Chapter 25

Night had fallen swiftly over the MacLaren lands. Macauley and his men sat in their campsite along with Bonnie, the ink of the sky thick with clouds above them. There were hardly any stars that night, hardly any moon to light their way, but they still made sure to keep their fires at a minimum, only what was necessary to keep them warm so as not to bring any unwanted attention upon themselves.

The men spoke in hushed tones, barely audible over the crackling of the fire. Macauley stared at the flames in silence as they licked the logs, his words having failed him several hours prior. There was nothing he could say to the others that he hadn't already said. There was nothing that needed to be said at all; everyone knew what they were supposed to do in a few days and in the meantime, they simply had to remain on guard for anything that could change.

Across from him, Bonnie was sharpening her arrows almost compulsively, checking and rechecking them. At some point, she cut herself on the tip of one of them, hissing as she brought her finger to her mouth, and Macauley almost told her to drop it. He would have, but he understood her need for something to do with her hands. He, too, had a hard time staying still and so he kept his knife in his hands, twirling it by the handle.

Everyone in that camp was on edge, waiting for something that perhaps would never come to pass. Their hours were long, feeling almost endless, and with the impatience and anxiety that had settled over them all, Macauley could do little to reassure them everything would work out in their favor.

They were all ready for a fight. They were itching for it, no matter if they won or they lost.

Around the fire, the men shared some of the supplies they had brought with them, passing meat and fruit around. Macauley's stomach felt entirely empty but at the same time, too small and twisted for him to eat anything. The mere thought of placing anything in his mouth brought forth a wave of nausea and Bonnie didn't seem to be in a much better state than him.

Their soldiers' minds were most certainly with their people back home and with the fate that awaited them, some surely wishing they had returned with Kian instead of being stuck there, trying to save a woman that many of them viewed as a traitor. Having Bonnie among them didn't help either, though no one had openly confronted her yet.

Macauley didn't know what he would do if the moment ever came. The men had their orders from Kian and all of them knew better than to disobey him, but there was only so much they could take. Still, there were only a few more days to go. They all simply had to hold on.

The minutes passed idly as they always did in the camp. It wasn't until the fire had begun to die out and one of the men took up the task of stoking it and feeding it wood that Macauley heard a strange sound coming from the woods. He held up his hand and at his signal, the entire camp froze, everyone coming to a sudden halt no matter what they had been doing before.

It could have been an animal. It wouldn't be the first time he had heard a twig snap only to find a deer there, lured to the camp by the smell of food. But if it wasn't an animal then it was a man—or several of them—and Macauley couldn't take the chance.

Then came another sound, louder than the one that had preceded it. Then another, and another, until they seemed to be coming from several directions at once.

"Ambush," Macauley said, springing up to his feet as he drew his sword, readying himself for the fight. The men around him did the same, their eyes wide as they looked around for any sign of Faolan's approaching men.

The first of them spilled into the clearing with a war cry, their voices piercing the silence of the night. Macauley didn't have time to count how many of them there were and the darkness made it difficult to tell with any accuracy anyway. Before throwing himself into the fight, he turned to Bonnie and grabbed her, making sure she had her arrows and her bow in her hands.

"Can ye climb?" he asked.

"O' course," Bonnie said. "I ken what tae dae. Ye dae what ye ken an' I'll dae what I ken."

With that, she was gone, disappearing through the soldiers of both sides and into the woods.

She would be safe up in the tree and at the same time, she would be able to help them take down some of the MacLaren men.

Still, at first Macauley worried that she wouldn't be as good of a shot now that it was so dark. The lack of light would surely inhibit her skills, he thought, doing little to allow her to even out the odds between the two sides. Only when an arrow whizzed past and lodged itself in the sternum of one of the MacLaren men did he realize that her aim was still true despite the unfavorable conditions, and he allowed himself to focus on the fight instead.

They had been almost surrounded in that clearing, approached by Faolan's men from three sides. They had been quiet and stealthy, hiding their presence for a long time before they delivered the attack, and Macauley couldn't help but wonder how much they had heard, how much they had seen.

It would hardly matter if they managed to defeat them. With that thought in mind, Macauley threw himself at the first enemy he saw in his path—a large man, tall and wide, brandishing his sword with confidence. Jumping in front of him, Macauley swung his sword only to have his blow parried at the last moment, missing his chance to strike the other down.

The man smiled as though he was enjoying it and perhaps, he was. A part of Macauley had always enjoyed the rush of battle, but he could never stomach the numbers of the dead and the injured. All those innocent lives lost, their families mourning them for the rest of their own lives. How could he ever enjoy a thing that brought so much sorrow?

As the other brought down his sword for a counterattack, Macauley pirouetted to the side, avoiding the blow. They were matched in size and stretch it seemed, the two of them just as tall and broad as the other, but there was a slowness to the man's movements that Macauley had long since trained out of himself. He wasn't the quickest fighter in the world, but he was quick enough, fast to react and to change his attacks to suit him best according to whom he was fighting.

Around him, the sounds of battle had reached their zenith. Agonized cries echoed in the clearing as some of the men were struck down, the swords piercing their bodies and leaving them to bleed out on the ground. The clang of metal against metal filled the shorts gaps in between with noise, the cacophony grating in Macauley's ears, but they all persevered, knowing it was the only path to victory.

