Chapter 17
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The air in the camp was thick with the scent of damp earth, sweat, and the smoldering embers of dying campfires. The sun had barely begun to rise, casting a muted, grayish glow over the encampment, where hundreds of warriors moved about, preparing for the battle ahead.
Alexander stood at the center of it all, clad in dark leather and chainmail, his broad frame tense as he surveyed the gathered men. Michael stood beside him, his arms crossed, his eyes narrowed as he took in the troops.
The men were as ready as they’d ever be, but something about this fight sat wrong in Alexander’s gut.
“They’re waitin’ for us,” Michael muttered, glancing toward the tree line beyond the open field. “I can feel it.”
“Aye,” Alexander agreed, his voice grim. “It’s too well planned. Too well-timed.”
His jaw tightened as he turned back to the map laid out on the wooden table in the commander’s tent. The makeshift structure flapped slightly in the breeze, the scent of damp canvas mingling with the smoke from the torches burning outside.
He pointed at the valley marked with ink. “They want us funneled here. It’s a trap.”
Michael exhaled sharply through his nose. “And yet we have nay choice but to walk straight into it.”
“Unless we outmaneuver them.”
Michael gave a short laugh. “They’ll see us comin’ from a mile away. If we go through the hills, we risk bein’ flanked. If we go through the valley, we fight on their terms.”
A deep voice cut through their conversation. “There’s more to this than a simple uprising.”
Both men turned to face James, one of the most seasoned warriors among their ranks. He was a large man, with weathered features and graying hair at his temples, his brown eyes sharp with experience. He carried himself with the air of someone who had seen far too many battles and survived them all.
Alexander studied him. “What do ye ken that we dinnae?”
James stepped forward, glancing at the map. “Word’s reached me that the Frasers might have had a hand in this.”
Silence fell over the tent, heavy and sharp.
Michael swore under his breath. “The Frasers?”
James nodded. “Aye. It’s too much of a coincidence. They’ve been stirrin’ unrest for months, seein’ if they could weaken us from within. This uprising, the way it’s been organized, reeks of outside influence. Someone’s fundin’ it. Trainin’ these men.”
Alexander clenched his fists at his sides. “And ye believe it’s the Frasers.”
“I’d wager me life on it.”
Michael ran a hand through his hair. “It makes sense. They’ve been wantin’ to break our hold for years. If they can turn our people against us, then they willnae even need to send their warriors.”
Alexander’s expression darkened. If this was true, if the Frasers were behind this, it was more than an act of rebellion. It was an act of war.
Before he could speak, the sharp blast of a horn cut through the air, the deep sound sending a ripple of tension through the camp. A moment later, a soldier burst into the tent, breathless, his face pale.
“Me Laird!” he gasped. “The enemy—they’re upon us! They’re comin’ with swords and pikes, marchin’ fast!”
Alexander didn’t hesitate. He grabbed his sword from the table and marched out of the tent, his mind already shifting into battle mode.
“To arms!” he bellowed, his voice echoing through the camp.
Men scrambled for their weapons, grabbing shields, tightening armor, and mounting their horses with practiced efficiency. The camp transformed in an instant, no longer a place of rest but a battlefield waiting to be claimed.
Michael was at his side, already moving toward the horses. “We ride now, or we lose before we even start.”
“Aye.” Alexander swung himself up onto his mount, gripping the reins tightly as his warhorse stomped the ground in anticipation.
James rode up beside them, his expression grim. “I’ll take the eastern flank—push them toward the valley. But ye had better be ready for what’s waitin’ on the other side.”
Alexander gave him a curt nod. “We’ll take back control, nay matter what it costs.”
The battlefield was alive with the thunder of hooves and the clash of steel, the cries of men swallowed by the roar of war. Alexander gripped the reins of his stallion tightly, his gaze sweeping over the field as he led the charge.
The enemy soldiers had positioned themselves well, hidden behind the hills, but he had no choice but to meet them head-on. His men followed, loyal and fearless, their swords gleaming beneath the waning sun.
“Hold fast!” Alexander shouted, his voice carrying above the din. “Push forward, dinnae break formation!”
Michael rode beside him, his sword already stained with blood. “This is a trap,” he growled. “I can feel it in me bones.”
