Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Marcus’ horse thundered through the dense forest, its hooves pounding against the earth. The shadows of the trees blurred past as he leaned low over the horse’s mane, urging it faster. Behind him, the shouts of the assassins echoed, growing louder with every heartbeat.
He cast a glance over his shoulder, his sharp eyes catching movement in the gloom.
“Blast it all,” Marcus muttered under his breath, his jaw tightening.
Marcus’ mind churned with bitter thoughts as he pressed onward through the thick forest, the chill of the wind biting at his face. He couldn’t help but curse his own reckless nature, the same flaw his father had always warned him about.
“A laird must think before he acts, lad,” his father’s voice echoed in his memory, stern yet patient.
“Yer temper is a weapon, but only if ye control it. Otherwise, it’ll be the end of ye.”
How true those words seemed now. Being chased through the countryside on his own lands had been of his own doing. His horse under him raced with a panic they both shared as they weaved in out of trees, staying off the road in order to attempt to lose their persuers.
“Faster,” he urged, leaning forward into his horse’s ear.
The horse bolted forward as they darted out of the trees and across a patch of Highland moor.
“There! Catch up to him!” voices shouted behind him.
Marcus knew it was dangerous to leave the woods, but crossing the moor was a strategic move.
The uneven terrain could cause the men that chased him to lose a rider or two while he manuevered his horse flawlessly through it with skills that had been honed by the best teachers in the region.
The moor was a gamble, and Marcus knew it needed to pay off after the choice he made.
He had decided to ride to the McArthurs alone, determined to prove his sincerity and set matters right. Accusations of sending men to attack their villages were swirling, and the fragile alliance between their clans teetered on the brink of collapse.
Marcus knew he wasn’t behind the attacks, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone in the shadows was pulling strings to pit them against one another.
His gut told him that this was no coincidence.
Going alone had felt like the best way to show his honesty.
No guards, no pretense—just himself and the truth.
But his plan had unraveled the moment the ambush came. Out of nowhere, masked riders emerged from the trees, their blades gleaming.
It was a brash move on me part with me rage taking hold and leading me. Was Ian right to doubt me? Was me leadership of the clan questionable because of an insatiable urge for danger?
The question clawed at him as relentless as the riders who now pursued him. His cousin’s scathing words rang in his ears, accusing him of rashness and questioning his worth as a leader. Marcus clenched his jaw. He hated to admit it, but Ian wasn’t entirely wrong.
He should have consulted the council before riding off. Instead, his temper had driven him to act impulsively, and now here he was—hunted.
“I see him! He’s across the moor, heading into the woodland!” the voices echoed behind him just as Marcus reached the edge of the moor and raced into another wooded area.
Marcus was relieved to ride into the thick of the woods once more. He was not familiar with this patch which had him on edge. He slowed and turned his horse in a circle, catching sight of the hills to his left. He knew that to be the way back, so he raced in that direction.
The forest thinned suddenly, and Marcus found himself in a clearing. A flicker of relief was quickly extinguished as figures emerged from the shadows, blocking his path. His horse reared as an arrow thudded into the ground at its hooves, and Marcus was thrown to the ground with a grunt.
He rolled to his feet, his hand instinctively flying to the hilt of his sword.
“We circled around. Ye were not expecting that, were ye?” one of the assailants mocked.
“Nay, he’s nae from these parts, and it shows,” another man sneered.
“Come on then, ye skulking bampots,” Marcus growled, his voice low and steady as he rolled to his feet and brandished his sword.
His eyes darted between his assailants, three of them now circling like wolves.
“I’ll send ye back in pieces,” he added, his tone sharp and unyielding.
The first man lunged, and Marcus sidestepped swiftly, bringing his sword up in a sharp arc. Steel clashed against steel, the sound reverberating through the clearing.
“Is this all ye’ve got?” Marcus sneered, shoving his opponent back with brute force.
“I’ve fought lads twice yer size who had more courage!” the attacker taunted, his voice filled with scorn.
The man growled and swung again, but Marcus was quicker, delivering a precise blow to the man’s arm, disarming him. A swift kick to the chest sent him sprawling into the dirt.
The second assailant came at him with a wicked grin and a heavy axe. Marcus ducked the first swing, the blade whistling inches from his head.
“Ye swing like a drunken farmer,” the axe wielder taunted, his tone mocking and disdainful.
Marcus slashed his sword across the man’s side before he could recover. The assailant howled in pain, staggering back.
“Go on then, crawl back to whatever hole ye came from,” Marcus spat, his words laced with venom.
The man fell silent, collapsing in a heap. There was no time to catch his breath before the third attacker charged, bellowing a curse.
“Ye should’ve stayed away,” the man hissed, his voice dripping with malice.
