Without drawing his horse to a halt, he leapt from its back, reaching Malric at a running pace. He crashed into him to knock him off his feet.
Malric let out a grunt as he was destabilized. A few of his men made the move to come closer, but he lifted a hand, keeping them at arm’s length.
“I can deal with this!” Malric called to his men, clearly too arrogant to allow them to help. “His life is mine to claim. Stay where ye are!”
Tavish looked back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Ailsa. Her lip was split, and her upper arm was dark with a bruise; the pain and fear were written on every inch of her, but she was alive, and he would take what he could get in that moment.
He wrenched himself away from Tavish and straightened up, a dark glint in his eye, the same one that had been there on the day that Callum’s body had been returned to the Keep. There was something about it that made the hair on the back of Malric’s neck stand on end, something dark and fearful about it that didn’t sit right with him.
“Let her go,” he growled, and Malric let out a laugh—a cruel, harsh sound, one that held not an ounce of kindness in it.
“Or what?” he replied. He peered over Tavish’ shoulder, shaking his head. “She came to me, Tavish. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Ye lured her in,” he snarled, reaching for his sword, but Malric raised his in return, catching the blade before he could swing it down against him.
“I told her that we would come to an agreement,” he replied, the clash of the metal in the air almost blocking out his words. “Just as I did Callum. Or did ye forget that yer brother came to me of his own will too?”
Rage coursed through Tavish as Malric taunted him. He knew exactly what he was doing, making a mockery of him like this. Callum had trusted Malric, trusted that his old friend would give him a chance to try to put things right, but Tavish had long understood that Malric was not to be trusted.
He flew at him with his sword again, drawing it back and landing another blow, but Malric deflected, throwing Tavish to the side. Tavish went stumbling but did not lose his footing, grasping a branch above him to pull himself back up and swing himself around to attack anew.
He used the momentum to land a blow on Malric’s side with the flat of his blade, knocking the wind from the man and sending him staggering. Then he ducked low when Malric threw his sword forward desperately to try to stab him through the belly.
“Tavish, look out!”
He heard Ailsa weeping behind him, clearly petrified, not just for herself but for him. But she did not know him well enough if she thought that he could not easily hold his own against MacCairn.
Malric had relied on the cover of darkness and espionage to get what he wanted before, but he had never been prepared for a man like Tavish—let alone in the midst of a rage that he could not begin to control.
Their swords clashed in the torchlight, flashing with red and orange like the fires of hell burned within them. Malric fought dirty and underhanded, swinging his sword out in long arcs designed to throw Tavish from his center and distract him, and then landing a kick or a punch to try to push him to the ground. But, with every blow that Malric threw at him, Tavish would pull one back, retorting with just as much venom as the sound of their blades filled the air.
Malric’s men were watching from afar, clearly too fearful of their Laird to dare defy him and intervene. But one of them was standing dangerously close to Ailsa, his blade aimed?—
And then, all at once, Malric darted forward, and Ailsa let out a cry. “No!”
Without thinking, Tavish spun around to face her, worrying that she had been struck by an errant blow in the midst of the battle. But, instead, he felt a sudden shock of pain along his side as Malric’s sword tore through his tunic and cut into his flesh.
He staggered back just in time to keep the blow from digging deeper into his body, but he clutched at the wound as blood poured from between his fingers.
“Ye’re still bleeding fer yer clan, Tavish?” Malric mocked him, and Tavish narrowed his eyes, closing his blood-slicked fingers around his blade.
“Nay,” he replied. “I bleed for her.”
And then, before Tavish could say another word, he used Malric’s distraction to land the killing blow. He vaulted towards him, driving his sword deep into his belly, his eyes narrowing as they landed on Malric.
He watched as the shock crossed his enemy’s face, and then his gaze dropped, registering the sword thrust through his midsection. He staggered backwards, hands groping to pull the blade loose, but it was already too late.
He crashed to the ground with a heavy groan, the light blinking for his face. His men rushed towards Tavish, still shocked by the outcome, but with eyes that burned with fury and promised death. Tavish held his blade close, promising to keep fighting to his last breath to buy Ailsa time to run.
Right then Ewan arrived. The guards fell into battle with the MacCairn soldiers, keeping them at bay.
Finally, Tavish turned his attention back to Ailsa.
“Tavish!”
“Are ye alright?” he demanded, but, as he reached her, his knees gave way beneath him, the exhaustion of the ride and the fight suddenly swelling to consume him entirely.
She lunged towards him and caught him before he hit the ground, cradling him in her arms.
