MacNabh stood soaked, his gray-black hair plastered to his head and shoulders.
“Ye eat my food,” he said scathingly, “and ye drink my ale.” There were a few shuffles at that. “But ye will no’ do my work?”
“Chief,” Ardroch said, far less certainly this time, “we ha’ been working. If ye doubt it, only look at our hands.”
True enough. Deathan’s own were so battered by handling stone, he could scarce grip his blade.
“Yet ye ha’ time and energy to play at champions, is that it?”
“Aye, Chief MacNabh.”
“Who has authorized this?” MacNabh snapped. “For I am damned certain I ha’ not.”
“’Twas my notion, Chief MacNabh.” Deathan stepped forward. If he wanted to win the hearts of these men and any part of their loyalty, he must make sure the blame fell on him.
MacNabh swiveled to face him. “Ye, again? Who d’ye think ye are, then? The king o’ the fairies? Some legendary warrior, mayhap?”
“Nay, Chief MacNabh. I just thought ’twould serve to lift spirits all around, since the men ha’ been working so hard and the ale that was promised did not appear—”
MacNabh moved so swiftly that Deathan barely had time to react. The chief landed a blow that felt as if it had come from a tree limb on Deathan’s left cheekbone. It swayed him where he stood, but did not knock him down.
Suddenly Deathan’s blade was in his hand. Not a conscious choice, but an instinctive one. He had wanted this confrontation. Longed for it. But it was supposed to take place inside the house, where he might catch a glimpse of Darlei.
Nay matter. He could kill MacNabh here as well as before Darlei’s eyes.
Anywhere.
Rage broke across MacNabh’s heavy features, a rage Deathan hoped against hope would push him beyond good sense. He needed MacNabh to be the aggressor. He needed to kill him in a fair, witnessed fight.
“Ye dare to draw upon me?” MacNabh seethed. “Yer chief?”
“In truth, ye are no’ my chief, are ye? Just a poor excuse for a man, a bully who thinks he has the favor o’ the king.”
There was a collective gasp, and men stepped away from Deathan.
“Ye insolent upstart,” MacNabh spat. “Throw him out!” He tossed the command in Ardroch’s direction. “I will ha’ him no more on my land.”
No one moved. Deathan had a blade in his hand, and they had all seen what he could do with it.
In a low voice, calm and insolent, he said, “Why d’ye no’ throw me off yousel’, Chief MacNabh, since ’tis your land?”
“Ye fool o’ an interloper.” MacNabh examined Deathan from his head to his feet—lean and work-hardened, with not a hint of weakness about him. “Why should I soil my hands wi’ ye?”
“Well,” Deathan said, “if ye be afraid to face a wandering upstart, wha’ can be said o’ ye? I think I will stay here where I am comfortable till there be a man among ye willing to chase me awa’.”
Further gasps and mutters followed the claim. MacNabh’s men could scarcely believe what they were hearing.
Neither could MacNabh. His eyes nearly bugged out from his face and an ugly sneer twisted his lips.
“Ye think I canna?” he demanded of Deathan. “Ye suppose I canna best ye, wi’ a sword? Why, I was taking men’s heads before ye were born.”
Deathan raised his blade. “Show me.”
Chapter Fifty-Three
Darlei pounded onthe chamber door so hard the stout oak panel rattled. She used the heels of her hands and her feet, while calling to the man she knew stood on guard outside.
“Help! Ye must let me out. My maid is dying.”
