The man cowered, trying to scoot away but only hitting the brick of the cell wall.
“Ye cannae escape me, boy,” Fergus said, his voice going eerily calm. “Tell me who the masked man is. Yer leader.”
“Nay,” the man gasped, his eyes wide and blue and terrified as he looked at the scarred laird. “Never.”
“Ye’ll talk,” Fergus said confidently, and he took the man’s hand in his. “What’s yer name?”
Breathing hard, the prisoner stared at him for a long moment before responding.
“Archibold.”
Fergus nodded, having no need to know the man’s surname.
“Alright, Archie. Ye ready?”
Archibald looked at him, a confused expression crossing his face.
Fergus twisted Archibold’s hand, breaking each of his fingers as the prisoner screamed and desperately tried to pull away.
An hour later, Fergus had his name.
And he had a mission.
It took two days for Fergus to find the masked man. He found him in a saloon without his mask, his face showing his connection to Leary.
He looked exactly like the man. He was his bastard as Archibold had told Fergus.
Fergus couldn’t help how his breath caught in his throat. It was like seeing a ghost, a demon from his past he thought long buried.
He waited in the back until Hamish Beaufort walked out of the saloon through the back alleys to get to the stables.
Fergus called out his name.
“Hamish Beaufort. The masked man. Bastard of Fife. Meet your fate.”
Hamish whirled around, a knife in his hand, slashing at Fergus.
Fergus jumped back, his reflexes quicker than a cat’s. He grinned wildly at Hamish, loving the battle.
Hamish might be a worthy opponent for once.
“Ye killed me father,” Hamish growled.
“Aye,” Fergus said proudly. “And I’d do it again. And again.”
Hamish roared and rushed at Fergus, who had his hand on his sword. Fergus swung it but Hamish ducked and dodged, managing to tackle Fergus around the waist.
They went down and Hamish’s knife was at Fergus’ throat. Fergus pushed against Hamish’s grip, managing to turn the knife around.
Hamish’s eyes widened as the knife got closer and closer to his own throat. After a struggle, Fergus finally kicked out his legs and flipped Hamish over.
“Farewell, bastard of Fife Leary.”
“They willnae stop,” Hamish gasped, still fighting. “They’ll kill ye.”
“Nay,” Fergus said quietly. “They willnae. Cut off the head, and the rest will fall.”
Then he pressed Hamish’s own knife into his throat, and blood spurted from the wound, soaking them both.
