Chapter One #2
The massive man changed his stance and adjusted his grip, announcing not only that he was about to attack, but how.
Believing his size compensated for his lack of skill, the giant swung wide, and Conan easily dodged the blade before thrusting his sword up and at an angle, forcing the large man to stumble backward.
“I’ll ask one more time. What do you want with me?” Conan knew he was giving the man time to regain his balance, but he wanted him to feel empowered enough to answer his question.
“I don’t want anything,” the giant snorted. “All I know and all I care about is the coin being offered to the one who finds the man who bathes in this loch and wears that tartan. That seems to be you.”
Conan’s eyes widened in shock hearing the flimsy description. They could be looking for anyone. “These are McTiernay lands. Anyone bathing here would be wearing a McTiernay tartan,” he retorted.
The large man sniggered. “We’ve been here weeks. No one ever comes to this loch. That is, until you.”
Conan inwardly groaned. Whoever this giant mercenary was looking for, it was not him.
It probably was not even a McTiernay. That he was even here was sheer coincidence and prompted by his miserable attempt to prove to his sister-in-law that he was not someone willing to address any whim she had, even if she was Lady McTiernay.
That was his brother’s job. Conor was laird and Laurel was his wife.
“This is my first time at this loch. I’m not who you want,” Conan stated unequivocally, still clinging to a little bit of hope that this could end without bloodshed.
“Maybe not.” The large man gave a half-hearted shrug. “Don’t matter. You’re coming with us, and that dull blade isn’t going to stop me from making that happen.”
Conan exhaled, all hope gone. His trip was ruined, and the possibility of studying the area any further was as dead as the man in front of him was going to be.
Conan cursed under his breath. He really was not looking forward to bringing a colossal, fetid corpse with him for the remainder of his journey.
The man grinned, largely this time, exposing rotten and missing teeth. Then, with none of the speed necessary to make his thrust effective, he attacked. Conan easily blocked him. He took several steps back, knowing a quick way he could end this battle victoriously despite using a dull blade.
The man took the bait. He raised his sword high above his head and surged forward, preparing to put all his weight behind his downward thrust, knowing it would be impossible to block.
Only at the very last moment did he realize that Conan had no intention of blocking his attack and instead had planted his feet.
With a single lunge, Conan impaled the man’s stomach so that his arm dropped as he fell forward.
The dull tip pierced his chest all the way through his back.
The sound of hooves riding away captured Conan’s attention.
He spotted the bright red hair of the dead man’s companion as it disappeared behind the large rocks that partially surrounded the small loch.
Conan groaned. He could go after the man and had no doubt of his ability to catch him eventually, but it would not be until after nightfall.
And when he did, Conan was not sure what good it would do.
The coward knew nothing more and was undoubtedly stupid enough to attack rather than answer questions if confronted.
The only thing almost guaranteed in a pursuit was that he would have two bodies to carry back to Cole’s.
Conan knelt down and stared at the immense man as he took his dying breath.
He studied the man’s filthy tartan and thanked God he had not killed a MacCoinnich—even if the man had deserved it.
There were dozens of small clans that ran up Scotland’s western coastline and he knew very few of them, but like the McTiernays, the MacCoinnich clan was well known, just as large, and arguably almost as powerful.
While Laird MacCoinnich and Conor respected each other, neither felt inclined to be anything more than civil toward the other.
Conan took one more look at the dead man and wished he had asked for the name of the one who actually sent him and his friend.
He wondered just why they were so interested in the man who supposedly regularly visited this remote area.
While the loch was nestled on the far eastern edge of his brother Cole’s territory, he had not seen signs of someone living this far out.
It was cold, rocky, and impossible to farm, and had practically nothing for cattle to graze on.
Most clansmen lived closer to Fàire Creachann, Cole’s home.
The castle was set on a stretch of land that extended out into the blue waters of Loch Torridon, where one could glimpse the An Cuan Sgìth, the strait of sea separating the homeland from its islands.
With only one access point, it was protected by the sea with enormous cliffs on almost all sides and therefore nearly impenetrable to attackers.
Living close to the fortress gave clansmen protection.
This loch was so far from Fàire Creachann, it was highly unlikely his attackers were looking for an actual McTiernay.
Whoever swam in these waters was probably a squatter, a nomad, or even a thief.
He could have just found a McTiernay tartan and been using it as his own, thinking the appearance of being aligned with a powerful clan beneficial.
Conan put his hand on his knee and pushed himself back up to his feet.
Speculating was a waste of time. Cole was his best chance of learning who had attacked him and why.
As the third brother and McTiernay laird for this region of the Torridon Hills, Cole knew the tartans of all the larger clans in the area, and hopefully a majority of the smaller ones.
Conan went to the shore and quickly washed the blood off his arms and stomach.
He then walked over to the boulder where his clothes lay drying and yanked on his leine.
He grabbed his tartan and belt and was about to put them on when he spied the dead body near the shoreline.
The man reeked. Everything about him was dirty, and Conan did not relish hauling his corpse up onto his horse.
One puffy hand floated in the water, and Conan considered rolling the mass into the water and rinsing it off in an effort to help reduce the stench.
“Damn you, Laurel,” Conan hissed and pulled off his leine so that he was naked once more.
The idea of the man’s dirt and grime on his skin was enough to turn his stomach, but unlike his clothes, his body was easy to wash and quickly dried.
Grabbing his sword, he went off to find the man’s horse.
Minutes later, he returned, glad that it had been easy to locate with reins wrapped around the tree.
It also served as further proof that the dead man’s companion had been an idiot since he had not freed the animal when he was making his own getaway.
Using rope, ingenuity, and a lot of energy and strength, Conan managed to get the large dead bulk lying across the saddle.
After tying the body down so that it would not slide off, Conan once again headed toward the loch’s shore and dived into the icy waters, thinking of ways he might take revenge on his sister-in-law without it costing him his own life.
Nestled high within the Torridon Hills, Loch Coire Fionnaraich’s waters were always cold, but right now, its cool temperature felt soothing after the exhausting hour he had spent in the abnormally hot sun.
Scotland’s fall weather could be unpredictable, bringing in cold winds or even seemingly ceaseless rains, but for the past few days, it had felt more like August than October.
It had been perfect for trekking and plotting out the mountains that lay between the McTiernay and MacCoinnich borders.
Conan broke the water’s surface and took a deep breath, feeling slightly better.
He did not really want to overly antagonize Laurel.
He, in fact, begrudgingly liked his eldest brother’s wife when she was not annoying him.
But lately, she had been more than irritating, she had been unusually demanding, and he was not the only one to think so.
Laurel had been taking her frustrations out on everyone.
Her pleasant, mischievous demeanor rarely made an appearance lately.
Instead, she was so moody that it was impossible to tell whether her over-the-top threats should be taken seriously.
Her latest tirade had been the worst. And the one thing that kept his own anger from growing anew was knowing how furious Laurel would be to learn that he had gone against her wishes to take the shortest route to Cole’s and instead had selected a more circuitous path.
And she would have only herself to blame for her anger.
Laurel knew what happened when someone demanded anything of him. She knew it from personal experience.
When word had come that the McTiernay priest needed help—specifically his help—and Conan had not immediately jumped on a horse and taken off, Laurel had leaped to the correct conclusion that he never intended to go.
But just because he was not inclined to make the journey himself did not mean he did not plan on dispatching someone to help the priest. But would Laurel listen to reason? No.