Chapter Thirty-Eight
Hagen
It had been three days since they returned from Tiree. Hagen had awakened in the middle of the night again, bathed in sweat, the nightmare the same as the two previous nights.
There was an attack on Duart Castle and his father went down, but this time, he never got up.
Hagen came in from the lists, half the day gone already, a brutal practice session with Alaric and Broc, wondering what to do about his persistent dream. The same kind Brynja was experiencing, though hers was much more vivid when it came to the bairns on Iona. His focused on his sire.
Alaric came up behind him and said, “You’re killing yourself. Don’t worry. I have an odd feeling there will be more Grants here soon. Maitland sent word to Jamie and Kyla that Connor had been injured. I bet they’ll be here soon. Alasdair too is my guess.”
“Nay, Kyla mayhap.”
“He used the word Comming.” Alaric arched his brow, a growing smirk spreading across his face.
“Oh, shite. That changes everything. They’ll all be here. Aunt Kyla, Uncle Jamie, Alasdair. Only Alick and Els will stay back.”
He paused when they passed the archery target inside the gates. Brynja, Eli, and Merryn were there with Dyna practicing. Hell, but he was growing more and more fond of the lass, if that were possible.
“You going to marry her?” Alaric asked.
“Aye. Once this all settles down. But she’s having the same nightmares as I am. That worries me more.”
Alaric paused for a moment, watching the lasses shoot.
“I’ll never get over that day, seeing you and Brynja with Lia telling you what to do.
Telling you about this special power the two of you hold but only if you’re together.
And the lightning. Hell, if I were you, I would have married her as soon as you got back. You can’t argue with the Heavens.”
“You haven’t told anyone what you saw, have you?”
“Nay. If I said anything, they’d think me daft. I just say it was Lia. It’s up to you to mention the other. How’s your sire this morn?”
“He’s out with Midnight Star, brushing him down. Aunt Brenna won’t allow him in the lists yet, but he has to keep busy. He likes the peacefulness of the stables.”
Alaric looked toward the gates. “Did they take some horses out for a run?”
“Nay, there were two patrols that went out, but that was a while ago. Why?”
“Listen. I hear horses and they’re getting closer.” Alaric tipped his head, both men now listening.
“Who’s on the gate?”
“Jowell and Paden.”
The horses stopped and Hagen heard the voice. “I’m here for Connor Grant.”
Alaric looked at him. “That can’t be Dugan, can it?”
Hagen said, “It sounds like him. He wouldn’t be that daft to come here, would he?”
“They won’t let him in.”
Hagen took off on a run toward the gates, glancing over his shoulder. “Jowell and Paden never saw Dugan on Tiree. They might let him in.”
His father heard Dugan. He could tell because the old warrior was saddling his horse.
Hagen’s blood ran cold. He had to stop this before it escalated. He mounted his horse and yelled at the stable lads. “Get more saddled and ready to go.”
Before he could ride out, he yelled back to Alaric, “Get everyone out of the hall and make sure the bairns are inside.”
Alaric ran at the keep shouting for assistance, Eli joining him. Logan, Maitland, Drew, and the rest of their guards were already mounting up.
Dyna raced up the stairs to the curtain wall, full quiver in hand and bow over her shoulder, Merryn and Brynja following. His sister would be a definite help on the wall.
Hagen rode through the gate first, heading down the path to meet the fool. “I’m here, Comming. You want a Grant? Face me.”
Dugan’s eyes lit with malicious glee. “The whelp thinks he’s a warrior now? I’ll carve you up just like I did your father.”
“My father lives, so think again about that power behind your blade. You’ll find I’m not so easy to cut down.”
Dugan raised his sword and came at him.
The battle was on.
Hagen met Dugan’s first strike, the clash of steel ringing across the hillside. The man was strong, but Hagen had trained with the best—his father, his uncles, men who’d fought in countless battles. He parried and deflected, his movements fluid and sure.
Behind him, he heard the thunder of hooves as the Grantham guards poured through the gate.
The group fought in a spot down the path a bit, and the Granthams had about thirty men at the ready while Dugan had around a score joining him up the path.
Maitland had sent a score on patrol, and they had left for different areas. How had they missed them?
Hagen pressed his advantage against Dugan, driving him back. For a moment, he thought he might end this quickly—until three of Dugan’s men broke away from the main fight and charged toward him.
An arrow whistled past Hagen’s ear and struck the lead attacker in the shoulder, spinning him sideways in his saddle.
A second arrow found its mark in another man’s thigh.
It had to be Brynja. Her aim was as deadly as ever.
The third man hesitated, glancing up at the curtain wall where more arrows were already nocked, and that moment’s distraction was all Hagen needed.
He wheeled his horse, engaging the nearest attacker. His sword work was clean, efficient. One man fell. Then another. But the third—the one with Brynja’s arrow in his thigh—rallied and got past his guard, blade aimed at Hagen’s exposed side.
A black destrier crashed into the fray.
“Get away from my son!” Connor’s voice rang out, his sword deflecting the blow meant for Hagen.
“Da! What are you doing? You shouldn’t be here!”
His father said nothing, positioning Midnight Star between Hagen and the immediate threat. But Hagen could see it immediately, the way his father favored his one side, the slight hitch in his movements, the set of his jaw that meant he was fighting through pain.
Dugan turned his attention to Connor with savage delight. “I knew you couldn’t stay away, Grant. Come to let me finish what I started?”
Connor’s response was steady, though Hagen noticed how his father’s grip on his sword was tighter than usual, compensating. “Leave him be, Comming. Your quarrel is with me.”
“Nay, Da!” Hagen tried to intervene, but two more of Dugan’s men engaged him, forcing him to defend himself.
Through the chaos of combat, Hagen kept his father in his peripheral vision. Connor’s parries were strong, his technique as sound as ever, but his stamina was flagging. Each strike came a fraction slower than it should. His breathing was labored, evidence that he wasn’t healed completely.
Hagen dispatched one attacker, then the other, and fought his way closer to his father. “Leave him be, Comming. I’m his son, you bastard. See if you can take my sword down.”
Dugan swung toward Hagen, engaging him for several rapid exchanges, then the weakling did a cheap move and pivoted suddenly, trying to cut Connor down while his guard was down.
His father retaliated with a false move, pretending to be hurt worse than he was and almost falling off his horse, drawing Dugan in.
At least, Hagen prayed he was pretending. “Dugan, I’m coming for you.”
But Dugan went for Connor, his full attention on finishing the older warrior, giving Hagen the perfect opening.
He struck Dugan in his flank, a death blow for sure.
The man turned to glare at Hagen, shock on his face, and Hagen’s father gave him a shove with the flat of his sword, knocking him off his horse.
Connor swayed in his saddle, his face pale beneath the grime and sweat.
“Da, get back inside. I’ll handle this.” More men came at Hagen just as ten Grantham horses joined from inside the gates. One of their patrols of five men was coming from the left, blocking Dugan’s men in.
The battle was not over yet, but his sire moved his horse back, one hand pressed briefly to his wounded side.
Connor Grant had regained his honor, not by seeking glory, but by protecting his son.
And Hagen Grant had earned his reputation by fighting alongside his father as an equal.