Page 84 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

"Now," he said. "MacLeod, give me ten minutes tae get intae position, then hit those supply wagons like the wrath of God himself. Niven, start yer flanking attack when ye see the fires. Make them think we're tryin’ tae break out tae the east."

"What's our rally point if this goes tae hell?" MacLeod asked.

"The standing stones, two miles north of here. Anyone who makes it out alive meets there at dawn." Colin gripped both men's shoulders. "But we're nae plannin’ tae run. We're plannin’ tae win."

The approaching sound of Fraser cavalry made further planning impossible.

"Positions!" Colin commanded. "Remember—tight formations, watch each other's backs, and give me the time I need!"

His men split into their assigned groups with practiced efficiency, each warrior checking weapons and armor one final time. These were men who'd followed Colin through years of border warfare, and their trust in his leadership showed in every movement.

"Fer Armstrong!" MacLeod called softly, his battle cry taken up by every throat.

"Fer Lady Morag!" Niven added, and the sound of her name seemed to give every man renewed strength.

Colin felt a surge of fierce pride as he watched his warriors prepare for what might be their final battle. Win or lose, they would fight with honor.

Now, tae find me wife.

The Fraser camp stretched before Colin like a maze of death, but years of border warfare had taught him patience. He moved like a ghost through the smoke and shadows, using every tent and wagon as cover.

The key was confidence. Colin walked with the purposeful stride of a man on orders, his bloodied weapons held casually but ready. In the chaos of battle, he was just another warrior moving through the night.

A Fraser sentry challenged him near the horse lines. "Ye! What's yer⁠—"

Colin's dirk slid between the man's ribs before he could finish, finding the heart with practiced precision. The sentry's eyes went wide with shock, then empty. Colin caught the falling body and dragged it behind a supply wagon.

One down. How many more?

He moved deeper into the camp, counting guards, noting patrol patterns. Two Fraser soldiers stood talking near a cluster of tents, their attention focused on the distant battle. Colin circled wide, approaching from their blind spot.

The first man never knew what hit him. Colin's arm snaked around his throat from behind, cutting off any cry for help. A sharp twist, and the cervical vertebrae separated with a wet crack. The second guard spun around, mouth opening to shout, but Colin's throwing knife took him in the throat. He dropped silently, blood pooling in the dirt.

Two more.

A patrol was approaching—four men with spears, moving in loose formation. Too many to take quietly, and the open ground offered no cover. Colin pressed himself against a supply wagon and waited, controlling his breathing, his heartbeat.

The patrol passed within arm's reach, their boots crunching on the graveled path. Colin counted to ten, then slipped out behind them and continued deeper into the camp.

The living quarters area lay ahead, marked by smaller tents and wooden structures arranged around Fraser's massive pavilion. But the security was tighter here—guards posted at regular intervals, overlapping fields of vision.

Colin studied the layout with a tactical eye. Direct approach was impossible. He needed a distraction.

A handful of stones, hurled at a distant tent, brought two guards running to investigate. While they were distracted, Colin sprinted across twenty yards of open ground and pressed himself against the back wall of the nearest structure.

Voices drifted from inside—Fraser men discussing the battle's progress. Colin listened carefully, gleaning intelligence while planning his next move.

"—eastern flank is crumbling⁠—"

"—Armstrong's men are like demons⁠—"

"—orders tae pull back the reserves⁠—"

The battle was going better than expected. His men were holding, maybe even winning. But Colin had no time to celebrate. Morag was somewhere in this maze of tents, and every second increased the chance of discovery.

He moved to the next tent, then the next. Each required careful approach—watching for guards, listening for occupants, finding the safest entry point.

Then he saw it again. Fraser’s tent, the one he had seen earlier. A single guard stood outside, alert and well-armed. This was it.