Macbain stepped forward, a short but stout man with a dark look in his eye and no smile to speak of. He held his own polearmtightly, and before Murdoch even had a moment to prepare, he attacked.
The first blow of Macbain's weapon burned like fire, slamming into Murdoch's side and knocking the wind from him. Murdoch rolled to avoid a second blow, cursing; Kier had come to spar, but Macbain, it seemed, was taking his master's orders seriously.
Murdoch grabbed his weapon from where it had fallen and swiped it low toward Macbain's legs, disrupting his opponent's balance just enough to scramble back to his feet. Murdoch gripped his weapon tighter and quickly analyzed his options.
He knew that Morag was still watching him, and he was filled with a sudden mad urge not to let her see him fall. Worse, reality struck him hard, and he remembered that Alistair, and indeed Ian, were examining him too. Morag aside, there was no way he could risk being weak in front of the laird. It would ruin everything.
His moment of hesitation cost him, and Macbain regained his balance and charged again. Cursing, Murdoch was back on the defense, being pushed back in the field as he fought fiercely to avoid any more of the punishing blows.
But then, at last, he saw his opening. Macbain's smugness shone through, and in this smugness, the warrior glanced toward his laird and captain for approval. Murdoch took that moment to strike without hesitation, thrusting the polearm fiercely toward Macbain's chest, feeling the shake of impact as the blunt pole connected with his ribs.
Macbain roared in pain, but Murdoch did not let up, thrusting the polearm once more, then sweeping it behind Macbain's knees and causing the guard to fall face-first to the ground.
"I win," he said quietly as several of the onlookers broke out in cheers.
Macbain knocked away Murdoch's offered hands and scrambled to his feet, storming away in fury, the black stormcloud nearly visible around his head. The cheering died down then stopped abruptly as Ian got back to his feet.
The Laird's son was wearing a definite frown on his face now, the crease in his brow as sharp as the look in his eyes.
"My turn," Ian said quietly.
That was the only warning Murdoch got before Ian was upon him.
Before Murdoch could even lift his polearm, Ian had launched forward with his sword—not a blunted training sword, either, but a huge two-handed broadsword with an edge that shone wickedly against the ice on the ground. Ian swung the heavy sword with such force that Murdoch, only barely managing to lift his polearm in defense, heard the wood crack beneath it. The crowd gasped as the polearm splintered, and Ian was temporarily stalled.
Cursing, Murdoch released his now-useless weapon and dove out of the way as Ian regained composure and made another heavy cut with the sword. He almost yelled at Ian to demand whether the Laird's son was trying to kill him but bit his tongue. He was being tested, and he knew it—and he would not fail now.
Rushing toward the weapons racks, he intended to grab another sword or a knife, but his next dodge wasn't fast enough. The flat face of the broadsword slammed into his shoulder, one of the edges cutting deep into his upper arm and sending a blinding, searing pain through him that made the world turn white.
Weaponless, Murdoch dropped to the ground and rolled, rushing as fast as he could to reach the weapon racks. Just as he jumped back to his feet, though, the claymore slammed down again, this time with the flat edge right across his upper back.The scream of pain choked him as he refused to let it out, but he somehow swallowed it down, only barely avoiding yet another relentless blow by jumping to the side.
If it kept up like this, Ian was going to kill him. Murdoch somehow knew that nobody would intervene if he was unable to defend himself unless he begged for help, but he also knew that if he did that, it would be worse than simply dying.
His body bruised and blooded, he surged on, ignoring how his muscles screamed at him to stop. He needed a shield and a dirk. If he had those, he could absorb the blows and sneak under Ian's reach to claim back the victory.
But every time he got closer, Ian swung again. It was like no sparring match or battle that Murdoch had ever faced. Ian was brutal, relentless, and there was no emotion as he wielded his two-handed broadsword as an extension of himself. It was as though he had been designed only to kill, and Murdoch was his prey.
Murdoch managed to avoid the deadliest blows, taking hits and cuts but managing to keep going, and when he finally reached the rack, he was able to snatch a heavy metal shield and spin just in time for the broadsword to come crashing down directly toward his head.
Ian was obscenely strong. Though Murdoch managed to block what would definitely have been a killing blow with the shield, he felt the impact shudder through him and his legs gave way. He fell to his knees at Ian's feet, his shield clattering to the side, leaving him seemingly defenseless. Ian smiled, closing the gap between them and holding the sharp edge of the broadsword to the side of Murdoch's neck almost lazily.
"Yield?" Ian asked, a dark smirk on his face. It was clear that he and the hushed crowd both thought the same thing—that Murdoch was truly defeated.
Murdoch, bloodied and bruised, on his knees before a man who could kill him with a simple movement, grinned right back.
"Ye first," he said. "And ye should pay more attention."
Ian's smirk vanished into a confused frown, then, slowly, he looked down. Murdoch had grabbed the dirk in his left hand when he'd snatched the shield with his right, and that was still where he held it—but now, kneeling in front of Ian, that dirk was pressing directly into Ian's stomach.
"We'll both die if ye dinnae," Murdoch noted, "But a stomach wound is a much worse way tae go than a beheadin'. Yer decision."
The deafening silence roared around them, and then, almost imperceptibly, Ian nodded. As one, the two sons of Alistair Campbell dropped their weapons, and Murdoch rose to his feet, victorious. Ian held his gaze, and Murdoch saw something new there—not respect, not exactly, but cold recognition.
The crowd erupted into wild cheers, and Murdoch turned quickly toward the bench. Alistair Campbell was nodding with clear approval, drawing his hands together in a slow clap along with the rest. Robert Caindach's expression was sour, but the girl, Morag, was nowhere to be seen. Though Murdoch's body flooded with relief and not a small amount of pride to see the Laird responding so well to him, part of him wondered, just for a moment, where she had gone.
"Murdoch."
He turned to see Ian watching him. "Aye?" he asked.
