Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The weight of the broadsword in Fearchar’s left hand felt leaden, the leather wrap slick with his own blood as it dripped from the torn flesh of his right forearm.
He brought his boots under him, forcing his trembling legs to take his weight as he stood in the center of the hall, his breath rasping through his teeth.
Five paces away, Robert swayed like an oak cut halfway through its trunk. His hand clutched at the deep, dark gap in his side where Fearchar’s blade had sunk home. Crimson pooled between his fingers, blackening his tartan and splattering onto the ash-strewn stone.
"Look at them," Robert gasped, his voice a wet, bubbling rattle that echoed off the high timber rafters.
He spat a mouthful of dark blood onto the floor, his eyes rolling back toward the cellar archway where Nandag and Mòrag stood bound together in the shadows.
"Look at the great Lady of Strathglass... and her shivering shadow."
A low, bitter chuckle broke from Robert’s chest, turning instantly into a choked cough that brought him to his knees. He didn't drop his sword. He braced the heavy pommel against the floorboards, using the steel to keep himself upright.
"Ye were right, Fearchar," Robert wheezed, his bloodshot eyes fixing on Mòrag’s pale, tear-streaked face. " I didnae lie in that bed out of soft, foolish affection. She was a key, Chisholm. A weak, frightened little latch tae open their faither’s chest. That’s all she ever was.
A Farquharson title wrapped in a wool skirt. "
Behind Fearchar, a sharp, ragged gasp caught in Mòrag’s throat, but Nandag’s arms only tightened around her sister’s waist, shielding her, her dark eyes burning into Robert’s face with pure, unyielding stone.
Fearchar took a slow step forward, his boot heavy on the stone, his broadsword dragging an inch through the bloody rushes before he lifted the point. "Save yer breath, Robert. Ye’re bleeding out."
"I took what was mine!" Robert screamed, pushing himself up off his knees, his jaw slick with red. The madness flared bright and hot in his sunken eyes, consuming whatever reason he had left. "When the lass wouldnae bend, I knew what she was—a stubborn, venomous bitch!"
He took a staggering step toward Fearchar, his sword scraping loudly along the oak table edge.
"I sent the spy intae these walls tae cut her throat in her sleep!
" Robert snarled, his breath coming in shallow, frantic gasps.
"Aye! I wanted her dead! I wanted her head on a spike at the lower gate before she could sign away the keep that belongs tae me by marriage tae the firstborn!
And when the royal paper came from ye… ye just had tae spoil it all. "
Robert’s chest heaved, his hand tearing at his own collar as if the air itself was poison.
"I burned the lower village!" he roared, a terrible, victorious grin splitting his bloody lips.
"I ordered the fires! I gathered every blade from the east tae tear these walls ae the bedrock! If I couldnae sit in the high chair... if I couldnae wear the mantle of Strathglass... then I’d leave ye a pile of cold ash and dead women! "
The silence that followed his words was thick and suffocating.
Even his remaining mercenaries near the postern gate shrank back, their weapons lowering an inch, their eyes turning away in quiet disgust from the man who had bought their steel.
Fearchar raised his blade. His right arm was numb, a steady stream of red running off his fingertips, but his left hand held the iron guard steady as a rock.
"Ye’re nay laird," Fearchar said, his voice dropping into a quiet, absolute register that cut straight through the stink of blood and smoke. "Ye’re just a coward who couldnae bear the sight of his own failure."
Robert let out a wild, high-pitched howl—a sound devoid of reason, of honor, or of hope.
He hauled his broadsword off the floor with both hands, ignoring the dark blood spouting from his ribs, and charged across the five paces separating them.
His boots slipped on the bloody stone, his posture broken, his sword raised wild and high above his head for a desperate, suicidal strike.
Fearchar didn't step back. He didn't parry.
He stepped straight into the charge, pivoting his weight onto his back heel. As Robert’s blade swept downward in a blind, clumsy arc, Fearchar drove his broadsword forward with the full, heavy thrust of his shoulders.
The cold steel passed under Robert’s guard.
The point bit deep into the center of Robert’s chest, punching through leather, wool, and bone with a sickening, heavy crunch.
Robert’s momentum carried him straight onto the hilt. His sword clattered uselessly out of his hands, bouncing twice on the flagstones before coming to rest near the cold hearth. His hands flew up, catching the iron crossguard of Fearchar’s blade, his fingers twitching helplessly against the steel.
For a long, frozen second, they stood chest to chest. Robert’s eyes were wide, staring directly into Fearchar’s grey, unblinking gaze.
Fearchar wrenched the blade free.
Robert collapsed hard onto his face, his forehead striking the stone with a dull thud. His legs twitched once, a long, rattling sigh escaping his lips, blowing a tiny patch of grey ash across the floor. Then, he lay completely still.
The crimson pool expanded slowly beneath him, touching the hem of his ruined mantle, before stopping against the stone edge of the dais.
Fearchar stood over the body, his shoulders heaving, his chest rising and falling in deep, ragged gasps. He lowered his broadsword, the tip resting flat against the bloody rushes, before his fingers loosened and the weapon slid from his numb hand, clattering harmlessly to the floor.
Slowly, as if turning through deep water, Fearchar turned toward the cellar archway.
Nandag was already moving.
She broke away from the stone wall, stepping over the fallen benches and scattered weapons without looking down once. Her plaid was torn, her face stained with soot and rain, but as her eyes locked onto his, the rigid, granite tension vanished from her face.
She reached him in three long strides, throwing her arms around his neck with a force that nearly drove the breath from his lungs.
Fearchar caught her with his left arm, pulling her flush against his chest, burying his face into the warm, damp curve of her neck.
He ignored the burning fire in his wounded right arm, his large hand coming up to cup the back of her head, holding her close until there was no air left between them.
Her hands clutched frantically at the thick linen of his doublet, her heart hammering against his ribs in a wild, frantic rhythm that slowly, steadily began to match his own.
"Ye’re safe," he rasped into her hair, his voice thick and rough. "It’s over, lass. It’s over."
A broken, breathless sob escaped her lips against his shoulder, but she didn't weep. She held him tighter, her fingers tangling into his dark, damp hair, anchor to anchor.
Footsteps rushed up behind her. Mòrag stumbled forward, her knees giving out as she reached them.
She fell against her sister’s side, her arms wrapping around Nandag’s waist, burying her face into her wool plaid.
She wept openly, her shoulders shaking violently as weeks of fear, terror, and shame finally broke free in a torrent of quiet tears.
Nandag reached down, taking her sister’s trembling shoulder, pulling Mòrag tight against them both, holding her close beneath Fearchar’s broad shoulder.
Across the hall, Duncan stepped forward, his bloody broadsword pointed straight at the four surviving mercenaries trapped near the postern.
"Drop the steel," Duncan roared, his scarred face grim, his voice echoing through the silent rafters. "Drop it, or ye join yer master in the dirt."
One by one, the mercenaries let go of their hilts.
The weapons clattered loudly against the stone—swords, daggers, and iron pikes rolling uselessly into the corners.
The men slowly raised their gauntleted hands, backing toward the timber wall, their eyes fixed on the body lying dead on the dais floor.
The terrible noise of battle faded completely from the keep, replaced only by the crackle of the dying hearth fire and the quiet rush of the wind through the high arrow-loops.
The survivors—guards, villagers, and elders stepping out from the dark archways—stood in silent awe, staring down at the broken seal of Robert’s reign. The threat that had hung over the glen like a shadow was gone.
Fearchar held Nandag close beneath his arm, his thumb tracing the smooth line of her jaw as they looked out over the quiet hall.