The Chief (Highland Guard #1)(97)

No mercy. With an angry growl, he pushed the man back, lifted his sword over his head, and brought it down full force on his enemy’s head, splitting his skull like a gourd.

He felt nothing. Only cold purpose.

Hacking, swinging, and thrusting, Tor forged a path of blood and destruction through the startled attackers with his sword. Like the thunderbolt the sword was named for, bheithir struck down all in its path. Battle lust roared through his veins. His senses flared—heightened—as the strange euphoria washed over him. His mind cleared of everything but the only truth that mattered in war: Kill or be killed.

Death surrounded him. But in the face of mortality, he’d never felt more alive. With every stroke he felt stronger. Harder. More invincible.

And he wasn’t alone.

Together they were a terrifying sight. Eleven of the greatest warriors let loose in one violent charge. They were wild and fearsome, yet even more awe-inspiring working in tandem. It was a deadly medley of expertly wielded swords, battleaxes, hammers, and spears.

The enemy had never seen anything like it.

Instead of helpless villagers, they’d run headlong into a phantom army of seemingly indestructible warriors. It was clear this wasn’t what the mercenaries had expected or signed up for. Not a quarter of an hour passed before they were in retreat. As Tor’s guardsmen had done, the attackers formed a shield wall at the head of the path, enabling them to fall back to the harbor and ready their galleys.

Tor and the team fought through, but the warships were already pulling away.

“Go after them,” he shouted to MacSorley and MacRuairi. The two Norse-blooded kinsmen didn’t hesitate, jumping into a small birlinn that was used as a ferry from the castle, and with a handful of men, giving chase to the departing galleys.

A few attackers had been unable to reach the ships in time. Wanting to question them, Tor attempted to take them alive. It was a mistake.

MacGregor had put down his bow and was seeing to one of Tor’s wounded guardsmen when one of the remaining attackers unfurled a spear.

Tor cut him down and shouted a warning, but MacGregor turned too late. The spear sliced through the air on a deadly path right for his head.

If Tor hadn’t seen what happened next he wouldn’t have believed it.

Campbell reached out and snagged the spear with his hand, catching it only inches from MacGregor’s face. In one smooth movement he brought it down hard on his knee, snapping the thick wood in two and tossing it at his partner’s feet.

A hush descended over the battlefield.

It took MacGregor, who’d been looking death in the eye, a moment to recover. “Hell, Campbell, where did you learn how to do that?”

The quiet Highland ranger shrugged. “It was a game my brothers and I used to play.”

“Bloodthirsty family you have there,” MacGregor said wryly.

Not missing the hidden jab, Campbell smiled, giving his feuding-clansman-turned-partner a provoking look. “Never say a Campbell didn’t lift a hand to save a MacGregor.”

Instead of snapping back as he usually did, MacGregor threw his head back and laughed.

Now Tor knew he’d seen it all. Unless he was mistaken, Campbell and MacGregor had started to see beyond the feud. The camaraderie among the team was growing—even he was not immune. Perhaps there was hope for Boyd and Seton yet?

He wouldn’t hold his breath.

Shaking his head, Tor turned back to finish securing the prisoners, only to realize it was too late: All the attackers had been slain. He cursed, knowing that discovering who was behind the raid from one of the regular mercenaries would have been a long shot anyway. Perhaps if MacSorley and MacRuairi caught up with the boats, he would learn more.

There were only a few men who could raise this large a force of mercenaries, but one came to mind: MacDougall.

Could the news of his marriage have done this? This attack wasn’t like the others. These men had come to destroy and slaughter.

His blood chilled when he looked down at the dead body of a woman and her child. The lad was no older than three. The mother had obviously tried to protect him with her body, but the sword had sliced through both of them. Anger, regret, and bitterness soured in his mouth.

This was exactly what he’d wanted to avoid.

He turned away from the bodies, but the image would be burned in his mind.

Cognizant of the danger, he ordered the team back to the broch before too many people saw them. Their work was done here.

He owed them much, knowing he would never have been able to do it without them. It was an odd position for him—relying on others. Fighting with them had been a unique experience. He’d trained plenty of men before, but none like these. These men were his equals, with skills that surpassed his own. As the leader, he was used to being apart. The irony of his job was that he was to foster camaraderie but could never be just one of the team. But today had been different.

Slowly, the village came back to life. Doors opened and shaken clansmen emerged from their homes. He was surprised to see Colyne and a handful of guardsmen coming toward him from the chapel.

“What are you doing here? Why weren’t you fighting with the others?”

“Thank God you came when you did, ri tuath.”

“Why—”

But Tor’s question strangled in his throat when he glanced past the guardsmen at the person emerging from the chapel door.