Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
The iron-shod toe of Fearchar’s boot caught the flat of a mercenary’s shield, sending the man crashing backward over a fallen oak bench.
Fearchar didn't watch him hit the stone floor. His broadsword swept around in a horizontal arc, the heavy steel biting deep through a leather jack to cleave the second attacker away from the cellar archway.
The copper stink of spilt blood was thick in the enclosed space, mixing with the sharp, acrid smoke from overturned tallow lamps and burning rushes. Sweat stung Fearchar's eyes, but his focus never wavered from the mouth of the vault.
Behind him, Duncan came through the smoke like a wounded bull, four Chisholm broadswords at his back. The metal-on-metal shrieks grew deafening as they threw their weight into the breach.
"Clear the hall! Drive the bastards tae the courtyard!" Duncan roared, his blade ringing hard against a mercenary's pike, forcing the line of attackers back toward the broken timber postern piece by bloody piece.
The sudden, brutal counter-attack broke Robert’s grip for a fraction of a second.
Mòrag didn't hesitate. She threw her weight sideways, her iron heel stomping down hard onto Robert’s instep. Robert let out a muffled curse, his hunting knife slipping as Mòrag tore her neck free, leaving a thin smear of crimson across her damp wool collar.
"Nandag!" Mòrag gasped, her voice raw. She scrambled on her hands and knees across the blood-slicked stone toward her sister, her skirts catching in the dark pools on the floor.
Nandag dropped to her knees, her small hands reaching out to drag Mòrag to her. She wrapped her arms tight around her sister's trembling frame, tucking Mòrag’s head against her collarbone as her eyes searched the room for another threat.
Robert’s face twisted into a mask of pure, ugly fury.
He wiped a spray of blood from his cheek with the back of his iron gauntlet, his broadsword clearing its scabbard with a sharp, metallic screech that rang above the chaotic clashes in the outer passage.
He took three long, lunging strides toward the two women, his blade raised high for a killing strike.
Fearchar stepped into the gap.
The collision of steel on steel detonated between them.
Fearchar caught Robert’s descending blade on the heavy crossguard of his broadsword, the bone-deep impact vibrating straight through his forearms and into his shoulders.
He drove his weight forward, muscles bunched under his wet linen shirt, shunting Robert back two full paces and placing his broad frame directly between the sisters and the killer.
"Touch them," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a low, quiet grate that carried deadlier weight than any shout, "and ye leave this hall in pieces."
Robert backed away a step, his heavy boots grinding against loose gravel and blood on the oak floorboards.
His breath came in ragged, whistling gasps, his dark eyes wide and bloodshot as he adjusted his grip on the leather hilt of his sword.
A fine line of red ran down the side of his jaw where a splinter of wood had grazed him, but he seemed entirely blind to it.
"Ye stole it all," Robert spat, his voice cracking with a high, bitter tremor. He pointed the shaking tip of his blade straight at Fearchar’s throat. "Every single piece of it! The keep! The land! It was meant fer me!"
Fearchar didn't raise his guard higher. He held his blade low and ready, his feet set wide on the firm stone, his grey eyes locked on the nervous twitching of Robert’s right shoulder. "The clan was never yers tae take, Robert."
"It was promised tae me!" Robert roared, his face flushing dark purple in the yellow torchlight.
"I was promised respect! I was promised power!
I spent seven years fighting me faither's petty border wars while ye were rottin' in the south fighting wars!
I built those defenses! I bled on the eastern hills!
I was meant tae be Laird of Clan Farquharson! Ye dinnae take yer place early."
"Ye tried tae steal it with murder and forged ink," Fearchar replied, taking a slow, deliberate half-step forward, forcing Robert to yield ground toward the cold hearth.
"Ye thought ye could burn villages, starve those that were tae become yer own people, and call it lordship. Ye built naething. Ye tore it apart."
"I married Mòrag!" Robert screamed, his knuckles turning white as he shook his sword frantically in the air. "I took her tae the altar! I stood in that chapel! By every right of blood and marriage, I was the head of this family! I was the one who was meant tae rule Strathglass!"
Behind Fearchar, Mòrag drew in a sharp, shaking breath, her fingers clutching tighter into the wet wool of Nandag’s plaid. Nandag held her firm, her eyes fixed on Fearchar's broad back, trusting the steel in his hand.
