He clenched his jaw till his teeth squeaked and quickened his pace. Fergus’s voice drifted to him on the breeze.
“We daenae just fight in broad daylight, lads. We willnae always have the luxury of a fine, sunny day. Nay, sometimes we’ll have to fight in the dark, in thick mist, in blizzards. Ye think an enemy army will wait until we’re all up and ready in the morning to attack? Nay! They’ll choose the worst time for us and the best time for them. Ye must learn to fight in the dark.”
“But, sir, I can hardly see,” bleated a young man.
“Yer vision will improve,” Fergus promised. “It’s worth doing, I promise ye. Now, we’ll start sparring with wooden staves for ye apprentices, but first, watch the warriors take a turn.”
He stepped forward, his blade glinting in the silvery moonlight. He gestured for another man to step forward and join him, and Evander already knew who it was.
Bloody Mason.
Mason’s fair hair was pinned back into a tail at the back of his head, loose strands sticking to his forehead. Judging by the sweat glistening on his forehead, they’d already had a few sparring matches. It had been his habit to join the Bryden warriors.
At the time, Evander had simply assumed that he was bored. Aside from dogging Skye’s heels, he had no responsibilities here at Keep Bryden. Now, though, he began to wonder whether the man had been spying all along.
Wasn’t this the perfect way to judge an enemy’s forces? To get in on the inside and see for yourself?
I will spike his head on the keep walls.
Evander broke into a dead sprint.
He was only a few feet away by the time the men spotted him. Fergus saw him first, glancing over with a frown. Tension drained from his body when he saw that it was Evander coming toward them, and almost immediately, the tension returned when he took in Evander’s face, and more importantly, his drawn weapon.
“Me Laird…” he began.
That was all there was time for before Evander was upon them.
Mason turned just a half-second too soon to avoid being impaled on Evander’s sword. He gave a panicked, strangled cry, throwing himself to the side.
Evander regained his balance first, swinging his blade once more. He was vaguely aware of the young soldiers around them crying out and firing questions at anybody and everybody. Fergus’s tight voice echoed, herding the men away.
“Me Laird, what are ye doing?” he cried from behind him.
Evander ignored him, swinging once more at Mason. The other man still had a grip on his sword, but didn’t seem to dare to raise it. He staggered backwards, catching his heel on the ground, and went sprawling. The sword slid out of his grip, coming to rest in the damp grass a few feet away.
Evander stood over him, the point of his sword aimed directly at the soft base of Mason’s throat.
“Get up,” he hissed. “Take yer sword. Ye die tonight.”
“Me Laird!” Fergus called again from somewhere behind him. “Is this a joke? I… I didnae ken ye would be sparring with us tonight.”
“Oh, I’m nae sparring.”
“And if this is a joke, it’s a bad one,” Mason hissed, his eyes glinting. “Ye are already on thin ice with Clan MacCrimmon and Clan MacColl. Do ye think murdering a respected MacCrimmon warrior will do ye any good? The man assigned to keep Lady Skye safe?”
“Daenae ye dare speak her name,” Evander growled. He wouldn’t have been surprised to taste fire on his tongue, so intense was the rage bubbling in his stomach. “Daenae yedare. I ken what ye have done, Mason Langton.”
There was a split second of silence, then a glassy, pale mask descended over Mason’s face. His skin turned the color of acorpse, and he began to sweat, his eyes bulging. The acrid scent of fear filled the air.
“Oh,” he breathed shakily.
“What?” Fergus asked, at Evander’s elbow once more. There was a panicked edge to his voice now, and that tone tugged ever so slightly at Evander’s conscience. It took a lot to make Fergus panic. “Me Laird? What has he done?”
Evander curled his lip at Mason. “Go on. Tell him. Tell them all, before I slit ye from navel to throat.”
Mason swallowed reflexively, his eyes darting between Evander and Fergus. The corpse-cold panic on his face had faded a little, and he was clearly trying to claw back his composure.
“I daenae ken what ye are talking about,” he tried. “Ye have gone mad, me Laird. Laird MacCrimmon willnae like this. And the MacColls?—”
