The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(66)

The team was only as strong as its weakest link. And this exercise, along with many of the others he’d subjected them to the past few weeks, was intended to demonstrate the importance of working together, along with the need to be prepared in whatever environment they encountered—both physically and mentally. To defeat a much larger and better-equipped army they needed to be quicker, smarter, stronger, and able to move around in the most unwelcoming terrain with ease, including water.

“Call out,” he ordered. It was too dark and choppy to see all the men, so he had to rely on periodic checks to make sure everyone was accounted for.

He’d paired them off that first day and instructed them to never stray far from their partner—in the water, that meant no farther apart than arm’s length. They wouldn’t always work together in teams—big or small—but he needed to prepare them to do so.

“Team one, ready, captain.”

MacSorley and MacRuairi. The seafarer and the pirate. The cousins and descendants of the mighty Somerled were both excellent swimmers, but MacRuairi’s special skill lay in extraction. He was said to be able to get in and out of anywhere. A useful skill not only in retrieving men, but also in cutting throats.

An assassin—now that Tor could see.

He’d paired the good-humored MacSorley with his dour, black-hearted cousin to keep an eye on him. The fact that MacSorley’s constant needling annoyed MacRuairi was incidental, but not an unrewarding benefit. Used to working alone, MacRuairi chaffed at the partnership—another benefit.

“Team two, ready.”

Campbell and MacGregor. The scout and the archer. Campbell was also highly skilled with the throwing spear, and the two men had taken to increasingly ridiculous challenges of marksmanship as the days progressed.

After a week chained side by side, the antagonism had only grown between the two enemies, but they’d learned to work together and get the job done. It was enough for now.

Their pairing had been more appropriate than he realized. Both men avoided group conversation. MacGregor was a loner and Campbell an observer, content to stay on the periphery—not that their similar temperaments had eased their antagonism any.

“Team three, ready, captain.”

MacKay and Gordon. Another apt pairing. The braw, rugged mountain man and the lean alchemist couldn’t appear more outwardly different, but it turned out that MacKay was also something of an inventor and experimenter. Unlike the strange black powder that Gordon used to create thunder and flying fire, MacKay experimented with weapons, forging terrifying instruments with gruesome but descriptive names like the “eye plucker” or the “skull crusher.”

“Team four, ready, captain.”

Lamont and MacLean. The hunter and the attacker. Lamont was known as the hunter of men—able to track any trail, no matter how faint. MacLean wielded a formidable battle-axe and was said to have led a series of bold raids against the English in Carrick.

The Lamonts had also been engaged in a long-running feud with the Boyds. Had Tor known of it before, he might have made a different pairing.

“Team five, ready, captain.”

Boyd and Seton. The strongest and the weakest. The Englishman was the weakest link in the chain, and it infuriated him to no end. It wasn’t a judgment of whether he deserved to be there, but simply a reflection of his youth and inexperience. Actually, Seton had rather downplayed his skill with a blade; he threw a dirk with extraordinary accuracy. But it wasn’t Tor’s job to tell him that he deserved to be here; Seton had to figure that out for himself.

Tor attempted to frown, but his face was frozen stiff. If the training didn’t kill Seton, Boyd just might. Despite the obvious difference in strength between the two, Seton refused to back down. Whenever Boyd taunted him, Seton let it get to him. It was eating away at him, and Tor was just waiting for him to snap. His haughty English pride just might be the death of him.

Tor might have erred in this pairing, underestimating Boyd’s hatred of the English. The feuding clansmen—Boyd and Lamont—might have been a better choice. Discord was not difficult to find in this group.

Another wave dragged him under. Enough. Time to head back. He gave the order and sensed the relief, but the men were too drained and cold to cheer.

He was proud of them. He usually saved this test for later in training, but the storm had proved too tempting.

This time the waves and current were with them, and they swam in to shore with considerably more ease than when they’d swum out.

By time the men dragged themselves out of the water, Tor was ready to collapse naked on the rocky shore. Bending over to catch his breath, he noticed that a handful of the men were doing just that.

“Good work,” he said when he had caught his breath, giving his rare praise.

The wind and sleet had let up just enough for him to be able to make out the forms in the dark. The hairs on the back of his neck rose on end—and not from the cold. The nine forms. He’d done the tally without thought—it was something he did instinctively. He needed to know that all of his men were accounted for.

He swore. His gaze shot to Boyd. “Where is Seton?”

Boyd startled, looking around. “He was right behind me—”

Tor didn’t wait another instant. He jumped back in the water, rage giving him a fresh burst of strength.

He was going to kill Boyd with his own hands, strongest man or not. Tor hated losing a man for any reason. But not looking out for your partner was inexcusable. He had no intention of explaining to Bruce how he’d managed to allow his young brother-in-law to drown.