Fearchar didn't glance back. His gaze remained pinned to the swaying blade in Robert's fist.
"Mòrag never gave agreed tae ye ruining her house," Fearchar said, his tone icy, flat, and absolute. "She was a weapon tae ye. A piece of paper tae throw before the Council tae validate yer greed. And the King saw straight through the lie."
"The King is a fool sitting on a cushion!" Robert screeched, stepping forward to slash his blade through the air in a wild, desperate arc meant to disarm.
Fearchar sidestepped the stroke with easy, practiced grace, the flying steel passing six inches from his doublet.
Before Robert could recover his balance, Fearchar surged inside his guard.
His heavy shoulder slammed hard into Robert’s chest, rattling the iron ribs of his armor and sending him stumbling back against the stone fireplace.
A cloud of fine gray soot billowed out from the hearth as Robert hit the masonry, coughing violently as the breath was driven from his lungs.
"The King made his decree," Fearchar whispered, stepping in until the cold tip of his broadsword rested firmly against the center of Robert’s throat, pressing just hard enough to indent the skin above his collar. "The court is closed. Yer claim is dead. Now drop the steel, or I end it here."
The blade against Robert’s throat did not freeze him. It set him on fire.
A sound tore from his chest—a wet, inhuman screech of pure rage—and he threw his body sideways, the edge of Fearchar’s broadsword slicing a shallow red line across his neck before he cleared the steel.
Robert didn't draw back to reset his guard. He lunged forward like a cornered beast, swinging his heavy sword in a wild, blind arc aimed directly at Fearchar’s face.
Fearchar brought his crossguard up just in time. The impact screamed through the hall, a sharp, ringing report that threw sparks into the dim air.
Nandag pressed her back against the cool stone wall of the archway, her arm locked tightly around Mòrag’s waist. Mòrag was trembling violently, her forehead pressed into the hollow of Nandag’s neck, her small hands clutching at the damp wool of Nandag’s plaid.
Nandag’s eyes never left the two men. Her heart hammered against her ribs, so loud it drowned out the muffled shouts echoing from the courtyard outside.
The surviving mercenaries and Chisholm guards had backed into a wide, tense ring around the High Table.
No one moved to intervene. Blood dripping from their blades, they watched in grim silence as the two men circled each other in the center of the hall, their heavy boots grinding overturned rushes and slick ash into the stone.
Robert fought with a frantic, lethal desperation. He wasn't thinking of form or footwork; he was throwing the full, wild weight of his body behind every strike. He kicked an overturned oak bench into Fearchar’s shins, lunging over the wood with a sweeping low blow aimed at his gut.
Fearchar leapt backward, the tip of Robert’s steel catching the hem of his linen shirt, tearing the cloth clean through.
Fearchar’s face was carved from granite, devoid of heat or panic.
He absorbed the onslaught, his boots finding traction on the bloody floor, his broadsword rising and falling in tight, disciplined parries that turned Robert’s vicious swings harmlessly into the air.
"Ye think ye’re a laird?" Robert spat, his voice a hoarse rasp as he delivered three rapid, heavy chops against Fearchar’s guard. Each blow forced Fearchar back a half-step toward the raised dais. "Ye’re naething! A Chisholm stray feeding on the Accord scraps!"
Fearchar didn't answer. He waited for the third strike to land, caught the heavy blade near his pommel, and shunted it violently to the left. The opening was brief, but Fearchar filled it instantly, driving his heavy leather-clad shoulder into Robert’s chest.
Robert stumbled, his heel catching on an unlit tallow torch on the floor. He pitched backward, smashing his shoulder against the edge of the table. Pitchers and pewter goblets crashed down around him in a noisy cascade, slopping stale wine over his boots.
Before he could regain his footing, Fearchar was on him. Fearchar’s blade came down in a sharp, vertical strike meant to shatter Robert’s guard.
Robert scrambled sideways on his knees, reaching blindly with his off-hand. His fingers closed around the heavy iron shank of a roasted spit hanging near the hearth. He swung it upward with all his strength, catching Fearchar’s forearm just as the sword descended.
The iron bar clanged hard against bone.
