Chapter Four

September, 1317

Three months later

Central England

With a hard flick of his wrist, the dagger spun from Kirk’s fingertips. It whirred through the damp air in a deadly line.

Thunk .

The dagger sank to its hilt in the wooden target cut to resemble the outline of a man. The handle quivered where it protruded from the middle of the wooden man’s neck.

Kirk clenched his teeth in frustration a fraction of a second before Hervey, the man who was part trainer, part jailor, and entirely the bane of Kirk’s existence, barked at him from across the yard.

“MacLeod!” Hervey snapped, striding swiftly down the line of men practicing with the throwing daggers. “No kill shots today! You are supposed to be aiming for shoulders and arms!”

“Aye, sir,” Kirk said, straightening and staring blankly ahead as Hervey came to a halt before him. The words passed his lips automatically. No matter what Hervey did to him—berate him, spit on him, pummel him with punches and kicks—Kirk was only ever allowed to utter those two words to the trainer.

“Mayhap you cannot get it through that thick Scottish skull of yours,” Hervey went on, standing so close that his hot breath fanned Kirk’s face and little drops of spittle pelted his cheeks. “Why must you practice disabling throws more than kill shots?”

As one, the entire line of men practicing their aim—more than a score in all—shouted “Because kill shots cost!”

Kirk’s voice had been part of the unified, reflexive response.

Aye, kill shots cost. The idea had been beaten into every man in the yard on a near-daily basis as they’d practiced relentlessly to build skill with the small throwing daggers all those in the Order of the Shadow had to master. Kill shots—those throws meant to kill a target—left bodies, and bodies left unanswered questions. Or a potential trail that led back to the Order, threatening exposure.

And as Kirk had learned over the last grueling, hellish nine months passing himself off as a mercenary bounty hunter, the Order went to extreme lengths to remain hidden from view.

He trained, ate, and slept within the confines of what the men called the Compound. They bedded down every night in the barracks, which was little more than a wooden structure with pallets on the floor to sleep on. They ate in the mess hall, another building a stone’s throw from the barracks. They trained—usually from sunup to sundown, though occasionally they were awoken in the middle of the night and put through their paces—in the muddy yard in front of the barracks and the mess hall.

And that was it. This cursed place, tucked away in a deeply forested hideaway somewhere near the heart of England, had become his entire world over the last nine months.

With ‘The Order of the Shadow’ spoken in hushed tones to a few of the right men in the know, Kirk had managed to find a representative of the Order fairly quickly. He’d been interviewed and given an initial test of his skills, then admitted into the Compound, where he’d remained all this time.

Men came and went, presumably on missions, though they were not allowed to talk with others in the league about assignments. The only thing Kirk had learned so far was the daily routines and training habits of the bounty hunters in the Order. Besides Hervey and the small group of men who’d initially interviewed him, Kirk had yet to meet anyone with any real power within the Order.

He knew he was being watched, tested. The Order would be foolish to trust anyone who found them as Kirk had with their secrets. He would have to earn their trust, which meant he had to play a lowly mercenary learning the ropes at the Compound until he was brought into the fold—or found out for a spy and killed.

He stood silently as Hervey continued to debase him before the others, spit drops assailing his face. Hervey especially liked to harp on the fact that Kirk was Scottish. Kirk had made no attempt to hide that fact—he couldn’t have concealed his thick Highland accent even if he’d wanted to.

The truth was, though, everyone in the yard—including Hervey—knew that Kirk was one of the top new recruits they had. His skill with the throwing daggers had even begun to surpass some of the seasoned veterans who’d been with the Order for years.

Still, Hervey seemed to enjoy berating Kirk, mayhap because he’d excelled so quickly.

“…you filthy sheep-swiving savage,” Hervey said with a sneer. He stepped back, seemingly spent for the moment. “Get down in the mud where you belong and give me one hundred lifts.”

Kirk immediately obliged, his hands sinking into the muck as he pushed and lowered himself over and over, counting off loudly.

The final numbers came out through gritted teeth, but he was careful to stand up swiftly and straighten his spine. Showing any weakness here was a sure way to earn a beating.

“Back to it,” Hervey snapped, spinning on his heels in the mud and stalking away to harass one of the other men .

“I still think it was a good shot.”

The softly spoken words barely made it to Kirk’s ears over Hervey’s distant shouts and the continuous thunks of the men’s daggers hitting their targets.

