But the assault had come in pairs, and Tamhas, never one to cower in the shadow of his older brother’s renown, took on the second invader—a younger, broad-shouldered man in a patched leather tunic.
Tamhas felt the thud of adrenaline as his training took over, the lessons between him and his brother and their friend Chief Alasdair, and the workouts at Hamish’s castle. He moved low, forcing the attacker off-balance, using the close walls to his advantage.
Fury and fear mingled in Tamhas’s chest; with each blow he blocked or landed, a well-wielded attack.
Even as Tamhas drove the younger man back, he saw out of the corner of his eye the gray-bearded leader feign a fall back, then smash the guard of Hamish aside with a vicious upward strike. Hamish grunted, staggered, then countered with the blunt hilt of his sword to the man’s temple.
The gray-bearded man reeled, grabbing Hamish’s wrist and twisting, sending the blade clattering against the flagstones. For a heartbeat, Hamish and his foe were locked in a bare-knuckled struggle, years of grudges compressed into the press of bone and sinew.
Aisling’s bark, sharp and raw, cut through the din. Tamhas’s mind snapped back to her as he realized the younger attacker had stopped feinting and was now trying to bull his way past him, desperate to reach Coinneach’s chamber door.
Tamhas planted his feet and lunged, slicing a shallow gash across his opponent’s thigh. Blood welled, and the man fell to one knee, cursing as he swung his sword in a wild arc. Tamhas ducked it, then brought the pommel of his weapon down on the man’s collarbone, the sickening crunch followed by a spasm of pain that left the attacker howling and clutching at his own arm.
The passage narrowed, the fighting tightening into a series of short, brutal exchanges. The gray-bearded man, sensing his comrade’s distress, disengaged from Hamish with a shoving kick and turned his attention to Tamhas. Tamhas found himself backing up, forced into a defensive crouch as both men now advanced on him.
It was then that the door to Coinneach and Aisling’s room shuddered, and Tamhas realized with a cold certainty that the only thing between the intruders and his brother was the thickness of the wood and his own resolve.
He gritted his teeth and dug in his heels, refusing to give up even an inch of ground. Boldly and decisively, Tamhas thrust his sword at the second man’s chest. Unprepared for the sudden onslaught, the man took the brunt of the sword straight through his heart. He collapsed on the stone floor in a muddled heap.
The third man, Collum’s target, was a burly, freckled brute, hair the color of wet straw plastered to his brow with sweat and blood—a man who had taken the oath with Hamish earlier that day, and now, had drawn steel on his erstwhile liege.
Collum’s loyalty to his family was a blind spot, a place in his mind that glowed like a hot coal, and to see it betrayed made him savage. He sliced at the man's chest, knocking his opponent back against a wall where he bounced and sprawled, wheezing, dropping his own sword.
Then the man went after Collum with the knife he kept hidden in his boot, the blade trembling in his big, white-knuckled fist.
The man fought back, dirty and desperate, stabbing at Collum’s belly, but Collum was relentless. He leapt out of the way and sliced him with his sword, but it was not fatal. When the man tried to scream for quarter, Collum shoved his forearm into the man’s mouth and drove the sword into his lower belly, twisting until the man stopped struggling.
A sob of air left the traitor, and he slumped against the stone wall. Collum straightened and looked for another foe, his face whiter than ever, his mouth a thin, trembling line.
Meanwhile, Magnus tried to reach the fourth man—another traitor, another oathbreaker—but he was hemmed in behind a press of bodies, limbs, and torsos writhing in the glow of the torches, too many arms swinging swords, too many feet tripping him up. Every time he tried to break free, someone else crashed into his path.
He must have bitten his cheek or tongue and spat blood and cursed, swinging Aisling’ssgian dubh, trying to reach the unengaged fourth man, who seemed to be considering his options. But always the fourth man slipped away, always just out of reach, as if the fight itself conspired to keep Magnus from settling the score.
Aisling hadn’t wanted Magnus to fight against the men who were warrior-trained. He wasn’t trained in the art of fighting. Just as a farmer, handy with a pitchfork.
Above the din in the narrow rocky hallway, Coinneach was at the door, looking intent on joining the fight, hoping to strike at the first man Hamish was fighting. She barked at Coinneach, voice sharp as a thrown axe, telling him to stay out of it, to get back, that he was still healing, and did he want to die for nothing? The other men could handle this. He had nothing to prove.
Coinneach ignored her, his face twisted with the kind of stubbornness that looked like pain, and that was part of why sheloved him; he could never be controlled. Even as she watched, wishing she could reach him, Coinneach managed to strike the brigand in the side with his well-honed Viking sword, then tried to stagger toward the traitor again.
As all this unfolded, Hamish continued to battle the first man. Their fight was a blur of glinting metal and ragged breathing. They were evenly matched, both quick and both skilled, the clatter of their blades ringing out.
Hamish had already scored several shallow cuts on the man’s arms and chest, and blood was running in bright rivulets down the traitor's side. But Hamish was not untouched. He had taken a cut to his cheek—a lucky, grazing swipe that had opened a red mouth from his ear to the corner of his lips. Blood seeped down his jaw and onto his chest, but he didn’t notice or didn’t care.
The traitor, emboldened by the sight of Hamish’s blood, pressed the attack, hacking at Hamish with a two-handed grip, trying to break the lord’s guard. But Hamish was too clever; he sidestepped, parried, and closed in, slapping the man’s blade away and driving his own sword into the hollow just below the ribs. The traitor gasped, his eyes widening, and Hamish stepped back, letting him fall.
Hamish said to Coinneach, “Return to your chamber. We’ve got this.”
The fourth man was fully engaged by several of the married men. He didn’t stand a chance.
They drove the fourth man, the traitor, up against the far wall. Several of Hamish’s men stabbed him in the abdomen while he cried out, fell to the floor, and died.
“Dress and get rid of them,” Hamish said, since some of the men were barely wearing anything.
“Aye, my laird.” Still, they dragged the men out of the way, down the stairs to where the couples’ chambers were, and leftthem at the entrance, before they dressed and dragged them the rest of the way down the stairs.
Niven dashed past them to inform Blair to take care of anyone who was hurt.
Thankfully, almost everyone who had fought the men had minor sword cuts. Hamish needed stitches, but with their healing genetics, the scar would heal up and be gone in a few days. Magnus grumbled about not getting a chance to fight the vermin. Elspeth had shifted, dressed, and came out of the chamber that they were staying in, courtesy of Hamish, and took Magnus’s hand and led him back to bed.
