being trapped, awaiting the horror to come, just like during the siege of Berwick. Fillan did not dare to imagine what might happen if the English broke through Dunstaffnage’s defenses. Due to the narrowness of the fort, it could only be a massacre.
Kyle strode over to him and kissed him firmly, to give him courage, to give herself courage, and so that all her clan could see her. Then she cried out, together with all the other warriors, intending to scare the soldiers who would mount an assault on the ramparts.
“Shields!” yelled a soldier from the wall.
Those who possessed them lifted them above their heads, and the others hunkered down against the stone, trying to make themselves as small as possible. A stream of arrows descended, bouncing against the stone or planting into the wood of the shields.
None hit their mark.
Fillan saw Deorsa getting angry with Sören and headed over to find out what it was all about.
“Who do you think you are?” shouted Sören. “May I remind you that we’re stuck here and MacDougall needs our help!”
“If the Templars capture the Stone of Fal, Dunstaffnage and MacDougall will face many other problems—and they won’t be the only ones. You know it as well as I do.”
“What I know is that I should cut you in half, here and now. Your stories, your eternal struggle—I’ve had enough. I’ve already been kind enough to tolerate you on this trip, and look where that got us!”
A clap of thunder, which seemed to shake an entire section of the fort, interrupted him.
“To the doors!” shouted a man from the top of the ramparts. “Barricade the doors! They’ve brought a ram!”
A group of warriors passed between them, and Fillan bowed his head just in time to avoid a plank they were carrying to reinforce the entrance to the fort.
“Sören, you’ve turned your back on the Brotherhood, and that’s up to you, but you know what the Stone represents and the tragedy it would be if it were to fall into the hands of the Order. This is also your heritage, your destiny…”
“Don’t talk to me about destiny.” Sören gritted his teeth and grabbed Deorsa with both hands. “You don’t have the faintest idea what that means.”
“What are you two arguing about?” called Alexander, who approached them, barely out of breath from running everywhere to shout his orders. “We need warriors here, not talkative hens.”
“Alexander, is there a way to quietly leave the fortress?” asked Sören after a few seconds of reflection.
“There’s an old tunnel that leads to the north beach, but are you really planning to run away while the best is yet to come? I know you love a good battle!”
“I’m only doing it because I have no choice,” Sören retorted with a glare in the direction of the spy. “You think you’ll get out without our help?”
“You old gull, what do you take me for, a beginner? There’s only a handful of them. We’ll take a bite out of them and send them back, crying blood into their mothers’ petticoats.”
“I owe you one.”
“You don’t owe me anything. You and your warriors have already lent a hand at the foot of my fortress, when I didn’t even have time to offer you a cut or a loaf of bread. Nothing forced you to stay. I’m the one who owes you, believe me. We will take care of Edan. Where will you go?”
“We must pass through the Isle of Mull.”
“Walk along the beach towards the northern tip; there are boats hidden not far from a grove, if the English haven’t burned them yet.”
After a brief hug, the clan leader ordered one of his men to tell them where the entrance to the tunnel was, then he rushed to the ramparts, at the top of which the first English soldiers were arriving.
The door continued to shake under the onslaught of the ram. They were about to set off, but Kyle didn’t make a move, looking slightly uncomfortable.
“I have to stay to help my clan,” she explained. “I’ve turned my back on it for too long.”
“Me, too,” Fergus announced.
“I understand,” Sören agreed.
“We’ll join you at Iona with reinforcements when we’re done here.”
Sören wished them good luck by gripping their shoulders then turned on his heels, dragging Ailéas, Moira, and the spy behind him.
Kyle and Fillan ended up with only a few seconds of relative intimacy. He handed her Ogme’s pendant.
“I have a feeling you’re going to need it more than I do,” he said.
“You’re wrong. I know what awaits me here: a fight, blood, warriors pissing themselves screaming and dying, and a sure victory, considering what my father said. But you, you have no idea what will be on Iona. Keep it.”
With her fingertips, she closed her hand.
He thanked her with a brief, hurried kiss that tasted like sweat and smelled of all the blood on his face. At least he had taken the initiative for once.
They parted with a shared look of concern.
Once in the tunnel, the clamor of the fight disappeared entirely. They progressed through a narrow conduit that was completely dark and impossible for everyone to stand up straight. Sören led the way, a torch in hand.
Fillan wondered about this hasty retreat as he thought back on their journey. If the English had discovered where the Stone of Fal had been moved to, it only confirmed once again the presence of a traitor in the ranks of the Brotherhood. Furthermore, it had to be a high-ranking traitor, as few knew where the artifact was taken. He himself had only learned of it at Lanark, when Deorsa had mentioned the Isle of Iona.
He thought again of the spy who had not ceased to be an interventionist since their departure from Lanarkshire, seeking a quarrel for any reason, and being generally unsufferable.
A tiny doubt crept into his mind and began to grow to the point of becoming unbearable.
What if Deorsa was the traitor? That would explain all the information, all the advances that the Templars had gained on the Assassins for a year. First in Berwick, then in Scone, in Lanark where a Lann Fala had popped up in the middle of his mission, and now at Dunstaffnage, where the English seemed to be waiting for them.
What if he was only trying to distract them, stirring up the fear that the Stone of Fal might fall into the hands of the Order, to lead them into a trap as MacDougall’s fortress fell?
The thought horrified Fillan and made him stop.
“Well, what’s going on with you?” launched Moira, who returned him to the present. “Move forwards, then!”
He absolutely had to tell someone his fears, but not now: Deorsa was right in front of him.
They exited the tunnel through a concealed gap in the middle of a grove. The beach, battered by the rising waves of the tide, opened before them. By following the directions of Alexander, they got their hands on two small sailing boats hidden under dead branches.
“You four, take this boat and head for the Isle of Mull,” Sören ordered. “Wallace has a garrison of men who will be useful to us, not far from Loch Uisg.”
“And since when do you get to decide everything, all by yourself?” retorted Deorsa.
“If you’d rather I get the fuck out and let you face the Lann Fala alone, don’t hesitate to tell me.”
The spy cursed under his breath.
“Aren’t you coming with us, Sören?” asked Fillan, doing his best to hide the panic in his voice.
“No, I’ll go along the coast to reach Iona directly. I will go much faster alone. Maybe I’ll even get there before the Templars.”
Fillan wanted to yell at his mentor to stop revealing his plans in front of Deorsa, and even more so not to leave without him, but he had no time. Sören approached and grabbed his arm.
“Be on your guard,” he said. “I have a bad feeling about this.”
“I…”
Sören pushed the first ship into the water and unfurled the sail, which the wind blew.
“Don’t delay!” he shouted over the noise of the waves.
Ailéas called her brother to come aboard, and they soon found themselves cleaving the waves of the bay. Back on the peninsula, beyond the grove, the towers of Dunstaffnage appeared. Dark smoke rose from the heart of the fort, growing thicker and thicker.
Fillan wanted to dive into the turbulent waters to join Kyle and help her, but that would have meant leaving his sister with Deorsa.
He clung to the canoe, fighting the apprehension that invaded his mind.