Chapter 14 #2
"It willnae be," Fearchar promised her. He reached up, cupping her cheek for one brief, fleeting second in front of the entire courtyard, careless of who watched. "I have six battle-tested men at me back and Duncan beside me. We are going tae find out who is asking questions on our land."
Duncan led Fearchar's stallion forward, the heavy black beast snorting against the cool night air. Fearchar took the reins, swinging smoothly up into the saddle.
Looking down at her from the horse's back, he held her gaze amidst the swirling chaos of mounting riders and clattering steel.
"Keep the gates barred until ye hear me horn," Fearchar commanded the gate captain, before turning back to Nandag. "I'll be back before nightfall. Stay inside."
She nodded once, a slow, solemn motion, her hand resting against the wooden post of the stable door as she watched him. "Ride fast, Fearchar."
Fearchar didn't waste another second. He kicked his heels into the stallion's flanks, and with Duncan and four heavily armed Chisholm riders at his heels, they thundered through the iron-studded gates and out into the gathering gloom of the valley.
The thunder of hooves beat a heavy, rhythmic pulse through the damp turf as Fearchar led his men down the glen.
Twilight was thickening fast, swallowing the edges of the birch woods in thick grey shadow, but the wind brought a faint, acrid smell that made Fearchar’s hand tighten on his stallion’s reins.
Woodsmoke. Sharp, bitter, and far too heavy for a calm summer evening.
Duncan pulled his mount up alongside Fearchar, his dark gaze locked on the ridge ahead. "That's coming from the smithy burn."
Fearchar didn't answer. He kicked his stallion into a gallop, rounding the bend where the track dropped toward the river settlement.
Below them, three thatched roofs were already ablaze, orange fire licking at the evening sky and sending thick plumes of black smoke rolling across the riverbanks.
High, frantic screams echoed off the stone hillsides, punctuated by the sharp clash of iron and the coarse, booming laughter of men at violence.
"Draw steel!" Fearchar roared, his basket-hilted broadsword coming free with a long, metallic hiss.
Six Chisholm blades cleared their scabbards behind him. They crested the rise and hit the village like a Highland tempest.
In the center of the muddy track, three men in grease-stained leather doublets were dragging an old shepherd away from his doorway while his daughter wept, her skirts torn as a fourth man held her by the hair. Near the forge, two more strangers were kicking a bleeding apprentice into the dirt.
"Chisholm!" Fearchar shouted, his voice cutting through the chaos like an iron bell. "Drop yer steel or die where ye stand!"
The strangers spun around. There was no hesitation in their eyes, no flash of fear, and—most glaringly—no tartan over their shoulders. They wore nondescript grey wool and plain, unmarked iron caps. Mercenaries. Cutthroats paid to do dirty work without leaving a name behind.
Rather than surrendering, the leader—a thick-set brute with a scarred chin—bared his yellow teeth and raised a heavy, notched claymore. "Take 'em!" he spat.
Fearchar didn't give them time to organize. He drove his stallion straight into the leader, the horse’s chest striking the man and sending him tumbling back into the mud.
A rogue sword slashed upward toward Fearchar’s knee, but Duncan swept in from the left, his blade parrying the strike with a shower of sparks before running the attacker through.
Fearchar swung down from the saddle, his boots hitting the mud with a heavy thud. A tall, whip-thin mercenary lunged at him with a broadsword, aiming a brutal overhead chop meant to split him from shoulder to hip.
Fearchar caught the blow on the basket of his hilt, the force of the impact vibrating up his arm.
He stepped inside the man's guard, turning his hip, and slammed his heavy iron pommel directly into the bandit's mouth. Bone crunched. The man stumbled back, spraying blood, and Fearchar finished the movement with a low, sweeping cut across the man’s thigh, bringing him down to the stones.
To his right, the leader scrambled back to his feet, wiping blood from his beard, and lunged with a desperate two-handed thrust. Fearchar slapped the blade aside with a hard flick of his wrist, stepped forward, and drove his broadsword through the center of the man's chest.
