Chapter 19
Pater Et Filius
There is one small problem to this plan, Brendan thought, looking around for a weapon. I will not kill my own father.
“Here,” came a nervous voice from behind him. It was one of the soldiers who’d manhandled him and Noah back into the Keep, and held a blade at his throat. The young man smiled shyly, holding out his sword.
It was a good blade, well-cleaned and maintained, if not broken in particularly well, judging by the lack of scratches or nicks. This was a young man who hadn’t seen much warfare.
He took the sword, nodding at its own.
“Thank ye. It will be returned to ye, one way or another.”
The young man’s smile faltered. His gaze flicked past him, and his voice dropped.
“Win,” he whispered. Just one word, but it was heavy, as if the young man had put his whole heart into it.
Then he turned away, and there was nothing for it but to turn and face his fate.
Laird Grahame was not quite the man Brendan remembered. His face was thinner but his body thicker, and there was a mad glint in his eyes which had not been there when Brendan left.
Is there anything left of my father at all?
“I knew ye would come home one day,” he breathed. “Sooner or later, alive or dead. And now, here ye are. Once ye are gone, lad, there’ll be no more treasonous talk. No more talk of my death, or of replacing me. The clan’s future is me, Brendan, make no mistake.”
Brendan clenched his jaw, saying nothing. The unfamiliar sword felt strange in his grip, and he adjusted it.
Not that it mattered. Brendan had known for too long that he did not have the stomach to kill his father. Few people could kill their parents because that was the way Nature had made them all. Perhaps, before his madness, Laird Grahame could not have killed his son, either.
They circled each other, Laird Grahame’s eyes blazing with madness and bloodlust, the sword trembling in his grip.
It was deadly to get distracted during a fight.
Brendan had fought enough battles to know that.
He’d lost count of friends and soldiers he’d seen lose focus, just for an instant—glancing over at something else, distracted, or pausing to inspect a new wound—only to fall in the instant they looked away from an arrow through the neck, or a sword-slash across the gut.
And yet, Brendan’s mind was wandering. He had his back to Freya now, but knew that she’d be just where he saw her last. Her face was ashen, and her arms were clearly tied behind her back.
They’d put a cloak around her, at least, so she wouldn’t get cold.
Her hair was loose and tangled, and he had seen red marks springing up on her cheeks where his father’s fingers had dug into the flesh.
Fresh anger swelled up inside him.
I won’t let him have her, he promised himself. No matter what I have to do, I’ll keep her safe.
He could feel the anticipation in the crowd, like the buzz in the air before a lightning strike.
Nobody would help, though, he knew that.
Nobody would risk helping him and incurring the Laird’s wrath.
Brendan knew his father well enough to expect that the young soldier who had offered him a sword would be hanging from a tree by this time tomorrow, and the unfairness of it all prickled at Brendan’s skin.
“When ye are dead,” Laird Grahame hissed, “I will cut off yer head and parade it through all the towns, so they all know that ye are gone, and I am their only future, their only protection. Do ye know how many of my foolish advisors have told me to bring ye back? I know what they want, I’m no idiot.
They want to replace me with ye. It’s clear as day.
It’s gone beyond anger for me now. A laird and a man must be obeyed completely in his own Keep. ”
“I don’t agree,” Brendan responded. “A laird’s job is to lead, aye?
Not to dominate. Not to bully. Not keep his people in fear.
Ye and I should have been taking care of our people.
Instead, I fled, and ye left them to starve and burn and die in whatever method came their way.
Ye don’t care, Father. Ye haven’t cared for a long time, and it hurts me to see it. ”
Laird Grahame shook his head, a tight, angry movement that reminded Brendan of a horse shaking off flies.
“Don’t speak to me as if ye know how I struggle. Ye were never fit to be a laird. Ye know, I was pleased when ye left, deep down. I always knew ye were not cut out for it. And them?” He jerked his head, indicating all the assembled people, “They know it too. Or else, they’ll see it.”
