And yet, Brendan’s mind was wandering. He had his back to Freya now, but knew that she’d be just where he saw her last. Her face was ashen, and her arms were clearly tied behind her back. They’d put a cloak around her, at least, so she wouldn’t get cold. Her hair was loose and tangled, and he had seen red marks springing up on her cheeks where his father’s fingers had dug into the flesh.
Fresh anger swelled up inside him.
I won’t let him have her,he promised himself.No matter what I have to do, I’ll keep her safe.
He could feel the anticipation in the crowd, like the buzz in the air before a lightning strike. Nobody would help, though, heknew that. Nobody would risk helping him and incurring the Laird’s wrath. Brendan knew his father well enough to expect that the young soldier who had offered him a sword would be hanging from a tree by this time tomorrow, and the unfairness of it all prickled at Brendan’s skin.
“When ye are dead,” Laird Grahame hissed, “I will cut off yer head and parade it through all the towns, so they all know that ye are gone, and I am their only future, their only protection. Do ye know how many of my foolish advisors have told me to bring ye back? I know what they want, I’m no idiot. They want to replace me with ye. It’s clear as day. It’s gone beyond anger for me now. A laird and a man must be obeyed completely in his own Keep.”
“I don’t agree,” Brendan responded. “A laird’s job is to lead, aye? Not to dominate. Not to bully. Not keep his people in fear. Ye and I should have been taking care of our people. Instead, I fled, and ye left them to starve and burn and die in whatever method came their way. Ye don’t care, Father. Ye haven’t cared for a long time, and it hurts me to see it.”
Laird Grahame shook his head, a tight, angry movement that reminded Brendan of a horse shaking off flies.
“Don’t speak to me as if ye know how I struggle. Ye were never fit to be a laird. Ye know, I was pleased when ye left, deep down. I always knew ye were not cut out for it. And them?” He jerked his head, indicating all the assembled people, “They know it too. Or else, they’ll see it.”
Brendan swallowed. “Once, Father, that would have hurt me beyond belief. It would have cut me to the quick. Not anymore. Not. Any. More.”
Laird Grahame snarled, lips actually curling back from his teeth. In a flash, he rushed forward, swinging his sword up and over his head, bringing it down with powerful force.
He was still a strong man, even now. Brendan blocked the blow, the vibrations jarring all the way up his arm.
What am I going to do? Parry his blows until I collapse from exhaustion and he takes off my head?
Stop it, lad. Take each minute as it comes. React. That’s all ye can do right now.
Laird Grahame came forward, bringing down blow and blow, until the air was full of the ringing sounds of metal on metal. The two men had a good space for their battle, and Brendan was able to dart backwards, his feet swift and nimble, not risking a look behind him.
Laird Grahame followed him, jaw clenched, eyes glittering, sword swinging. He was breathing heavily already, but his blows were strong.
They nearly backed into the crowd, and Brendan was faintly aware of gasps and panicked yelps, as people dived out of the way, making space.
Get out of the corner.
He darted forward, ducking a ferocious sword-swing that would have taken off his head.
“There’s nowhere to run,” Laird Grahame gasped, his face reddening. “Fight back, curse ye! Fight back!”
“I can’t kill my own father,” Brendan said, not bothering to pitch his voice so that the crowd could hear. At the moment, there was dead silence in the courtyard. They were all listening, all straining to hear.
“Then I must kill my son,” Laird Grahame spat back. For a moment, something struggled in his eyes, something like panic. Or was it regret? No, that couldn’t be it.
In Brendan’s experience, men and women learning hand-to-hand combat for the first time greatly underestimated how taxing it could be. A couple of minutes of sword fighting would have an ordinary man gasping and wheezing for breath, unable to lift their arms at all. Staminamattered. Anyone who believed differently was in for a nasty surprise.
So Brendan concentrated on dodging, on avoiding the blows, and onbreathing.
He was growing tired, of course. Duels were never meant to last long. Generally, trial by combat was not the preferred method of dispensing justice. The laird would often be his own champion, as he was meant to be the clan’s greatest warrior.
Laird Grahame had been the greatest warrior in the clan, once. But as the fight stretched on, Brendan started to realize that things hadchanged. His father was slowing, noticeably so. His blows did not have the same power that they once did. Soon, he would be too tired to lift his sword at all.
And then what?
“I bet ye are enjoying this,” Laird Grahame rasped. “Bet ye cannot wait to stick yer sword in my back.”
“If ye die today, Father, it’ll not be my doing,” Brendan responded, fighting to keep a cool head and tofocus. “I can promise ye that.”
“Ha! Liar. Ye are a liar, boy.”
“No, Father. I don’t lie. Not anymore.”
