Page 76 of Highland Fire

Moira started, crying out softly in fear as the sharp clang of swords disturbed the quiet. She realized that she had been dozing, lack of sleep and the exhausting effects of constant fear for Tavig finally taking a toll. Alert now, she scrambled to her feet and walked to the wooded edge of the small clearing. The sun was starting to rise, and the soft light allowed her to see Drumdearg despite the lingering mists. She cursed the fact that although they were on the edge of the village encircling Drumdearg, close enough to see that a battle was being fought, they were not close enough to see who was doing what to whom.

“It willnae last long,” said James, the oldest and fairest of the youths, as he stepped up beside her.

“Ye sound so certain of that. Iver was able to grasp hold of Drumdearg. Why do ye think he will let go of it easily?”

“Oh, he will fight. He has no choice. Howbeit, once the battle begins nearly every mon, woman, and child in the village will rush to Tavig’s aid.”

“Does Iver have no allies?”

“Only those he has bought.” The youth shrugged. “There may be one or two fools who went to his side. No one will miss them when they die.”

“I wish I shared your confidence.”

“Mungan Coll is the finest knight in all of Scotland. Tavig MacAlpin is verra good, too. Together they can beat a cur like Sir Iver MacAlpin.”

She smiled at James before turning her full attention back to the battle. James clearly worshiped his laird Mungan. Moira wished she could share in his blind confidence in the man and in Tavig. Although she had no doubts about Tavig’s bravery and skill, she had a clearer view of the type of adder he now faced. At times bravery and skill were not enough to insure victory.

Just as she was about to ask James if they could move just a little closer, the sound of someone trampling through the brush drew her attention. James moved swiftly, drawing his sword and putting himself between her and the three large men who burst into the clearing. Iver’s hirelings were already deserting him. Moira heartily wished they had chosen another route for their escape.

When James moved to help his friends fight the men, Moira rushed to Una’s side. Her cousin was waking up and rapidly becoming terrified. She reached Una just in time to stop her from running off in a blind panic. Moira grabbed Una around the waist and held on to her until Una’s struggles began to ease.

“They will murder or rape us,” Una cried.

Moira spun her cousin around and, grasping her by the shoulders, gave her a good shaking. “Remember who ye are now, Una—the wife of Sir Mungan Coll. What would he think of a woman who, at the first hint of danger, ran screaming into the woods?” She saw Una’s eyes widen, felt her cousin heave one large sigh, and cautiously released her grip on the woman.

“Ye are right. I must be worthy of Mungan.” Una looked toward the three youths fighting the mercenaries. “What can we do, though? We are but two small women.”

“We must do something. Those boys cannae fight off those battle-hardened men for much longer.” An instant later, her words proved prophetic as one of the lads screamed, a deep wound to his sword arm causing him to stagger. “Find something to use as a weapon, quickly,” Moira ordered even as she turned to search the area.

She grabbed a heavy fallen branch. Not waiting to see if her cousin had found anything yet, Moira hurried toward the wounded youth and his opponent. The young man was buckling beneath the hard sword blows of his attacker. Any moment now he would falter so badly he would not be able to fend off a fatal strike.

The mercenary saw her, but could only feint a swing her way. Each time he turned his attention from the boy, the youth went on the attack. Moira heard the mercenary cursing her as he tried to stay out of her reach and hold off the youth, who was still strong enough to be a threat. She knew she had to act fast, however, for the boy’s lingering strength was born of hope, the hope that she could stop Iver’s hireling from killing him.

Try as she would, Moira was unable to get a clear aim at the man. He kept shifting his body each time she readied herself to strike him. Then she noticed that one part of him was not so easily moved out of the way—his sword arm. He had to keep his sword aimed at the youth. She feinted a swing at his back and, when he moved to avoid the full force of the blow, she brought the stick down hard on his sword arm.

The sound of breaking bone made her feel sick. Iver’s man screamed with pain, dropped his sword. He staggered, faltering toward her, fury contorting his face, then turned to pick up his sword with his other hand. The youth struck, his sword entering the man’s heart in one clean thrust. Moira echoed the mercenary’s groan as he slumped to the ground, dead. She stood staring into his sightless eyes until she heard the young man stumble and fall.

“Help the others, m’lady,” he rasped when she hurried to his side.

After a quick but thorough look at the youth, she decided he could wait a moment or two before being tended to. She turned to look at the other fighters. The mercenaries were pressing James and his companion hard. Una darted around the fighters, a heavy branch similar to Moira’s held tightly in her hands, but she did nothing. It was clear that Una did not know what to do next. The mercenaries had guessed her inability to act and paid her little heed. Moira hefted her rough club and crept closer, hoping to take advantage of their arrogant unconcern.

Just as Moira reached the side of the man facing James, he finally noticed her. A look of horrified surprise crossed his square face as she brought her club down on his arm. Again she heard the horrible sound of a limb breaking. She saw James move to take quick advantage of her attack, and decided she had seen enough. Tossing aside her club, she raced to Una’s side and pulled the girl away from the fighting men.

“I wasnae much help,” Una complained as she tossed aside her club, shuddering as James cut down his opponent and the man’s death scream filled the clearing.

“Ye were trying to help, and that is all that matters,” Moira said, tugging her cousin toward the wounded youth. “What is your name?” she asked him as she crouched by his side.

“Malcolm,” he said, his voice hoarse from pain. He smiled grimly when the final mercenary loudly met his death. “We have won.” He managed a weak smile for Una and Moira. “Ye ladies were a great help.”

“Aye, they were.” agreed James as he and the third youth joined them. “I am ashamed to admit that we were facing men far stronger and more skilled than we.”

“Of course ye were,” Moira said, shaking her head at the downcast faces of the three youths. “Those men held far more years than ye do, years spent fighting and honing their skills. Once they were just like you. Soon ye will be like them. Now, Una, rip me a piece or two of your petticoats so that we may tend Malcolm’s wound. James, fetch me some water, please.”

“Is it bad?” James asked as he returned with the water, frowning with concern as he studied the pale Malcolm.

“Not so bad it cannae be mended. Please remove his jupon and shirt.”

Malcolm grew even more ashen-faced, despite his friends’ care as he was stripped to the waist. Moira tried not to think of how she added to that pain as she cleaned his wound then stitched it closed. She had Una place a folded blanket beneath the youth’s head as she bandaged him.