Chapter 3 #2
Rushing toward the weapons racks, he intended to grab another sword or a knife, but his next dodge wasn't fast enough.
The flat face of the broadsword slammed into his shoulder, one of the edges cutting deep into his upper arm and sending a blinding, searing pain through him that made the world turn white.
Weaponless, Murdoch dropped to the ground and rolled, rushing as fast as he could to reach the weapon racks.
Just as he jumped back to his feet, though, the claymore slammed down again, this time with the flat edge right across his upper back.
The scream of pain choked him as he refused to let it out, but he somehow swallowed it down, only barely avoiding yet another relentless blow by jumping to the side.
If it kept up like this, Ian was going to kill him. Murdoch somehow knew that nobody would intervene if he was unable to defend himself unless he begged for help, but he also knew that if he did that, it would be worse than simply dying.
His body bruised and blooded, he surged on, ignoring how his muscles screamed at him to stop. He needed a shield and a dirk. If he had those, he could absorb the blows and sneak under Ian's reach to claim back the victory.
But every time he got closer, Ian swung again.
It was like no sparring match or battle that Murdoch had ever faced.
Ian was brutal, relentless, and there was no emotion as he wielded his two-handed broadsword as an extension of himself.
It was as though he had been designed only to kill, and Murdoch was his prey.
Murdoch managed to avoid the deadliest blows, taking hits and cuts but managing to keep going, and when he finally reached the rack, he was able to snatch a heavy metal shield and spin just in time for the broadsword to come crashing down directly toward his head.
Ian was obscenely strong. Though Murdoch managed to block what would definitely have been a killing blow with the shield, he felt the impact shudder through him and his legs gave way.
He fell to his knees at Ian's feet, his shield clattering to the side, leaving him seemingly defenseless.
Ian smiled, closing the gap between them and holding the sharp edge of the broadsword to the side of Murdoch's neck almost lazily.
"Yield?" Ian asked, a dark smirk on his face. It was clear that he and the hushed crowd both thought the same thing—that Murdoch was truly defeated.
Murdoch, bloodied and bruised, on his knees before a man who could kill him with a simple movement, grinned right back.
"Ye first," he said. "And ye should pay more attention."
Ian's smirk vanished into a confused frown, then, slowly, he looked down. Murdoch had grabbed the dirk in his left hand when he'd snatched the shield with his right, and that was still where he held it—but now, kneeling in front of Ian, that dirk was pressing directly into Ian's stomach.
"We'll both die if ye dinnae," Murdoch noted, "But a stomach wound is a much worse way tae go than a beheadin'. Yer decision."
The deafening silence roared around them, and then, almost imperceptibly, Ian nodded. As one, the two sons of Alistair Campbell dropped their weapons, and Murdoch rose to his feet, victorious. Ian held his gaze, and Murdoch saw something new there—not respect, not exactly, but cold recognition.
The crowd erupted into wild cheers, and Murdoch turned quickly toward the bench.
Alistair Campbell was nodding with clear approval, drawing his hands together in a slow clap along with the rest. Robert Caindach's expression was sour, but the girl, Morag, was nowhere to be seen.
Though Murdoch's body flooded with relief and not a small amount of pride to see the Laird responding so well to him, part of him wondered, just for a moment, where she had gone.
"Murdoch."
He turned to see Ian watching him. "Aye?" he asked.
Ian paused for a moment before speaking again. "Go tae yer rooms and clean that mess off ye and change. I'll expect ye back here in exactly an hour."
"For more trainin'?" Murdoch asked.
"Nay. Ye'll be accompanyin' me tae the war room. The general assembly is meetin' this afternoon tae finish the gatherin' ye interrupted, and I would have ye there tae see it. I'm sure Father would approve." Ian glanced over at Alistair, who was speaking animatedly with another of the lairds.
Murdoch's breath caught. The war room? On his second day here?
He hadn't imagined he would get anywhere near the place for at least a week, maybe longer.
He knew it was an open meeting of men and would have little to do with the high-level war plans that threatened the Murrays and their allied clans, but it was still more of a start than he'd dared to imagine at this stage.
He quickly ducked his head to hide his expression, pretending that he was wiping a trickle of blood from his lip. "Aye. I'll need tae wait for me guards, though."
"If ye remember the way back, just go. Ye have me permission," Ian said, catching Murdoch by surprise once again. But then, he coldly added, "But if ye're nae back here in precisely an hour, clean and presentable, ye'll see what me broadsword can really do."
Stifling his retort, Murdoch only replied with a stiff nod. He paused only to check if Alistair wanted him to approach, but the Laird was otherwise occupied. Well, good. It would be even better if Murdoch, who had already impressed him here, next saw the Laird at his best in the war room.
He had no doubt that he would be expected to reveal whatever he knew of the Murrays as well as information about the Kincaids. He would have to be very careful with whatever he said over the next days and weeks.
But as he turned and walked inside, feeling strange without a guard at his heels, his bruises made him more certain than ever that he could succeed.
The clock was three minutes from striking the hour when Murdoch arrived back on the training grounds, dressed in fine clothes in the Campbell colors and bearing his wounds with pride.
Ian gave him an approving half-nod as he approached.
Murdoch's freedom hadn't lasted long; a guard had been waiting outside his room by the time he was ready, but he could tell that something had already shifted between him and the man who had suddenly become his brother out of nowhere.
"Good," Ian said, sounding much more genuine than he had when he'd said the same thing during training earlier. "Pate, ye're dismissed. I will be more than enough tae keep Murdoch under control until we reach the next tower."