“Why did ye come?” Baird asked quietly.
It was a simple, straightforward question and he expected a simple, straightforward reply.
The scout barked out a laugh, which was dry and cruel. “Wouldnae ye like tae ken.”
Baird didn’t hesitate. His fist snapped forward, striking the man across the jaw with a crack that echoed off the stone. Blood sprayed from the split lip, splattering the floor. The scout’s head snapped to the side, but he let out a ragged chuckle.
“Ye hit like yer braither,” he taunted. “Soft.”
It took every ounce of discipline not to grab him by the throat and squeeze until the truth spilled out.
Baird exhaled once, regaining control of himself. Then, he asked again. “Why?”
But there was only silence this time. The scout stared straight ahead, breathing hard through his nose. His refusal was deliberate, meant to provoke. Baird didn’t give him the satisfaction of a raised voice or lost temper.
He struck again. This time harder. His knuckles met cheekbone with a sickening thud. The man’s head slammed against the stone behind him. Blood trickled from his brow, sliding down the taut line of his cheek.
The scout coughed, spit thick and red hitting the floor between them. His breaths were uneven now, his defiance shaken, though not extinguished.
“Ye will answer me,” Baird said softly, in a voice low enough to scrape bone. “And ye will dae it soon. Because I’ve far less patience than mercy.”
The man swallowed hard, and a tremor betrayed him despite his snarl. Still, he said nothing. But Baird knew that his fear was growing, spreading like a disease.
He straightened slowly, letting the moment stretch, letting the dread settle into the very cracks of the man’s resolve.
“Very well,” he said. “We’ll dae this the slow way.”
He stepped in again, striking the man with the flat of his fist, this time catching the hollow beneath the scout’s cheekbone. A crack followed. Whether it was bone or pride, it hardly mattered. Blood spilled freely now, dripping onto the stone floor in uneven spatters.
“Why were ye in Kincaid lands?” Baird asked.
Silence, followed by another strike and the sound of hard, swift knuckles slamming into ribs. The man gasped, and chains rattled as he sagged. Only the irons were holding him upright now. He wheezed for air, yet still glared through swollen lids.
“Why?” Baird repeated in a voice as calm as rain.
No answer. Baird hit him again.
This was no rage, no uncontrolled fury. It was methodical. It was a blade honed by necessity, each blow delivered with the precision of a man who had interrogated enemies since the moment he became laird.
Blood smeared Baird’s knuckles. The metallic scent thickened the air.
The scout let out a choked sound, which was half-laugh and half-groan. “Ye think this… will make me speak? I’ve held out against worse than?—”
Baird drove his fist into the man’s stomach. The breath tore out of him in a wet gasp. He hung limp for a moment, with his face twisted in agony.
“Why,” Baird asked quietly, almost gently, “were ye in me village?”
All he received was a faint shake of the dead. Baird struck him again across the jaw. The scout’s head snapped back, blood arcing in a crimson spray. He whimpered in an involuntary sound that told Baird he was close to breaking. Chain links rattled as the man tried weakly to pull away from the blows.
“Why?” Baird asked one last time.
Still nothing. So, Baird slammed a fist into the man’s ribs once more, so hard the scout let out a strangled cry.
“Stop! Stop!” the man gasped, coughing violently. “I’ll talk… just… stop!”
Baird halted instantly. He stepped back a full pace, his eyes never left the prisoner.
“That’s better,” he said quietly.