Brendan swallowed. “Once, Father, that would have hurt me beyond belief. It would have cut me to the quick. Not anymore. Not. Any. More.”
Laird Grahame snarled, lips actually curling back from his teeth. In a flash, he rushed forward, swinging his sword up and over his head, bringing it down with powerful force.
He was still a strong man, even now. Brendan blocked the blow, the vibrations jarring all the way up his arm.
What am I going to do? Parry his blows until I collapse from exhaustion and he takes off my head?
Stop it, lad. Take each minute as it comes. React. That’s all ye can do right now.
Laird Grahame came forward, bringing down blow and blow, until the air was full of the ringing sounds of metal on metal. The two men had a good space for their battle, and Brendan was able to dart backwards, his feet swift and nimble, not risking a look behind him.
Laird Grahame followed him, jaw clenched, eyes glittering, sword swinging. He was breathing heavily already, but his blows were strong.
They nearly backed into the crowd, and Brendan was faintly aware of gasps and panicked yelps, as people dived out of the way, making space.
Get out of the corner.
He darted forward, ducking a ferocious sword-swing that would have taken off his head.
“There’s nowhere to run,” Laird Grahame gasped, his face reddening. “Fight back, curse ye! Fight back!”
“I can’t kill my own father,” Brendan said, not bothering to pitch his voice so that the crowd could hear. At the moment, there was dead silence in the courtyard. They were all listening, all straining to hear.
“Then I must kill my son,” Laird Grahame spat back. For a moment, something struggled in his eyes, something like panic. Or was it regret? No, that couldn’t be it.
In Brendan’s experience, men and women learning hand-to-hand combat for the first time greatly underestimated how taxing it could be.
A couple of minutes of sword fighting would have an ordinary man gasping and wheezing for breath, unable to lift their arms at all.
Stamina mattered. Anyone who believed differently was in for a nasty surprise.
So Brendan concentrated on dodging, on avoiding the blows, and on breathing.
He was growing tired, of course. Duels were never meant to last long. Generally, trial by combat was not the preferred method of dispensing justice. The laird would often be his own champion, as he was meant to be the clan’s greatest warrior.
Laird Grahame had been the greatest warrior in the clan, once. But as the fight stretched on, Brendan started to realize that things had changed. His father was slowing, noticeably so. His blows did not have the same power that they once did. Soon, he would be too tired to lift his sword at all.
And then what?
“I bet ye are enjoying this,” Laird Grahame rasped. “Bet ye cannot wait to stick yer sword in my back.”
“If ye die today, Father, it’ll not be my doing,” Brendan responded, fighting to keep a cool head and to focus. “I can promise ye that.”
“Ha! Liar. Ye are a liar, boy.”
“No, Father. I don’t lie. Not anymore.”
“A coward, then.”
Brendan shook his head. “I’m no coward, either.”
“Oh, no? Then why did ye flee the battle, all those years ago?”
He clenched his jaw. “Because I understood that ye cared nothing for the lives of the men who died, on either side. Ye didn’t care how many villages were plundered and ravished, how many innocents died.
That day, when I left the battlefield, I realized that ye were aware all along how much suffering was caused in yer quest for power.
Ye understood, and ye did not care. Ye judged it an appropriate sacrifice for ye to get what ye wanted. ”
Laird Grahame snarled. “Don’t question me.”
“I will question ye. I won’t stop questioning ye, not until ye give me answers. Tell me, Father, did ye ever love me? Or was I just yer perfect wee killing machine?”
Brendan’s voice had risen, echoing around the courtyard. He didn’t realize that his sword had dropped until it was too late.
Laird Grahame bared his teeth. “Lairds don’t love, boy. I thought ye might have known that by now.”
The sword swung through the air, a silver flash. It reached the highest point of its arc, above Laird Grahame’s head.
And then it stopped.
