They fought back to back for a stretch, blades flashing, breath steaming in the cold air. Hunter was fast, reckless, but not stupid. He listened when Maxwell barked commands. He adjusted when Finley shouted a warning. The three of them moved like a machine that had been built for this.
O’Douglas men tried the south again. Failed.
They tried the main gate harder. Failed.
They tried to scale the wall. Failed.
Maxwell saw it in their faces as the minutes bled into an hour. Confusion. Frustration. Then fear.
They had expected to find weakness.
They had found a laird who had prepared.
“Push them back,” Maxwell ordered, voice iron.
McNeill men surged forward, driving O’Douglas fighters out of the gate and into the open ground beyond. The battle spilled into the slope, steel clanging, boots slipping in mud and blood.
Maxwell cut down another man. Then another.
He lifted his gaze and saw a figure moving with more certainty than the rest, armored heavier, posture too proud.
Lyall O’Douglas.
Maxwell’s grip tightened.
“Finley,” he said, voice low.
Finley followed his gaze. “I see him.”
Hunter’s head turned too, eyes narrowing. “That bastard.”
“Stay,” Maxwell ordered Hunter, sharp enough that his brother flinched.
Hunter bristled. “Maxwell.”
“Stay,” Maxwell repeated. “Hold the line. If ye break formation for pride, I will drag ye back myself.”
Hunter’s jaw flexed. Then he nodded once. “Aye.”
Maxwell moved forward, stepping through chaos with cold purpose, blade steady, eyes locked on the man who had poisoned every peace offering with greed.
The sound of steel on steel echoed through the hills.
And Maxwell went to end it.
Lyall O’Douglas met him in the open ground beyond the gate, where the slope gave enough room for a laird to pretend this was a contest of honor instead of slaughter.
He was taller than Maxwell remembered, or perhaps his arrogance made him seem so. His armor was cleaner than his men’s, his cloak still bearing the colors of his house as if he thought cloth could protect him from consequences.
Lyall’s mouth curled when he saw Maxwell.
“Beast,” he called over the clash around them. “Ye’ve been hiding behind walls.”
Maxwell did not answer.
He walked toward Lyall with measured steps, blade angled low, breathing steady. Around them, the fight continued, but the space between lairds grew strangely quiet, as though even the men knew instinctively to give them room.
Lyall lifted his sword, posture confident, almost pleased. “Ye thought ye could shame me at yer table and nae pay for it.”
