The Saint (Highland Guard #5)(95)

But when another of his men—this one a knight—fell, Magnus knew this might not be so easy.

“What in Hades?” MacGregor said, not wasting time to look in his direction but jumping right into the battle.

The words echoed Magnus’s thoughts exactly. Even before his sword locked on his first opponents, he knew there was something different about these warriors—brigands—whoever they were.

The men were dressed all in black. Although they wore shirts of mail and not cotuns as the Highland Guard did, the mail was blackened, as were the helms that completely hid their faces. Like the Highland Guard, they employed a variety of weapons, from swords to battle-axes, war hammers, and pikes. Magnus would like to say that was where the similarities ended, but he couldn’t. He could tell from the first swing of his opponent’s sword that he was no common swordsman. The man knew how to fight. Well.

Locked in a surprisingly difficult contest, the din of battle all around, it took Magnus a moment to realize that the noise wasn’t just coming from around him. It was also coming from the west below, where the rest of the party was waiting.

The king. Helen. Bloody hell, they were under attack! He needed to get to them. But the attackers were positioned to block his path.

Perfectly positioned. Almost as if they’d known exactly where they would be.

His blood spiked, heat surging through his veins in a sharp rush. He forced his opponent back with crushing blows of the hammer. Using a curved spike that he’d forged on the other end, he hooked the edge of the opponent’s targe, ripping it from his hand. Without the shield to protect the man, Magnus took the advantage. He waited for the defensive swing of the sword, twisted out of the way, and brought down his hammer with full force on his skull. The man staggered and then fell. Though the blow would probably kill him, Magnus plunged a blade through the mail coif under his helm just to make sure.

One down, four to go. MacGregor, Fraser, and De la Hay were holding their own, but the remaining man-at-arms—one of Fraser’s men—was clearly overmatched. Magnus was surprised he’d lasted this long.

Magnus went to his aid, but before he could reach Fraser’s man, the attacker’s blade cleared the man’s head from his shoulders. Magnus swung the hammer at the attacker’s head a moment after, but he blocked it with his sword, pushing him back.

Damn, the man was nearly as big as Robbie Boyd and from what he could see, wielded a two-handed great sword with enough skill to give MacLeod a contest. Magnus couldn’t find an opening. It was all he could do to keep the long blade from lopping off his own head.

It wasn’t often Magnus found himself at a disadvantage, but the shorter length of his hammer was proving a detriment against the long blade. He couldn’t get close enough to do damage.

Where had this man come from?

In between blows, he could see out of the corner of his eye as MacGregor finally dispatched his man and went to the aid of Fraser, who seemed to be having difficulty. Magnus heaved a sigh of relief, not wanting to explain to MacLeod how they’d managed to get his young brother-in-law killed on a nice, “peaceful” journey across the Highlands.

Magnus preferred to fight with the hammer, but right now he needed the sword at his back. When the third of the attackers fell under Fraser’s blade and Magnus’s opponent glanced toward him, Magnus had his chance. He pulled the blade from the scabbard at his back, but before he could bring it down toward his opponent’s head, the man let out a sharp whistle. The next instant he and his remaining companion were fleeing back into the darkness of the forest.

Fraser started to go after them, but Magnus stopped him. “Let them go—we have to get to the king.” They’d been delayed too long already.

“Don’t you hear it, lad?” De la Hay said to Fraser. “The king and the others are under attack.”

It was less than a half-mile to where they’d left the royal party, but the two minutes it took them to get there felt like forever.

“How the hell did they know?” MacGregor asked, racing through the forest beside him.

Magnus gave him a quick glance, wondering the same thing. “Either they’re damned lucky or—”

“Or we’ve been betrayed,” MacGregor finished.

Aye, but by whom?

Magnus didn’t have time to think about it. His only concern was reaching the king and Helen before …

He didn’t let himself finish. But ice was shooting through his veins.

The scene that met them was one of utter pandemonium. Carts were overturned. Men were scattered, some hidden, a few locked in battle, at least a dozen littered across the grassy floor.

He scanned the darkness, not seeing either Helen or the king right away. He hoped to hell they’d both had the good sense to get back. But he knew the king. Robert the Bruce would be leading the charge.

So where is he?

Magnus helped one of his men fight off an attacker before he finally caught sight of Sutherland. “Where are they?” he shouted, not needing to specify who.

Sutherland didn’t get a chance to reply. One of the attackers came out of his blind side with a battle-axe. Sutherland barely had the chance to block it with his targe, and the blow caused him to let down his guard. The attacker lifted the axe high above his head.

Magnus didn’t hesitate. He pulled his dirk from his waist and threw it with all his strength at the man’s upraised arm. It landed with a dull thud, penetrating the mail and causing the attacker to drop his hand and howl in pain. The brigand let out an oath in Gaelic—Irish Gaelic. Sutherland took full advantage and stuck his sword deep into the man’s padded but unmailed leg.