"I dinnae think this is a good idea, Bryant," one of the men called to the drunkard. "I've heard o' the MacThomas keep, and they're a fearsome bunch of men..."
The tipsy man glared daggers back at the bandit who had spoken up, his frown a jagged dash across his reddened face. "Aye, an’ if he's a Laird, he's worth more alive than dead!" he said. "Come on, lads, we 'ave them surrounded; there's no way that they can take us all on at once!"
Iain took a moment to glance at Isla; both hands were grasping at the clasp of her cloak. She looked down at him, and Iain saw the fear dancing in her blue eyes. That fierce protectiveness rose up in him like a wild beast about to strike, and before he knew what he was doing, he was stepping down from his steed.
"Then face me, coward," he said. He raised his sword, his knees bending in battle stance.
The man grinned, grimy teeth glinting in the moonlight. He reached behind him, unsheathing his own blade, and took an unsteady step forward.
Killing a drunk man wasn't exactly what Iain would consider honorable, but he had threatened to impede them. And the man had been right about one thing.
There certainly had them outnumbered. Though he had brought his best men, Iain had only chosen three to accompany him. Each one was a deadly warrior in his own right, but the numbers were enough to make Iain think twice.
But if he could make his point now, then perhaps it would be enough to allow them to escape.
He could easily see that the seed of fear had already been sown into the men's hearts. He knew he could take advantage of this if he was smart about it.
The man hefted another smirk at him before raising his weapon high. He took one step, two steps, and then slashed at Iain with his blade. Iain instinctively stepped forward, parrying it easily. The clang of steel on steel cut into the night, and he heard Isla yelp at the sound of the powerful first blows.
The man swiped at him again, this time catching Iain’s forearm just barely. Iain ignored the stinging pulse in his arm and the warm sensation of blood escaping the wound. Isla gasped and stifled another cry; she was trying not to distract him, he realized. The man before him threw another cocky smile in his direction, and Iain felt himself grow hot with anger.
And he threatened her.
Rage filled Iain as he thought back on the man's words. His slimy gaze had slid over Isla's frightened body; he had seen it. Iain raised his sword and hacked at the man left and right, full of furious energy. Behind him, the man's thieving companions had begun to falter, falling back and muttering amongst themselves. This show of power had allowed the doubts to blossom into full-fledged fear of him and his men.
The man roared at him, spit flying from his mouth. He raised his sword high in an attempt to sever Iain's head clean from his shoulders, but before he could follow through with his murderous intent, Iain ran him through completely with his blade.
A guttural cry burst forth from the man's lips as Iain yanked his blade back savagely. The bandit stood there, bewildered, for just a moment before Iain brutally kicked him hard in the stomach.
The man was dead before he hit the ground.
The rest of the bandits were shouting and scrambling away from the scene, their feet beating through the forest. Iain listened to the tell-tale sounds of their frightened retreat, waiting until he no longer heard any sign of the men.
He heaved a sigh, wiping the blood from his blade on the moor grass.
"Shame he dinnae listen," Iain said. "But if we had tae make an example of the man, then I cannae regret it."
Isla was staring at him with wide blue eyes. Her mouth had formed the tiniest circle, her lips red from where she had gnawed on them in her anxiety.
"You saved my life," she breathed. "You..."
Iain gulped, sliding his blade back in his scabbard. "Well," he said. "Dinnae think nothing of it. I cannae very well find out if ye were lying tae me if yer carried off by bandits."
He had meant it seriously, but to his shock, a bright smile cracked over her face.
"No, m'Laird. Iain," she said, correcting herself. "I suppose that would make it difficult indeed."
He felt something tie itself in knots inside of him at the sight of her face. She looked breathtakingly beautiful on the moors; it had been the backdrop he had seen her against in his dreams. Isla smiled winningly at him, her pale face shining in the moonlight.
Iain pulled himself up onto his horse, hauling his leg over easily, and nudged the beasts with the heels of his boots. Frowning, he glanced up at the sky. The dark night sky was overcast with clouds that were nearly blacker still. He could barely see a single star in the sky; where the moon had previously been glowing down upon them was now one massive dark thundercloud.
A storm was brewing, and it was coming fast.
"We're going tae need tae hurry," he said. "Take shelter in this forest. I doubt our bandit friends dwelling within will want tae give us too much trouble."
He was about to lead his horse down a cleared-out path in the forest when there came a bright flash of light and an ear-splitting crack.
A dead tree on the moors to their right had been struck down with lighting. The thing had burst into smoldering flames and had been blindingly bright.
