Page 135 of The Speed of Lightning
Lightning pointed at the axeman, shouting the command, “Watch!”
Bog’s strides pivoted slightly right.
“Chase!”
The dog took off, charging ahead, his eyes locked.
The block was righted.
Pandemonium unfolded before him, obscuring the clear path he needed to save her.
A guard seized Poet by the throat, forcing her down toward the groove.
Fury ignited in Lightning’s chest, burning up through his lungs until it burst out in a howl that shook him to the marrow.Poet’s chin tilted, her eyes found him—and then her neck was pressed down.
Her scream tore him in two. His mate’s call, desperate and helpless, crying out for him. It was the incendiary he needed. Power exploded through his legs, breath filling him, feet flying as though God himself had spoken him into motion.
Arms pumping, strides lengthening, he cut through the crowd. On the scaffold, the guard bellowed at the axeman, leaning hard on Poet to pin her. Lightning locked onto his target. The axeman raised his weapon high just as Bog sprang from the steps as if loosed from a bowstring. He struck like a stag-hound at the kill, jaws clamping the guard’s forearm, ripping flesh from bone. The man’s scream split the air, and the axe fell from his hand, ringing on the scaffold as Bog dragged him down.
Lightning bounded up the steps and slammed into the guard pinning Poet, his shoulder driving the man back. His hand shot to the dagger at the guard’s thigh, ripping it free, and with a savage thrust he buried it in the man’s chest. The man cried out, and Lightning heaved with his aching legs, throwing him off. He whirled and snatched the axe from where it had fallen on the platform. With a roar, he brought it down in a cleaving arc, felling the guard in a single stroke. Pivoting, he swung through with brutal momentum, ending the axeman before he could recover from Bog’s strike.
Spinning again, Lightning braced for another attack—but the last guards were already fleeing, racing toward the king’s platform. Beithir thundered up the stairs, his face shuttered by the cold, hard mask of the berserker.
The king had already bolted, Fingon scrambling at his heels. But the Wolf lingered. His gaze fixed on Hector, not with surprise but with the cold recognition of an auld enemy. Fury smoldered there, the unspoken promise of another reckoning.Then, with a final glare, he leapt from the platform and ran for the woods, his guards closing around him.
Hector roared. He lifted his axe, aimed, and it flew.
The axe spun end over end through the air and struck true, sinking deep into the Wolf’s shoulder. His scream split the green, sharp and guttural, carrying over the clamor of battle. For a heartbeat the Wolf staggered, eyes flashing with hatred, before his guards closed in, dragging him back beneath the cover of their raised shields.
Hector surged forward, as if he might tear the man apart with his bare hands and finish what he had spared years ago, but the Wolf vanished into the cover of the woods, his retreat as defiant as his cry.
Behind them the Spirithorde thundered in pursuit, their war-cries shaking the air as they cut down straggling caterans one by one, avenging the blood the men had spilled upon their shores. The clash of steel rang out, the flight of the enemy scattering toward the trees.
Lightning turned—and there was Poet, still kneeling at the block, shaking. The axe clattered from his hand as he crashed into her, dragging her against him. She buried her face in his neck, her sobs flaying his heart.
He pulled her back, his hands trembling as they framed her face. She was battered, bruised, cut—but her eyes still burned with their starbursts of blue, green, and gold. The sight nearly undid him. He kissed her, hard, desperate, every ounce of love and fear and disbelief exploding out of him like black powder. His chest heaved as he clung to her, terrified she might vanish if he let go.
She held his cheeks in her hands. “It’s you.”
“Aye, it’s me, mo rionnag. I would never leave you. I would follow you to the death.”
She shook her head, fingers brushing the scar above his lip, then the bead woven into his fletter. “No. It’s you.My lad.My Calum.”
He held her tight and kissed her softly in surrender, a vow of allegiance written on his lips. She was his Freya. And he would choose her again, and again, and again. Until his last breath, he would keep her. Nothing else mattered.
Down the crooked path that wound past the smithy, Charger, Birdy, and Lion thundered, three riderless horses tethered behind.
Rock vaulted onto the platform and thrust out a hand to Cota Liath, who sat slumped and wide-eyed against the headman’s block. “Come on. We’ve not much time.”
Beithir swung in beside him, bracing under Cota Liath’s arm to help Rock haul the slender man upright. “We’ve got you.”
Lightning gathered Poet into his arms, unwilling to let her go. He ran for the horses, lifted her up, and swung into the saddle behind her. Beithir mounted Ghoustie, then reached back as Rock heaved a groaning Cota Liath into his grasp.
Beithir settled Cota Liath against him, cradling him with ease, his hulking form making the man look like his bairn.
“I hope ye dinnae mind. It’s only for a short distance. Then we’ve a cart to take ye the rest of the way.”
Cota Liath nodded, pain shadowing his eyes. “I’ll manage. Just go.”
