For a long while, Niall watched the tower, studying the movements of the men outside, gauging where the guards were and where Anne was likely being held. The room at the top of the winding stone staircase was the most probable spot, the only means of escape back down those stairs. Even if he managed to reach her, they could well end up trapped in that tower room if the men outside were alerted.
Whoever had brought Anne here had planned well against any rescue. The realization filled Niall with rage. As far as he knew, only two other kinsmen besides himself knew of this old tower. Hugh, Iain, and he had spent many a summer’s day here, repairing the crumbling structure. It had been a labor of love for three idealistic lads steeped in tales of the glorious deeds of brave Campbell ancestors.
But idealistic no more, Niall thought with a bitter pang. Time and cruel experience had soured those high aspirations. Soured them all, for each in his own way.
Hugh had gone mad with his unrequited ambitions and the searing betrayal and loss of his beloved Dora. Iain, at the very least, coveted Anne. And he . . . he had become so weighted with cares and responsibilities, and eaten by suspicions, that he dared trust no one.
Niall’s mouth twisted at the grim irony. Two men dreamed of power and would likely stoop to anything to get it. And the other, who possessed that power, was slowly being destroyed in the battle to protect it.
Tonight, however, one of them would seal his fate. Niall would soon have his proof. Whoever’s followers these were, one of them could surely be persuaded to reveal the traitor, either by money or torture. All he had to do was wait. His own men would soon arrive, and then the renegades would be easily overcome.
Niall crept forward to gain a better view. At the back of the building, covered by thickly overgrown ivy, was another door. He prayed its entrance, hidden from sight in a darkly shadowed corner beneath the stairs, had yet to be discovered.
It could serve him well when the time came. If orders had been given to kill Anne in the event of an attack, Niall could quickly gain access and fight off any guards stationed inside. Her abductor hadn’t thought of everything, he wagered.
He settled behind the bracken and low shrubs growing close to the far side of the tower. By his calculations, his men were still an hour’s ride away. He shifted to adjust his huge claymore more comfortably against his back and eased down to rest on his elbows.
Niall gazed up at the blackened sky for a time, a sky scattered with twinkling bits of light. How close the stars seemed here in the mountains. One could almost reach out and touch them.
Once more the remorse surged through him. He and his two cousins had lain outside just like this so many summer nights ago, watching the star-studded sky, speaking of their dreams, of kinship and honor. They had been so close then, vowing to stand beside each other in battle and life, swearing to eternal loyalty. What had happened?
A cry from high in the tower drifted to Niall’s ears. He heard the men outside chuckle then settle back around the fire to talk in low, amused voices. Niall rose to a crouched position behind the shrubs.
It was Anne’s voice, and the sound had been one of fear. He dared not wait a moment longer. Even if he’d have to take on the outlaws without his men, he had to go to her. Anne was in danger.
With swift, stealthy strides, Niall made his way to the ivy-covered doorway. He slashed away the obstructing leaves with his dirk, then grasped the door latch. At first it wouldn’t move, age and rust binding it stiffly, but Niall’s determined strength finally worked the corroded metal free. He shoved open the door.
The metal hinges creaked in the stone-muffled interior. Niall froze. Footsteps moved toward him. He slipped in, his dirk clenched in his fist.
The man’s hand swung to his sword when he saw the open door, but Niall was upon him before he had a chance to shout an alarm. Two quick thrusts of his dirk, and Niall had disposed of the guard. He dragged the body into the shadowed corner and cautiously crept into the main room.
The guard seemed to be the only one on watch in the tower. Niall slipped up the narrow, winding staircase. From overhead came the sounds of a struggle, another muted feminine cry. His blood stirred hotly. Someone was harming his woman. That person would die.
He reached the door and pulled down upon the latch. It was locked from the inside. He tried the door with his shoulder, slamming into it with increasingly harder blows. The thick oak stood firm. Frustrated rage exploded within him.
Niall pounded on the unyielding wood. “Anne, open the door!” he cried in a low voice. “It’s Niall, lass. Open the door. Let me in!”
He heard the sound of a slap and another strangled cry. Niall went mad. He threw himself against the door again and again, heedless of the men now pouring into the tower below.
Hugh’s hands roamed over Anne, tugging at her clothes, while the weight of his body pressed down, pinning her to the bed. In rising panic, she struggled against him, flinging her head from side to side to evade his hard, wet mouth. A large hand captured her face, squeezing it viciously.
Anne fought down the surge of renewed nausea, willing her mind to remain clear. Bide yer time, Annie girl, she inwardly cried out against her rising fear and disgust. Yer chance will come.
