James nodded a greeting and shuffled over, making room for MacColla by the fire.
“You’re off for the Cameron then.”
“Aye, I’d not leave such a good man to the dogs.”
“If he’s still alive.”
“Aye, if he’s still alive.” James nodded grimly. “Ewen is a canny one though, and strong. I’m wagering he lives still. The Campbell would think to use him to some end.” They sat in silence, letting that last thought hang.
“I’d have you lead the men.”
"And who else?” MacColla’s white smile glowed eerily, his dark features otherwise imperceptible in the night. “’Tis a chancy thing you do, James. Not many would stroll into the Campbell’s lair to retrieve a stripling laird.”
“Which is why I’ll let none see me,” James replied, his cavalier tone belying the danger of his task.
“And, James?”
"Aye?”
"I’d thank you.” Before he could interrupt, MacColla continued, “Never before have I seen so many men banded together. Different men. Men of differing religions. Men of warring clans. We all fight for different things. You fight for the king. My fight is against the Campbell. Others fight for the Highlands. But it’s only you, James, a man not born to the Highlands, who has been able to unite all Highlanders.”
“Notallthe Highlanders.” James’s protest was lighthearted.
"Och, the ones that matter, aye?” Laughing, MacColla slapped him hard on the back, and James looked on his friend with affection.
He was humbled by the sincerity of MacColla’s words. And by the responsibility. “I thank you.”
"Godspeed, Graham.” MacColla nodded thoughtfully, knowing the danger they both faced. The Royalists were hungry, exhausted, cold, and outnumbered more than two to one.
"Aye, good man.” James clasped MacColla’s shoulder and gave a curt bob of his head. “Godspeed.”
Making a stealthy approach when traveling alone wasn’t a challenge. He’d had to half run, half slide down the scree of the lower foothills, but the thin blanket of snow actually muted James’s descent. He sent silent good wishes up the mountain to MacColla. Campbell’s encampment was vast, its thousands of men well fed and well rested. The Royalists, however, enjoyed but a few hours’ rest after their thirty-six-hour trek across the mountains, fueled by melted snow and what small provisions they carried on their persons.
He spotted what was clearly the Campbell’s tent, and knew at once what had drawn Ewen to such an audacious attack. It was larger than the others, and it lay in the midst of the encampment, like a queen bee in her hive. It was Campbell’s own cowardice, James thought, to safeguard himself so.
Dark shadows flickered along its walls, which glowed amber from the oil lamps burning within. James easily made his way among the sea of tents, taking cover in a swath of black shadow outside Campbell’s shelter. Somebody was speaking, and he leaned in closer to make sense of the words.
“I know Graham is not a ghost who simply disappeared into the mist. You will tell me where he and his Royalist pigs have spirited off to.”
James heard a sharp crack, followed by the scuffling of feet. There was a grunt— he thought it might be the Campbell— then a series of dull, wet-sounding smacks.
“You’ll not test me, Cameron.” Campbell sounded winded. “I’ll beat you like the hound you claim to be.” Another crack. “Now you’ll tell me where they make their attack.”
There was a shuffling, then the sound of heavy breathing. “I’ll wipe that smile from your face,” Campbell snarled, and James heard the sound of steel on stone.
"I like my blade sharp, the better to cut your— ”
It was all James needed to hear. He regretted the absence of a plan, but thought the Cameron could use his assistance just then.
His sword was in his hand. A lifetime of practice lightened the steel, making it an extension of his arm. His grasp was firm and the leather grip familiar in his palm as his fingers nestled in the soft, quilted maroon cloth that lined the basket. Basket hilts bearing elaborate filigree work were becoming the fashion, but James had chosen simplicity instead, a thick steel lattice sturdy enough to protect his hand from his opponent’s blade.
The deadly sharp metal cut easily through the tent with a mere sigh of fabric to betray it. James leapt in, simply appearing at Campbell’s side. The man had a small dagger to Ewen’s ear, and blood bloomed like a rose tucked there, with a thick rope of crimson already oozing down his neck. His black hair was slicked with sweat. The young laird beamed at James, the wide smile unsettling on his bloodied and bruised face.
Campbell swung around at once, striking broadly at James, blade swishing close to his torso.
“I think not, Campbell.” James bounded backward. “Though that’s some bonny footwork. Impressive for a man of your . . .stature.”
James circled his enemy. “I will just . . . relieve you of this,” he finished quickly, swatting the knife from Campbell’s hand with his broadsword.