A sharp gasp escaped Fearchar’s lips. His sword arm buckled, the sleeve of his shirt instantly soaking through with bright, hot crimson as the jagged edge of the iron spit tore a deep gash from his wrist to his elbow.
He didn't drop his sword, but his grip loosened, the point dipping low toward the floor.
Nandag’s breath caught in her throat. She took a step forward, her hand leaving Mòrag’s shoulder, her knuckles white as she squeezed the air. "Fearchar!"
Robert saw the blood and let out a breathless, triumphant laugh. He surged to his feet, discarding the spit, and gripped his broadsword with both hands. "Bleed, ye bastard!"
He pressed the advantage, raining blows onto Fearchar’s wounded right side.
Fearchar was forced to absorb the shocks on a weakened arm.
Teeth bared, his jaw clamped so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords, Fearchar yielded inch by inch.
Crimson trailed down his forearm, spattering the grey stone beneath his feet with every heavy parry.
Nandag felt Mòrag’s hands clawing at her arm, trying to pull her back, but Nandag couldn't move. Her gaze was locked on the widening stain on Fearchar’s sleeve, the slight hesitation in his footwork as he backed toward the low steps of the dais.
Robert threw his full weight into a brutal overhead strike.
Fearchar raised his blade to catch it, but his injured arm gave way beneath the crushing impact. The crossguards locked with a deafening screech, and Robert slammed his forehead directly into Fearchar’s face.
The crack of breaking bone echoed through the quiet room.
Fearchar’s head snapped back. Blood erupted from his nose, and his boots slipped on the slick stone of the step.
He went down hard, his back slamming against the edge of the dais, his broadsword clattering out of his numb fingers and spinning across the floor, out of reach.
Fearchar lay stunned in the rushes, his chest heaving, his left hand grasping blindly for a weapon that wasn't there.
Robert stood over him, towering like a mountain of dark iron and mud. He wiped a mixture of sweat and blood from his eyes, a terrible, ecstatic grin twisting his face. He raised his broadsword high above his head with both hands, the tip pointing straight down at Fearchar’s exposed chest.
Nandag’s vision narrowed to the cold steel hovering in the air. The hall seemed to lose all sound, all motion, leaving only the dark shape of the blade beginning its descent.
"FEARCHAR!"
The scream tore from Nandag’s chest, raw and frantic, shattering the silence.
Fearchar’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice.
As Robert’s blade plunged downward, Fearchar didn't try to block it. He threw his weight sideways, rolling hard across the oak planks. The tip of Robert’s sword missed his ribs by a hair's breadth, burying itself three inches deep into the solid wood of the dais step.
Before Robert could pull the steel free, Fearchar’s hand shot out. His left hand—his good hand—closed around the hilt of a fallen mercenary’s hunting blade lying in the rushes beside him.
With a low, guttural roar, Fearchar drove the short, heavy blade upward.
The steel found the narrow gap beneath Robert’s iron jack, biting deep into the soft flesh of his left side, right below the ribs.
Robert froze. A sharp, wet gasp hitched in his throat. His hands loosened on the hilt of his trapped sword, his fingers twitching against the wire wrapping.
Fearchar twisted the blade once, hard, before wrenching it clean out.
Robert staggered backward, his boots shuffling uselessly over the floorboards as he tried to keep his balance.
Blood, dark and thick, began to seep rapidly through his wool doublet, staining his tartan a deep, blackish-red.
He pressed his gauntleted hand against his side, but the crimson stream poured through his fingers, dripping onto the floor between his feet.
He didn't fall.
Robert took a shaking, shuddering breath, his chest rising in jagged, shallow lifts. Slowly, agonizingly, he turned his head away from Fearchar.
His dark, bloodshot eyes moved across the dim hall, searching the shadows near the cellar archway until they landed on Nandag and Mòrag. He stared at them—at Mòrag clinging to her sister’s side, and at Nandag standing tall before her, her chin lifted, her dark eyes unblinking as she held his gaze.
There was no victory in his eyes now. Only a hollow, bewildered silence.
Slowly, Robert turned his body back toward Fearchar, who was pushing himself up from the floor, wiping the blood from his mouth with his wounded arm, his hand tightening once more around the grip of his broadsword.