Page 161 of Bride of Ice
Colban fell back for only a moment to summon his strength again. But in that splinter of time, disaster struck.
Brand had followed in Colban’s wake. Eager to prove his worth, the lad took advantage of Colban’s instant of retreat and charged the warrior on his own.
Hallie was on his heels.
Brand had cast aside his shield to grasp his sword in both hands. He thrust directly forward with every ounce of his strength, aiming for the vulnerable spot just under the edge of the man’s helm.
He never made it. The edge of the claymore caught his blade, showering sparks as it slid down the length toward Brand’s hands.
Before Colban could move toward him, Hallie intervened.
Lunging forward, she used both hands to crack her blade down on top of the claymore, diverting it just enough so it slipped away from Brand’s weapon—and his wrists.
Colban immediately grabbed the foolhardy lad by the scruff of his chain mail and yanked him back out of the claymore’s path.
Then he turned his attention to Hallie. She was still finishing her downward chop when the madman bent his elbow and struck her in the head with the heavy pommel of his claymore.
Colban’s heart plunged as Hallie fell backwards. He watched helplessly as her helm, dented by the blow, flew off her head and tumbled through the air. His breath caught as her beautiful blonde head hit the ground with a horrific thud. Her eyes shut. Her mouth fell open. Her body stilled.
So shocked was he, he let down his guard.
He hardly felt the kiss of the claymore as it sliced through the chain mail, cotun, and flesh below his ribs. He only felt a slight concern that blood was leaking from his side. That concern was dwarfed by the fear that Hallie was dead. And by the stunned silence on the field, that fear was shared by all.
Even the crazed warrior.
The man staggered, dropping the bloody claymore from his trembling gauntlets.
With an awful sob of horror, he stumbled back and then tore away from the field. Most of the Rivenloch clan chased after him. But he leaped onto an enormous warhorse and rode away at neck-breaking speed.
Colban fell to his knees beside Hallie. His heart pounded against his ribs.
She couldn’t be gone. He refused to believe she was gone.
Yet she lay as still as death.
Even when he brushed her hair back from her face with his gloved hand, she didn’t move. Didn’t speak. Didn’t breathe.
He clapped her lightly on her cheek. Tried to revive her. There was no response.
“Hallie,” he croaked, pressing her hand between his own, praying silently while the crowd whispered in speculation.
“Is she…?” It was Laird Deirdre. She had gone white. Her pale lips trembled.
Beside her, Brand looked on in worry, probably blaming himself. And beyond Brand stood Gellir, as rigid as stone.
Colban shook his head, refusing to consider the possibility. He grasped Hallie’s shoulder and gave it a hard shake. Then another. Then a third. To no avail.
Forgetting his secret identity, he tore off his helm and bent closer. He ignored the gasps of recognition from the crowd, lowering his ear to listen for her breath.
No air issued forth.
He pulled off his gauntlets. In desperation, he wrenched up her shirt of chain mail and tore open the buckles of her cotun. Placing his palms atop her leine in the middle of her chest, he pressed down repeatedly, trying to force her lungs to work.
He paused. There was no response.
“Wake up, Hallie!” he demanded, resuming his pumping.
He paused again. Still no response.
