Page 53 of Forbidden Kilted Highlander

Still bleeding. Of course he was, but it didn’t matter.

Tav wheeled his horse around, eyes scanning the chaos. Caithness men crashed into the fray behind him, steel flashing, war cries splitting the air. But the mercenaries were fast and better armed than he’d expected.

He parried the strike, sparks flashing from the steel. Pain jolted through his side as his muscles twisted. His wound. The bastard cut had torn deeper during the ride. He could feel the heat blooming beneath his tunic, the linen at his waist soaked through with fresh blood.

He gritted his teeth and shoved back. The mercenary overbalanced, and Tav seized the moment, driving his blade up into the man’s chest with brutal force. The rider gasped, slack-jawed, and crumpled. Tav kicked the body free, wheeling his mount once more.

Another came at him from the side.

Tav ducked the first blow, brought his sword up to block the second, and then slammed his elbow into the man’s throat. The mercenary choked, reeling, but Tav’s balance slipped just enough for the pain in his side to tear through him like fire.

He swore aloud, vision swimming, but stayed mounted, swinging again before the man could recover. Blade met bone. Blood splattered his cheek.

Around him, the clearing was a blur of movement and sound. Screams, steel, snarling horses. One of Caithness’s men fell beside him, his axe sliding from his limp fingers. Another mercenary was charging straight at Tav now, face twisted in fury.

Tav let out a hoarse shout and rammed his shoulder into the man's chest, knocking him off his horse. He turned—but the world tilted.

White-hot pain lanced through his abdomen. His vision darkened at the edges.

A blade came at him from the left. He ducked low in the saddle, narrowly avoiding the strike, and lashed out with his own sword. The clang of metal on metal vibrated through his bones. A grunt escaped him as his side protested, but he gritted his teeth and shoved forward.

A Caithness soldier to his right cried out—Tav turned just in time to see him fall from his mount, a gash across his thigh. Tav spurred his horse forward, putting himself between the man and the oncoming mercenary, parrying two quick strikes before slashing the attacker across the shoulder. The man howled and fell back.

The world narrowed. He didn’t know where his strength came from, only that it hadn’t failed him yet. But his vision was blurry at the edges, and his sword arm trembled when he blocked another vicious blow.

A voice rang out—Caithness’s captain calling for a flank. Tav obeyed, urging his horse into a tight turn and charging toward the thickest knot of attackers. He collided with one head-on, both of them tumbling from their saddles.

The fall knocked the air clean from his lungs, as he hit the ground hard, his sword sliding from his grip as he rolled onto his side, gasping. Pain flared sharp and white-hot through his wound. He heard footsteps approaching. A shadow loomed over him, and he barely managed to raise his arms in time to catch the next strike.

The weight of the blade hammered down against his own, jarring every bone in his body. Tav snarled and shoved up with the last of his strength, unbalancing the man and bringing them both to the ground. He grappled in the dirt, fumbling for his dagger with numb fingers, finding the hilt just as the mercenary drew a knife from his belt.

Tav drove the dagger up under the man’s ribs.

The man’s eyes went wide. He slumped over Tav’s chest.

Tav rolled him off with a groan and forced himself to sit. Everything ached. Everything throbbed. His vision was pulsing in time with the blood pounding in his ears. He looked down. His tunic was soaked through with red. The linen wrap beneath had split wide.

"Damn," he rasped.

Somewhere to his right, he heard shouting, then the clatter of a sword being dropped. One of the Caithness soldiers had disarmed the last attacker. Another mercenary was already on the ground, groaning. The rest lay still.

It was over.

A pair of boots appeared in Tav’s vision, and a gruff voice barked something he didn’t quite catch. He was distantly aware of hands grabbing him under the arms, dragging him up.

"We’ve got the leader alive," someone else said. “He was givin’ orders. We’ll bring him in fer questioning.”

Tav tried to speak—tried to say something about Agnes, about the trail, about getting her safe inside the castle walls. But the words tangled in his throat. His knees buckled. Hands caught him.

“Easy, man. Hold him up.”

The world was spinning. His ears rang like bells. A soldier slung one of Tav’s arms around his shoulders. Another gripped his other side. Together, they half-carried him toward the castle gates.

The trail darkened under his boots. Blood dripped steadily down his side, soaking through the soldier’s cloak. His breath came in shallow gasps, each one harder than the last.

“Keep him awake!” someone shouted.

“I’m tryin’!”