Page 51 of Steel & Surrender

A grim satisfaction settled in his chest as he finished his inspection. Aye, the men were ready, better prepared than he’d once believed himself capable of making them.

When the MacDonalds attacked Moy, they’d have a fight on their hands.

Turning back to the view, Greig urged Tàirneanach down the hill.

The company of warriors made their way down the rutted road, leaving the hill behind and crossing pastures before traveling between fields green with crops.

Cottars stopped work, wiping sweat from their brows to watch as the company of warriors passed by, weapons rattling and leather creaking. Spying the Maclean sashes across the newcomers’ chests, some of the locals raised a hand in greeting.

Greig nodded back, though part of him wondered whether they saw strength when they looked at him, or merely a cripple. The last time he’d ridden through Moy’s gates, he’d barely acknowledged anyone, too consumed by self-pity and rage to stomach company.

It had been a while now since the despair had been so black that he’d toyed with the idea of ending things.

Over the past year, he’d learned how to keep moving despite the darkness. Some days were easier than others. All the same, the grief and despair were still there, looming in the background. He’d need to remain vigilant.

Drawing himself out of contemplation, Greig lifted his gaze to the ramparts, to the silhouettes of sentries stark against the pale sky. They watched his approach. His father had sent word ahead, so the chieftain and his warriors knew they were on their way.

Clattering under the portcullis and into the cobbled barmkin, he found the large courtyard bustling with activity—women hauling water barrels, lads carrying arrows, warriors sharpening blades upon whetstones.

Craeg strode forward to meet him, broad-shouldered and dark-haired, his expression grim despite the grin he attempted.

Drawing Tàirneanach to a halt, Greig slid to the ground, careful to land on his right foot.

He then turned to greet the Chieftain of Moy.

“Ye came faster than expected,” Craeg greeted him as they clasped arms. “The situation must be serious?”

“We have no idea when the MacDonalds will strike,” Greig replied with a grimace. “I didn’t want ye to find yerself in a tight spot.”

Craeg nodded, his gaze shifting from Greig’s face and sweeping to where the other warriors now filled the barmkin. “That bastard MacDonald has gone too far this time,” he growled. “He won’t get away with threatening my people.”

“No,” Greig agreed quietly, the same anger he saw on his friend’s face burning in his belly. “But ye are ready for him now.”

Craeg nodded, his attention shifting back to Greig. He studied him a moment, his stern expression softening a little. “It’s been a while, Greig … ye are looking well.”

“I’m better than I was,” he replied with a shrug. His thigh throbbed from the ride, but he ignored it.

“And how’s life as Marshal of Duart?”

“Keeping me busy.”

Craeg smiled, his eyes crinkling at the corners. He then motioned for a groom to take Greig’s gelding before slinging an arm over his friend’s shoulders. “Come … ye’re too busy these days to stay here long, but we’re long overdue for a few cups of ale and a catch-up.”

The tension eased just a little from Greig’s shoulders, though it never truly left him these days.

Together, he and Craeg went indoors.

15: A WORTHY OPPONENT

SEATED UPON AN upturned barrel, Brìghde watched Greig slowly lift the strapped bundle of iron bars. It was his heaviest load yet. “Back straight.”

His jaw flexed. A few months ago, he might have snarled at her, but not now. Instead, he concentrated on lifting the weight. Both knees bent, thighs trembling under the strain. He heaved upwards.

The bars shifted slightly against each other, threatening to throw him off balance.

“Slowly,” she warned, her chest tightening with anticipation. “Maintain control.”

And he did. Inch by inch, sweat glistening on his face now, he lifted the weight until it reached his waist and then held it there for a heartbeat.