We must defeat them. We have nae other choice.

Though he hadn't heard from Kian and he doubted he would before Cathleen's and Faolan's wedding, he was confident the laird and the Drummond Clan would survive the attack. While Kian was back home, Macauley had to complete the task entrusted to him. He had to bring the men left with him to victory.

It soon became evident, though, that they were vastly outnumbered. Their estimates on the number of men the MacLaren Clan had at their disposal seemed to be a little off, something that was excused by the fact that the late laird had been a peaceful man who rarely ever allowed his clan to be involved in any conflict. With Faolan in charge, though, their numbers seemed to have grown and so had their viciousness.

Perhaps some of them were mercenaries. Perhaps he had found the gold to pay them specifically for this one attack, though it seemed strange to Macauley that he would have managed to gather so many of them at such short notice.

No, those were Faolan's men through and through. They were loyal to him. They would do what he asked.

With his enemy trying to deal another blow, Macauley jumped out of harm's way just as the blade crossed the air where he had stood only moments prior. He braced himself for another attack, one that came soon after, while that the same time looking for an opening in the man's technique, anything that would give him the upper hand.

He found it just as the other took a step forward. He was getting too confident, too sure of his ability to defeat Macauley and had kept himself unguarded on his left side. It was there that Macauley struck, feinting a movement to the right before swiftly switching sides, stepping around him to cut through the weak parts in his armor.

Macauley's blade found its target, cutting through skin and flesh. Blood dripped from the wound unbridled as the man gasped quietly and then crumpled onto the ground, his mass sending up a cloud of dust around him. Panting, Macauley stepped back, taking a moment to assess the damage done to his troops.

All around him, arrows were flying in the air as Bonnie picked out the enemy forces one by one. The Drummond men were doing their best to fight their attackers off, but Faolan had been clever enough to make sure not many men remained there. Kian had been right; what Faolan wanted was to divide them. It had made them weak and he couldn't help but wonder if Kian's departure with half of the men had been a bad idea, after all. They had operated under the assumption that Faolan wouldn't find them in that clearing and that they would catch him by surprise at the wedding, when they would all be unprepared. But now it seemed that the attack on Castle Drummond was nothing but a distraction. Faolan must have known he could lose here, so he had sent some of his men on a suicide mission just so that he would separate the troops.

It was a clever plan, Macauley had to admit, and he wondered if Faolan had thought of it himself. It seemed at odds with what he had heard about him—that he was far from a bright man or a capable leader.

He must have someone advisin' him. Someone who is more skilled than he is.

He had a whole council at his disposal, after all. Cathleen had assured them that most of the council was loyal to her father and, as a result, to her and Bonnie, but Macauley wouldn't be so quick to dismiss the idea that they were helping Faolan now.

Another two men came close to Macauley and at first, he tried to put some distance between them, his mind coming up with ways to even out his odds. His men were fighting their own fights, at least the ones who were still left alive and uninjured. In the grander scheme, their deaths would not be a terrible loss for Clan Drummond as far as numbers were concerned. They were a small force after all, chosen for stealth rather than size. But they would be a terrible loss when it came to importance. Those were his people, even if they weren't his blood. He had trained with them, laughed with them, shared his meals and his conversation. They would all be missed dearly by everyone back home.

It was that thought which finally filled Macauley with an unquenchable rage. All that time, he had remained calm as he fought, focusing on the battle, but now he was blinded by hatred for Faolan and his people. Though the enemy forces were closing in, Macauley still remained standing, trying to take with him as many of them as he could. If he was going to die in that clearing, he would die while causing Faolan as much trouble as he could.

With a shout, he threw himself at one of the men near him, their swords meeting with a deafening clang. The other soon joined, swinging his sword wildly, and Macauley ducked to avoid the blade, kicking his leg out as he stood and catching him on the shin. The man groaned in pain, doubling over. The hit slowed him down enough for Macauley to focus on the other one once again, and he parried blow after blow, the two of them caught in an intricate dance of wild steps and clashing swords.

As Macauley parried one more strike, he immediately counterattacked. The speed of the move caught the other by surprise and Macauley's sword found its target, sinking into flesh once more. Macauley pushed the blade deeper, piercing the man through his chest before removing the blade entirely with a grunt.

By the time he hit the ground, he was already dead.

Just as Macauley turned to meet the second man once more, though, he was hit on the side of the head with the hilt of his sword. The world around Macauley spun wildly, the dark night turning even darker, impossibly so as he stumbled backwards, his head exploding with pain.

He tried to regain his footing, stumbling over his own two feet again and again. His efforts were all in vain, though. The hit had been a hard one and now it felt as though the world was moving under his feet, swinging relentlessly back and forth until he had no choice but to fall onto the ground in a desperate attempt to force his surroundings to stop spinning.

"Laird MacLaren will be glad tae see ye," the man said as he hovered over Macauley. "Ye're lucky I have me orders otherwise I would have already killed ye."

"There's nay honor in fightin' like this," Macauley said, though he wasn't sure whether he could get his point across. His speech was slurred and slow, his eyes heavy, begging him to close them. Above him, the man gave a dry chuckle.

"What does honor have tae dae with this?" he asked. "How will honor help ye?"

It was the last thing Macauley heard before darkness consumed him, though not the last thing on his mind. No, his final thought was of Cathleen and how he, too, had failed her.