The sound of battle reached Michael before any guards could. Night had settled over the keep, but the darkness was banished by the torches the men carried as they spilled into the courtyard and out of the curtain walls, and when Michael looked out of the window of his chambers, he saw McDonald forces clash with the Campbell men.
And ahead of them all were Tòrr and Daemon, leading the charge, instantly recognizable even though Michael couldn’t see their faces from this distance.
He was already prepared for the fight—dressed in his armor, his sword sharpened and oiled, his dirk strapped firmly around his waist. Within moments, he was out of his chambers and rushing through the crowd of guards that were pouring into the hallways, all of them haphazardly dressed and shouting over each other. Michael pushed his way through the crowd, his mind drifting back to Isabeau, who was surely locked up in her chambers, frightened by the sudden attack.
But she’s safe. Nay one will touch her.
That knowledge kept him going, even as he wished that he could reveal the plan to her, so that she wouldn’t be scared. All he could do was get Alyson out of the dungeons quickly, before the McDonalds suffered too many losses, and so he pushed through, finally making it out into the courtyard.
“Envoy!”
Fergus’ familiar rasp called his attention on the man, and on Laird Campbell, who stood next to him, their weapons at the ready. Before them, in the courtyard, the McDonald forces had already begun their assault, slowly coming into the castle grounds, despite the best efforts of Campbell men. In the half-light, Laird Campbell’s face was reddened, blotchy, flooded with anger. His mouth was twisted into a cruel line, and his hands, where they wrapped around the hilt of his sword, were white-knuckled and rigid.
“A McDonald attack,” the man said bitterly, spitting on the ground. “Those rats have some nerve tae come here an’ attack me in me own home.”
As Laird Campbell spoke, Michael’s gaze was drawn to the dungeons at the other end of the courtyard. Every inch of space was taken up by men—either fighting or falling to their deaths, their bodies obstructing the path—but he didn’t hesitate before he threw himself in the middle of the fight.
He faced no risk—no risk other than accidentally killing one of his own. In his duty to make the fight seem real, he found one of the McDonald men and crossed his sword with his, the clang of steel on steel ringing out in the air around him—Angus, a large, sure-footed man with an affinity for the sword. Angus recognized him instantly, even in the chaos of the battle, and when he gave him a small, almost imperceptible nod, Michael engaged him in a mock fight, always a second too late to harm him.
Swinging his sword up, he parried the half-hearted blow the man delivered, before moving again, too slow on the counterattack. His movements were careful, precise—these were not practice swords and there was little room for mistakes. When Angus brought his blade down, Michael pirouetted out of the way, turning on his heel and responding with a blow of his own.
And then, as Angus spun to the side, he was suddenly engaged in another fight, with one of the Campbell men—and just like that, Michael was free to continue on his way to the dungeons, pretending to fight his own men along the way.
His blade was dry when he descended the stairs to the cells. There, the sounds of battle were muffled, but no less fierce for it. The air was cold, stale, and when he reached the bottom of the stairs, he came face to face with the two guards who kept an eye on the prisoners—Alyson and the captured McDonald men.
“Come, quickly,” he told them, and he didn’t have to fake the way his chest heaved as he struggled for breath. “Dinnae ye hear what’s happenin’ outside? There’s an attack!”
For a moment, the two guards glanced at each other, uncertain, but then the older of the two, a man who was often there, in the dungeons, shook his head. “We have our orders tae stay here, nay matter what,” he said.
Michael scoffed. “Why? Dae ye think the prisoners have anywhere tae go? Ye fools, yer laird is askin’ fer ye an’ ye’re sittin’ here, idle an’ cowerin’.”
The older of the two guards stepped forward, stopping only when he was mere inches away from Michael. “I dinnae take orders from ye.”
Michael kept his gaze locked on the man, considering his options. If he couldn’t convince them to get out of there, then there was only one thing he could do.
With a cry, he swung his sword, but the man was quick to pull back, drawing out his own blade at the same time. For a brief, fleeting moment, Michael’s gaze searched for Alyson, only to find darkness in the cells, which were barely lit from the sparse torches lining the walls outside. He couldn’t let himself get distracted; now, both guards were armed, and they were both coming at him at the same time, forcing Michael to parry one blow and dodge the other, ducking just in time to avoid the sharp edge of the younger man’s blade. With a huff, he took a few steps back, grunting as he parried blow after blow from both sides, his boots threatening to slip on the slick ground.
Damn it… I should have killed them the moment I came in.
But it was too late for a surprise attack now. All he could do was fight back and hope that no more men would come.
As the older man moved his sword in an arc, Michael side-stepped him, moving to the side, his left arm coming down to hit the man over the back of the neck with his elbow. The man, startled, stumbled backwards, giving Michael a few precious seconds, but the other man approached from behind. He had no more than a moment to react, jumping out of reach—but the sword still caught him on his arm, dealing a shallow wound.
Michael gritted his teeth against the sudden burst of pain. Sweat dripped down his brow and his grip around the sword was slick. His breath came in quick, labored puffs, and when he charged at the younger man, he did so with the unbridled cruelty of battle, kicking him in the stomach before he twisted his body and parried the blow of his fellow soldier. With a cry, he counterattacked, finding the opening when the older man tried to cut him down again, plunging his sword through his stomach.
Blood fountained out of him, and the man glanced down where the sword had pierced him. His own blade clattered against the floor when he dropped it, his hands pressing against the wound, but it was too deep—he could do nothing but take his last breaths as Michael turned to the last man standing, lips curling into a snarl as he approached him. He swung once, twice—then delivered the final blow, cutting the man from shoulder to hip.
For a second, he caught his breath, watching as the blood spread over the dungeon floor. Then, he rushed to Alyson’s cell—only for footsteps to reach him as men descended the stairs.
Cursing under his breath, Michael whipped his head back to glare at the Campbell men who had just come into the dungeons. Before they could say a single thing, he shouted at them, “Have ye lost yer minds? Ye let McDonald men in here? Diane ye ken tae keep them out o’ the dungeons?”
The Campbell men froze, glancing among themselves in confusion. Michael took the chance to straighten up and walk over to them, his face set into a hard mask, cold and cruel. “Ye have McDonald men kept as prisoners here… an’ ye’ve done naethin’ tae keep them out. I come here, askin’ fer reinforcements, an’ I find two guards dead!”
One of the Campbell men, the bravest of them, stammered, “F-fergive us, Mr. Grant. We didnae ken… we came here because they sent us tae guard the prisoners. We didnae think?—”
“Aye, I’m sure ye didnae,” said Michael. “Well, it’s good I’m here. Go, get back tae the battle. I’ll stay an’ guard them.”
“Yer presence is requested,” said the guard. “Laird Campbell wants ye up there with him. Everyone’s been lookin’ fer ye.”
