“Ye’ll do nothin'.” Murdock’s voice was cold, absolute. “Dead men cannae do anythin'.”
Ragnall’s good hand went to his sword, but the movement was clumsy, weakened by blood loss and pain. Still, he drew his blade, holding it in his left hand with visible effort.
“Come on then,” he snarled. “Let’s finish this.”
Murdock raised his sword.
They came together in a clash of steel that rang across the courtyard. Once, twice, three times their blades met. But Ragnall was fighting one-handed, weakened, desperate. Each parry came slower than the last.
“Ye killed me brother!” he screamed, launching a wild swing that Murdock easily sidestepped.
“Yer brother was a monster who deserved worse than he got.”
“And what are ye?” Ragnall circled him, trying to find an opening. “Ye’re just like him. Just like all of us. A man who takes what he wants and damns the consequences.”
“Nay.” Murdock’s voice was steady, certain. “I’m nothin' like ye. Nothin' like yer brother. And nothin' like me faither.”
He struck.
The movement was too fast to follow. One moment, he stood still; the next, his sword was a silver blur.
Ragnall tried to parry, but he was too slow. The blade caught him in the side, sliding between his ribs with surgical precision.Murdock twisted, then withdrew. Ragnall stumbled backward, his sword slipping from his fingers.
“I’m the man who protects what’s his,” Murdock said quietly, watching as the man fell to his knees. “And ye threatened what’s mine.”
Ragnall looked up at him, blood bubbling from the corners of his lips. “She… was always… mine…”
“She was never yers.” Murdock raised his sword one final time. “And she will never be.”
The blade came down.
Ragnall’s head rolled across the cobblestones, coming to rest near the hand Murdock had severed earlier. His body collapsed, blood pooling beneath it in a spreading loch of crimson.
Silence fell across the courtyard.
Then, one by one, Ragnall’s remaining men dropped their weapons.
“We yield!” the first one called out, his voice hoarse. “We yield!”
“We surrender!” another joined in. “Please, nay more!”
All around the courtyard, swords clattered to the ground. Men fell to their knees, hands raised. The fight had gone out of them with Ragnall’s death.
Murdock surveyed the carnage, his chest heaving, blood dripping from his sword. Bodies littered the courtyard; he’d lost count of how many he’d killed. His arms ached, his muscles burned, but he remained standing.
Victorious.
And utterly exhausted.
Murdock turned to the surrendered men, his expression hard. “Yer Laird is dead. Yer plans have failed. But I’m nae a monster, despite what ye may think.” He paused, letting his words sink in. “I will send one of me men to lead Clan Kerr until Rufus comes of age. The boy is the rightful heir. Will ye serve him?”
The men exchanged glances. Then the one who’d called for surrender first spoke up. “Aye, Laird. The boy is of the true bloodline. We’ll serve him.”
“And what of our dead?” another asked quietly. “May we take them home? Give them proper burials?”
Murdock looked at the bodies scattered across his courtyard. Men who’d followed a mad laird to their deaths. Men who’d been too loyal or too frightened to refuse.
“Aye,” he said finally. “Take yer dead. Bury them with honor if ye wish. But ken this, if any of ye return to these lands with ill intent, I’ll nae be so merciful next time.”
