"Why do ye no' tell Fingal what really happened tae Laird Bryant?" Iain asked. "Ye killed him, is tha' no' the truth? An' no' only tha' ye stole his wife's baby as yer own! Imagine how she felt with her entire family lost on what should have been the greatest day o' of life! It is not a wonder that she took her own life!"
Fingal had turned positively stark white at the words, his ruddy face losing all of its color. He turned to his Laird, a fire blazing in his eyes. Iain watched as Gamelin reached out and grabbed his blade by the hilt, dragging it towards him again; the man backed away on the ground as best as he could, grimacing as he ripped the arrow out of his leg with an awful tearing sound.
"Tha' is no' true," Duncan said. Iain noticed how the man's eyes darted towards Fingal every few seconds. "How dare ye claim such a thing! Ye know nothin' o' me or my clan!"
Fingal drew closer, dropping his blade so that the point tore a small rift in the dirt as he approached the two of them. His eyes were dangerous, furious, and when he opened his mouth to speak for the first time, even Iain found that he would think twice about truly crossing such a hulk of a man.
"I've had my suspicions," Fingal growled. "I always wondered why Isla looked so much like Sophia. Ye know how much I respected Laird Bryant. Answer me one question: why did ye do it?"
Duncan snarled at the man.
"Yer a fool, Fingal," he said. "Bryant was always too soft of a Laird. He could never protect the clan and increase our numbers and territory like I could! He was weak, a worm, an' his wife was the same. Isla was better off with me as her father, and ye know it!"
Fingal bared his teeth at his Laird, rage evident in his face. "Ye are a traitor, Duncan Robertson," the general said. "An' if I have anythin' tae say abou' it, ye shall be Laird no longer. Men! This man is a traitor tae the clan and a murderer!"
He whirled around to face the men, some of whom looked skeptical. Some of the younger ones did not look convinced, but the older men were glancing at each other, some with masks of rage upon their expressions.
"Join me in wipin' the Robertson clan's slate clean!" Fingal shouted. "All of ye loyal tae Laird Bryant, rise against this treachery!"
But Duncan had found himself again; the shock had faded, and his anger had taken hold of him again. Iain saw the fire blazing in the man's eyes as he, too, turned to face the dozen soldiers at his back.
"I will personally slay any man who tries tae revolt against me!" he screamed, his left hand clenched into a fist. "If a single one o' ye think ye will get away with this, ye had better learn tae think again! Now, kill these farmers and this pitiful Laird and find Isla!"
"The only pitiful Laird here is ye," Iain said, his tone venomous. "I will die before I let Isla go back with ye."
"Then die ye shall," Duncan sneered. "An' good riddance tae this pathetic line!"
Three of the soldiers stepped towards Fingal; they were older men with gray in their beards and their thick brows. Two more men stepped forward, both younger than the first three; their expressions were less rageful and more apprehensive, but they looked certain of their decision.
They mus' have respected Laird Bryant. I'm sure he was no' the monster tha' Duncan was. If only Isla could have grown up with him instead o' this wicked devil.
"Anyone else?" Fingal asked. "I would no' suggest stayin' loyal tae this snake! Any man who does will be tossed directly in the dungeon upon our return tae Robertson Castle!"
"There will be no return tae Robertson Castle for rats like ye, Fingal," a young man cried. "We are the Laird's men! Ye are makin' a grave mistake by standin' against him!"
Iain watched the general's face; Fingal neither answered nor asked them again. Instead, he readied his stance, preparing for a fight.
"Traitors!" Duncan cried. "Scum! Iain MacThomas, ye shall feel my blade fer this. An' the lot of ye, I will see the color of yer blood here this day!"
He directed the last line to Fingal and his small band of men who had come to stand at his side. Fingal lifted his chin defiantly and hefted his blade high. With one long, loud cry, the general commanded the men to charge the remainder of Duncan's soldiers, now deemed traitors to the clan.
Iain dug his feet into the earth, his eyes on Duncan, who was approaching him at a fast pace, his sword raised high. Iain hefted his blade in a defensive stance, knowing that only one of them would walk away from this battle with his life.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Isla watched the entire scene, horror building up more and more in her heart.
She could not tear her eyes away from the battle, completely unable to look away. From her place in front of the cottage, she could see Iain standing staunchly in front of Duncan, the cursed man who had destroyed her life so completely. She wrung her hands together, the wind blowing her dress.
Helen tugged at her hand, urging her to come away, to go inside, but she stood firm.
"D'ye think they'll be alright?" Helen asked when she'd given up on tugging Isla away. "I... I have never seen such a sight before, miss. I dinnae know what tae do!"
Isla felt as though she'd barely taken a breath while watching Duncan circle Iain like a wild beast. Through it all, the man she loved stood proudly, straight, and tall as he put himself between her and the monster who had the audacity to call himself her father all these long years.
"There is nothin' we can do, Helen," Isla said, wishing that she was wrong. "We have no weapons; we cannae fight. We can only hold out hope tha' they are the victors."
She did not voice the words, but nor could she bear to. Isla watched as Duncan slashed at Iain again and again as though he had an infinite energy source beating where his heart should have been. The man was a fury, a blazing tornado of destruction, but Iain held fast as best as he could. Over and over, he defended himself against the man's attacks. He lifted his weapon, blocking his enemy's blows but unable to have the time to attempt any attack of his own.
