It was a shallow wound, one that stung but didn’t slow him down. Still, it was never a good idea to fight wounded, since it was bound to tire a warrior faster and slow his reflexes—but what other choice did he have? He had already made up his mind that he was the one who had to kill Alastair. No other man could take that from him.
With a wince, James took a few steps back and the two men circled each other. James’ boots sank in the soft earth where the blood had seeped into the soil, his feet dragging through it. He could feel his own blood seep out of the wound over his ribs, sticking to his undershirt much like the sweat did. Compared to other injuries he had sustained in battle, however, this was barely a scratch.
It would be yet another scar he would bear on his body, yet another reminder of the fights he had won.
With a chest-rumbling roar, Alastair headed towards him once more. He made for a fierce sight, the men he had killed andmaimed leaving their marks on him. He was covered from head to toe in blood, his clothes soaked in it, his skin painted crimson. James was certain he was in no better state. He, too, could feel the blood of those he had hurt all over him, tacky on his skin, the stench of it permeating everything around him.
James couldn’t help but wonder where Edward was. He couldn’t help but wonder if his brother was safe, if his sister and his parents were safe. Even after everything his parents had done—especially his mother—he still cared about them. He didn’t want them to die in the hands of the enemy, or to suffer their torture methods.
And he couldn’t help but wonder where Freya was. A part of him was glad that she had managed to escape all this before the fight erupted. Had she been in the keep, Alastair would have certainly tried his best to get to her and kill her. Perhaps that was what he was trying to do even now, not knowing that she had fled under his mother’s threats. But even if he tore the whole castle apart, there would be no sight of her. Wherever she was, she was safe.
In the chaos of the battle, another soldier fell into James, knocking him off his balance. He took a moment to steady himself, and that was all Alastair needed to attack once more, just when James was most vulnerable. With a grunt, James fell to the ground to avoid Alastair’s blade, raising his own to guard himself from the blow that followed. When Alastair attacked again and again, James scrambled backwards, trying to get far away enough from him to push himself back up onto his feet.
The soil was slippery, his fingers sinking into it. Alastair attacked with raging strength, putting all of his efforts into his blows. James’ arm ached from the repeated impacts, the force of each hit pushing his blade farther and farther down.
He couldn’t hold Alastair off for too long. The man had the upper hand and he knew it—and he would do anything to keep it that way.
Sweat dripped from James’ brow. His heart beat fast, adrenaline pumping through his veins. Around him, the shouts of his men and those of Clan Campbell echoed loudly in his ears, a cacophony of sound that only seemed to rise higher and higher as more soldiers fell to their deaths. In his lifetime, James had seen plenty of death; he had come close to it several times before himself, but he had never felt the sharp pang of terror as he did now.
He had never wanted to die, but he had always considered it a part of life; a possibility in all the battles he had fought. But now he had something for which he desperately wanted to live; he had Freya’s love, and he couldn’t meet his end now that he had only just gotten a taste of it.
Gathering all of his strength, James decided it was time to fight back, even from a disadvantageous position. Instead of fleeing, he remained where he was, planting his feet into the earth and raising his sword to attack just as Alastair came to loom over him. The other man was quick to parry the blow, forcing James’ blade to the side, but James was also quick to attack again, swinging his sword to cut him through the stomach.
He missed. Just for a fraction of an inch, he missed, his blade rushing past Alastair without dealing any damage.
And then, just as he tried to scoot farther back, an unbearable, stinging pain erupted over his shoulder as Alastair dealt a deep cut. James’ breath was cut short, all the air leaving his lungs from the searing pain, and he watched as Alastair prepared to attack once more and deal the killing blow.
With any strength that remained to him, James raised his sword. He observed and waited for the right moment, allowing Alastair to come close; too close.
And then, just as Alastair was about to strike, he pierced him through the stomach, stopping him dead in his tracks.
Above him, Alastair looked at James with wide eyes. Then, he glanced at his stomach, from which blood fountained around the wound. He took one ragged breath, then another, and then collapsed on top of James, the life drained out of him.
James let go of his sword. He let go of everything, too exhausted and too dizzy to care. He had lost a lot of blood—he could tell from the way the world was spinning around him, the way his eyes refused to stay open. Every sound was now distant, as though his ears had been muffled with cotton. All he could see was the steel gray sky, stretching high above him.
He was not going to get what he wanted, after all. He had tried so hard, but in the end, Alastair had won, even if he had died for his victory.
Perhaps that was always me fate.
That was James’ final thought before the darkness claimed him.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
“Freya! Freya, wait!”
The familiar voice brought Freya to a stop and she looked over her shoulder to see another horse approaching her.
And its rider was none other than Morgana.
How did she manage tae catch up with me? She must be a very good rider.
Freya had been moving down the path in a leisurely pace, while Morgana had clearly been galloping as fast as her horse would allow, but even so, Freya had managed to cover a good distance. The fact that Morgana had caught up to her at all could only mean that she was desperate to get to her.
Morgana brought her horse to a halt next to Freya, her chest heaving as she tried to catch her breath. Her skin was pallid, her expression guarded. She was the last person Freya had expectedto see there, chasing after her, and her presence made her uneasy, not because she didn’t trust her, but rather because of what it could mean.
“Ye must come back,” she said. “James… he needs ye.”
It was precisely what Freya had feared and now her stomach turned at the thought of everything that could have happened to him. She hadn’t been gone that long; what could have possibly happened to send Morgana into this state?
