One
Scotland
Fall, 2009
The sword hung in theair, motionless, the blade glinting faintly in the morning gloom, with yet more steel peeking out from under the well-loved leather wrapped around the hilt, and all of it covered in a relentless mist that blanketed everything in sight.
Oliver Phillips lay sprawled on his back, staring up at that massive sword, and wondered if he might manage a final thought or two before the blade descended and sent him off to take up a place in his family’s slightly ostentatious mausoleum. He had very definite opinions on not only his current location but the people who had in one way or another led him to that same place. The first was simpler, so he started there.
Scotland was a bloody awful place for a holiday.
Now, for the second, the list was relatively short, but simply bursting with men who were ripe for a bit of retribu—
He swore, then rolled quickly out of the way of that perilously sharp Claymore that suddenly descended toward his chest. He managed a second roll to his feet, snatching up his own sword on the way. His current sparring partner, the truly exhausting Ian MacLeod, seemingly couldn’t be bothered to offer even a morsel of praise for that feat, something he surely could have considering he’d been the one to kick the damned thing so far out of the way that Oliver hadn’t been able to reach it.
Oliver didn’t hope for anything supportive from the two men watching silently from thirty paces away. James MacLeod was standing there with his arms folded over his chest, studying thecarnage in progress with a thoughtful frown. Jamie’s younger brother Patrick was yawning and looking as if he might soon need a nap.
Oliver knew, having had his share of encounters with the lord of the local castle, that he would have a thorough assessment of his efforts after the work was done. His experiences with that lord’s brother were far fewer, but he knew that no matter how nonchalant Patrick MacLeod looked at present, he was the one to watch.
Then again, perhaps that was Ian instead who almost slit his throat before he managed to heave his sword up in time to spare himself the same.
“Best pay attention, lad,” Ian suggested.
Very sensible advice, that. Oliver took a firmer grip on his sword, ignored the absolute improbability of holding the same, and forced himself to focus on the task at hand.
The morning wore on in a way that could only be equaled by the most tedious of stakeouts that dragged on for hours only to leave him scrambling at the last minute to catch the prize. Slowly, then all at once, to poorly paraphrase Hemingway, which was exactly how his own morning of torment ended as he watched his sword leave his hands. He stood there, drenched in sweat and covered in mud, and aching in places he hadn’t known existed, and watched his sword spin lazily in the now-afternoon gloom.
Patrick simply held up his hand and caught Oliver’s sword before the hilt clunked his brother on the head, then stabbed it into the ground in front of him.
Jamie stroked his chin thoughtfully, no doubt contemplating that lengthy list of ways Oliver needed to improve his swordplay.
Oliver would have listened to an all-day lecture on his failings if he could have had half an hour to first sit, then hopefullynot drown himself in the enormous pitcher of water he fully intended to pour down his throat.
He looked at his current swordmaster and wasn’t above enjoying a moment of relief that Ian had resheathed his sword and handed it off to his cousin. Patrick MacLeod with two swords wasn’t any more terrifying than he was with no swords at all, so Oliver felt fairly safe ignoring him in favor of the man in front of him who looked as if his wretched tasks for the day weren’t complete.
“Well?” he asked warily.
“Are you asking me if we’re finished or what I think?”
Oliver couldn’t bring himself to do either, so he simply stood there and waited.
“I personally think we’ve made a proper day of it,” Ian conceded, “but I do have my instructions.”
“I can hardly wait to hear them,” Oliver said before he could stop himself.
“Well, let’s see what they are,” Ian said, patting himself for a moment or two and frowning. He smiled suddenly, then pulled a slip of paper from the pocket of his tracksuit bottoms. He squinted at it, rotated it ninety degrees a couple of times, then nodded. “Here they are:Kill him if you can and show no mercy in the deed. Mercy makes him sad.”
Oliver was utterly unsurprised. “Is that all?”
Ian shook his head. “Several warnings about how becoming sad might leave you comforting yourself by sucking on your thumb, huddling in a corner singing off-key nursery rhymes, or, more direly, bawling like a gel whilst sucking your thumb and attempting to sing those off-key nursery rhymes.”
Oliver took a careful breath. “I’m going to kill them all.”
Ian nodded wisely. “They warn that you might say that, at which point I’ve been advised—how did they put it? Ah, here it is.When he begins to threaten bodily harm to those who lovehim so dearly, he’s at his most dangerous. At this point, do not, under any circumstances, offer cuddles.”
“One by one,” Oliver said, because he thought it only fair to state his intentions. “Slowly. Painfully. Permanently.”
Ian laughed. “I understand, believe me. I once took a glorious holiday in a Fergusson dungeon thanks to my cousin running his fat mouth, a holiday I didn’t particularly enjoy. As for you, all I can offer is directions to Jamie’s kitchens. You can’t plot a proper revenge if you’re hungry.”