Marcus gritted his teeth, his strength surging as he shoved the man away.
“And ye should’ve stayed in yer mother’s skirts,” Marcus retorted, his words cutting as his blade lashed out.
As the final assailant stumbled, Marcus stepped in for the finishing blow, but the rogue, with a desperate burst of energy, slashed wildly, his blade slicing into Marcus’ side. Pain flared hot and sharp, but Marcus didn’t flinch.
“Nae today,” he growled, his voice guttural and raw with determination.
With a roar, he brought the hilt of his sword down on the man’s head, the blow dropping him like a stone.
Breathing hard, Marcus staggered back, his hand pressing against the wound at his side.
Blood seeped through his fingers, but his eyes remained sharp, scanning the clearing for any sign of more attackers.
Marcus gritted his teeth against the searing pain in his side, his hand pressing firmly against the wound. His blood flowed, hot and sticky, staining his tunic and dripping onto his saddle as he mounted his horse.
“Damn the lot of ye,” he growled under his breath, the throbbing ache in his side making every breath labored.
Straightening with effort, he urged his horse forward though his strength was waning. The world blurred slightly at the edges, the trees around him seeming to sway unnaturally.
“Hold it together, lad,” he murmured to his steed, his voice hoarse and strained.
He tugged at his kilt, pulling it high enough so that the belt now sat over the wound. He groaned in pain, but it would help stop the bleeding a little. A makeshift bandage for the time being.
The ride was grueling, the air biting against his clammy skin.
He clung to the reins, his body slumped forward over the horse’s neck as dizziness threatened to pull him under.
Each hoofbeat jarred his injury, sending fresh waves of agony through his torso.
He closed his eyes, and everything went black.
The darkness that engulfed Marcus was not silent. Instead, it echoed with thoughts of his father.
Faither would be angered to the hills if he saw me now. After all his training… after all his warnings to always have a man at me side, I ignored them and went on me own.
Marcus had started his training at a young age like all men of the clan. However, he had been trained by the Laird, his father, a fierce warrior, and he became a skilled warrior himself, never backing down from a fight. Sometimes even relishing in a good brawl every now and then.
The horse moved forward, climbing over some fallen limbs that jolted Marcus in the saddle, and his eyes opened.
He looked around at the unfamiliar terrain.
He gritted his teeth and adjusted his seat in the saddle.
The weight of his father’s expectations spurred him onward as he thought about how his father would encourage him in this hour.
Faither would say, “Fight for what matters, lad; fight for it with everything ye’ve got. Fight!”
The words jarred him into action. He cursed again, his words slurred as his blood loss began to take its toll.
He raised his head and looked in the distance on all sides, then he saw black smoke rising in the distance.
He had no choice but to urge his horse in that direction and hope the smoke was from a chimney of a friendly cottage and not the smoke of a campfire with raiders sitting around it.
If he faced the enemy now, he would die.
The horse trudged on, and Marcus kicked his heels into the horse to make it go faster. The pain seared through him with the movement. However his choice was to take it slow and hence take more time and possibly lose all his blood, or move faster, bear the pain, and arrive on time to save his life.
Just as he feared he would pass out in the saddle, the faint view of a village appeared in the distance. Relief warred with despair as he realized he’d never make it to the heart of the settlement.
A single cottage stood on the outskirts, its windows glowing faintly with warm light. Marcus directed his horse toward it, each movement requiring immense effort.
“That is our way,” he said. The horse followed the order.
By the time he reached the door, his vision was narrowing to a pinpoint, darkness clawing at the edges.
Sliding clumsily off his horse, he stumbled to the door.
His moves were so heavy, he fumbled against the door with a loud thud.
His knuckles barely rapped against it with the last of his strength.
No longer able to hold himself, he slid down to the cold ground.
I made it faither. I am in the hands of whoever is on the other side of the door.
The door opened, and through the haze of his exhaustion, Marcus saw her.
An angel.
His mind grew sluggish as he took in her beauty glowing in the light and her soft eyes, wide with surprise.
Surely, I’ve died.
Her voice broke through the haze, clear and melodic, wrapping around him like a soothing balm. The words carried him briefly, like a lifeline, though he couldn’t shake the wariness clawing at his fading consciousness.
Wold this woman save him, or would she bring doom?
The thought flitted dimly through his mind as his eyes closed, not knowing if he had found help or walked right into a trap.
“Maither, come quick! He’s gravely wounded!” the lass called out, urgency lacing her words.
Marcus felt hands against him, soft yet steady, guiding his crumpling body.
His thoughts were cut short as the darkness swallowed him whole, her voice the last tether to a world he could no longer hold onto, but being the Laird he was, his last thoughts were of his people.
If I die, I pray for protection of me clan from what’s to come.