Panting, she clasped a hand to her breast and looked on in horror as he raced across the dais, murder in his eye. Valdar and the others were already on their feet, but they sprang back from the table, shock on their faces as he whipped out his sword, raising it above his head.
For one horrible moment, Ronan held the brand high and stared down at the rich viands spread across the pristine white linen. A great platter of roasted stag haunch hadn’t yet been touched, but the bread and ale clearly had.
As well, more than one cup held dredges of his grandfather’s prized Gascon wine.
And someone — or perhaps all of them — had done great justice to Hugh MacHugh’s excellent cheese pasties.
Ronan’s heart twisted and a terrible fear ripped his innards.
Pray God he wasn’t too late.
Then, with all the rage inside him, he brought down his sword, swiping the glittering blade the full length of the high table.
Food, wine-and-ale cups and ewers,everythingflew to the floor with a deafening clatter, the crash plunging men into silence.
Spinning around, he raised his blade again, this time searching the packed hall. Some still-hoping part of him willed that he’d only just made a fool of himself and that when he met his supposed betrayer’s eyes, he’d see only surprise and innocence.
But then he spotted the man.
And his entire stance was one of wariness.
His face blanched with guilt.
“Sorley!” Ronan jumped down from the dais, his sword flashing. “A reckoning!”
“You’re mad!” The guards captain backed away, hands in the air. “Whatever you heard is untrue.”
“What makes you think I’ve heard aught?” Ronan advanced, the other man’s slip sealing his fate.
As if he knew, Sorley’s own blade appeared in a quicksilver move. “Ooh, aye, your time has come, Raven,” he snarled, vaulting over a bench, his sword already slashing.
Ronan met his arcing swipe, the two blades sliding together with an ear-piercing screech. “Aye, my time is nigh,” he hissed, “but no’ how you mean it!”
His muscles straining against the guardsman’s strength, he drew on his own reserves and flung him back, lunging before the other could gain his balance.
But Sorley recovered as quickly, bringing up his sword and springing forward, their blades clashing again and again. Men pulled back benches and tables, forming a watchful ring around them. From the corner of his eye, Ronan saw Torcaill raise hisslachdan druidheachdat the edge of the circle.
The long wand gleamed bright silvery-blue as the ancient raised his voice, chanting out his protection.
Sorley saw him, too, and laughed.
“Dare needs more than an old man’s mumblings,” he sneered, his blade stabbing. “Only your blood will cleanse it!”
Ronan grunted and fought off the other’s furious slashes. The ringing of steel and his own blood roared in his ears, blotting out all else.
His ribs blazed with unbearable heat, the muscles in his arms and shoulders on fire. The pain in his left foot slowed him, making it ever more difficult to hold his own against the guardsman’s attack.
Somewhere a woman screamed — Gelis? — and the terror in her cry gave him a burst of strength.
“Cuidich N’ Righ!” he yelled her war slogan, his blade clanking and scraping against Sorley’s.
With renewed zeal, he claimed the assault, yelling and slashing and driving the other back. They circled and feinted, then circled again, swords thrusting and clashing, their gazes locked and heated, both panting with exertion.
Sweat dripped into Ronan’s eyes, stinging and blinding him, but he didn’t dare blink. Instead, he leaped backward and then spun around, raising his blade high for a deadly, two-handed swing.
But Sorley whirled as well, a bright splash of red streaking around his middle even as Ronan’s sword sank deep into his shoulder, sliding against bone.
Sorley’s eyes bulged and his own blade fell from his hand. He clutched his stomach, the blood gushing there spilling over his hands and onto the rushes.
