True, Hagen recalled his grandfather Alexander enough to know that he would want the man killed without another thought, without hesitation or mercy. This was vengeance, no different than the vengeance Brynja harbored for the men who killed her mother. The realization struck him cold.
Were they the same? Was vengeance ever righteous, or did it always cloud judgment?
Dugan snorted. “You’ll care for the young lasses. Like the ones you did on Iona? She got you, you never got her.”
A third man said, “You should have seen the two who lived here with their mothers. We almost got a taste of them.”
Dugan said, “You cannot ruin the merchandise. And they got away from the two watching the cottage.”
“And now we have no one to watch the bairns. You didn’t need to kill them, Dugan.”
Hagen glanced over at Brynja, whose face had turned red. She’d heard. These were the men who killed her mother and aunt. He squeezed her hand, and his father shook his head at her.
Dugan chuckled, “I can’t wait to see Connor Grant’s face when I stick my sword deep in his belly. But first I’ll tell him how my grandfather enjoyed ripping into his mother.”
And then his father did exactly what Hagen didn’t want him to do.
And what he’d sworn not to do.
Connor Grant rose from their hiding place, his massive frame unfolding to its full height. The movement was deliberate, controlled—the calm before the storm.
“See if you think you can do it now, Comming.”
His father’s voice rang across the space between them, cold as winter steel.
And everything happened at once.
Brynja stuck her head up, her movements fluid and practiced. Two daggers flew from her hands in rapid succession, silver flashes in the afternoon light. The first struck the third man in the throat—he made a wet, gurgling sound as he clawed at his neck and dropped. The second blade buried itself in the fourth man’s belly. He looked down in disbelief, wrapped both hands around the hilt, and yanked it free. Blood erupted from the wound, spraying across the dirt in a dark arc. He stumbled backward, pressing his hands uselessly against the flow.
And the battle began in earnest.
Dugan charged after Connor like a maddened bull, his sword already drawn and gleaming. Hagen moved instinctively to protect his father, his own blade clearing its scabbard, but his sire bellowed at him with a voice that could shake mountains.
“Do not dare to step in front of me!”
The command froze Hagen mid-stride. His father wanted this fight. Needed it.
Sholto grabbed a fallen sword and ran at Brynja, murder in his eyes. She loosed two arrows in quick succession—the first whipped past his ear, close enough to draw a thin line of blood. The second embedded itself in the wooden doorframe behind him. Sholto skidded to a halt, then wheeled around and dove back into the hut, disappearing into its shadowy interior.
Movement erupted from behind them. Two more men came charging from the trees—mercenaries by the look of them, their weapons already drawn and their faces twisted with battle rage. They were suddenly outnumbered, surrounded.
Alaric moved to intercept one attacker, his sword meeting the man’s blade with a shower of sparks. The clang of metal on metal rang out across the hillside. Hagen spun to face the other swordsman, a hulking brute with a scarred face and dead eyes.
Behind him, Dugan went after his father with relentless fury. Connor fought like a man possessed. Nay, like a man who’d beenwaiting thirty years for this moment. The sound of their swords clashing was deafening, a rhythmic thunder that everyone on the isle could have heard. His father’s movements were powerful, brutal, each swing carrying the weight of decades of grief.
Hagen’s opponent came at him with an overhead strike that would have split him from crown to jaw. He threw his blade up, catching the blow, feeling the impact shudder through his arms. The mercenary was strong but reckless. Hagen sidestepped, letting the man’s momentum carry him forward, and slashed across his sword arm. The blade bit deep into muscle and the man screamed, his weapon clattering to the stones. He clutched his ruined arm and ran off down the hill, leaving a trail of blood behind him.
But Sholto had reemerged from the hut, and he was still headed for Brynja.
She saw him coming and her hand went to her belt, coming up with another dagger. The blade flew true, sinking into his shoulder. Sholto roared in pain and fury.
“Bitch, I’ll kill you!” He kept coming, ripping the dagger free and casting it aside, blood streaming down his arm.
Hagen turned to go after him, his legs already moving, but two more men materialized from around the side of the cottage. He didn’t know which bastard to go after first, his mind racing to calculate the threat. Brynja or his father?
Then, suddenly, the air sang with arrows.
Four shafts flew over their heads in perfect formation, finding their marks on the two new attackers. One took an arrow through the eye and dropped like a stone. The other caught two in the chest and staggered backward, mouth open in a silent scream, before collapsing.
