Chapter Twenty-Nine
Hagen
Hagen led Brynja down the path to the boat they were taking to Tiree.
Brynja said, “I’ve never been on a ship this big.”
“Thane said the Norse left it hidden in the bushes. When Artan found it, they discovered the hole in it, patched it up with new wood and it’s been beautiful for them. It takes six rowers to make it move.”
“And they’re underneath?” Brynja asked, peeking into the bottom of the boat.
“Aye. Thane has his men row it. Bearnard loves it, says they love the sea air. Wait until you see how fast it moves,” Hagen said, ushering her to one of the seats built along the inside of the boat.
The boat rocked gently beneath them as Thane’s men settled into position below deck.
The salt spray hung in the air, mixing with the scent of fresh-cut wood from the pines they were cutting for winter nearby.
“Where should we land, Brynja?” Artan asked. “I’m going with you.”
“Gott Bay,” she answered. “It’s the closest. Then it’s a short distance to our cottages.”
Once they headed toward Tiree, Connor pulled the group together, giving instructions.
“This will be a quick trip, I hope, because our goal is to learn more about Dugan and his plans. There are six of us. I’d like Broc and Merryn to return to the cottage you found the bairns in before.
I’d like to be certain there are none that need saving.
If you are outnumbered, just return with the information and we’ll retrieve them when we’re together again.
Alaric, Hagen, and Brynja will go with me.
I need your guidance because I have no idea where this hut is.
” Connor’s hand rested on his sword hilt as he spoke, his eyes scanning each face in turn, ensuring they understood.
“I would guess they have guards with them at this point. You said there were two huts together?”
“Aye. Two huts and one small outbuilding for cold storage behind them.”
“How far from the water? Or a bay to launch a boat from?”
“A short walk. We lived up on a small hill to protect us from the sea. It was just a short jaunt to the beach.”
“Is there a way to come up to the cottages without being seen?”
“Aye, there is a crest on one side. The beach has plenty of rock formations, but that would be the other side of the huts from here. We’ll be coming down a crest and there is one copse of trees to hide behind.”
As they approached, Tiree announced itself with the thunder of surf against hidden reefs, the white spray leaping skyward where the sea swells met submerged rock.
Then the island emerged from the sea mist, so low and flat it seems barely to rise above the waves, as though one good storm might wash it away entirely.
But what it lacked in height, Tiree made up for in light. The shell-sand beaches glowed almost white, stretching in long, sweeping crescents around the island’s edge.
Connor said, “I’ll never cease to be impressed by the beauty of the isles around Mull.”
They landed a short time later, Broc and Merryn heading in the direction of the cottages they were familiar with.
His father said, “Be back within the hour. We’ll plan to return by then.”
A group of fishermen gathered not far away, chatting, so his sire approached. “Greetings to you. Have you noticed a group of new islanders, the kind you don’t like to see on your isle?”
“Who is asking?” one man asked, the creases in his face evidence of years of fishing expeditions, the deep crevices unable to hide the sharpness in his brown eyes.
“Connor Grant, son of Alexander Grant, Clan Grant of Dulnain Valley of the Highlands.”
One man whistled, while a third man said, “You’re a long way from Dulnain Valley, but you’re as big as your reputation says you are, Grant.”
“I am visiting family on Mull. I was advised someone on this isle has planned an attack on my clan allies at Duart Castle.”
At the mention of Duart Castle, one man nodded to another, and they broke out in smiles. “Bastards think they’ll steal some of our bairns, but they won’t. We’ve been watching them.”
The oldest man, the first one they spoke to, nodded to his father. “You were here before, drove Kelvan off our isle. I remember you.”
“I was.”
“Welcome back.” Connor’s shoulders relaxed slightly, though his hand never strayed far from his weapon. The fisherman pointed toward the other side of the isle. “Follow that path. Fools are hiring mercenaries and bringing them here. We don’t like it.”
Another stepped forward and asked, “Brynja? Is that you?”
She stepped forward, nodding, then ran over to hug one of the men. “Och, lass. We are glad to see you are hale. Where is Hildi?”
“We found our way to Iona. Have lived there. But I wish to get rid of the scum in our old homes.”
“Go, lass. They’re evil men. We’ll follow at a distance, see if you need any help.”
Artan said, “We’ll stay back, but whistle and we’ll come running.”
