"I see," Duncan said. "So they'd like tae die here as well."
"It'll be ye tha' sees your last moments here on this hill if ye take one step further," Iain warned.
He hefted his blade up, taking one swift glance at Jacob and Gamelin at his side. He knew that Aymer was somewhere among the farmers behind on horseback; the man would already have aim on the band of Robertson soldiers. He had trained his men well since his father's death and had taken the threat of the enemy clan very seriously.
"Weel, then," Duncan said. "Prepare tae meet death, Iain MacThomas!"
The Laird lifted his blade and, with a war cry that rang through the moors, he began running towards Iain at full speed. Iain felt his pulse pick up, and he began sprinting forward. He held his sword high, and when the two Laird's met, he crashed it down against Duncan's own weapon. The sound was sharp and ear-splitting, but neither Laird winced. Iain snarled in the face of the older man, his eyes alight with pure, righteous fury.
This man had hurt Isla all of her life, even in ways that she had just discovered. He had put his hands on her when she angered him; she was a spirited and passionate young woman, and it was clear that Duncan could not stand it. Fury pulsed hot within him as he thought about the years of torment that she had to suffer through, pains even unknown to him.
He imagined his father watching proudly as he blocked yet another flurry of slashes from the enemy Laird. The man was too fast with a blade that size; Duncan certainly did have strength to spare. He was cocky, certain of his impending victory, but Iain would not let him take it.
Iain would not let him take her.
No, Isla had to remain safe, far from Duncan Robertson for the rest of her life. Iain vowed when he'd heard the awful story along with Isla that the man who had pretended to be her father would never see her again. He had already broken that promise; Iain saw how Duncan's eyes had strayed over his shoulder at her during their conversation.
Angry with himself, Iain swiped low, trying to knock the Laird off his feet. It would be much easier to dispatch him if he was on the ground, but Duncan proved himself to be quick as well as strong. He smirked at Iain condescendingly as the sound of steel clattered around them and arrows buried themselves in the earth at their sides.
Iain heard a grunt to his right and chanced a quick look. Gamelin was squaring himself against the giant of a man who Iain had assumed to be Duncan's general. The man was imposing and massive and held a look of determination on his face that Iain almost admired. Iain turned back to look at Duncan; the man was standing confidently in battle stance, his feet planted firmly.
"Look aroun' ye, Iain," he said. "My men will soon take care of yers and yer wee farm lads. Then it'll be jus' ye and I; I'm certain ye know how tha' will turn out. Much the same as yer own father's attempt at slayin' me did."
Iain spat on the ground in contempt, his teeth bared.
"Yer men?" he barked at the Laird. "Tell me, Duncan. Do they know about what ye did?"
For the first time, Iain saw the man blanch. The smirk fell from his face to the dirt he'd kicked up, and it was replaced with a look of surprise. It did not last long; his confident expression returned within the minute.
"I dinnae what ye mean, Iain," he said. "My men respect and follow their Laird, even tae death. I am the Laird by right."
Iain saw the general glance his way when he spoke. The man's head had jerked in their direction, a questioning but suspicious look in his eyes, though he swiftly turned back to block a staggering blow from Gamelin.
"The Laird by right?" Iain asked, laughing. "Tha' is no' how I heard it came about. Has no one ever wondered what happened tae Laird Bryant?"
Now Duncan's general really was listening. Iain did not miss how the man's head swiveled at the mention of Laird Bryant. It was obvious that Iain had his attention even as the man fought of Gamelin's insistent blows. Gamelin took the opportunity to duck low and attempt a slash at the man's middle, and Iain noted that the general had barely been able to fend him off.
I have tae keep talkin'. My words are affectin' both Duncan and his best men.
"The Laird died in his sleep," Duncan growled menacingly as he raised his blade again. An arrow landed a few feet to his right, and the man began to circle Iain in an attempt to stay moving. " 'Twas a tragedy beyond all else, confirmed by the clan's healer. How dare ye even mention my brother's name!"
"Did no one think it suspicious?" Iain asked, his eyes glinting. He had the man on the move both psychologically and physically. "An entire family losing their lives? An' ye with an extra little baby tha' looks nothin' like ye... Ye mus' have yer clan grasped tight in yer fist tae have been able tae get away with it, Duncan, tha' I will say."
The general had moved ever closer, backing Iain's direction. He kept glancing in their direction, his expression growing even more intense. The man's face was ruddy, his eyes wild, and he turned once more in his Laird's direction to search his face.
This was the second that Gamelin needed. He raised his blade high and, with a triumphant roar, was about to slash at the general's throat. He took one step forward, but he went no further. Just as he was about to execute his killing blow, an arrow buried itself directly in the man's left leg, just where his knee would bend. With a cry of surprise, Gamelin stumbled and dropped his blade; the weapon fell directly in the dirt at his side.
He went down in front of the massive general, sprawled out on the grass of the moors. Iain moved to help him, but Duncan moved between them.
There was nothing Iain could do to help the man who was one of his best and most loyal soldiers. He let out a roar of desperate frustration, unable to get to the man who would lay down his life for him.
But the general did not move. All around him, Duncan's men were watching the huge man, his beard blowing in the wind. The general looked as though he were warring within himself, but after a beat of hesitation, he straightened. The man held up his fist and the Robertson men stopped their advancement, confused looks on their faces.
Duncan spun around to look at them and then whirled back to face Iain.
"What are ye doin'?" he demanded. "Charge! Slay these mongrels! Fingal, what is the meanin' o' this?!"
The general, Fingal, looked as though he were deep in thought, but his eyes did not leave Iain's face. Iain took this opportunity to keep talking; he noticed that the man's interest seemed to increase with every word he spoke.
