"I've nay seen him."
Sleat growled a string of curses, then headed back toward the castle. Dozens of soldiers poured down the hill now.
He paused. To run toward them by himself would be certain suicide. "Hamish!" he roared, fear and rage such as he'd never felt before consuming him.
One of Neacal's guards slowly stalked toward him.
"Where is my son? Send him to me!"
"You're the one who brought him here. If he's dead, his blood is on your hands," the guard said.
Nay, he could not conceive of it! "You bastard! I'll kill you!"
"Aye, come on, then!" he challenged, beckoning with his hand.
Sleat glanced toward the wood. Had Hamish escaped before him? Mayhap he was already hiding with the others.
The guard hastened his approach. "'Haps you would like to go inside and talk to the chief," he taunted.
"Go to hell!" Sleat ran across the damp sand toward the wood, praying with each breath that Hamish waited there. When he arrived, he was gasping for breath and lightheaded. "Hamish? Where is… Hamish?"
"Is Hamish here?" MacRankin yelled.
Unable to see everyone in the darkness of the wood, several of the men asked around.
"Hamish!" Sleat shouted.
Silence.
Sleat fell to his knees, rage and grief overcoming him. He cursed Neacal MacDonald to hell and back, stabbing his dirk into the loamy soil over and over, imagining it was Neacal he gored.
***
"Chief!"
Neacal glanced in the direction the shout had come from, the postern gate. One of the guards ran toward him. "Sleat thinks his son was injured or killed outside."
"Was he?"
"Don't know yet. We'll have to round up the dead and injured."
"Some traitor must have given Sleat a key to the postern gate," Neacal said. "We were wise to change the padlock after we heard about the troops camped at Acharacle."
"Aye. Speaking of the traitor… the five in the dungeon were released when the fighting began."
"Damnation!" Hackles raising at the very idea some man he thought he could trust was the worst backstabber, Neacal glanced around the bailey. He suspiciously eyed each of the men, but none appeared guilty. "We have to find out who it is. Are any of the five still here? Or did they escape during the battle?"
"Parlan was killed. I don't know about the others."
Neacal nodded. "Guard this gate well. Once the dead and injured are brought inside, lock it again. Sleat could have a larger force ready to invade at any moment, especially if his son turns up dead."
"Aye, chief."
Neacal returned to the center of the barmkin and waited while the dead and injured were being brought inside the walls. Guards stood with torches shining down on five dead men and two captured with minor injuries.
"'Tis Sleat's son, Hamish," Neacal muttered, staring down at one of them. "Is he dead?"
"Aye," Matthew said.
