His chains held taut to keep from rattling, he resumed his endless journey. He made slower progress now, since he dared not take to the roads. The stars led him during the nights, the sun during the days. A crude staff from a sapling he had snapped off and stripped of its leaves not only steadied him, but provided a way to check for snares that would hang him by his ankles, or covered pits with wooden spikes waiting to skewer him. The bloody Campbells stopped at nothing.
Luckily, the few men he had come across did not see him before he saw them. It surprised him to discover that some seemed uncomfortable with hunting a fellow Scot based on rumors from the British. From what he gathered from their conversations, they had the good sense to realize that if the Sassenachs would do such a thing to a MacDonald, they might do the same to a Campbell. But then there were the others, those excited to track prey capable of outwitting them.
Noise up ahead slowed him. He dropped into a crouch again. Something or someone tromped heavily through the leaves. From the rhythm of the noise, he would bet his favorite dagger that it was a Campbell. Maybe even more than one. He eased closer, taking care to crawl behind anything that would conceal him.
In the center of a small clearing, a man worked with a rope, setting up a snare. No horse was tied near him. That meant he either lived nearby or a hunting camp was within walking distance. His tartan revealed him to be a Campbell.
Teague scanned the area, then grinned and sent up a prayer of thanks. The lone hunter had removed his weapons, water skin, and pack and left them leaning against a tree while he worked.
Teague eyed the things, his mouth watering. But they were still a fair distance away, and the fiend might finish his chore before he reached them. The man turned while adjusting the length of the rope and unknowingly faced Teague.
Teague weighed his choices. He hated to kill the fool because the Campbell looked to be little more than a lad. He doubted if the youngling even shaved yet. The boy’s jawline still looked soft and downy as a bairn’s behind. There was naught to do but render him unconscious, gag him, then leave him dangling in his own trap.
As soon as the youngling turned his back to him again, Teague charged forward, threw the chains of his shackles around his neck, and choked off his air until he went limp. Working as fast as possible, he gagged the boy with a strip of cloth ripped from his léine, placed his feet inside the snare’s loop, then triggered it.
With the lad’s belongings hugged to his chest, he cast a look back at the unconscious Campbell gently swinging back and forth between the trees, kilt draped down around his head and his bare arse shining. The boy’s throat and pride would be bruised, but he would live. At least now, he would know to remain vigilant even on his own land.
Teague took to higher ground even though the thinner trees provided less cover. He doubted it would take those traveling with the young one long to realize something had gone awry. As much as he yearned to stop and search through the supplies for a decent oatcake, he needed to distance himself from the dangling Campbell. Either that or find a safe place to hide for a while. He had come across several caves but avoided them. The clan might know of them, and he could end up cornered. Besides, a higher elevation might tell him how many he faced if they were careless enough to make camp and build fires. He doubted the Duke of Argyll would go long without the niceties of a hot meal.
With his back against the crag, he hooded his great kilt over his head to help him blend in with the rugged landscape of heather in full bloom. The short, bushy plants grew tall enough for him to hide among them while sitting and, if need be, lie flat to disappear even more. He rooted through the Campbell lad’s bag. Two smallish oatcakes, an apple, and a meager handful of smoked meat slices dried to a jaw-torturing chewiness. Further digging brought up a worn leather flask with the letters “A C” carved on the front. A sniff of the contents made him smile. It wasn’t whisky, but it would do. He appreciated the cheap ale the other Campbells complained about.
Vigilant scanning of the area below, while he wolfed down half an oatcake, revealed several thin spirals of white smoke curling upward through the treetops. All were within a small circle of one another, pinpointing the enemy’s encampment.
He squinted up at the sun, then frowned. Traveling across the roughest ground had slowed him more than he thought. At least he had a decent enough sword now, a skin of water, and, if carefully rationed, food for a few days. Hunger provided an excellent incentive to keep moving.
He shoved the sword into a loop of his belt, then slung the rest of his supplies over his shoulder. Time to move. They would find their youngling hanging in the woods at any time.
