Merryn and Broc had arrived, Artan with them, bows still raised and ready.
But then the worst happened, and Hagen’s world tilted on its axis.
Another man—one they hadn’t seen, hadn’t counted—attacked Connor from the side. His father spun, catching the strike on his blade, and shoved the man backward with brutal efficiency. The attacker stumbled and fell.
But that split second of distraction was all Dugan needed.
The evil bastard lunged forward, his sword point finding the gap in Connor’s defense. The blade slid beneath his ribs, punching through leather and plaid and flesh. For a heartbeat, everything stopped. Connor’s eyes went wide—not with pain, but with the terrible understanding of what had just happened.
Dugan twisted the blade and pulled it free, dark blood coating the steel.
His father crumpled to the ground, both hands gripping the wound in his side, trying to hold his life inside his body.
“Da!” The word tore from Hagen’s throat, raw and agonized.
Hagen went after Dugan with murder in his heart, but at that point Alaric had already charged after him while Broc, and Merryn had scared the rest off. The remaining mercenaries took one look at their fallen comrades and the fresh reinforcements and broke. They scattered, running down toward the beach in full retreat.
Dugan ran with them, and his voice carried back up the hill, triumphant and mocking.
“Grandfather, vengeance is ours! I’ve killed Connor Grant!”
The words echoed across Tiree like a curse.
His father lay on the ground, both hands pressed against his side. Blood seeped between his fingers, too much blood, spreading dark across his plaid.
“Da!” Hagen dropped to his knees beside him, his hands shaking as he ripped a piece of his plaid free. He wadded the fabric and pressed it hard against the wound, but he could feelthe warmth soaking through immediately, could feel his father’s life bleeding away beneath his palms.
His father’s hand shot out and grabbed Hagen’s wrist, his grip still strong despite everything.
“Too late.” Connor’s voice was a rasp, thick with pain. His face had gone gray, his lips taking on a blue tinge. “Tell Mama I’m sorry. And your sisters and brother. I thought I had him. My emotions took over…”
His eyes drifted closed, and Hagen felt panic claw up his throat.
“Da!” He pressed harder, desperate, heedless of the pain it caused.
Then his mind cleared, snapping into the cold clarity of command he’d learned from this very man.
“Broc and Merryn, go for help. Ask the fishermen to find a healer—the best they have. Hurry!” His voice cracked on the last word.
“Alaric, go take the boat back and bring help. We need Brenna, we need—”
“Nay,” Alaric interrupted, dropping to his knees on Connor’s other side. His face was pale, stricken. “We’ll have to get him on the boat first. We can’t leave him here.”
His father’s eyes fluttered open again, focusing on Hagen with effort. He grabbed his son’s hand with blood-slicked fingers.
“I’ll never make it.” The words were barely a whisper, but they hit Hagen like a physical blow.
Broc and Merryn were already running. “We’ll find a healer!”
Artan stood, his face grim. “I’ll get more men from the boat. It’s going to take at least four men to carry him safely. Meet us at the boat, Broc.”
Hagen nodded, unable to speak past the lump in his throat. “Go, he doesn’t have much time.”
He turned to Alaric. “Make sure the ones on the ground are dead. We don’t need anyone sneaking up on us while we’re vulnerable. Protect our backs.”
Alaric hesitated, clearly not wanting to leave Connor’s side, but duty won out. He nodded and moved away, checking each fallen man with methodical care.
And then they were alone—Hagen, his dying father, and Brynja.
