Page 42 of Stealing a Kilted Heart

The ground, too, was soaked in blood, puddles of it forming under Knox’s feet. His boots sank into the softened earth. The air smelled metallic, and that familiar nausea gripped him as he stood there, waiting, his body trying to fight the stench of death.

The next attack came too soon, Laird Gordon’s men giving them no time to recover. The enemy forces poured into the courtyard once more, overwhelming those of the who were trying to guard the gates, and Knox had no choice but to throw himself into the fight once more, sword raised high as a scream was torn from his chest.

Every muscle in his body protested the fight. Every limb ached; every bone felt as though it was going to shatter under the force of his blows. And still, Knox picked his way through the soldiers, attacking anyone who got in his path and killing them swiftly and mercilessly. The faster they were done with this fight, the better it would be. If they could just fight fast and with efficiency, then he knew they could defeat the Gordons.

When a larger man walked into his path, Knox paused for a moment to catch his breath, wiping his bloodied hands on his clothes to stop his sword from slipping from his grip. The man didn’t look like the Laird Gordon’s other soldiers. He was older, clearly more experienced, with battle scars covering his arms and face, and Knox knew he held a high rank among Laird Gordon’s men.

And still, Laird Gordon was nowhere to be seen. He hadn’t yet dared to step foot in the castle and Knox doubted he ever would. He had been there from the start, fighting alongside his men, while Laird Gordon had been hiding behind his forces, too afraid to join the battle.

Knox stared at the man across from him with narrowed eyes, drawing in a few deep breaths through his nose. This, too, would be over soon, he told himself. If anything, it was lucky that the man was engaged with him and not with one of the younger, less experienced soldiers. Knox was certain he had killed his way through his men, just as Knox had done with Laird Gordon’s.

The man attacked first, barreling his way towards Knox, who met the first blow with his blade. The force of it reverberated up his arm, all the way through his body, and he stumbled back for a moment, hand flying out to steady himself. He was exhausted. The only thing keeping him going was the thought that if he stopped, his clan would be doomed. He shouldered the weight of every laird who had come before him, every man who had dedicated his life to this clan—many of whom had died in such battles. He thought about all the men before him that had stood there, sword in hand, facing an opponent they didn’t know if they could defeat.

Another attack, this one swift and precise, one Knox barely managed to dodge. His heels kicked up a cloud of dust behind him as he slid to the side and another soldier barely avoided colliding with him as he rushed off towards the walls. Knox didn’t have the time to see if it was one of his own or an enemy, but it hardly mattered. The man hadn’t given him a second glance. There, on the battlefield, it didn’t matter so much that he was the laird. He was just another body, just another hand with a sword.

Knowing he had to put an end to this fight before he was completely exhausted, Knox charged at the man, a deep, rumbling growl the only warning before he raised his sword and attacked. Their blades met again and again, clashing against each other, the two of them evenly matched, in a way Knox had rarely seen. Only Magnus had ever matched him like this. And now, in the heat of the fight, he could see there was already another.

Knox was exhausted by then, while the man had only just begun to fight. When the last blow came, Knox hardly saw it, his opponent’s blade flying through the air with a swishing sound and slicing him across the shoulder and chest. For a few moments, Knox didn’t register the wound. He was just surprised by how close the blade had come and so he moved backwards, trying to avoid another blow, only to realize that blood and pain both bloomed from his torso, the former dripping and making his clothes stick to his body while the latter radiated all over his limbs.

The ground met his body with a thud as he tilted to the side and collapsed. The pain was unlike anything he had ever felt before in his life. Though he had been injured in the past, no wound had been as severe, as debilitating. Never before had he been forced to watch, helpless, as his opponent loomed over him, raising his sword to deliver the final strike.

In a moment of clarity, Knox realized there was nothing he could do to do to save himself. He would die there, in that courtyard, with no heirs to speak of, and so he could only hope that the clan would go to capable hands. Magnus would have been his first choice, but since he wouldn’t be there to suggest it to his council, he doubted he would be the one to take the reins. Whoever they would choose, he hoped he would be a good man.

As long as it isnae Callum. That bastard.

Knox closed his eyes and surrendered to his fate, waiting for death. Only it never came. Instead, a pained gasp sounded above him, and he opened his eyes to see none other than Bane there, his sword having pierced clean through the other man’s chest. Fat drops of blood dripped down from him over Knox’s body, and the moment Bane drew his sword out of the man’s body, he fell to the ground like a puppet whose strings had been suddenly cut.

Who would have thought I’d be saved by… Bane?

Saved was perhaps a bit of an exaggeration, Knox thought in his last moments of coherence. Bane had killed the man, that much was true, but Knox had lost a lot of blood and the shock from the pain was not helping with his will to live. Distantly, he heard a panicked voice over him, which sounded familiar but which he couldn’t connect to a person. His eyes, though open, stared blankly at the sky above, seeing nothing but blurry faces and the orange glow of the flames around him.

And then, just as he drew a deep, shuddering breath, they saw nothing at all.