Dreary gray clouds blew in and blotted the sun from the sky. Rains would start soon. With any luck, it would slow the Campbells. He could not allow it to slow him, but would have to take extra care not to leave any signs of his passing. The droplets peppered down. Slow at first, then fast and furious, as though the Highlands wept for a lost love.
Keeping low as he edged down the crag into thicker trees, he realized the rain would not only slow the Campbells but also prevent him from hearing them. He did not like depending solely on sight. Not with the murkiness of the stormy woodlands. Just in case, he eased his newly gained sword free of his belt and kept it ready. The hairs tingled on the back of his neck. It felt as though the Angel of Death himself stroked a bony finger across them. He rolled his shoulders to dispel the feeling. The rain sluiced down. He squinted harder to notice any movement among the trees, their trunks soaked to a shimmering black.
Then one of them moved.
“Ye be a slippery bastard, I gi’ ye that much!” The man roared as he charged.
Teague dropped just in time, but still felt the attacker’s blade whisper as it passed over him. Forced to fight with both hands clutching his sword, he spun around and doled out an effective slash.
His opponent grunted, backed up a step, and slapped a hand against his ribs.
“Ye can run if ye like,” Teague said. “Since I dinna ken who ye are, I canna name ye a coward.” The best way to win an unfair fight was to anger the adversary into a mind-addling rage. He grinned as the man bared his teeth, gave another growl, and charged him again.
The slipperiness of the wet ground nearly fouled his sidestep, but Teague recovered quick enough to open a long, painful slice across the man’s back. This needed to end. This Campbell made more noise than a howling banshee. More were sure to arrive at any moment. He arched back, held his sword like a battle-ax, then let fly and prayed the move worked. Haft over tip it spun through the air, but the arc dropped too fast. Instead of hitting the man in a killing spot, it drove through his thigh.
With a yowling bellow, the devil staggered to the side and fell. Before the fiend could yank the steel free, Teague descended on him and slit his throat with his own blade. Noise in the distance confirmed Teague’s fears: more Campbells would be upon him at any moment.
Clutching the dead man’s sword, he ran. With bound wrists, he could somewhat battle one man at a time. He doubted the murderous clan would grant him the courtesy of each of them waiting their turn to fight him.
Lightning flashed through the woods. Thunder followed, crashing hard as though keeping pace with the danger. He daren’t look back. To do so would only slow him. An arrow whizzed past and stuck in the ground ahead of him. He wove back and forth through the trees, increased his speed, then slowed while dodging. Anything to foil the archers’ aim. One missile caught him in the meaty part of his shoulder, but he didn’t stop. The arrow would have to wait. He consoled himself with the thought that at least it wasn’t a spear.
The rain pelted down harder as he veered toward the road. The deep, overgrown ditch on the other side might provide a wee bit of cover if he could drop into it and make it to a ravine. At least there, he would be shielded from more arrows. He maneuvered across the muddy roadway by sticking to overgrown, weedy patches and those filled with rockfall from the hillside. It slowed him some, but if he didn’t take care, the quagmire would suck him in and hold fast.
His wounded shoulder burned like a fiend, but it had to wait. Movement farther down the road to the right caught his eye. The bloody bastards had herded him into a trap. With a guttural battle cry, he lifted his sword and spun about to face the enemy. They might kill him, but by all that was holy, he would take a few of the devils with him.
“Bows and spears. Be quick about it!” Calder’s bellowed war cry drowned out the noise of the storm as the MacDonalds fired on the Campbells emerging from the trees.
Bleary-eyed with disbelief, Teague stood there and stared. His own horse galloped toward him, slinging mud in its wake. Its rider was slight and cloaked in black. A slender hand reached down for him. “Teague! Come on!”
“Mila!” He feared if he grabbed her hand, he would pull her down. “Give me the stirrup, love.” He latched on to the saddle, put his boot in the stirrup, and launched himself up behind her. With his shackled arms looped down around her, he held tight as she turned his mount and rode behind his men holding off the Campbells. He expected her to stop, but she kept riding, urging the horse onward as fast as the muddy road allowed.
