Page 76 of Promised to the Wicked Laird

"The King made his decree," Fearchar whispered, stepping in until the cold tip of his broadsword rested firmly against the center of Robert’s throat, pressing just hard enough to indent the skin above his collar. "The court is closed. Yer claim is dead. Now drop the steel, or I end it here."

The blade against Robert’s throat did not freeze him. It set him on fire.

A sound tore from his chest—a wet, inhuman screech of pure rage—and he threw his body sideways, the edge of Fearchar’s broadsword slicing a shallow red line across his neck before he cleared the steel. Robert didn't draw back to reset his guard. He lunged forward like a cornered beast, swinging his heavy sword in a wild, blind arc aimed directly at Fearchar’s face.

Fearchar brought his crossguard up just in time. The impact screamed through the hall, a sharp, ringing report that threw sparks into the dim air.

Nandag pressed her back against the cool stone wall of the archway, her arm locked tightly around Mòrag’s waist. Mòrag was trembling violently, her forehead pressed into the hollow of Nandag’s neck, her small hands clutching at the damp wool of Nandag’s plaid. Nandag’s eyes never left the two men. Her heart hammered against her ribs, so loud it drowned out the muffled shouts echoing from the courtyard outside.

The surviving mercenaries and Chisholm guards had backed into a wide, tense ring around the High Table. No one moved to intervene. Blood dripping from their blades, they watched in grim silence as the two men circled each other in the center of the hall, their heavy boots grinding overturned rushes and slick ash into the stone.

Robert fought with a frantic, lethal desperation. He wasn't thinking of form or footwork; he was throwing the full, wild weight of his body behind every strike. He kicked an overturned oak bench into Fearchar’s shins, lunging over the wood with a sweeping low blow aimed at his gut.

Fearchar leapt backward, the tip of Robert’s steel catching the hem of his linen shirt, tearing the cloth clean through. Fearchar’s face was carved from granite, devoid of heat or panic. He absorbed the onslaught, his boots finding traction on the bloody floor, his broadsword rising and falling in tight, disciplined parries that turned Robert’s vicious swings harmlessly into the air.

"Ye think ye’re a laird?" Robert spat, his voice a hoarse rasp as he delivered three rapid, heavy chops against Fearchar’s guard. Each blow forced Fearchar back a half-step toward the raised dais. "Ye’re naething! A Chisholm stray feeding on the Accord scraps!"

Fearchar didn't answer. He waited for the third strike to land, caught the heavy blade near his pommel, and shunted it violently to the left. The opening was brief, but Fearchar filled it instantly, driving his heavy leather-clad shoulder into Robert’s chest.

Robert stumbled, his heel catching on an unlit tallow torch on the floor. He pitched backward, smashing his shoulder against the edge of the table. Pitchers and pewter goblets crashed down around him in a noisy cascade, slopping stale wine over his boots.

Before he could regain his footing, Fearchar was on him. Fearchar’s blade came down in a sharp, vertical strike meant to shatter Robert’s guard.

Robert scrambled sideways on his knees, reaching blindly with his off-hand. His fingers closed around the heavy iron shank of a roasted spit hanging near the hearth. He swung it upward with all his strength, catching Fearchar’s forearm just as the sword descended.

The iron bar clanged hard against bone.

A sharp gasp escaped Fearchar’s lips. His sword arm buckled, the sleeve of his shirt instantly soaking through with bright, hot crimson as the jagged edge of the iron spit tore a deep gash from his wrist to his elbow. He didn't drop his sword, but his grip loosened, the point dipping low toward the floor.

Nandag’s breath caught in her throat. She took a step forward, her hand leaving Mòrag’s shoulder, her knuckles white as she squeezed the air. "Fearchar!"

Robert saw the blood and let out a breathless, triumphant laugh. He surged to his feet, discarding the spit, and gripped his broadsword with both hands. "Bleed, ye bastard!"

He pressed the advantage, raining blows onto Fearchar’s wounded right side. Fearchar was forced to absorb the shocks on a weakened arm. Teeth bared, his jaw clamped so tight the muscles in his neck stood out like cords, Fearchar yielded inch by inch. Crimson trailed down his forearm, spattering the grey stone beneath his feet with every heavy parry.

Nandag felt Mòrag’s hands clawing at her arm, trying to pull her back, but Nandag couldn't move. Her gaze was locked on the widening stain on Fearchar’s sleeve, the slight hesitation in his footwork as he backed toward the low steps of the dais.

Robert threw his full weight into a brutal overhead strike.

Fearchar raised his blade to catch it, but his injured arm gave way beneath the crushing impact. The crossguards locked with a deafening screech, and Robert slammed his forehead directly into Fearchar’s face.

The crack of breaking bone echoed through the quiet room. Fearchar’s head snapped back. Blood erupted from his nose, and his boots slipped on the slick stone of the step. He went down hard, his back slamming against the edge of the dais, his broadsword clattering out of his numb fingers and spinning across the floor, out of reach.

Fearchar lay stunned in the rushes, his chest heaving, his left hand grasping blindly for a weapon that wasn't there.

Robert stood over him, towering like a mountain of dark iron and mud. He wiped a mixture of sweat and blood from his eyes, a terrible, ecstatic grin twisting his face. He raised his broadsword high above his head with both hands, the tip pointing straight down at Fearchar’s exposed chest.

Nandag’s vision narrowed to the cold steel hovering in the air. The hall seemed to lose all sound, all motion, leaving only the dark shape of the blade beginning its descent.

"FEARCHAR!"

The scream tore from Nandag’s chest, raw and frantic, shattering the silence.

Fearchar’s eyes snapped open at the sound of her voice.

As Robert’s blade plunged downward, Fearchar didn't try to block it. He threw his weight sideways, rolling hard across the oak planks. The tip of Robert’s sword missed his ribs by a hair's breadth, burying itself three inches deep into the solid wood of the dais step.

Before Robert could pull the steel free, Fearchar’s hand shot out. His left hand—his good hand—closed around the hilt of a fallen mercenary’s hunting blade lying in the rushes beside him.