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Footsteps pounded up the stairs towards them and Angus drew the dagger in front of him. Goddamn it, it was the only weapon that he had but better than nothing. The warrior was bloody and had wounds—and it wasn’t anyone he recognized, so he must be of the Ross clan.

The man stopped for a brief moment, then launched. He had his longsword drawn, but they stood in the narrow flight of stairs, stone walls to their left and their right, and he had no room to swing at Angus. Having an advantage with the short dagger, Angus drove his blade under the man’s ribs, and he grunted in pain and slid down on the stairs.

“Come, lass,” Angus said as he bent to take the man’s sword. “We must get through.”

“No,” she said behind him and turned to go back up the stairs. “We’ll land right in a battle, and you’re unprotected. No armor, no shield, nothing.”

Her worry warmed his heart. Suddenly, all the yells and cries from downstairs faded away. There was just him and her. This woman wanted to be his shield, while his whole life was dedicated to being a shield for others.

She stood on the stairs above him, tugging him up and away from the battle. But he grasped her by her hand and pulled her into his embrace. Yes, he might die today. Yes, he might be wounded.

“My whole life I was a piece of meat, good for nothing but beating,” he said, blissfully surrounded by the scent of her hair. “For my father. For my clan. For my king.” He turned and met her eyes. “Today, I’ll fight for you. I’ll fight for me. I’ll fight for a chance of us.”

Her eyes watered. “Angus…”

He shook his head. “Nae. Not a word. Come. Stay behind me.”

She opened her mouth, but he stepped back and descended the stairs, clinging to the wall and peering around the corner.

The next landing was empty, so he went lower, to the next floor. There, three men were fighting—two against one… Against Iòna. He was clearly exhausted, his blond hair misted and clinging to his forehead, a gash on his upper arm.

With a roar that made both enemies look up, Angus launched himself at them. That gave Iòna a moment of advantage, and his claymore cut into one warrior’s neck. He met the other enemy’s sword with a loud clang and proceeded to thrust his claymore over and over. Each time he met resistance that reverberated in his body. His wrists were sore from days in cuffs, but he kept going.

The man was strong but not skillful, and finally Angus thrust his claymore into the man’s gut, and he died, clutching at his wound.

“Ye all right, Iòna?” Angus said.

“Aye,” his friend said. “’Tis a slaughter downstairs, Lord. More men are coming. We must leave.”

“Aye.”

“Is Catrìona all right?” Rogene asked.

“Aye, the last time I saw her, she finished three men.”

Impressed, Angus shook his head once. Catrìona knew how to fight—Angus had taught her early on as he couldn’t stand the thought that she wouldn’t be able to protect herself against Father if Angus wasn’t around. But as far as he knew, she’d never wanted to use the sword-fighting skills. She always preferred to choose a peaceful way. She couldn’t stand the thought of taking someone else’s life. “Don’t kill” was one of God’s commandments.

“Good,” Angus said. “Protect Lady Rogene with yer life, aye? Let’s go.”

The three of them climbed down the stairs. Two men fought at the bottom of the stairwell. The rest of the room was dark in the dim light of the torches. A crowd of men had squeezed into the small space, and they banged against one another with swords too long to swing in the space available.

Mackenzie men always had knives or daggers with them, but so, apparently, did the Ross men. Both sides used these shorter blades viciously, along with their fists.

In the middle of the skirmish, he saw Raghnall’s tall, dark-haired figure. He had a black eye and a gash on his forehead, but otherwise looked whole, though tired. He was fighting William, the Earl of Ross.

Catrìona was in the corner with a face Angus had never seen on her before. Her teeth were bared, her eyes wide, her blond hair in wet strands. Clearly consumed by battle rage, she stabbed a man right in the eye with a roar.

She could be Morrigan, the goddess of war and death from Ireland, about whom Angus had heard from his MacDougall mother.

“How do we signal for everyone to retreat?” Iòna asked.

Angus looked around. There, to the left, was the entrance door—closed but not barred.

“This is how,” he said and took a lungful of air. “Retreat!” he yelled so loud that he thought the walls shook.

All heads turned to him. Raghnall’s eyes flashed with triumphant recognition.

“Retreat!” he echoed. “Tullach Ard!” he cried the Mackenzie war cry. And aye, it sounded strange to cry the war cry for retreat, but it meant they’d gotten what they wanted, they’d achieved their goal and could now leave. “Tullach Ard! Retreat!”