“Ye almost ruined it!” Kyle laughed back. “Did ye do that on purpose?”
“What d’ye think?” Domnal said, chuckling. “A good shot, I must say.”
“Ye’re a bloody troublemaker, Domnal,” Kyle said, standing above his prize.
“I cuild say the same aboot ye,” Domnal said.
“Go then an’ fetch the horses,” Kyle said, gesturing with his dagger. “I’ll keep ‘em company.”
“Right,” Domnal grunted, turning back the way they came.
“Oy!” Kyle shouted.
“What?”
“Leave me a dram, would ye.”
“Save me some, ye bastard,” Domnal called, tossing the wine skin across the clearing. Kyle caught it and winked to his friend as the man disappeared into the brush.
Kyle stood victoriously over his kill, uncorking the wine skin and drinking deeply as the morning gave way to midday. Perhaps, he thought, he should give it all up and become a woodsman, living off the land and never venturing to town. This was one of the times he was happiest, roaming freely about the wilds. But then again, there were no servant girls in the forest for him to charm.
There was a crack of a branch from behind him, and Kyle whirled about, nearly dropping the wineskin in surprise. His eyes narrowed, and he scanned the edge of the clearing. It was not uncommon for the great Scottish wolves to descend upon a fallen creature such as his freshly killed stag, and he knew that should they come, he would have to withdraw. He hated to think of it, but a pack of hungry wolves was more danger than he could overcome on his own. He saw a flash of movement through the brush, and he tensed, slowly moving the wine skin to his belt and resting a finger upon his quiver.
There it was again. Kyle had his eyes locked upon it now, and as he squinted at the trees, he realized that it was no wolf, but a man, crouching there in the bushes. He felt both relief and worry, relief for the fact that he would not be dealing with wolves but worry for what sort of a man was spying on him. In this wild countryside, such spies were often ill omens.
“I see ye there,” Kyle called out. “Announce yerself!” He was met with silence. “Announce yerself, I say!” Kyle bellowed, and the bushes rustled as the man emerged. He was a rugged-looking fellow with a bushy beard, ragged hair, and even more ragged clothing, and Kyle guessed his age to be somewhere after forty. “Whae d’ye want? Hiding there? Speak!”
“Who are ye tae order me aboot?” the man replied, taking a step forward into the clearing, and Kyle saw an old longsword strapped to his waist.
“I am Kyle McGowan!” Kyle roared back, trying to project as strong of an image as he could. He had no idea how many more of these woodsmen were about, and the sword and the man’s age made Kyle think of him as a veteran, a dangerous man who knew the face of death. “The brither o’ the Laird. Now back away from me kill and go aboot yer way.”
“Brither o’ the Laird,” the man repeated, stepping closer. There was more movement along the tree line, and Kyle felt panic rising as he counted at least two more woodsmen appearing. “Out here with nay a guard?” The man’s hand moved to the hilt of his sword. “I dinnae think as much.”
“I dinnae lie,” Kyle growled, bending his knees just a slight.
“I’ll give ye a choice,” the man said, taking yet another step closer. “Leave the stag and go aboot yer business. Or die here in the woods.”
“Dinnae touch ye sword,” Kyle said forcefully, squaring his shoulders and turning himself slightly sideways, “or I will kill ye.” He was terrified, and yet he felt alive like he never did. There was a certain thrill about living on the edge of a knife, and Kyle had never felt it so intensely. He was sharp. He was ready. This was his land. He would not back down.
“Aw, now,” the man said with a sigh, his knuckles gripping the worn leather grip of his blade. “Ye made tae wrong choice.”
Then it began.
An arrow flew from the tree line, passing by Kyle’s chest within an inch, and Kyle felt the adrenaline within him explode. Time seemed to slow as the man before him drew the battered longsword, and a second burst out of the trees, brandishing a hatchet. Kyle did not have time to think, only to act, and so he surrendered himself to the years of drilling and practice and let his body move upon its own accord.
Kyle lunged, leaning forward with his left shoulder, closing the distance before the man could raise up his longsword, and with his right arm, Kyle brought the dagger up, sinking it deep into the man’s belly. The woodsman’s face changed in an instant, and his grip slackened on the blade, the sword falling backward from his raised hand, and he began to fall.
“Roger!” the man in the trees shouted.
“Arrgh!” the man with the hatchet screamed, running right toward him.
Another arrow came from the trees, but this one from behind him, and it sank into the hatchet-wielding woodsman square in the chest. He faltered, stumbling down to his knees, and Kyle whipped his head around to see Domnal leaping into the clearing, his hunting bow in hand.
“Ye’ll pay fer this!” the last woodsman cried out as he turned tail into the trees. “The MacLeans remember! Ye’ll pay!” and then he was gone.
As suddenly as it had started, it was over.
“Ye alright?” Domnal gasped, rushing up to Kyle. Kyle stood still in the clearing, barely hearing his friend, looking at the two men on the ground. The first man’s blood was splattered and smeared all along his arm and his garments, dripping down off the tip of his knife, and the woodsman gave a grunt from the ground, writhing in the pain of the blow. “Kyle!”
