Page 81 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Then may God preserve us all," Colin said grimly. "Fer Armstrong! Fer our lady! Listen fer me command!"

Colin's horn sounded three long, mournful notes across the Highland valley, and thirty Armstrong warriors erupted from the darkness like demons from hell itself.

MacLeod's group struck first, sweeping through the Fraser horse lines with brutal efficiency. Steel sang in the night air as startled guards fell beneath blades. Horses whinnied and reared, breaking their tethers to stampede through the camp in wild panic.

On the eastern flank, Duncan's men torched the supply wagons, sending flames leaping high into the star-filled sky. Barrels of oil exploded with thunderous crashes, ammunition cooked off in a series of sharp reports, and thick smoke began rolling across the camp.

But it was Colin's frontal assault that truly shattered Fraser's peace.

"ARMSTRONG!" The battle cry tore from thirty throats as they charged down the hillside, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. They moved like a Highland storm—wild, fierce, unstoppable.

Fraser sentries barely had time to sound the alarm before Colin's men were among them. Years of border warfare had honed these warriors to deadly perfection. They fought with the fury of men defending their own, every stroke calculated to kill.

Colin led the charge, his sword weaving deadly patterns as he cut through the enemy's outer defenses. A Fraser spearman lunged at him—Colin sidestepped and opened the man's throat with a backhand slash. Another came at him with an axe—Colin ducked under the swing and drove his dirk between the warrior's ribs.

Behind him, his men fought with equal savagery. Niven's blade work was poetry written in blood, each movement flowing into the next with lethal grace. Young Dougie fought beside him, his youthful enthusiasm tempered by years of training under Colin's watchful eye.

But even as they pressed their initial advantage, Colin could see the terrible mathematics of their situation. Fraser's men were recovering from the surprise, forming defensive lines, bringing their superior numbers to bear. For every enemy warrior that fell, two more seemed to take his place.

"Shield wall!" Colin roared as a group of Fraser soldiers charged them with lowered spears. "Lock shields and hold!"

His men responded instantly, their small round shields overlapping to form a bristling barrier of steel and leather. The Fraser charge broke against it like waves against granite, but Colin knew they couldn't hold this position for long.

An arrow hissed past his ear, then another. Fraser archers were finding the range now, raining death from the camp's perimeter. One of Colin's men cried out as a shaft took him in the shoulder, but he kept fighting.

"We need to break through!" Duncan shouted over the din of battle. "They're surrounding us!"

Colin could see it happening. Fraser warriors were moving to encircle his small force, using their numbers to cut off any retreat. Soon his men would be trapped in the center of the enemy camp with nowhere to run.

Think, ye fool. Ye’re a warrior.

His eyes swept the burning camp, searching for advantage. There—a gap in the Fraser lines where Duncan's diversionary attack had drawn defenders away. If they could punch through there, they might be able to reach the camp's center before being overwhelmed.

"Follow me!" Colin bellowed, breaking from the shield wall. "Push through their left flank!"

It was a desperate gamble, but it was all they had left. Colin's men followed him in a wedge formation, using their momentum to smash through the thinner enemy line. Steel clashed on steel as they fought their way deeper into the Fraser camp, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

The fighting was vicious now, hand-to-hand combat where skill mattered more than numbers. Colin's sword took a Fraser warrior across the chest, spun to parry another's thrust, then drove his pommel into a third man's face. Blood sprayed across his mail as he pressed forward, seeking any sign of where Morag might be held.

But Fraser's men were rallying, closing the gap his charge had opened. More enemies poured in from the camp's edges, their weapons glinting in the firelight. Colin could hear the ring of steel on steel, the grunts and cries of men locked in mortal combat.

One of his warriors fell—then another. The odds were simply too great.

"Me laird!" Niven appeared at Colin's shoulder, his sword red to the hilt. "We can't hold much longer! There are too many of them!"

Colin knew his friend was right. They'd fought bravely, fought well, but thirty men couldn't stand against an army. Unless something changed soon, they'd all die here in this burning camp, and Morag would be lost forever.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

The guard's hands were rough, shoving Morag forward with barely concealed irritation. "Move along, lass. Don't make this harder than it needs tae be."

She had been put in a another section of Fraser’s tent, separated by a flap, but it was impossible to escape as the area was heavily guarded inside and out.

"Let me go!" she raged. "Ye cowardly bastards! Let me go!"

"Fraser!" she yelled, her voice cracking with fury. " Colin will gut ye like a fish when he gets here!"

She screamed until her voice was hoarse.