Page 79 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The Highland night wrapped around them like a burial shroud as Colin crouched behind the rocky outcrop, his men gathered in a tight circle around him. Below in the valley, Fraser's camp flickered with the warm glow of cook fires, deceptively peaceful in the darkness.

"Listen carefully," Colin said, his voice barely above a whisper. Every second counted now. His soldiers looked to him for guidance, and he couldn't falter. The weight of the impending battle pressed down on him, yet the fire in his chest didn't waver. He knew the cost of war, but he couldn't lose Morag—not when she was so close to danger.

His orders were firm as he drew his dirk and began sketching lines of strategy in the dirt. They would fight not just for survival, but for Morag's life.

"Fraser has the numbers, but he's made a mistake camping in the open valley. No natural defenses, spread too thin across bad ground." Colin marked points on his crude map with quick, precise strokes. "Main force here, around the largest fires. Supply wagons to the east. Horse lines on the south side. MacLeod, take eight men and hit their horse lines first. Scatter their mounts—cut off any chance of organized pursuit or escape." Colin's finger traced attack routes on the dirt.

"What about the lass?" Niven asked quietly.

Colin's jaw tightened. "Fraser will keep her close tae the center, probably under heavy guard." He paused, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "But remember—Morag comes first. If ye have tae choose between killin’ Fraser's men and protecting her, choose her."

"Aye, me laird," came the unanimous response.

Colin rose, checking his weapons one final time. "When ye see me signal—three horn blasts—we attack from all sides at once. Questions?"

There were none. These were seasoned fighters who trusted their laird's tactical mind.

MacLeod shifted restlessly. "How dae we breach their perimeter without alertin’ the whole camp?"

"We dinnae breach it," Colin said grimly. "We go through it. But nae all of us. Niven," he said finally. "Ye and I will go. "We will strike their supply wagons. Create chaos, set fires. That will be our signal."

"Me laird," Duncan protested, "if somethin’ happens tae ye⁠—"

"Then Niven takes command and gets our people home safe," Colin cut him off. "But naething's going tae happen. We get in, find what we need, and get out. When ye see flames in the enemy camp, that's yer signal tae attack. Hit them hard and fast while they're confused."

He traced arrows on his dirt map, showing attack routes. "MacLeod, take ten men and strike their horse lines first. Scatter their mounts, cut off any chance of organized pursuit. Duncan, take the rest and hit their supply wagons. Create as much chaos as possible."

"What about Fraser himself?" one of the soldiers asked.

Colin's expression went deadly cold. "Leave Fraser tae me."

An hour later, Colin and Niven bellied through the tall grass at the camp's edge, moving with the patience of seasoned hunters. The sentries were lazy, more concerned with staying warm than watching for enemies they didn't expect to find.

"Guard post ahead," Niven breathed, barely audible. "Two men by the supply wagons."

Colin nodded, drawing his dirk. They split apart, circling the guards like wolves stalking prey. The men died quietly, throats cut before they could cry out, their bodies dragged into the shadows between the wagons.

"Grain sacks," Colin noted, examining the supplies. " Perfect."

Working quickly, they punctured several sacks, letting the contents spill onto the canvas. Niven produced a small fire steel from his belt, but Colin caught his arm.

"Nae yet. We need tae find me wife first."

They slipped deeper into the camp, moving between tents with deadly purpose. The layout was haphazard—Fraser's men had pitched their shelters wherever they found flat ground, creating a maze of canvas and rope.

Near the center of the camp, they found what they were looking for. A large pavilion tent, richly decorated with Fraser colors, surrounded by a ring of guards. Six men stood watch, alert and well-armed.

"Fraser's tent," Colin whispered, his hand tightening on his dirk. "She has tae be in there."

As they crept closer, voices drifted from a group of men warming themselves around a nearby fire.

"...can't believe Fraser's keepin’ the Armstrong wench in his own tent," one was saying. "Askin’ fer trouble, if ye ask me."

"Aye, well, naebody's askin’ ye," another replied with a laugh. "Besides, where else would he put her? Can't trust the lads nae tae have a go, and Fraser wants her unmarked fer whatever he's planning."

Colin's blood ran cold. She's in there. Right there, twenty yards away.