Magnus had downplayed the situation to Helen, but if there was one place on their journey that he wouldn’t want to be caught with over fifty people to protect from an attack, this part of the road was it. Miles from help, deep in the heart of the mountainous countryside, they could be pinned down as easily as he hoped to pin down the men following them.
“I’d feel a hell of a lot better if the entire team were here,” Magnus agreed.
Though he’d chosen the men he’d brought with him well, they weren’t the Highland Guard. They weren’t even the ten best men he had. He couldn’t risk leaving Helen and the rest of the party inadequately protected. It was how he’d finally convinced the king—one of the best knights in Christendom—to stay behind with Sutherland and Munro. Normally, Magnus would welcome the Bruce’s sword. But Bruce was king now and needed to be protected. His role had changed, but Bruce had held the sword in his hand for too long to relish putting it aside—even for the sake of the realm. And with his queen and his only heir currently in an English prison, he had to exercise caution.
Magnus hated to divide their forces, even by a short distance, but he had no choice. This was the best chance to defuse the threat with as little damage as possible. Ironically, the very thing that had given the Highland Guard an advantage over the English was being used against him: the size and inability of the royal party to maneuver quickly. He had no doubt they would win if they came under attack, but it would be far more difficult to protect Helen and the king. This way he could ensure their safety.
“Something’s wrong,” he said, peering into the nearly impenetrable darkness and mist. “We need to check—”
A fierce war cry shattered the silent night.
Magnus swore. Leaping to his feet, he reached for his war hammer. MacGregor echoed a similar sentiment and reached for his sword—his bow would be of little use in close combat—realizing as Magnus did that their surprise attack had just gone to hell.
They were the ones under attack—from behind.
He and MacGregor raced back to the place where the other men he’d brought with him were waiting. The battle was already in full force.
On first glance Magnus wasn’t overly concerned, counting only a handful of men. But that was before he noticed four of the men-at-arms he’d brought with him on the ground. Whatever advantage they’d had in numbers had all but disappeared in the opening strokes of the attack. Still, the numbers didn’t worry him. He and MacGregor would make short work of them. They’d taken down twice—four times—this many before.
But when another of his men—this one a knight—fell, Magnus knew this might not be so easy.
“What in Hades?” MacGregor said, not wasting time to look in his direction but jumping right into the battle.
The words echoed Magnus’s thoughts exactly. Even before his sword locked on his first opponents, he knew there was something different about these warriors—brigands—whoever they were.
The men were dressed all in black. Although they wore shirts of mail and notcotunsas the Highland Guard did, the mail was blackened, as were the helms that completely hid their faces. Like the Highland Guard, they employed a variety of weapons, from swords to battle-axes, war hammers, and pikes. Magnus would like to say that was where the similarities ended, but he couldn’t. He could tell from the first swing of his opponent’s sword that he was no common swordsman. The man knew how to fight. Well.
Locked in a surprisingly difficult contest, the din of battle all around, it took Magnus a moment to realize that the noise wasn’t just coming from around him. It was also coming from the west below, where the rest of the party was waiting.
The king. Helen. Bloody hell, they were under attack! He needed to get to them. But the attackers were positioned to block his path.
Perfectly positioned. Almost as if they’d known exactly where they would be.
His blood spiked, heat surging through his veins in a sharp rush. He forced his opponent back with crushing blows of the hammer. Using a curved spike that he’d forged on the other end, he hooked the edge of the opponent’s targe, ripping it from his hand. Without the shield to protect the man, Magnus took the advantage. He waited for the defensive swing of the sword, twisted out of the way, and brought down his hammer with full force on his skull. The man staggered and then fell. Though the blow would probably kill him, Magnus plunged a blade through the mail coif under his helm just to make sure.
One down, four to go. MacGregor, Fraser, and De la Hay were holding their own, but the remaining man-at-arms—one of Fraser’s men—was clearly overmatched. Magnus was surprised he’d lasted this long.
Magnus went to his aid, but before he could reach Fraser’s man, the attacker’s blade cleared the man’s head from his shoulders. Magnus swung the hammer at the attacker’s head a moment after, but he blocked it with his sword, pushing him back.
Damn, the man was nearly as big as Robbie Boyd and from what he could see, wielded a two-handed great sword with enough skill to give MacLeod a contest. Magnus couldn’t find an opening. It was all he could do to keep the long blade from lopping off his own head.
It wasn’t often Magnus found himself at a disadvantage, but the shorter length of his hammer was proving a detriment against the long blade. He couldn’t get close enough to do damage.
Where had this man come from?
In between blows, he could see out of the corner of his eye as MacGregor finally dispatched his man and went to the aid of Fraser, who seemed to be having difficulty. Magnus heaved a sigh of relief, not wanting to explain to MacLeod how they’d managed to get his young brother-in-law killed on a nice, “peaceful” journey across the Highlands.
Magnus preferred to fight with the hammer, but right now he needed the sword at his back. When the third of the attackers fell under Fraser’s blade and Magnus’s opponent glanced toward him, Magnus had his chance. He pulled the blade from the scabbard at his back, but before he could bring it down toward his opponent’s head, the man let out a sharp whistle. The next instant he and his remaining companion were fleeing back into the darkness of the forest.
Fraser started to go after them, but Magnus stopped him. “Let them go—we have to get to the king.” They’d been delayed too long already.
“Don’t you hear it, lad?” De la Hay said to Fraser. “The king and the others are under attack.”
It was less than a half-mile to where they’d left the royal party, but the two minutes it took them to get there felt like forever.
“How the hell did they know?” MacGregor asked, racing through the forest beside him.
Magnus gave him a quick glance, wondering the same thing. “Either they’re damned lucky or—”