Connor nodded and the four headed across the isle.
Once they were close, Brynja motioned for them to hush, moving them over to a crest as protection.
They hid and listened, pressing themselves low against the rocky crest. The wind carried voices toward them, harsh laughter and the clatter of weapons being moved.
Hagen’s heart hammered in his chest as he counted the speakers.
He guessed there were four men and held that number of fingers up to his father, who nodded, his jaw tight.
Then Hagen caught another voice, deeper, from farther away. He held up five fingers.
A voice carried to them and Brynja said, “That’s Dugan.”
The voice was closer than the others. “Four score? I think he lied. I think they have only two score. I’ve asked, and I don’t think Granthams are that strong.”
“That’s what he said. And two score more coming.”
“It will be a long time before they can get two score here. You think they have a fleet of Norse boats for the men and their mounts? I say we go now.”
“What is your rush? I thought you were going after bairns first?”
“Nay, we don’t have anyone to care for them yet.”
“We don’t need anyone to care for young lasses.”
“I’ll care for the young lasses.”
A slap sounded. Hagen felt his father’s body go rigid beside him. The air between them crackled with barely contained rage.
Hagen caught the fury in his father’s eyes—a murderous gleam he’d only seen a handful of times in his life. He shook his head at his father, his own hand clamping down on his sire’s forearm in warning, because that was his fear.
“Da, control.” Hagen’s whisper was urgent, desperate. His father’s head was full of vengeance for what the man’s grandfather did to his mother, the beloved Madeline Grant. Connor’s breathing had gone shallow, his muscles coiled like a spring about to snap. “He’s not Niles, either. Focus.”
True, Hagen recalled his grandfather Alexander enough to know that he would want the man killed without another thought, without hesitation or mercy. This was vengeance, no different than the vengeance Brynja harbored for the men who killed her mother. The realization struck him cold.
Were they the same? Was vengeance ever righteous, or did it always cloud judgment?
Dugan snorted. “You’ll care for the young lasses. Like the ones you did on Iona? She got you, you never got her.”
A third man said, “You should have seen the two who lived here with their mothers. We almost got a taste of them.”
Dugan said, “You cannot ruin the merchandise. And they got away from the two watching the cottage.”
“And now we have no one to watch the bairns. You didn’t need to kill them, Dugan.”
Hagen glanced over at Brynja, whose face had turned red. She’d heard. These were the men who killed her mother and aunt. He squeezed her hand, and his father shook his head at her.
Dugan chuckled, “I can’t wait to see Connor Grant’s face when I stick my sword deep in his belly. But first I’ll tell him how my grandfather enjoyed ripping into his mother.”
And then his father did exactly what Hagen didn’t want him to do.
And what he’d sworn not to do.
Connor Grant rose from their hiding place, his massive frame unfolding to its full height. The movement was deliberate, controlled—the calm before the storm.
“See if you think you can do it now, Comming.”
His father’s voice rang across the space between them, cold as winter steel.
And everything happened at once.
Brynja stuck her head up, her movements fluid and practiced.
Two daggers flew from her hands in rapid succession, silver flashes in the afternoon light.
The first struck the third man in the throat—he made a wet, gurgling sound as he clawed at his neck and dropped.
The second blade buried itself in the fourth man’s belly.
He looked down in disbelief, wrapped both hands around the hilt, and yanked it free.
Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the dirt in a dark arc.
He stumbled backward, pressing his hands uselessly against the flow.
And the battle began in earnest.
Dugan charged after Connor like a maddened bull, his sword already drawn and gleaming. Hagen moved instinctively to protect his father, his own blade clearing its scabbard, but his sire bellowed at him with a voice that could shake mountains.
“Do not dare to step in front of me!”
The command froze Hagen mid-stride. His father wanted this fight. Needed it.
Sholto grabbed a fallen sword and ran at Brynja, murder in his eyes.
She loosed two arrows in quick succession—the first whipped past his ear, close enough to draw a thin line of blood.
The second embedded itself in the wooden doorframe behind him.
Sholto skidded to a halt, then wheeled around and dove back into the hut, disappearing into its shadowy interior.
Movement erupted from behind them. Two more men came charging from the trees—mercenaries by the look of them, their weapons already drawn and their faces twisted with battle rage. They were suddenly outnumbered, surrounded.