Brendan flinched, holding his breath.
Did I somehow get through to him? Has he changed his mind?
He met his father’s eyes, sinking deep into a mottled red-and-purple face. Laird Grahame opened his mouth, but only a choking noise came out.
The sword fell onto the cobbles with a tremendous clatter, and people cried out. The Laird fell slowly, crumbling like a falling tower. He landed on his back with a thud, wheezing like a landed fish.
Brendan never thought twice. He dropped to his knees beside Laird Grahame, tugging at the high collar around his neck.
“Fetch him water,” he called, to no one in particular. Nobody moved, but people began to crowd in closer. “Fetch water! Or a healer, or something!”
“It’s his heart.” Noah spoke up. He was on his feet now, the soldiers that were meant to be guarding him standing and staring, motionless. “He’s complained of chest pains over the past month or two. The exertion must have been too much.”
Brendan swallowed thickly, glancing down at his father’s face. The redness was fading now, replaced by a bone whiteness. His eyes were wide, his jaw slack, sucking in rasping breaths.
“Ye were wrong, Father,” Brendan said, voice low. “Lairds do love. It was love that brought me back here. It was love that started all this. Love for my people, love for Freya, love for myself. I won’t be like ye, I can promise ye that.”
Laird Grahame lifted a shaking hand. Brendan flinched, half expecting a blow, or a last stab of a hidden knife. Instead, Laird Grahame’s hand rested against his cheek, his skin dry and papery. Brendan swallowed thickly.
Laird Grahame stared up at his son, a mixture of confusion, anger, and regret in his eyes. For a moment, Brendan was sure that he was going to say something.
The moment passed. The light in Laird Grahame’s eyes died away, and his hand fell limply back onto his chest.
Brendan sat back on his heels. The silence was absolute.
He’s dead.
It’s over.
Before anybody could say a thing, there was a cry of anger, and a figure came rushing through the crowds—Fergus. He had a dirk in his hand, raised high.
“I said I’d kill ye,” he hissed. “And so I—”
He never finished his sentence. Brendan was on his feet in an instant. Dodging the stab, he grabbed Fergus’ wrist, deftly twisting the knife out of his grip and backwards. Fergus lurched forward, trying to free himself, and the knife went straight through his throat.
The silence in the courtyard was palpable. Brendan bit back a curse.
I’d hoped that no more blood would be shed.
Fergus’ eyes widened, blood gushing from his throat and out of his mouth. The end, at least, was almost instant. Brendan carefully lowered him to the ground, blood pooling and streaking between the cobblestones. Straightening up, he turned to face the silent crowd.
“I am Laird Grahame’s son,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ve come home for what is mine, and I won’t have it taken from me.”
“The Laird is dead,” one of the advisors spoke, recovering faster than the others. “Long live Laird Grahame!”
Cheers rang through the air, and it took Brendan too long to realize that they were talking to him.
I’m Laird Grahame, he thought dizzily.
Noah appeared at his side. “Well done, Brendan,” he murmured. “It’s over. Ye are the Laird now, and we have a great deal to discuss.”
Brendan staggered to his feet, turning around.
“Where is Freya?” he demanded. “Where is she?”
The crowds parted, and there she was, arms still tied behind her back. The matron stood beside her, pale as bone. Brendan pointed.
“Cut her loose at once,” he ordered.
Several soldiers jumped to obey, cutting through Freya’s bonds.
She stretched out her arms with a wince, rubbing sore spots on her wrists.
The matron whispered something to her, and Freya jolted away.
The woman pressed closer, and Freya’s arm whipped out, elbow cracking into the matron’s face.
She stumbled backwards with a cry, hands clapped to her face.
“Ye are dismissed,” Freya told the matron, voice clipped and angry.
“Freya, wait!” Brendan called.
She turned to look at him, their eyes meeting through the tunnel of interested people. Then she turned on her heel and ran back into the Keep.