Page 26 of Kilted Sins

Cillian gave no response. Duncan had always been talkative, especially whenever he sensed conflict was near. It was his way of calming himself, Cillian supposed, but it was certainly counterproductive when they were looking for any signs of another group—especially sounds.

Their group of six had been roaming the woods for a little over an hour if Cillian’s estimates were correct and yet there was still no sign of the men. He could only hope that meant they hadn’t reached them yet but for all he knew, the brigands could have taken them away or even killed them already. He didn’t know what kind of men they were up against. All he knew was that they were not like the usual bands of criminals who plagued places such as that.

As their group fell silent once more, Cillian strained his ears in case he could hear any sound that could point him to the right direction, but there was nothing but the breeze, barely stirring the air around them so deep in the forest, and the critters darting away from them when they came near, spooked by the sound of the horses’ hooves.

Cillian didn’t want to lose hope. He was confident he would find his men, or at least he wanted to believe he would. The thought of leaving them there filled the back of his throat with bile, bitter and unpleasant. If there was even a small chance they were still alive, he would do anything his power to find them.

It seemed like an eternity later when he heard a strange sound. Holding his hand up, he motioned to the rest of the party to stop and they all came to a halt behind him, all of them silent as they listened for whatever had made it.

He could have sworn he could hear men’s voices.

Gesturing at the others to follow his lead, Cillian jumped off his horse and placed his hand on the hilt of his sword, preparing himself for battle. Perhaps those voices didn’t belong to bandits. Perhaps they were nothing but travelers, trying to cross the forest safely, but Cillian had no reason to risk falling blindly into a fight.

Stepping lightly, he slowly made his way to the source of the sound as his men fanned around him. Only Duncan remained close, as always, so he could jump in should anyone attempt to attack Cillian from a hidden position, and the two of them approached what seemed like a small clearing, just enough for a basic camp to be set up in its expanse.

The bandits were there and Cillian counted more than a dozen of them. He spotted his men, too, three of them tied up against the trunk of a large oak—two of them unconscious, while the other seemed dazed, looking at his surroundings with an empty gaze.

The fact that they were bound gave Cillian some hope. If there was need for rope, then it could only mean they were still alive.

At his signal, his men surrounded the clearing. Though they were outnumbered, they still had the element of surprise on their side, so Cillian hoped they could dispatch them quickly and cleanly, in a short and efficient fight that wouldn’t leave any of his men vulnerable.

In a synchronized attack, Cillian and his men all poured into the clearing, catching the brigands by surprise. Most of them were unprepared—some of them even unarmed—and Cillian didn’t hesitate before striking the first man in his path down, plunging his sword through his gut before he could even react to his presence. Around him, the clearing was tossed into chaos, the battle cries of his men mingling with the screams of the brigands as they tried to coordinate a counterattack, desperately searching for their weapons and trying to avoid the blades of their attackers.

Cillian quickly found his next target: a large man with wide shoulders and arms that resembled tree branches, thick with muscle. When their gazes met, the man closed the distance between them, swinging his sword in an arc that Cillian quickly stopped, deflecting the blow. There was strength behind the attack, though, and he could feel the impact as it reverberated through his arm, rattling the bones and the flesh there.

He must be their leader.

That was usually the case with brigands, Cillian thought; the biggest, the one with the most brute force was the one who led. In the end, they didn’t seem so organized or well-trained. The only reason why they had managed to subdue his men was that they vastly outnumbered them.

Their presence was still concerning, though. How could have so many men not been noticed by Cillian’s scouts? Were they new in the area? How had they gotten that close to the castle?

How many people have they attacked?

Surely, if they had been a problem for a while, he would have heard about it; if not from his own scouts, then from the people. Whoever those brigands were, they had to be new to the area and the only way for Cillian to find out was by keeping at least one of them—preferably a talkative one—alive.

That wouldn’t be the man he was about to fight, though. Something told Cillian he was not going to talk, no matter how much he tried to get the truth out of him.

Another swing of the man’s sword and Cillian jumped back, avoiding the blow. All around him, his men were engaged in their own fights, but he hardly had the time to spare to see if they were doing well. What he did have was faith in their abilities; some of them, he had trained himself, while others had been trained by Duncan and Archibald, who were both skilled with a blade. There was no doubt in his mind they would get out of there alive, even if the brigands outnumbered them over two to one.

After all, his men had already managed to kill or wound what seemed like half of them and the fight had only just begun.

With a grunt, Cillian threw himself at his opponent, delivering a swift attack that had him pirouetting to the side to avoid the sharp edge of his blade. He then attacked again furiously, giving the man no time to coordinate an attack of his own and instead forcing him to defend again and again, until there was nowhere for him to go and his back was pressed against the trunk of a large tree. Once Cillian had him cornered, it was only a matter of feinting to the right, just as the man had expected, and then switching his attack to strike him from the left, catching him by surprise.

Dragging the edge of his sword over the man’s chest, Cillian sliced a long, deep gash that instantly began to pour crimson, soaking the man’s tunic. His opponent could only stare at him in shock as he stood there, dazed, before finally crumpling to the ground, a pool of his blood quickly forming under his body as he took his last breaths.

“Cillian!”

Duncan’s voice cut through the shouts of the other men, but his warning didn’t come soon enough to spare Cillian from being struck. Though he moved just in time to avoid a fatal blow, the blade of one of the brigands cut through his tunic and then the flesh of his left shoulder, pain blossoming from the injured spot all the way through his torso.

It wasn’t too deep of a cut; Cillian could feel it, a little more than a surface wound, but it was enough to throw him off balance, making him hesitate and lose his coordination as he tried to put more distance between himself and his attacker. Tightening his grip on his sword, he tried to recover quickly, but as the initial shock of the injury wore off, the throbbing pain only increased in its intensity, forcing his left arm to hang uselessly by his side. Before he could formulate a plan, though, a blade was plunged through his opponent’s chest and Cillian looked up to see Duncan behind him, lips curled back in a snarl.

The man had been the last one standing, Cillian noticed when he looked around to find his men alive and well, with nothing but minor injuries. As two of them helped their captured fellow soldiers, the others rushed to help Cillian, but he waved them off. The others needed their help much more than he did.

“Are ye alright?” Duncan asked, placing a hand on his uninjured shoulder. “Let me see.”

“I’m fine,” Cillian assured him. “Dinnae fash. Nay prisoners?”

“Nay. They are all dead.”