Kirk glanced sideways at Logan Mackenzie, who stood a few feet away with a dagger in each hand. Logan twirled one slowly as if gauging its weight and balance, but Kirk had seen enough of the Highlander’s skills since arriving at the Compound to know that the man didn’t need to calibrate before he threw.

Kirk grunted in response to Logan’s quietly spoken praise. With an ease earned from uncounted hours of practice, Kirk flicked his wrist, and another dagger slid from the sheath strapped to his forearm.

Gripping the dagger’s hilt lightly, he focused on the target’s shoulder, then stepped forward and flung the blade.

It landed dead in the center of the wooden man’s right shoulder.

“No whoop of celebration?” Logan’s soft voice drifted over. Kirk didn’t have to look at the man—he could hear the friendly teasing in his voice. “No’ even a smile behind those damned cold eyes of yers for a shot well taken? I thought they called yer kind the ‘Loud MacLeod.’ Ye dinnae live up to yer clan’s reputation, man.”

“Leave it to a Mackenzie to prove himself a dolt,” Kirk murmured out of the side of his mouth. A rasping laugh, barely more than a whisper, told him that Logan had heard him.

“We are called the Loud MacLeod for our plaid colors—yellow, red, and black,” Kirk went on. “Ye cannae miss them, unlike the Mackenzies, who prefer to slink about in their greens and browns so that they can have a blade in a man’s back before he notices their stench.”

This time, Logan actually had to cough to cover his outright bark of laughter. In the Highlands, such words would have been enough to warrant killing a man. Within the Order, however, Kirk and Logan were the only two Scots. They’d bonded—as best they could, given the fact that they weren’t allowed to speak to one another—over the relentless hatred and suspicion the English bounty hunters shot their way.

Although he was only following orders by befriending the Mackenzie in the ranks of the Order, Kirk was grateful to count Logan as an ally of sorts.

“Mackenzie!” Hervey bellowed, interrupting their jesting.

Logan’s face instantly dropped into the flat, blank lines of a soldier. In quick succession, he threw both of his daggers, clustering them within an inch of each other on his target’s shoulder.

“Waste any more time dawdling and you’ll regret that your father ever swived your mother and brought you into this sorry world,” Hervey snapped, marching back down the line toward them. “MacLeod, stop there. ”

Shite . What had Kirk done now? He fell into the familiar stance, his back straight and his even gaze forward.

Hervey halted in front of Kirk once more, but instead of blasting him with spittle and insults, the trainer eyed him up and down slowly.

“The boss wants to see you,” Hervey said at last.

Blood suddenly hammered so loudly in Kirk’s ears that the roar deafened him for a moment.

Christ . Was this the moment he’d been waiting for? Would he finally meet the man pulling the strings of the Order of the Shadow? If so, Kirk’s mission might be close to over. If he could learn something valuable about the head of the Order, mayhap he could finally be done with this damned war once and for all.

Or mayhap someone had thought it odd that a Scot would want to join a bounty hunter league in the middle of England. Mayhap someone suspected the truth. Rumors and whispers spread faster than fleas in the Compound. Was he under suspicion?

There was only one way to find out. He nodded curtly at Hervey, who spun on his heels and strode toward the mess hall. Instead of going inside, though, Hervey swerved around the right side until they stood at the back of the building.

Several sets of hard eyes fell on Kirk as he rounded the corner. He was aware that the men training at the Compound were watched constantly—by armed guards. A man would be a fool—and dead, quickly—if he tried to slip away from the Compound.

But the men standing behind the mess hall weren’t the same as the ones who stalked the perimeter. Nay, this pack of a half-dozen men bristled with every weapon imaginable. Each one towered over Kirk, who himself stood eye to eye with even the biggest men in the Highlands. And though Kirk was broad of shoulder and corded with hard-earned muscle, these men were as thick as oak trees.

Belatedly, Kirk took in the fact that there were several horses stirring behind the band of lethal-looking thugs. Was he to travel off the Compound to meet with the head of the Order?

Before he could contemplate that possibility, a rough canvas sack was thrust over his head. Someone yanked his arms behind his back and bound his wrists tightly. Then he was shoved forward.

He staggered but managed to keep his feet. A heartbeat later, however, several sets of hands grabbed him and hoisted him onto the back of one of the horses.

No words were spoken around him, but he heard the creak of leather and a few snorts from the horses, letting him know that the others were mounting up.

Someone whistled nearby, and his horse lurched into motion.