Senga yelped in pain, feeling tendons and muscles in her shoulder creak. Any more pressure, and her arm would break.
“Ye are too afraid to face him, aren’t ye?” she hissed. “Ye imagined ye would have yer private guard here to kill him for ye, but ye were too cowardly to refuse Laird Dickson’s request.”
“Shut up!”
He shoved her forward through the trees, away from Noah and the fight. She could hear the clang of blades meeting and sent up a quick, frantic prayer that he would not die.
“If I can’t kill him,” Laird Murray muttered, pushing her forward to stumble through the trees back into the open space. “Then I will at least takeye. Ye are mine, at least.”
Despite it all, Senga felt a rush of relief to see that Bluebell still stood there, unharmed,cropping grassin the most unhurried way.
“When we get back to the Keep,” Laird Murray hissed, a little breathless, “ye will announce to our people that ye have comeback to my side, where ye belong. Ye will tell all kinds of stories of how wild and cruel this rebellion is and how abominably ye were treated. Ye will show scars and talk of torture and cruelty enough to move even the hardest heart. That is how we’ll turn the Highlands against Keep Grahame and Kenneth. Ye had better start thinking of good stories to tell, and I promise ye that ye will have scars enough to show.”
Senga stumbled, unable to use her arms to save herself, and felt her father’s grip loosen on her arm. She crawled forward, snatching up a rock. It was pretty useless, as weapons went, but it was better than nothing.
Her father hadn’t noticed the rock in her hand.
“Get back here!” he roared, grabbing her ankle and hauling her backwards towards him.
Gritting her teeth, Senga spun around, throwing the rock straight at him. It wasn’t a wonderful shot, and it wasn’t a particularly large or sharp stone. But it glanced off Laird Murray’s forehead, grazing it. Blood quickly welled up.
He staggered back, dropping her leg, and lifted a hand to his forehead. When his fingers came away smeared with blood, he blanched.
“Yebitch,” he whispered.
Senga tightened her jaw until her teeth squeaked.
“All the terrible things ye have done,” she murmured softly, “all the horrors ye have wrenched upon others, and ye swoon at the sight of yer own blood? For shame, Father. For shame.”
Rage flared in his eyes, as she’d known it would. He lunged towards her, and Senga knew that she’d gone too far.
He delivered a stinging blow across her face, making her vision blur, and knelt over her, pinning down her arms before she could recover her senses. His hands closed around her throat and squeezed.
Senga’s eyes bulged, her lungs beginning to scream almost at once. She scrabbled weakly, trying and failing to buck him off her.
This is it, then,she thought weakly, her vision beginning to bubble and blur.This is how I die.
Oh, but how far I have come!
Then there was movement, and in a confusing rush, Laird Murray went flying backwards. His hands were torn free of Senga’s throat, and she dragged in a deep, rasping breath, her fingers flying up to her bruised throat.
Noah stood over Laird Murray, who was lying on his back like an upended tortoise. Through her wobbling vision, Senga saw her father roll onto all fours and try to crawl away, fingers digging into the mossy, muddy earth.
Noah’s sword came down in a glinting flash, severing Laird Murray’s right hand at the wrist.
There was a split second of silent horror, and then the man began to scream.
“I told ye that the next time ye lay a hand on her, I’d take yer hand off,” Noah stated, his voice trembling with emotion. He turned to Senga, hurrying over towards her.
“I’m not hurt,” she wheezed, her voice oddly cracked and strained. She knew that there could be permanent damage to a person’s throat from strangulation or other injuries and wondered briefly if her voice would ever return to the way it was. Even if it didn’t, it wouldn’t change the fact that she wasalive.
“Are ye hurt?”
He shook his head. “Murray’s men are dead. The tide of battle is turning, Senga. The Dickson men are retreating. Jame and his troops have already gone. We have the high ground, and we have better archers.”
“It’s not over,” Senga stated.
She blinked, trying to clear the pinpricks from her vision, and crouched down, tearing a long strip off the bottom of her gown. She tossed it towards her father, who was curled up on his side, sobbing faintly.
