“Sure,” Matthew said, shifting in his saddle, “that’s exactly what it seemed like.”
“You bastard,” Jacob said, approaching his brother and gripping his plated gauntlet, which held a splattering of blood from the slain Scotsman. “I thought you weren’t coming.”
“You and me both,” Matthew said, looking down at his brother with compassion and warmth, and determination. “But here I am.”
“And I am glad of it,” Jacob said.
“Come now, enough of this,” Matthew said, breaking away from Jacob’s grasp. Jacob gave a chuckle at his brother’s false austerity. “Shall we go and rescue our sister?”
“I should say we shall,” Jacob replied, the both of them swelling with that brief taste of battle and the determination of the action yet to come.
“Then, let us be off.”
Jacob mounted his horse, his adrenaline running rampant, and the two brothers turned their horses North, setting off for McGowan castle as the sun rose up above the horizon. The first rays burst through the morning’s mist and lit up Matthew’s armor in a marvelous glitter. Jacob could not help but admire him. Even after all their ups and down, he had still come. He had saved him, and Jacob loved him, and together, they would save Laila.
They trotted off, the long grass shining with the sun, leaving the torn Scotsman behind. Jacob gave one glance over his shoulder at the body before it vanished from view, wincing a bit at the gruesome sight, and then steeled himself against it, for he knew that before all of this was over, there would be many more men in the grass, their life blood arrayed out all around, and Jacob was determined not to be one of them.
