He recited a silent charm for protection as he leaped, and felt the familiar confidence return. His dirk, clenched between his teeth, tasted of metal, and even before his feet hit the ground his sword came to his hand.
He had been in one-sided fights before. And he had faced four-to-one already in his own glen; these odds did not really seem so bad.
The first man went down without even knowing whom he faced; Finnan’s sword took him in a fell swoop, and he tumbled from his horse into the path. The other three men—none Trent or Stuart Avrie—quickly tried to maneuver their mounts in the narrow space. Finnan had chosen his place of ambush well, trees on one side and hard granite on the other.
“’Tis he!” Finnan heard one of them yell. “The demon!”
Demon, was it? Finnan grimaced even as he leaped for his second man. It would be easy to disable the fellow’s mount, but Finnan did not like harming horses; he had served in far too many campaigns when they were hired, same as he. And he could think of no better way to bring himself ill fortune than to bleed one.
The gods knew he had ill fortune enough.
That thought became his last before he switched off his mind and took on the warrior’s mien. Years spent serving as a mercenary had taught him the necessity of it: complete and intense concentration kept a man alive, and no room for pity.
Save for the horses.
Two more men went down in quick succession, one to his sword and one to his dirk—dead or severely wounded; he did not have time to tell. The fourth man decided quite wisely to make a break for it, but Finnan hauled him from his mount and threw him to the ground, with the point of the dirk at his throat.
“Now, then,” he said as he crouched above the fellow and tried to catch his breath. “You will give me some information before you die.”
In the gloom beneath the trees, he could barely see the fellow’s expression. Wide eyes caught what light there was and reflected it in a slick shine.
Finnan let the dirk bite a bit deeper. “You will be a hired sword.” Not so different from him, then. “And with no real investment in this fight. Is it worth the dying?”
The man made a spasmodic movement but did not speak.
“How many hired men do the Avries have on hand?” Finnan demanded. It seemed like a small army. Finnan did not understand how they could afford it.
“A score,” the man croaked out.
Finnan’s brows jerked up. “Fewer now,” he returned seriously. “This will not end well for any of you. If I let you go, will you tell the others to clear off?” He bared his teeth. “This glen belongs to me. It will always be mine. Trent and Stuart Avrie—”
A flicker in the man’s eyes, or perhaps pure instinct, warned him just in time. He bounded to his feet and whirled even as the sword of his first opponent, not dead after all, swooped past his head. Finnan swore to himself and rued the fact that he had not made sure and slit the man’s throat. Now he would have to face both of them.
But nay, for he heard the man behind him get up onto his horse and away—going for help, most like. Avrie House lay not far off. Reinforcements would come soon, which meant Finnan needed to end this fight swiftly.
His opponent streamed blood from the wound at the side of his neck that Finnan had already inflicted, but he had a firm grip on his sword and a terrible grimace on his face. Finnan, with his sword in one hand and the dirk in the other, whirled like a dancer and attacked the man from behind, making the most of the limited space.
A deadly and desperate fight ensued over the bodies of the two fallen men, while the dark increased by the moment. Like fighting a shadow, Finnan told himself, one with a deadly blade. He could hear his opponent grunting and gasping with every blow rather than see him, and the breath began to heave in his own lungs.
End it, he told himself, but at that moment his opponent leaped.
Finnan felt the man’s blade make contact with his left arm. The dirk fell from his hand.
Anger ignited inside him then: it had always been so, on the field. Had not Geordie said Finnan fought like a boar, and like a maddened boar once blooded?
He swung his sword in a blur that caught the last of the light and, speaking another charm, completed a wide sweep that parted his opponent’s head and body.
The corpse fell with two separate thuds that he heard rather than saw. He stood with his heart pounding, alone.
But not for long.
He had to get away from this place, as the fox leaves the hunt. He needed to find Danny, get the lad up and moving. Not easy with the fever that beset the boy every time night came.
Swiftly he took stock of himself and swore bitterly. Another scar to add to the number; for his left arm had been laid open in a long cut. He could not go dripping blood in a trail.
He fumbled on the ground, recovered his dirk by feel, and then wrapped his arm with his plaid.
A score of men, so his opponent had said. Only seventeen now. But this time he had not come out of it unscathed.
