He would have ended the man's reign of terror completely in that moment if one of the enemy soldier's arrows did not bury itself in his right thigh.
Colors burst before his vision; the pain was white-hot and pulsing, but so was his rage. The Laird before him barked out a laugh, a raspy and harsh sound that made Iain's heart burn with fury. The pain in his leg was great, and behind Duncan, Iain could see the archer nocking another arrow, pulling the string back and aiming for him once again. He would not be fast enough to dodge it, not with the arrow that had already found its home in his upper thigh.
Through grit teeth, Iain took a step forward, desperate to at least end his enemy's life before he lost his own.
"Face the facts, Iain!" Duncan said. "Ye have lost! Ye and yer farmers will die here on these moors. Isla herself will be lucky if I dinnae kill her right here for disrespectin' and betrayin' me!"
Isla.
He heard her gasp at her father’s words behind him. Duncan was hurting her even now from this distance with his callousness and cruelty. Only the thought of victory beat in Iain’s mind; he had to win. Isla was counting on him.
If Iain failed now, she could be in terrible danger. He imagined Duncan seizing Isla by her arm, causing her to cry out, hoisting his blade and taking her life just as he had her real father.
Fury ripped through him as he watched the archer eyeing him. The man let the arrow fly before Iain could even think about moving aside. His eyes closed instinctively as he waited for the arrow to find its mark.
But the pain never came.
In fact, a cry rang out shockingly close to him. Iain opened his eyes to see Gamelin hunched down in front of him, an arrow protruding from the right side of his chest. A piercing scream ripped from Isla’s throat.
"Take out that murderous scum, Laird," Gamelin gasped.
The man dropped back against the ground, his left hand clutching the wicked shaft that had pierced his chest.
In that moment, Iain forgot all about the pain in his leg, the burning of his arms. He felt nothing but a fierce flame blazing in his soul, a fury so wild and untameable that he watched as Duncan flinched when he rose back up. Iain ripped the arrow from his thigh with nothing but a grunt through grit teeth and charged at the Laird.
Duncan had been certain of his victory. The man was wearing a triumphant grin, his eyes shining bright with a laugh, but as soon as he saw Iain bolting towards him, the expression melted away into a look of fear. He tried to raise his sword, but the Laird was not fast enough this time.
Iain hefted his weapon, the point facing forward. In one swift movement, he rushed forward and thrust his arms out as hard as he could, ignoring the screaming pain in his leg.
But the power behind his attack proved effective; his blade was buried almost up to the hilt in Duncan Robertson's chest.
The man's eyes were cast downward at the sword protruding from his body as if he could not believe what he was seeing. Breathing heavily, Iain pulled the sword out in one fluid motion. Blood, crimson even in the morning light, flooded from the wound, and Duncan Robertson took one last breath before toppling backward onto the grass of the moors.
Time slowed to a standstill. The men around them were noticing one by one that Duncan had fallen. The archer who had shot Iain and felled Gamelin dropped his bow and unslung his quiver from his back, allowing it to thump to the earth as well. Duncan's men were surrendering, tossing their blades with a clatter to the ground. The farmers were making their way forwards, unslinging ropes that they still had rolled up at their waists, thick cords used to round up their goats.
Fingal stood tall, and Iain watched as the man surveyed the battlefield. He seemed like a seasoned warrior and an honorable man; Iain felt a rush of gratitude at his assistance. The man made his way towards him, taking one look at the corpse of his former Laird. His eyes held a deep disgust for the man who he had once pledged his loyalty to.
Iain, though, turned towards Gamelin; he sighed at the sight of the prone form on the ground. Regret filled his heart as he approached, but Iain stopped when a groan sounded from the man. Gamelin was still for a moment but then rolled over with a grunt of pain.
He pushed himself up from the ground, a wry smile spreading across his face. Gamelin’s wound was still bleeding, but Iain saw now with relief that it had struck the man more towards his shoulder blade than in the center of his chest.
"Gamelin," Jacob cried behind Iain. "Yer alive!"
"Aye," Gamelin said. "Now help me up, lad. This knee wasnae the best before, but now I really think it's done in."
Another farmer assisted Jacob in hefting Gamelin up and helping the man across the moors. Iain sighed in relief; he had not lost even one man, though he had come dangerously close.
Fingal's eyes crinkled in a smile, and he clapped Iain on the shoulder once. The shock of being greeted warmly by a man who would have been his enemy faded quickly.
“Suppose I should be thankin’ ye,” Iain said.
"I was goin' tae say the same thing," Fingal said. "So many years of my life was wasted protectin' and followin' this traitor. I, like many here, were loyal to Laird Bryant. The rest o' these traitors will spend some time in the dungeons until I decide their fate. I suspect most o' 'em were just afraid of what Duncan would do if they turned on 'im."
"Aye," Iain said. "The man was a tyrant through an' through. Who knows what he would have done if we had no' ended him today? I could no' let him hurt Isla."
Fingal was shaking his great head.
"Isla grew up aroun' me," Fingal said. "I've been fond of her since she was a wee bairn, though I am no' the type of man tae make it known. I have never had a chil' o' my own and always thought o' her as though she were my own. I would no' have let Duncan harm her. It would have been enough tae have me revolt against him as it were, even if I was the only man tae do it."
