His Magick Touch

Keiran’s heart jumped against his ribs. “Bluidy-faugh!” He snapped his chin over his shoulder and ordered the MacNeil warriors again, “Heave! Heave!”
Two heartbeats later, the bowsprit broke through the thick mist. He pushed the falcon’s aerial view from his head and watched as Sorcha disappeared into the white waves.
Gasps issued overhead from the topmen perched like gulls in the rigging.
“Oh, Brigid, protect her,” Keiran begged the High Mother Goddess as he unsheathed his weapons—a broadsword, two daggers, and a sgian dubh—tossing them to the deck. His entire body shook as he heeled off his deerskin boots. He couldn’t let her die. Aside from being the queen of his clan, she’d held the key to his heart since she was but ten and six.
“Have ye lost your wits, mon?” Sileas stepped onto the prow, pulling a fur cap tighter over his bushy copper hair. “Ye cannot swim faster than they can row. Besides, you’ll freeze to death afore ye reach her.”
“If they keep rowing, the bow will splinter on the rock. Stop the starboard rowers and turn the Cerridwen around.” Keiran pulled his plaid over his head. “Send a long boat. I’m going after her.” He stepped up on the rail and dove headlong into the frigid water.
His eyes pinched tight. Tiny needles of ice pricked his body, seizing his muscles, but his spirit urged him on. He burst out of the water and spun in circles, searching for her, but could see naught through the mayhem of rolling foam. Tàiseal screeched overhead, and Keiran immediately tapped into the falcon’s vision.
Sorcha clung to the edge of a rock nigh ten feet away from him. A swell broke over her, mocking her efforts to survive, but she was alive.