"Sleat will return with a vengeance."
"Aye," Matthew said again.
"Why were they attempting to enter through the postern gate?" Neacal's gaze moved steadily over his clansmen and guards. "Did someone give them a key?"
"We're trying to figure that out," Gegrim said.
Neacal didn't recognize the other two enemies, still living, their hands tied behind their backs. Their plaids were different, but Neacal had seen the design somewhere before. The white, black and red pattern nagged at the back of his mind.
"Who are you?" he demanded of the scraggly, sweating man being restrained by a large guard.
The man spat at him, but missed.
Rage shot through Neacal like a bolt of lightning, and he barely restrained the impulse to punch the bastard in the jaw. "Which clan are you from?" he growled.
The man remained silent.
Neacal turned his attention to the other bound man, asking him the same question, but he kept his mouth shut tight.
"Lock them in the dungeon. I'll question them later. I wager they'll start to talk when they grow hungry."
"Aye, chief." The guards dragged them away.
"In the morn, we'll take the dead bodies out and allow Sleat to reclaim them," Neacal told Matthew. "As for right now, have our men search this island and the surrounding area to make sure no living enemies yet remain."
"Aye," Matthew said. "We'll keep a sharp lookout for Sleat. No doubt he will return soon."
"Indeed. Also, see if you can discover who the traitor is who gave Sleat a key."
***
Just before noon the next day, Neacal carried a lantern and descended the steps into the dungeon. Leith and Dugan accompanied him, one before him and one behind, each carrying torches. 'Twas doubtful the new prisoners were hungry enough as of yet to talk. Neacal didn't condone torture—he'd endured too much of it himself—but he had to find out who these men were and what Sleat's plan was. The lives of his clansmen depended on it. He took his position as his clan's protector very seriously.
He already knew Sleat had wanted to take Bearach for Hamish, but now that Hamish was dead, Sleat's plot was likely simple revenge. Neacal didn't underestimate him. He knew the man would strike back ten times harder, but they would be ready.
One of the guards unlocked the iron-barred door. After it screeched open, Neacal stepped into the cell. The short, stocky prisoner sat propped in the corner. "Get up," Neacal commanded. When he did, Neacal approached and gathered his shirt front into his fist. "What is your name?"
The man smirked. "Go to hell, you mad bastard."
Rage ensnaring him, Neacal punched him in the stomach and the man went down. Lying upon the dirt floor, he groaned.
"Do you think Sleat cares a thing about you? He left you and your comrades for dead. You're nothing to him. You owe him no loyalty. All you have left is your life. 'Tis your decision whether you keep it or lose that, too."
"You'll kill us once we tell you what you want to know." The other man in the opposite corner said.
"Nay. I'll let you live and even have bread and water sent down. But first you must be honest. If you lie, you get naught."
The two men held their silence.
"Do you want to drink your water from a cup? Or do you want to lick it from the damp walls?"
"Nay!" The man he'd knocked down was almost a whimpering mess. "If you'll promise to release me, I'll tell you."
"What makes you think I'll believe you?"
"I'll tell you true. I swear it."
"Keep your mouth shut, Jarvis!" his comrade ordered.
