Chapter Twenty-Nine #2
Alaric moved to intercept one attacker, his sword meeting the man’s blade with a shower of sparks. The clang of metal on metal rang out across the hillside. Hagen spun to face the other swordsman, a hulking brute with a scarred face and dead eyes.
Behind him, Dugan went after his father with relentless fury.
Connor fought like a man possessed. Nay, like a man who’d been waiting thirty years for this moment.
The sound of their swords clashing was deafening, a rhythmic thunder that everyone on the isle could have heard.
His father’s movements were powerful, brutal, each swing carrying the weight of decades of grief.
Hagen’s opponent came at him with an overhead strike that would have split him from crown to jaw.
He threw his blade up, catching the blow, feeling the impact shudder through his arms. The mercenary was strong but reckless.
Hagen sidestepped, letting the man’s momentum carry him forward, and slashed across his sword arm.
The blade bit deep into muscle and the man screamed, his weapon clattering to the stones.
He clutched his ruined arm and ran off down the hill, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
But Sholto had reemerged from the hut, and he was still headed for Brynja.
She saw him coming and her hand went to her belt, coming up with another dagger. The blade flew true, sinking into his shoulder. Sholto roared in pain and fury.
“Bitch, I’ll kill you!” He kept coming, ripping the dagger free and casting it aside, blood streaming down his arm.
Hagen turned to go after him, his legs already moving, but two more men materialized from around the side of the cottage. He didn’t know which bastard to go after first, his mind racing to calculate the threat. Brynja or his father?
Then, suddenly, the air sang with arrows.
Four shafts flew over their heads in perfect formation, finding their marks on the two new attackers. One took an arrow through the eye and dropped like a stone. The other caught two in the chest and staggered backward, mouth open in a silent scream, before collapsing.
Merryn and Broc had arrived, Artan with them, bows still raised and ready.
But then the worst happened, and Hagen’s world tilted on its axis.
Another man—one they hadn’t seen, hadn’t counted—attacked Connor from the side. His father spun, catching the strike on his blade, and shoved the man backward with brutal efficiency. The attacker stumbled and fell.
But that split second of distraction was all Dugan needed.
The evil bastard lunged forward, his sword point finding the gap in Connor’s defense.
The blade slid beneath his ribs, punching through leather and plaid and flesh.
For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Connor’s eyes went wide—not with pain, but with the terrible understanding of what had just happened.
Dugan twisted the blade and pulled it free, dark blood coating the steel.
His father crumpled to the ground, both hands gripping the wound in his side, trying to hold his life inside his body.
“Da!” The word tore from Hagen’s throat, raw and agonized.
Hagen went after Dugan with murder in his heart, but at that point Alaric had already charged after him while Broc, and Merryn had scared the rest off.
The remaining mercenaries took one look at their fallen comrades and the fresh reinforcements and broke.
They scattered, running down toward the beach in full retreat.
Dugan ran with them, and his voice carried back up the hill, triumphant and mocking.
“Grandfather, vengeance is ours! I’ve killed Connor Grant!”
The words echoed across Tiree like a curse.
His father lay on the ground, both hands pressed against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, too much blood, spreading dark across his plaid.
“Da!” Hagen dropped to his knees beside him, his hands shaking as he ripped a piece of his plaid free. He wadded the fabric and pressed it hard against the wound, but he could feel the warmth soaking through immediately, could feel his father’s life bleeding away beneath his palms.
His father’s hand shot out and grabbed Hagen’s wrist, his grip still strong despite everything.
“Too late.” Connor’s voice was a rasp, thick with pain. His face had gone gray, his lips taking on a blue tinge. “Tell Mama I’m sorry. And your sisters and brother. I thought I had him. My emotions took over…”
His eyes drifted closed, and Hagen felt panic claw up his throat.
“Da!” He pressed harder, desperate, heedless of the pain it caused.
Then his mind cleared, snapping into the cold clarity of command he’d learned from this very man.
“Broc and Merryn, go for help. Ask the fishermen to find a healer—the best they have. Hurry!” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Alaric, go take the boat back and bring help. We need Brenna, we need—”
“Nay,” Alaric interrupted, dropping to his knees on Connor’s other side. His face was pale, stricken. “We’ll have to get him on the boat first. We can’t leave him here.”
His father’s eyes fluttered open again, focusing on Hagen with effort. He grabbed his son’s hand with blood-slicked fingers.
“I’ll never make it.” The words were barely a whisper, but they hit Hagen like a physical blow.
Broc and Merryn were already running. “We’ll find a healer!”
Artan stood, his face grim. “I’ll get more men from the boat. It’s going to take at least four men to carry him safely. Meet us at the boat, Broc.”
Hagen nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. “Go, he doesn’t have much time.”
He turned to Alaric. “Make sure the ones on the ground are dead. We don’t need anyone sneaking up on us while we’re vulnerable. Protect our backs.”
Alaric hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave Connor’s side, but duty won out. He nodded and moved away, checking each fallen man with methodical care.
And then they were alone—Hagen, his dying father, and Brynja.
Hagen looked at Brynja, and she must have seen the devastation in his eyes.
“I don’t know what to do.” The admission felt like failure, like betrayal.
His father’s eyes opened again, and for a moment the old Connor Grant was there—the teacher, the warrior, the man who’d trained Hagen since he could first hold a wooden sword.
“Push hard. Brenna’s teachings. Stop the bleeding.” Each word cost him, but his voice was clear.
Hagen set both hands on his father’s wound and pushed down with all his strength. In his heart, he knew this wasn’t going to work. The wound was too wide, too deep, he could feel the edges of torn flesh beneath the blood-soaked fabric. This was a killing blow, and they both knew it.
His father bellowed in pain when he pressed down, his back arching, his hand clawing at the ground.
“Da, I’m sorry, but you can’t die on me. I haven’t married yet. I want my bairns to have a grandda like I had, like you were to me. You taught me everything. You can’t leave now. You cannot die.” The words tumbled out, desperate, pleading.
“I was foolish, Hagen.” His father’s voice was growing weaker, thready. “I let my emotions control me. I should not have…”
His eyes drifted closed again.
“Da!” Hagen shook him gently, terrified that if he closed his eyes this time, they wouldn’t open again.
Brynja knelt beside them, her hands hovering uselessly over Connor’s body.
“What can I do to help? There must be something. Tell me what to do.”
Her voice was thick with anguish—this man was dying because of her vengeance, her need to return to Tiree.
“Alaric will be back soon,” Hagen said, forcing himself to think, to plan, even as his heart was breaking. “And we can get him in the boat. Mayhap they’ll bring the boat around to this bay, and we can put him in it quickly. Get him to Brenna faster.”
But even as he said it, he could see the truth. His father’s color was not good—ashen gray where it should be ruddy. His breathing had gone shallow and rapid, each breath a labored wheeze. Blood continued to seep between Hagen’s fingers despite the pressure, pooling dark beneath his father’s body.
Tears ran down Hagen’s cheeks, hot and unchecked.
“Nay, Da. You’re invincible. No one can hurt you. You’re the strongest warrior I’ve ever known—the strongest warrior who ever lived.”
A small voice startled him from behind, but he heard her loud and clear.
“Your father is dying, Hagen.”