The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(107)

It was a sore subject. She didn’t understand his insistence on punishing his brother—even though he wasn’t. It didn’t surprise him. She was too soft-hearted and not used to making the hard decisions that he was faced with every day as chief.

“Janet will be here.” With a potential spy in their midst, he’d decided it was too risky for her to be going back and forth between the castle and the broch. The men had been cooking on their own—and complaining.

She arched her brow. “You wish me to be friends with your mistress?”

“Former mistress,” he corrected. “But still a friend. Give her a chance; you will like her.”

She made a sound suspiciously like a snort. “Men don’t understand anything. I doubt very much she wants to be my friend.”

He had no idea why, but didn’t pretend to understand the intricacies of a woman’s mind.

He bent down and gave her a soft kiss, lingering longer than he should have. But when he lifted his head it was worth it. Crushed red lips parted, eyes half-lidded and dazed, soft pink cheeks—damn, he loved the way she looked when he kissed her. “I’ll be back before you know it.”

Christina had managed to take Tor’s mind off his troubles, but not for long. Damn Bruce. To hell with MacDonald. He hated deception of any kind. These men were a team and deserved to know the truth. For a covert guard like this to work, ultimate authority for team decisions had to rest with the team leader. If this were his command, he’d tell Bruce and MacDonald exactly what they could do with their “orders.” But in a little less than three weeks, MacSorley would be the leader and it would be his decision to make. Not even the big Norseman, however, knew what was about to happen.

It was the final test of “Perdition,” delayed by their early return to Dunvegan.

The men gathered around as he explained their task. It had taken more than two months, but Tor had finally managed to silence them.

“You can’t be serious.” Seton was the first one brash enough to say what the others were thinking.

The look Tor shot him said otherwise. “It was the final challenge for Finn MacCool’s Fianna.”

“But that’s only a legend,” MacGregor said. “No man could defend himself against so many spears while buried up to his waist naked with only a targe to defend himself.”

Tor smiled. “You’ve nothing to worry about, I’m modifying the test from Finn’s. You can wear your war coat and helm, and not all the spears will be thrown at once.”

He heard a few snorts. His modification didn’t seem to have impressed them.

“It can be done,” Campbell interjected. “An accomplished warrior can easily catch ten or more spears. It’s more about controlling your fear.”

“Easy for you to say,” MacGregor said. “You’ve grown up having spears lobbed at your head. We’ve all seen what you can do with them.”

Campbell met Tor’s gaze and he nodded his approval. “I’ll show you,” he offered.

The men spent the next few hours practicing, Campbell throwing the sticks—which they were grateful for after a few well-placed misses—and then, as the men got the hang of it, he progressed to a spear wrapped with a piece of leather over the sharp steel tip. Finally, each man faced the real thing. Other than Seton taking a hard blow on the shoulder, they all managed to catch a succession of at least ten spears—some of the men quite a few more. Campbell was right: Once you controlled your fear, there wasn’t much to it. And to a man, they were fearless.

Tor dug the hole while the men practiced. Given the challenge he’d given them, he figured it was the least he could do. Waist deep and about two feet in diameter, the hole was tight, but big enough for them to turn around in—barely.

MacSorley climbed in first as the others gathered in a circle around him, about twenty paces out. He’d removed all the weapons he wore strapped to his massive chest but still had his cotun, helm, and targe.

Tor raised his hand to signal the start. “Any blood and you fail the challenge.”

MacSorley nodded. “I understand.”

“Ready?”

“Aye.”

Tor motioned to Lamont, the man on his right, and the spears began to fly around the circle. One by one, waiting a few seconds in between, the men heaved them at the live target in the middle. MacSorley quickly found his rhythm, alternating by catching and using his shield to block. Tor threw last, his spear coming closest, but it was deflected at the last minute by MacSorley’s targe. Like his birlinn, there was a fearsome-looking sea hawk painted on the face of the leather-wrapped wood.

When it was over, MacSorley had nine spears lying around him and one still stuck in his targe. But he’d done it. And once the other men saw how it could be done, they quickly followed his lead.

The last man to enter the hole was Campbell. The tension had dissipated with each successful challenger, and as Campbell readied to take his turn, there was even quite a bit of jesting going back and forth.

Tor met his gaze. “Ready?”

Campbell nodded grimly. Tor gave the signal and the spears began to fly. Because this was the last man, the other warriors had gotten used to it and the timing between tosses had fallen into a nice pattern.

A pattern he broke.

When MacGregor, who was standing on his left, released his spear, Tor let his fly at the same time.