The leader froze, his breath catching in a wet rattle. He looked down at the steel buried in his doublet, then up into Fearchar’s cold grey eyes.
Fearchar leaned in, his face inches from the dying man's. "Who sent ye?" he demanded, his voice dropping into a dangerous rumble. "Was it Cameron?"
The man’s lips curved into a wet, bloody sneer, but no words came out. His knees buckled, and Fearchar pulled his blade free, letting the body slump into the mire.
Around them, the fight ended as swiftly as it had begun. Two remaining cutthroats tried to break for the woods, but Fearchar's riders cut them down before they reached the tree line.
Silence descended on the village, broken only by the crackle of the burning cottages and the soft, pitiful weeping of a child huddled under an overturned hay cart.
Duncan wiped his dripping blade on a patch of grass, stepping over to the dead leader. He used the toe of his boot to turn the body over, then knelt to rifle through the man's leather pouches.
"Naethin’," Duncan growled, tossing a plain leather purse onto the ground. "Nay coin with a mark, nay letters, nay crests. Plain steel, plain wool. They could be deserters from the border, or cutthroats pulled out of an Edinburgh alley."
Fearchar stood over the bodies, his chest heaving, his jaw set so tight the muscles ached.
"It’s Cameron," he spat, flicking the blood from his broadsword before sheathing it.
"He wants tae bleed our borders, test our watch, and terrify the glen, and he daes it with nameless hounds so I cannae march on Glen Cannich with the Accord behind me. "
"Aye," Duncan agreed grimly. "Without proof, the elders will call it common thieving."
Fearchar turned away from the dead, his gaze sweeping over the wreckage of the village.
The blacksmith was sitting against his anvil, clutching a deep gash in his arm.
A mother was kneeling in the dirt, trying to soothe two terrified children while smoke poured from what remained of her home.
The roof beams were caving in, raining red cinders into the night air.
The winter stores were ruined. Three families had no roof, no blankets, and nowhere to sleep but the wet earth.
"Gather the horses," Fearchar ordered sharply, stepping over to the blacksmith and extending a hand to pull the man to his feet.
The smith blinked up at him, dazed and bloody. "Me laird?"
"Can ye ride?" Fearchar asked softly.
"I... I think so, me laird."
Fearchar turned to his men. "Put the women and children up on the spare mounts. Bring the wounded behind us. We arenae leaving anyone out here in the dark fer Cameron's wolves tae pick over."
"Castle Strathglass?" Duncan asked.
"Aye," Fearchar said, looking back toward the high stone towers visible against the darkening northern sky. "They come with us taenight. We have grain in the storehouses and fires in the Great Hall."
Fifteen minutes later, the procession formed up on the narrow track.
Children were wrapped in heavy wool plaids, resting in front of Chisholm riders; the wounded were strapped securely to spare saddles.
Fearchar walked at the front, leading his own stallion so an elderly woman and her young grandson could ride in his seat.
As they neared the castle gates, the horn sounded from the watchtower, two clear, sharp blasts signaling the laird’s return.
The heavy iron-studded oak doors swung inward, revealing the warm, golden glow of torchlight spilling across the courtyard. Standing at the top of the stone steps, a thick woolen shawl wrapped tightly around her shoulders, was Nandag.
She took one look at the procession—the soot-stained faces, the wounded, the crying children—and didn't waste a second asking questions. She immediately turned and began barking orders to the household servants, sending them running for clean linens, boiling water, and hot broth.
Fearchar stopped his stallion at the base of the steps, looking up at her through the flickering torchlight.
Nandag met his eyes, seeing the blood on his coat and the dark frustration in his face. She walked down the steps, stopping right in front of him, her hand coming up to touch his arm.
"Ye brought them home," she said quietly.
"They have nowhere else to go," Fearchar replied, his voice rough with fatigue. "And we have a serpent on our border who leaves nay tracks."