From somewhere, she heard a strange thudding sound. She wrenched her attention from Hugh and found the source of the new noise. It was coming from the door. Someone was pounding on it!
She heard a voice, calling her name. Niall’s voice! Anne grabbed for the key, tugging it free. Hugh yelped in outrage and reared back. With one hand he grasped Anne’s wrist, capturing the hand that held the key. With his other, he slapped her hard across the face.
Anne gave a strangled cry. From somewhere deep within her, an instinctual feminine reflex responded. Her knee jerked up. Hugh screamed in agony and fell away.
She leaped from the bed and ran across the room, the key clenched in her fist. Fingers jerky with desperation, Anne unlocked the door and began to pull it open. A hand tangled in her hair then wrenched her backward. She lost her balance, stumbled, and fell.
Niall burst into the room. He paused to take in Anne and Hugh, then slammed the door shut and locked it. He shoved the key beneath his belt.
Hugh released Anne and backed away. Niall advanced, pulling Anne to her feet. He noted her tousled hair and the reddened imprint of Hugh’s hand on her cheek. “Has he harmed ye in any other way?” he demanded softly, touching the swollen side of her face.
“Nay,” she whispered.
Niall turned to Hugh. Behind them, shouts rose and pounding on the door began. Niall smiled grimly. “Ye’ll die before they get to ye,” he snarled at his cousin. “I won’t spare yer life a second time.”
“Or I yers!”
With panther quickness Hugh sprang, grabbing for the dirk Niall held in his hand. The two men grappled wildly. Hugh’s foot went out to entwine about Niall’s lower leg. The movement was so swift, so unexpected, that it toppled Niall.
Both men fell heavily to the floor. Niall’s head struck hard. For an instant he saw stars. It was enough opportunity for Hugh. He twisted the dirk in Niall’s grasp until it was pointing toward Niall’s chest. Then, with all his considerable strength, he threw himself down upon Niall.
Anne screamed a warning. With all the power in his hard-muscled body, Niall managed to twist the dirk upward. Hugh fell, impaled on the blade.
For a stunned moment Niall lay there, then gently shoved his cousin off him. He sat up, cradling Hugh in his arms. Anne came to kneel beside him.
The dirk protruded from the middle of Hugh’s chest. Even as they watched, the injured man turned ashen. Blood bubbled from his lips. Niall held him close, forgetting all past animosity, remembering only the boyhood friend. In the background, the hammering on the door worsened, as if it were now being battered by some kind of log.
“Why, Hugh?” Niall groaned. “Why did ye do this?”
“W-why?” Hugh whispered, his eyes already beginning to glaze.
“Because I should have been chief, not ye. But no m-matter. Ye’ve won naught. The devil himself . . . is yet to be dealt wi—”
With a gurgle, Hugh’s voice faded. His eyes rolled back in his head.
A large log shattered the door, splintering its way halfway through the wood. Anne glanced from it to Niall. He seemed oblivious to the danger.
“Niall!” She shook him by the shoulder. “Hugh’s dead. Let him go. His men are almost upon us!”
He lifted tormented eyes. “What?” His gaze moved to the rapidly disintegrating door. With a savage curse, Niall bolted to his feet and reached for his claymore. He grabbed Anne, shoving her toward the nearest corner.
“I’ll try to fight them back out of the room and down the stairs!” he shouted above the rising din. “Stay close behind me. If there’s a chance for ye to get out of the tower, run and don’t look back. My men are on their way.”
“I won’t leave ye!”
“Ye will!” He moved into a fighting stance, his two hands gripped about his sword. “I command it!”
Though Anne’s lips tightened in a mutinous line, she knew it wasn’t the time to argue. What Niall needed from her now was help, not hindrance. With a sickening crash, the door gave way.
The outlaws spilled into the room. They formed a half circle before Niall, two men deep. Slowly, they moved forward. Niall was forced to back into the corner to keep any from slipping behind him.
“Surrender while ye can,” he growled. “Even now, my men draw near.”
“Surrender?” a large, burly man at the forefront echoed. “To what? We’ve naught to lose but our lives. Ye took all else away when ye named us outlaws. And I, for one, want a taste of yer blood before I die!”
He sprang at Niall with a fierce cry, and the others surged forward behind him. Niall met them with the solid length of his claymore, cutting down the burly leader in a few quick strokes. The rest fell back to a more respectful distance, eyeing Niall’s sword.