“Aye,” Alexander muttered, scanning the tree line ahead. The enemy was too well-positioned, too prepared. The ambush had been waiting for them. “We have nay choice now. We fight our way through.”
Before Michael could respond, the first volley of arrows sliced through the air. The whistling sound was drowned out by the screams of men as the deadly shafts found their marks. Horses reared, riders fell, and the battlefield erupted into chaos.
Alexander felt a rush of fury. He yanked his sword out of its sheath and lifted it above his head. “Ride them down!”
His warhorse surged forward, its powerful hooves trampling over the fallen as he carved his way into the enemy lines.
Blades clashed, steel met steel, and the air grew thick with the stench of blood and sweat. He slit a man’s throat, his movements quick and precise. But there were too many of them, and they were being hemmed in.
A second volley of arrows came. Alexander ducked low, but his horse reared violently as a shaft struck its flank. With a sickening lurch, he was thrown off the saddle.
The impact rattled through his bones, the air knocked out of his lungs as he hit the dirt.
He rolled swiftly, narrowly avoiding a blade that struck the ground beside him.
He was up in an instant, his sword raised as an enemy soldier came at him.
Their blades clashed, the force sending tremors up his arm, but Alexander drove forward, shoving the man back before burying his sword in his gut.
Michael’s voice rang through the chaos. “Alexander!”
But there was no time to look. Another warrior lunged at him, then another. He parried, his movements swift and precise, but fatigue was beginning to weigh on him. The enemy pressed in, and though his men fought valiantly, they were outnumbered.
Then, he felt pain. Sharp, burning, deep pain.
Alexander staggered as an arrow struck his ribs. His vision blurred for a moment, his breath catching as fire spread through his side. He gritted his teeth, gripping the shaft and snapping the end off before another attacker rushed at him.
He fought through the pain, slicing the man’s throat, but his movements were growing sluggish.
Michael reached him then, his face tight with alarm. “Ye’ve been hit!”
“I ken that,” Alexander gritted out, swinging his sword to block another attack.
Michael swore. “We need to get ye out of here.”
“Nay,” Alexander rasped, but even as he spoke, his knees nearly buckled.
Michael caught him by the arm. “Ye cannae fight like this. James!”
The burly soldier turned around at the call, his face streaked with dirt and blood. “Aye, Michael?”
“Take command,” Michael ordered. “Hold the line. Push them back if ye can.”
James gave a sharp nod. “Aye.”
“Nay! We fight on!” Alexander insisted, pushing himself further into the fray.
The battle was becoming dense, the rain falling and drenching everything around them. But Alexander kept going, hearing nothing but the cries of men, the swinging of swords, and the clash of steel.
The battle around him seemed to become quieter as he pushed on, and soon James was yelling for the men to capture the prisoners.
The battle was finally drawing to a close, and Alexander paused, catching his breath in the muck and blood.
That was when he gave in, falling to his knees, exhaustion overwhelming him.
Michael did not wait. He wrapped his arm around Alexander, half-dragging him toward the horses nearby. The pain in Alexander’s ribs worsened with every step, his breath coming short and ragged. His mind screamed at him to stay, to fight, but his body betrayed him.
Michael shoved him toward his mount. “Up, now.”
Alexander barely managed to swing himself up into the saddle. His vision swam, his grip on the reins weak. Michael mounted the horse beside him, cast one last glance at the battlefield, and spurred his horse forward.
They rode hard, the wind whipping at them as they raced toward the castle. The battlefield faded behind them, but Alexander could still hear the horn of retreat and the cries of the dying.
Something else was wrong. More than the ambush, more than the wound in his side.
His body felt strange, heavy, as if the very blood in his veins was thickening. He blinked hard, shaking his head to clear the fog creeping into his mind, but it did him little good.
Michael rode close, his voice distant. “Stay awake, Alexander.”
Alexander grunted in response, his fingers tightening around the reins, but his grip slipped, his body swaying. The trees blurred around him, the world spinning dangerously.
Michael reached for him. “Dinnae do this. Stay awake!”
Alexander’s vision darkened. The last thing he felt was the warmth of the blood trickling down his side before the world turned black.