Page 93 of Devil Black

Bertram MacNab’s face became a snarling mask before Dougal’s eyes, and all he saw. Move, duck, slash, parry, round, and struggle for breath, let a bit more blood, and do it all again. Almost imperceptibly, Bertram began to tire, and Dougal bared his teeth in a grim smile. He, himself, now had half a score of wounds, but none of them was potentially fatal. They stung and burned, no more. And he knew he had touched Bertram gravely at least twice—a slash to the left thigh and one on the right arm that felt as if his blade had penetrated to the bone. That being Bertram’s sword arm, it had now begun to hamper him visibly.

They turned again in a dreadful parody of grace, boots shuffling in time, and Dougal caught a glimpse of Isobel’s face: milk white, eyes stretched wide. The breath seared his lungs. He must be more tired than he thought.

He shook the hair out of his eyes and adjusted his grip on his sword; the hilt felt sticky with blood. In that instant of distraction, Bertram made his move, launched himself in a rush of clumsy energy, screaming.

Bertram’s sword struck Dougal a glancing blow in the center of his chest and they both went flying, Dougal over backward and Bertram, losing his footing, atop him, a tremendous weight.

Dougal felt what little breath he possessed leave him as he hit the stones. He struggled to determine the location of Bertram’s weapon—if he did not, he might well lose his head. His own sword remained, miraculously, in his hand.

Bertram’s face, covered in gore, hovered just a breath above his. Bertram grinned, his eyes wild, and growled, “Bastard! Are you ready to die? Get you to hell where you belong!”

Not quite yet, Dougal thought, and struggled, using every muscle, to buck the man off. His sword arm felt numb, yet his fingers still gripped the hilt.

“Will you die for her?” Bertram spat. “Even as you would for the other, weak bitch that she was? I enjoyed her, MacRae—liked breaking her, but she broke too easily. This one, I think, will last longer.”

Hatred sent a spear of pure energy through Dougal’s veins and limbs. He brought his feet up, used them to kick at the bastard’s legs, and must have got in a lucky blow to the injured thigh. Bertram howled and, in one motion, Dougal brought up his sword, struck the side of the man’s head, and heaved him off.

Somehow, he got to his feet.

Bertram lay on his back, on the stones, a new ribbon of gore leaking from one ear.

The ring of warriors had now closed in so tight they virtually breathed down Dougal’s neck.

“Back!” He swung his sword in a wide arc, chasing them, then nudged Bertram with one foot.

“Is he dead?” The words came from Isobel in a rough croak.

Bertram’s eyes stared upward like those of a dead man, but his chest still rose and fell. Dougal leveled the point of his sword at the fallen man’s throat.

And Bertram erupted. With another of those bovine bellows he rose, disregarding Dougal’s blade as it sliced into the skin from neck to shoulder.

Bertram had lost his sword yet, maddened, he came at Dougal with his bare hands. A woman screamed and all the warriors yelled. Dougal felt Bertram’s hands close on his throat. He kicked out—once, twice, landing solid thumps. But the eyes now staring into his were utterly mad. Dougal, no longer sure Bertram could even feel pain and rapidly running out of air, drew back his sword and used it to thrust upward, a short, brutal blow. Bertram sank, slowly.

“That is for Aisla,” he said, his voice roughened and yet so full of rage it rang against the stones. He bent over his opponent and once more brought the point of his sword to Bertram’s throat. “And this, for Isobel—”

Isobel! He fought for another breath and shook his hair back, thinking for once beyond the anger and the desire to mete out what was deserved. He wanted so badly to press the blade home, to end this cur’s life, yet he trusted in Randal MacNab’s honor not at all and they had yet to get free of this place.

“Get up!” he rasped at Bertram. “Up!”

“Finish it,” Bertram told him.

“Och, I will. Just not yet.” Using strength he did not know he possessed, he hauled Bertram up by the remnants of his kilt and held the sword to his throat. He looked round, saw Randal MacNab staring like a man struck, and found the scribe.

“Campbell! You saw it all? You wrote it down?”

“I did, Laird.” Campbell glanced at Randal MacNab uncertainly. “I will so testify. But I pray you take me with you.”

“No fear. MacNab, your son comes with us also. If you want him to live, you will give the four of us safe passage away from here.”

“’Twas not in the agreement,” Randal began to bluster, “that you should take Bertram with you.”

“A temporary hostage only, to assure our safety. Whether he lives or not, once we are away from here, depends on how quickly you move.”

“Bring their horses,” Randal commanded, his expression sour. “And, aye, open the gates.”

Chapter Thirty-Eight

“This is not over,” Dougal said as the five of them rode away through the windy darkness. Bertram MacNab—well-bound and still streaming blood—rode double with Dougal, so Dougal could keep his blade at Bertram’s throat. “I have still to decide the fate of our captive.”