He took advantage of their hesitation. He advanced. Slowly, doggedly, he battled his way across the room, forcing the pack of men out the door and down the stairs. Anne followed.
For a considerable time Niall fought with effortless strength. Eventually, though, the weight and length of his giant sword, as well as the cramped confines of the staircase that hampered its full effectiveness, began to wear him down. His movements slowed. His reactions became sluggish. More and more frequently, the outlaws were able to leave their mark upon him.
Though he only fought one or two men at a time, as he backed them all down the steep, narrow stairway, Niall began to bleed from several minor wounds. His chest heaved with the strain of his exertions. The sweat rolled down his face and soaked the shirt to his back.
Hiding behind him, Anne sought desperately for some way to help. He couldn’t go on much longer before someone caught him in a false move and delivered a disabling if not fatal blow. She needed a weapon.
Gingerly, Anne climbed over the next man Niall cut down, then bent to pry his fingers from his sword. It was a short sword, similar to the ones with which she had been trained. Feeling more useful now, Anne followed Niall down the stairs.
Time lost its meaning as Niall hacked his way to the first floor. His arms felt like lead weights. Every blow he parried now vibrated excruciatingly up his arms. He knew he couldn’t fight much longer. Though three men lay dead or dying behind him, four more fought or waited to fight him still.
The tower’s doorway loomed like some gateway to heaven. Still, he knew he dared not leave the confines of the tower. To do so would allow his attackers opportunity to come at him from all sides. If he could just hold them at the doorway . . .
A movement at the door caught his eye. In an instant slowed in time, Niall saw a crossbow lifted to a shoulder—and aimed directly at his heart. With a hoarse cry, Niall lunged aside, shoving Anne along with him. The quarrel flew by, missing him by a hairsbreadth.
The outlaw nearest Niall took advantage of his opponent’s lowered guard. He sprang forward, his blade slashing into Niall’s sword arm. Niall tried to recover, to raise his claymore to parry the second thrust, but his badly wounded arm was unequal to the task. His attacker’s sword drove home, this time into Niall’s thigh.
He sank to his knees, his weapon clattering to the floor. The man stepped forward. His sword lifted to deliver the killing blow.
“Cruachan!” Anne screamed and leaped in front of Niall. With all her strength, she thrust her sword into the outlaw’s belly.
He halted, his arm frozen in its arcing descent. The man looked down stupidly. Then, with a choking cry, he fell.
From down the hill, an answering Campbell battle cry rose from the darkness. The remaining men hesitated, then turned and fled. The pounding of hoofbeats grew louder. Shouts, mingled with screams, filled the air.
Anne ran to the doorway. A familiar face rode by. She sagged in relief. It was over.
Turning, she went back to where Niall lay bleeding on the floor.
It took several hours before Niall was strong enough to travel after the cauterization of his deep arm and thigh wounds. He still insisted, however, on returning to Kilchurn on his own horse, Anne clasped securely before him.
“Why did ye leave?” he whispered into the fragrant tumble of her hair after a time of silent riding down the road. “Do ye know what it did to me, to have ye desert me in my greatest hour of need?”
Anne glanced back at him, her cheek grazing his lips. “I left to save ye from further danger, danger that was mounting against ye because of me. I couldn’t stand by and watch ye fall, knowing I was the cause.” She choked back a little sob. “And, even after the events of this night, how has aught changed? Now Hugh’s death will be added to yer wrongs, for once again I was at fault.”
“Nay,” Niall replied gruffly. “Hugh was but a pawn manipulated, I’d wager, by the traitor. Ye heard him say I still had the devil himself to deal with. The traitor must have used Hugh to further his foul means, just as he did Nelly. But no more. We took several of the outlaws prisoner. I’ll get the truth from them now.” He chuckled grimly. “And I’ve Iain just where I want him as well.
When I discovered he was involved in helping ye leave, I threw him in the dungeon.”
“But it wasn’t Iain’s fault,” Anne said. “I went to him, begged him to help me. He never had any intent of abducting—”
“Who else but Iain knew of yer leaving Kilchurn? And who else wanted ye for himself?”
“Nay, ye’re wrong,” she countered stubbornly. “Think about it, Niall. If it was truly Iain’s plot to steal me away for himself, he’d have never involved Hugh. Iain knew of Hugh’s hatred for me. Yet he stayed behind at Kilchurn. Nay, Iain wouldn’t have taken me this way.”
“Yer words have merit.” Niall sighed. “But if so, who was behind the scenes, playing Hugh in such a blackhearted way? The traitor—”
Anne twisted in his arms to glare back at him. “Ye’re wrong, Niall Campbell, if ye still think it’s Iain!”
