Laird Grahame advanced on the unarmed Brendan, the sword glittering silver in the weak sunlight.
Freya found her voice.
“Och, no, ye must not fight aduelover me!”
She wasn’t sure where the words had come from, only that they made Laird Grahame hesitate. Only for an instant, then he continued advancing. But Noah’s head had come snapping up.
“She’s right,” he said, voice echoing in the silence. “It’s the law. As a member of the Laird’s family, Brendan has a right to trial by combat if he chooses. He has the right to a duel.”
Freya met Brendan’s eye, silently pleading.
Please, please choose the duel. That way, ye may have a chance.
Even if it does mean that they’re fighting over me like dogs over a bone.
It’s achance.
Brendan turned his stare to his father, and lifted his eyebrow.
“I choose trial by combat, then, Father,” he spoke, voice quiet. “Choose a champion.”
Laird Grahame gave a bark of laughter, and held out his arms to either side.
“The champion is right here. Find a weapon, son. One of us dies here, and I do not intend for it to be me.”
Chapter 19
Pater Et Filius
There is one small problem to this plan,Brendan thought, looking around for a weapon.I will not kill my own father.
“Here,” came a nervous voice from behind him. It was one of the soldiers who’d manhandled him and Noah back into the Keep, and held a blade at his throat. The young man smiled shyly, holding out his sword.
It was a good blade, well-cleaned and maintained, if not broken in particularly well, judging by the lack of scratches or nicks. This was a young man who hadn’t seen much warfare.
He took the sword, nodding at its own.
“Thank ye. It will be returned to ye, one way or another.”
The young man’s smile faltered. His gaze flicked past him, and his voice dropped.
“Win,” he whispered. Just one word, but it was heavy, as if the young man had put his whole heart into it.
Then he turned away, and there was nothing for it but to turn and face his fate.
Laird Grahame was not quite the man Brendan remembered. His face was thinner but his body thicker, and there was a mad glint in his eyes which had not been there when Brendan left.
Is there anything left of my father at all?
“I knew ye would come home one day,” he breathed. “Sooner or later, alive or dead. And now, here ye are. Once ye are gone, lad, there’ll be no more treasonous talk. No more talk of my death, or of replacing me. The clan’s future isme, Brendan, make no mistake.”
Brendan clenched his jaw, saying nothing. The unfamiliar sword felt strange in his grip, and he adjusted it.
Not that it mattered. Brendan had known for too long that he did not have the stomach to kill his father. Few people could kill their parents because that was the way Nature had made them all. Perhaps, before his madness, Laird Grahame could not have killed his son, either.
They circled each other, Laird Grahame’s eyes blazing with madness and bloodlust, the sword trembling in his grip.
It was deadly to get distracted during a fight. Brendan had fought enough battles to know that. He’d lost count of friends and soldiers he’d seen lose focus, just for an instant—glancing over at something else, distracted, or pausing to inspect a new wound—only to fall in the instant they looked away from an arrow through the neck, or a sword-slash across the gut.
