Page 51 of A Rogue and a Noble Lass

Logan didn’t need to think twice. He threw himself beneath the shield just in time as the arrows came thumping down, peppering the ground. They rattled against shields and Logan heard cries of pain as some men hadn’t been able to gather their limbs under the shields. There were strangled cries of pain from horses as well. Logan watched as the loyal beasts fell mid-stride, arrows puncturing their flesh.

The silence did not last for long, for the thunder came.

Having had to defend themselves from the arrows, it meant that the army was motionless, allowing the enemy to sprint through the forest and come towards them. When Angus moved the shield and Logan rose, he saw the enemy encroaching from both sides, close enough to see the spittle flying from their lips and the evil intent in their eyes.

“Dinnae leave anyone standing!” Ryan cried, raising his sword in the air.

In one motion, he turned and charged towards the onrushing enemy. There was a knight in armor who wielded a long sword. Ryan clashed with him as a sea of people rushed around him. Allan and Elliot rushed off together, moving as reflections of each other. Keith Abernathy ordered some men with him and threw himself into battle against men whose bodies were covered in woad. Duncan of Knox was close behind. Ramsay moved like a man possessed, all snarls and steel, while Nessa Gilmour was a picture of rage as well, albeit hers was more controlled. She used her bow even at close range, her arrows punching with fatal impacts.

Angus turned to Logan. “Show them all what ye are made of,” he said, then turned and ran into battle as well.

Logan gripped his sword and summoned all the anger he felt, both at himself and his father. His fingers curled around the hilt of his sword and he looked at all the men charging towards him. A roar built up in the pit of him. He looked more like a wild animal than a man. Blood boiled inside him, carrying his fury around in a torrent. His heart beat savagely, but where before he had fought because it was the only thing he knew and because he considered himself to be a living weapon, now he fought for Beitris.

She lay in wait for him beyond these men. This army was the only thing standing between him and the woman he loved, and he was not about to let this wall of flesh stop them. He would be a battering ram. He would be a flood. He would be a storm to sweep them all away and burn hotter than the fire that engulfed this forest.

These men would die today, and Logan would be their executioner.

He strode forward, muscles tense, hands trembling with power, veins bulging. He dug his heels into the ground, rooting himself.

They shall nae move me, he thought. He looked into their eyes. He heard their words. They rushed towards him, eager to slay Warnock’s bastard.

For Brody.

For Beitris.

For Abigail.

For all those who had perished beneath the heel of Warnock’s boot.

And for himself.

For the boy who had endured countless blows. For the boy who had been thrown in the pit on cold winter nights, shivering with numb toes and chattering teeth and blue lips. For the boy who starved for days and then had to share moldy bread and cheese with rats. For the boy who was taught that pain was stronger than love.

He had carried that lesson with him throughout his life, until Beitris. Until she shone a radiant light that dispelled the gloom in his soul.

Logan was not a hero.

He was just a man—a man whose life had been defined by death, yet now was determined to live.

Steel met flesh. He carved wounds and gashes and holes in the men that fell around him. They formed a ring of limp, twitching bodies. Blood dripped from the edge of Logan’s blade. He blinked away sweat. His feet were in the same position. Aches throbbed through his bicep, but he drew on these sensations knowing that they were signs of life. Everything he felt, everything he sensed, it was all reminding him that he existed and while he stood he could make a difference.

The only thing that could kill him now was if Beitris turned her back on him, but he at least wanted to reach her to give her the chance to do so.

Grunts thundered around him. Sparks flew as swords clashed. He heard men on both sides cursing, lamenting, mourning, raging. It was a brutal song with a discordant and chaotic melody. It was a song he had heard often enough, although each time it was different.

He heard Brody’s voice in his mind. “Look at ye Logan, fighting like a man possessed. Ye claimed ye were the best swordsman in the land when we met. Now prove it.”

It was as though his companion, friend, and brother was standing beside him as he so often had. Strength fueled Logan’s blows. Arms were severed. Throats were slit. Legs crumpled beneath the weight of his blade and soon enough he was standing in a crimson mist, losing sight of everything around him.

“Angus get tae Da!” Allan’s cry broke through the cacophony of battle.

Angus turned around, looking for his uncle. Logan turned too. He saw it all unfold before his eyes. Angus was engaged with three men, swinging his sword in a wide arc to hold them back for a moment, but they would be on him again quickly like rabid wolves. Allan and Elliot were back to back, their swords twisting frantically in the air, so quickly they became a blur as they were surrounded by a thick ring of Warnock’s men. Swords and axes came flying towards them and they were doing everything they could to deflect these weapons. Keith was farther away, invisible among the men he commanded.

And then there was Ryan. The proud laird, the old man who had once been young, the antithesis of Warnock, stood like a lion with cowardly predators clawing at his hide. His cloak was torn to shreds and the undershirt was stained with blood. His hair was matted with sweat and his strong jaw was clenched in a mixture of agony and fury. He had two swords and slashed with them both, but so many men wanted to gain the glory of defeating the Knox patriarch that he would not stand forever.

“I cannae get tae him!” Angus called out.

“We’re coming for ye Da!” Allan yelled.