"Now!" Michael's roar split the air. The MacDonald warriors exploded into motion, no longer defensive but attacking with desperate fury. The surprise bought them precious seconds, and Tòrr used every one of them.
He cut through Munro's guard like wheat before a scythe. His new blade sang through flesh and bone, arterial spray painting his vision red. Men fell before him, their screams lost in the thunder of his heartbeat, the singular focus that came in battle when nothing existed except the target.
And his target was Roderick Munro.
"Ye want her?" Munro was backing toward the castle gate now, dragging Liliane with him. "Come and take her! But first ye'll have tae get through."
Tòrr didn't wait for him to finish. He launched himself forward, trusting his men to cover his flanks, and collided with Munro and Liliane in a tangle of limbs and steel.
The blade at Liliane's throat went flying as Munro lost his grip. She hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up gasping. And then it was just Tòrr and Munro, circling each other while chaos raged around them.
"Ye've killed us both," Munro snarled, drawing a fresh blade. "Even if ye win here, the Pact will come fer ye. Campbell will make sure of it."
"Then I'll kill him too." Tòrr's voice was death itself. "And anyone else who threatens what's mine."
They came together in a clash of steel that rang across the battlefield. Munro was good, better than Tòrr had expected. Age hadn't slowed him, and years of battle had honed his skills to a razor's edge. But Tòrr was younger, faster, and fighting for something more important than political alliances.
He was fighting for Liliane. For Nessa. For the right to protect what he loved without compromise or surrender.
Their blades met again and again, each strike sending jarring vibrations up Tòrr's arms. Munro started to fight with the viciousness of a cornered animal, all technique abandoned in favor of raw aggression. He nearly got through Tòrr's guard twice, his blade slicing across ribs and opening a gash on Tòrr's shoulder.
But Tòrr gave back worse. His sword found Munro's thigh, his arm, opened a cut across the older man's face that poured blood into his eyes.
"Yield!" Tòrr roared, pressing his advantage. "It's over!"
"Never!" Munro spat blood. "I'd rather die than let ye win!"
Around them, the battle was turning. With the surprise attack, Munro's warriors had lost heart. Campbell's men, seeing the tide shift, began to retreat. Michael and the MacDonald warriors pressed forward, cutting down those too slow or too loyal to run.
CHAPTER 40
"Yield," Tòrr repeated, his blade coming down hard enough to drive Munro back three steps. "It's over."
The world had narrowed to steel and blood, to the ragged rhythm of breathing and the burn in Tòrr's muscles as he pressed his advantage against Munro. Every strike was calculated now, no longer the wild fury of moments before but the cold precision of a man who knew victory was within reach.
Munro's face was a mask of blood and hate, his movements growing slower, more desperate. The gash across his face poured crimson into his eyes, forcing him to blink constantly, each moment of blindness another opening for Tòrr to exploit.
"Never!" Munro's response was a snarl, but his voice carried less conviction now. His breathing had gone ragged, his sword arm trembling with exhaustion.
Through the chaos around them, Tòrr caught movement from the corner of his eye. Michael, cutting through the battlefield like a force of nature, his sword a blur of deadly efficiency. Buthe wasn't heading for the retreating Munro warriors, he was pushing toward Campbell.
"Michael, nay!" The shout died in Tòrr's throat as Munro took advantage of his distraction, lunging forward with renewed desperation. Tòrr barely got his blade up in time, the impact jarring his entire arm.
But he couldn't look away from his brother now. Couldn't stop watching as Michael closed the distance between himself and the architect of that entire nightmare.
Campbell saw him coming. The older man's expression remained eerily calm even as Michael bore down on him, sword raised.
Campbell wheeled his horse around, his personal guard closing ranks around him like a living shield. His voice carried across the battlefield now, loud enough for everyone to hear.
"Ye've sealed yer fate, MacDonald! All of ye!" His pale eyes found Tòrr through the mass of fighting men. "The Pact willnae forget this insult! Willnae forgive ye fer raisin' arms against one of our own! Every clan loyal tae our cause will hear of yer treachery, yer murder of a Highland laird on his own lands!"
"Murder?" Michael's voice was incredulous. "He ambushed us! He's the one?—"
"Who will tell that tale?" Campbell's smile was cold as winter. "I will tell mine tae every laird who'll listen. And they will listen, because the alternative is lettin' any upstart clan challenge the established order without consequence." He jerked his reins, his horse prancing nervously. "Ye've made yerselves enemies of theentire Pact. There's nowhere in the Highlands ye'll be safe now. Nowhere ye can run where vengeance willnae find ye."
"Then we'll face it!" Michael lunged forward, but Campbell's guards were already moving, their horses surging into a gallop as they broke for the tree line.
"Michael, let him go!" Tòrr's shout cut through the moment. "We need ye here!"
