It was the perfect plan for a laird. However, for a captain, it had a couple of flaws he could explore.
He moved to the edge of the castle, where some of his men were stationed, and stood beside them.
“Get me a sand barrel,” he ordered.
A boy rolled a drum of sand to his feet. Logan kicked it to the edge, wedged it, and sliced it open. The sand flowed over the top like a curtain, and the ladder slipped. The men below cursed and stumbled.
Another head rose at the merlon, a face tight with effort. Logan knocked the blade aside and drove his boot into the man’s chest. The man fell and did not rise again.
Logan felt the old rhythm come back, ship-fast and clean. His body knew how to live in noise. He had learned it for years.
“More oil!” someone shouted.
“Nae yet,” Logan said. “Wait for the rush. Make it count.”
A shout rose by the gate as men rammed the wood with a giant log. The iron held, but the wooden parts splintered.
A hook caught the lip near his hand and held. A MacTavish man climbed fast, and Logan turned. The man dove up with a short blade and caught fabric at Logan’s side. Heat ripped across his ribs. Logan cursed under his breath and stepped through the pain. He locked the man’s wrist and slammed his forehead intothe man’s nose. Bones crunched, and the man loosened his grip. Logan finished it and breathed out slowly.
Blood stained his shirt and his fingers, but he did not look at it. He planted his feet and took the next rung of work.
“Ye are cut,” David said near his ear.
“After,” Logan grunted.
The ram hit again. The gate shook but held. Stones fell from the top of the tower and smashed into a million pieces.
“Ye attack on me command,” Logan ordered. “Daenae attack a minute before.”
They all watched in anticipation as the men rammed at the gate one more time. Then, they started to retreat.
Logan watched for a minute, wondering if he was imagining things.
“Are they turning back?” David asked, the confusion in his voice clear.
“If we want to defeat them, now is the time to—” a voice rose from the crowd behind him.
Logan raised his hand.“Daenae follow,” he said. “Hold the wall and let them walk.”
They gathered themselves and watched the yard beyond the gate go empty in patches. The last ladder went down, and the last hook fell and dragged a scrap of cloth. The banner with the red bar dipped and moved off at a measured pace.
Theywereleaving.
This was a message that had been written and delivered.
Logan stood still until the sound faded and the men on the wall turned to look at him. He touched his hand to his side. It came away wet.
“David,” he said.
David stepped up to him, face set. “Aye.”
Later that evening, Isobel stood in the corner of the hall and watched as a maid cleaned the gash on Logan’s chest. The cut ran a hand’s length under his ribs. It had depth and heat. She poured liquor on it, but he did not flinch. He held the edge of the table as she stitched the cut.
“Hold still, me Laird,” she said.
“I am still.”
The maid eventually tied off the thread and pressed a clean cloth to the line.“Ye shouldnae do anything strenuous for at least the next few days, me Laird. Ye cannae run for long, walk or travel,” she advised.
