“Today is…” Aiden started, and Fergus held up a hand to stop him.
“I ken what today is.”
It was the anniversary of the day that Fergus had lost nearly everything, and he would not soon forget the date.
Aiden and Malcolm rode off, and Fergus drew his sword at last, planning to practice on the large trees. Aiden would likely miss the council meeting due to his brother, but Fergus would have to attend. He wasn’t looking forward to it. There wasn’t much to report, and it would be a boring affair.
Fergus was a man of action, not thought, so council meetings often bored him to tears. He wanted to train and wake his muscles up just in case danger was on the horizon.
Before he could start, though, footsteps pounded behind him, and Fergus turned just as a man lunged at him, his sword nearly connecting with Fergus’s side. He dodged, growling in surprise.
Fergus swung his sword. The man parried, crashing his broadsword against Fergus’.
“Who are ye? What do ye want? What are ye doin’ on my property?” Fergus demanded, forcing the man back against a tree.
“I want to kill ye, Me Laird,” the man said, his face twisting in a sneer.
He was tall, dark-haired, and broad-shouldered. Not as large as Fergus but a considerable man. His sword strikes were thick and deadly, and if Fergus were a weaker man, he would already be dead.
It struck him then—bitter, almost mocking—that this night marked the very anniversary of the ambush that had nearly killed him years ago. The night that had taken his face, his betrothed, and any illusions he’d once held about mercy.
Fergus kept his guard up, parrying the man again and again.
But Fergus would not allow this man to kill him. He lived out of spite alone these days, and he would not let some stranger cut him down.
“Vengeance for Leary,” he sneered, and Fergus was caught by surprise as the man sliced a gash across his ribcage.
So that was it. The past, once again, reachin’ for me throat.
Fergus growled. “He deserved to die.”
Memories flooded over Fergus as he stood there, panting, parrying the sword strike yet again. He thought of his parents. Of Fife Leary, who had ruined his life. There was no wonder one of Leary’s followers had breached his property line. They were a determined bunch, and they had a leader who was always shrouded in mystery, wearing a hooded mask.
Fergus had bid his men to track every last supporter of Leary down, but apparently, a few had slipped through the cracks.
The man parried again, and Fergus forced him down, knocking the sword out of his hand.
Fergus pressed the blade of his sword against the man’s throat, drawing a thin line of blood.
“Who do ye work for?” he demanded, and the man looked up at him with wide eyes.
“I will never tell,” he spat.
Fergus shrugged. “I daenae need ye to talk. I will figure it out meself.” And he lifted his sword to stab the man in the stomach.
The mystery man cried out and then stilled.
Fergus stumbled away toward a tree, sheathing his sword and pressing his hand against the wound on his side. When he pulled it away, it was sticky with blood.
Behind him, the man lay unmoving, blood soaking into the forest floor. Fergus did not look back. He had no reason to believe the bastard still breathed.
The world seemed to tilt on its axis, and black spots bloomed across his vision.
Darkness crept in at the edges of his vision, but Fergus clenched his jaw against it.
Nay.
Nae here. Nae tonight. I refuse to die in the dirt like this.
