Four days later
The Baron of Harkirk had added to his holdings, but the fortress was still constructed primarily of wood. With a high tower house and several outbuildings surrounded by a wooden palisade, Alex knew it would be difficult to infiltrate.
They had made their camp at the top of a large hill, allowing them to look down inside the fortress. Groups of soldiers trained within the walls while smoke rose from outdoor fires.
Bram had gone to recruit help from Nairna’s father, Hamish MacPherson, while Callum stared at the walls, his thoughts unreadable.
“Did they cut out his tongue?” Brochain MacLachor asked. “Can’t he tell us anything about their defenses?”
Callum said nothing, but his fingers curled over his bow. Alex made no demands, but he knew his brother understood their words. He put up a hand, shaking his head at the others as he approached his brother. Callum had turned his back and Alex walked up beside him. “How many soldiers did Harkirk have, when you were a captive? Two dozen?”
Callum held up four fingers. Nearly fifty, then.
“How many dozens of slaves?”
His brother held up only one finger, then signaled a little more.
Alex rested his hand on Callum’s shoulder, in silent thanks for the information. Callum sat down, adjusting some of his arrows. The black-feathered tips were distinctive and he checked to be sure that his weapons were ready.
But was it reasonable to ask his brother to return to the fortress where he’d been held prisoner? He didn’t believe it was a good idea at all.
“I want you to stay behind with your bow,” he said. Callum stiffened, his face transforming with anger. “Not because I don’t think you’re capable of fighting,” he amended. “But I don’t trust Harkirk. If we’re taken captive, we need someone on the outside to get us out again.”
When Callum shook his head in refusal, Alex continued, “You need that distance for your arrows.”
In reply, Callum reached out and seized Alex’s sword, unsheathing it. Though his arms were thin, there was a tight strength there. Alex saw the ruthless determination, the blood vengeance on his brother’s face.
“If I were in your place, I’d feel the same,” Alex said. He held out his palm for his sword hilt. Callum held the weapon a moment longer before returning it. “But unless you can speak to us, you can’t come.”
A furious resentment lined Callum’s face, his eyes filled with rage, but still he held his silence.
“If you were in trouble, you couldn’t call out to us,” Alex pointed out. “And you can’t tell me what I need to know about the fortress and its defenses.”
Callum pointed in the direction where Bram had traveled, to the MacPherson holdings. And he understood what his brother meant. Nairna’s father would know about Harkirk’s weaknesses, well enough.
His brother turned his attention back to his arrows, refusal evident from his posture. There wasn’t any argument Alex could make that would convince Callum to remain behind. With no other choice, he returned to their camp and sat down.
Brochain came close and sat across from him. “When do you want to confront Harkirk?”
“When it’s dark, we’ll go below into the valley and spread out around the fortress. We need to know if Adaira and Finian are there.”
“What about Iliana?” Brochain pointed out.
“If she’s alive, we’ll do what we can to get her out,” Alex said. “But if your chief tries to sacrifice my daughter for his, rest assured, I will find him. And he won’t come back alive.”
Alexadjustedtheconicalhelm and gripped his spear as he entered Harkirk’s fortress. Brochain’s men had killed an English soldier who had spied them, and Alex had stripped the dead man of his armor. The disguise would allow him to infiltrate the fortress without being recognized, as long as he kept his head down and behaved like one of the others.
Bram had returned with a few of the MacPherson men, and they formed a perimeter around Harkirk’s fortress, searching for Adaira. Alex moved inside, his eyes adjusting to the light from the torches.
It was nearing midnight, he guessed, from the moon’s position in the sky. There were about a dozen men patrolling the walls, while inside, he saw a large tower that likely housed Harkirk’s quarters. Had the MacLachor chief brought Adaira here? Or had he turned back?
Alex silently walked through the grounds, keeping to the shadows as best he could. Often, he joined other soldiers, obeying orders when they sent him to patrol another section of the wall.
When he reached the interior portion of the fortress, he heard a man gasping for air. In the shadowed corner, he saw a bound prisoner, bleeding upon the stones. His back was raw with lash marks, and he shivered from the winter cold.
It was the chief, Finian MacLachor. Alex recognized the man who had disguised himself as Father Stephen. His first instinct was to leave the man there to bleed. He deserved death for what he’d done, but he was his best hope for answers. With reluctance, Alex came closer and dropped down on one knee. “MacLachor.”
The man raised his head, and recognition dawned in his eyes before he started to lose consciousness. “She’s dead.”
