“A command,” Cailin called out, meeting the gazes of those above who watched, “from a man who killed my father and mother, his brother and his sister-in-law, a man who paid to have me murdered at sea as a lad.” He turned his horse, rode back along the castle. “Enough people have died for something that is between us. Through this last confrontation, I seek by honor to reclaim my birthright. A challenge, as I am the rightful heir, that is mine to demand!”
Murmurs filtered through the castle, and his uncle slashed his hand in the air. “You had your chance.” He nodded to Sir Donnach. “Kill him!”
At his uncle’s order, Cailin’s heart slammed against his chest.
The knight didn’t move.
“You bloody traitor!” Blar withdrew his dagger, lunged for Sir Donnach.
In a violent slash, the warrior drove his broadsword into Blar’s chest, jerked the blade free.
Shock melded with pain on Blar’s face as he stumbled back, collapsed.
Bloody sword in hand, Sir Donnach’s gaze narrowed on Lord Dalkirk; then he pivoted to address his fellow guards. “Sir Cailin has made a just challenge, one I support.”
Murmurs of assent rumbled from the wall walk, and Cailin blew out a relieved breath.
His uncle motioned to the knights near Sir Donnach. “Seize him!”
No one moved.
Gaufrid stared around in disbelief.
Satisfaction filled Cailin the moment his uncle realized that if he refused to fight, he’d lost any hope to reclaim his people’s loyalty.
Jaw tight, the earl withdrew his blade, glared at those around him, before meeting Cailin’s gaze. “I accept your challenge, one you will regret!”
That Cailin doubted. He glanced back toward the main camp, noted that Rónán and the others had ridden beyond the line of trees in ashow of force.
Gaufrid stormed toward the turret. Moments later, the thud of hooves sounded, then the clatter of wood as his uncle rode overthe drawbridge.
Several riders followed, including Sir Donnach.
Paces away, the noble dismounted, then unsheathed his weapon, his gaunt face weathered by age, his stocky frame sporting layers of fat absent in his youth. One of the guards led his horse away.
Cailin dismounted, unsheathed his blade as he kept his eye on his uncle, his skill with a broadsword well known, nor would he trust Gaufrid to fight fair. As with the ruthless decisions of his past, the scoundrel would use any means, however deceitful, to win.
Ready to end his uncle’s tyranny, to avenge his parents’ deaths, his grip firm on his sword, Cailin slowly began to step sideways in a circle.
His uncle mimicked his action, keeping his weapon ready. The noble feigned to the right, then thrust.
Cailin’s blade blocked his strike. With a snarl, he shoved him back, swung.
The cacophony of steel crashing filled the air as each attacked over and again. A long while later, sweat streaming down his uncle’s face, Gaufrid ducked, slashed his blade in a small arc.
Cloth fluttered in the wind as a thick line of red lay across Cailin’s arm. Blast it! He stepped away, avoided his uncle’s next strike.
Growling, the earl rounded on Cailin. “I should have killed you myself!” Gaufrid attacked with punishing blows.
Honed steel scraped with a violent hiss as Cailin met each assault, delivered his own, damned the pain screaming in his leg from his earlier injury. An image of Elspet’s pale face swam to his mind. He gritted his teethand swung hard.
His unclestumbled back.
As Cailin moved forward, the earl regained his balance, rounded his sword in a vicious swing towardCailin’s legs.
He jumped. Forged iron slid a hand’s width beneath his boots. Before he could gain his feet, his uncle slammed against him, his foot jamming into his injured leg. Pain screamed through him as he fell to the ground, his uncle’s body landing hard on top of him, trappinghis sword arm.
Nay! Cailin kneed his uncle in the gut, rolled and pinned Gaufrid. In a move honed by his years of fighting with the Templars, he withdrew his blade and pressed a dagger to Gaufrid’s throat.
