AllFreeNovel
Share Us
“Ye should’ve kent better,” Hollis chimed in. “We used that same trick on ye the last time we fought York.”
Henry glowered at him, and Fin laughed, clapping him on the shoulder. “Tis a good thing we’re on the same side this time, isnae?”
A smile flickered on Henry’s lips for a moment before he burst into laughter. “It is definitely a good thing.”
“Shall we?” Hollis asked. “I’ve been lookin’ forward tae crackin’ skulls all night.”
“By all means,” Fin replied as he held his sword aloft and called out to the men, exhorting them onward.
Fin, Hollis, and Henry all charged with their men, straight into the teeth of the enemy. Fin hacked and slashed, parting the sea of Irish mercenaries like Moses, parting the Red Sea. He spun to his right and very nearly straight into the blade of an Irishman who glared at him with as much hatred as if Fin had killed his mother.
Fin got his sword up just in time to parry the blow, but the Irishman followed that up with a dagger thrust that opened a gash on his upper arm. Fin felt the blood, warm and viscous, sliding down his flesh, and the cut itself throbbed mightily. But by lunging forward with a desperate slice, the man had left himself open to Fin’s counterattack. Fin’s blade burst from the man’s back, dark, thick blood immediately turning his tunic red. He pulled out his blade, and as the man slumped to the ground, Fin looked around, searching for his next fight.
The high-pitched pinging sound of steel ringing against steel reverberated through the air, and the din of the pitched battle raging around him sounded like the gates of hell had been left open, and all the demons were pouring out. Everywhere he looked, though, he saw the Duke’s soldiers either lying dead on the ground or wounded. They were taking a beating, and despite their trickery, the superior numbers of Castor’s forces were overwhelming them.
Fin searched the field, looking for something he could use to turn the momentum and the tide of the battle back in York’s favor. And that’s when he spotted Castor. He sat astride his horse, watching men bleed and die for him. Dressed in his finest, Castor watched and waited, no doubt, expecting to see his path to York was free and clear.
“Cut the bleedin’ head off the snake, the snake dies,” he muttered darkly to himself.
Pushing men out of the way, Fin rushed toward Castor, his blade in hand, and death in his eyes. Castor noticed him coming and pointed at him. In response, two of his guards ran straight for Fin, their blades up. Fin gracefully spun to the right and slashed at the man as he passed by, opening up a cut along the man’s ribcage. Fin stopped and lunged at him, burying his sword into the man’s stomach.
The soldier coughed up a gout of blood and fell to his knees. Sensing the second man closing in, Fin let go of the sword and dropped to the ground, rolling away from his would-be assailant. He came up with his dagger in hand but felt a white-hot sting of pain in his arm. He turned to see the point of a sword in his upper arm, and the pain was excruciating. But he shut it out as he took the dagger in his other hand and quickly drove it into the throat of the man who had stabbed him.
The blood flowing freely from another wound, and his body gripped by a nearly blinding pain, Fin hunched down as a group of six men encircled him. All had swords at the ready, and just beyond the circle, Castor sat atop his horse and watched, that cruel, smug smirk on his face.
“It is time to die, Fin,” he called. “Do send my regards to your ancestors.”
As the six men around him closed in, Fin’s stomach tightened. He held his dagger and tried to see the way through. But there was no way out. Any way he went was sure to end with steel in his gut or chest. That did not mean, though, that he was going out without a fight. They might get him, but Fin was determined to take some of them with him.
But then a strange sound permeated the din of the battlefield. Even the men who encircled him, had him dead to rights, stopped. All around him, Fin saw heads turning to the west, and when he looked at Castor, he laughed upon seeing the look of wide-eyed fright in the man’s eyes.
Castor opened his mouth to shout something, but he never got the words out as he seemed to suddenly have sprouted an arrow from the middle of his chest. Fin looked at the long, dark shaft and the feathers of the fletching. He knew the unique pattern, and his heart swelled with relief and joy all at the same time.
The six men around him suddenly scattered and ran, giving Fin a view of the western fields, and he cheered. He had never seen a sight so grand in all his life. Three hundred men — some of them from his clan, and others bearing the livery of House Lennox bearing down on them. Col sat atop his horse at the head of his army, firing arrow after arrow into the ranks of Castor’s men, and the cavalry he brought with him cut through the ranks like wind through a field of wheat.
Fin recovered his sword and watched as Castor’s men fell by the score, and the rest beat a hasty retreat, fleeing from the carnage. It was over. They had won. He glanced over to see Castor’s fallen form lying among the bodies and blood on the field. Fin walked over and stood above the man, glowering down at him. A thick rivulet of blood flowed from the corner of his mouth, and the arrow stood rigidly straight, pointing high into the air. It had taken him high in the chest — a bad wound, but perhaps one that would have him linger on for a while.
“Th - this changes nothing,” Castor wheezed. “You are nothing but a low, common brute, unworthy of anything but my contempt.”
“Mebbe that’s true. But I’ll still have Ivy. She’s mine, and I’m hers,” Fin said. “And I’ll still take me pound of flesh tae make sure ye never trouble her again.”
A choked, wheezing sound escaped from Castor’s mouth as a ghastly grin crossed his face.
“I do not believe there is a pound left to take,” he gasped. “The wound is mortal, I fear.”
All of Fin’s rage and all of the hatred of this man seemed to dissipate and blow away, suddenly as insubstantial as a puff of smoke on the breeze. Yes, in his righteous anger, he had wanted to kill Castor for all he had done - and all he had intended to do yet. But seeing him lying on the ground in a spreading pool of his own dark, viscous blood, struck a chord within Fin and he found himself pitying the fallen man.
“You can try to take your pound of flesh, Scotsman,” he wheezed. “I do not believe you will find it satisfying, though.”
His laughter broke down into a series of wet, rattling coughs. More blood, darker and thicker, spilled from his mouth, and Fin could see the fear in Castor’s eyes; he knew he was facing his end, and it scared him. But Fin knew the suffering from a wound like that could drag on for days and could be excruciating. It was not a good way to go out. Fin drove the point of his sword into the damp earth and knelt down beside him.
“I can give ye mercy if ye wish,” Fin said softly. “I can end yer pain.”
Fear colored Castor’s face, and his expression was one of terror mixed with agony. Eventually, it all faded away and become one of resignation. Acceptance. Castor understood he would never get off this battlefield on his own two feet. He looked Fin in the eye and gave him a short nod.
“Thank you for this kindness,” he gasped. “I know I do not deserve it.”
“Nobody deserves tae suffer like ye are.”