A wry grin twisted his lips. “Ever the loyal friend, eh, Annie? Well, we’ll find out soon enough now. Until then, I must consider all possibilities. Even Iain.”
“And I say I’m no fool! I can look into a man’s heart and see what’s truly there. How else would I have put up with a pigheaded dolt like ye for so long?”
His big chest rumbled with a chuckle. “A pigheaded dolt, am I? So, we’re back to that again? Fine gratitude, indeed, for saving yer life.”
Anne smiled and slipped her arm about Niall’s waist. “Aye, m’lord. It’s why I love ye, I suppose.”
“And I love ye, lass.” His expression grew solemn. “When this is over and settled, I want to take ye as wife. Will ye have me as husband?”
She stared up at him, not quite believing her ears. “Ye wish to wed me?”
“Aye.”
Anne laid her head back upon his chest, snuggling against him. “I’d like that, verra much indeed.” She gave a small, pensive sigh. “If only the traitor would let that be . . .”
The darkness hid the tense, anxious look that passed across Niall’s rugged features. “Aye, my love. But that fight, I fear, has yet to be won.”
“So, he persists in flaunting the MacGregor wench before us,” Duncan growled. “No matter. With this last, foolish effort, the Campbell has sealed his fate.”
“Aye, that he has,” Malcolm snarled beside him. “And this time he won’t win.”
Iain glanced at the two men, then back down from the castle parapets to the party of riders drawing up before the closed gates. It was dawn, and the first faint rays of light were just filtering over the distant horizon.
He had been free of the dungeon, thanks to his father, from the moment a force of Niall’s men had ridden out to reinforce their leader in his rescue of Anne. And, in those hours since, the Campbell tanist and his half brother had worked to convince him that Niall Campbell was no longer fit to rule the clan.
It had been a relatively simple task. Iain’s anger and disgust at Niall’s judgments of late, most particularly when they dealt with Anne, had finally come to a head when his cousin had confronted him in his bedchamber. He didn’t understand the man anymore, much less respect him. And Iain could never follow someone he didn’t respect.
“He isn’t fit to lead our clan,” his father said. “Surely ye can see it now? His power has gone to his head. He’s crazed with it. Why else would he turn first against Hugh, then ye, accusing ye both of treason? It’s a surprise he even named me tanist, as close in the family as I am to him. I can only surmise he chose me because I’m old and no threat to him, as ye and Hugh’s youth are.”
“Hugh’s mad, Father,” Iain replied. “I can well understand why Niall banished him. He tried to kill Anne.”
As he should’ve banished ye and Malcolm, too, Iain silently added. For that, more than anything else, I fault Niall. For not avenging the insult to Anne for yer attempt to burn her at the stake. For his willingness to subject her yet again to repeated danger. Once more, though, I see that I must take matters into my own hands. As I will, just as soon as Niall’s removed from power.
“Aye, mayhap ye’re right about Hugh, but I still don’t understand why he turned against ye,” his father intruded just then into Iain’s thoughts. “Niall’s mad, I tell ye. As mad as Hugh, in his own way. For the clan’s sake, if naught else, we must unseat him before he drags us all down to destruction.”
Iain grimly nodded his assent. There was far too much awry of late, but whether it stemmed solely from Niall’s strange behavior, or additionally from another source, wasn’t the issue just now.
Still, as he watched Niall’s party halt before Kilchurn’s gate, a niggling question again eased to the forefront of his mind. How had the outlaws known of Anne’s departure and eventual destination, to be waiting for them on the road? He had told no one.
“Ho, guard!” Niall reined in his stallion just shy of the drawbridge. “Open the gates!”
Duncan leaned forward between the crenellated wall. “Nay, nephew, that cannot be! Or leastwise not until ye renounce yer right to the chieftainship. Ye’re no longer fit to be the Campbell!”
Niall’s grip tightened around Anne. “Curse him,” he muttered. “What’s Duncan’s game?”
Anne’s glance swung to where the three men waited. “I don’t know, but Malcolm and Iain stand with him. Surely Iain isn’t party to this.”
“Ye think not? Mayhap there has been more than one traitor all along—and they’re my uncle and two remaining cousins.”
“Och, Niall! What will ye do?”
“I’ve no choice. I cannot reenter my own castle now unless they send out a champion to fight me.”
She gripped his arm. “Nay, ye can’t! Ye’re injured. Ye’ve ridden all night without sleep. The man would kill ye!”
He shot her a roguish grin. “Have ye so little faith in my warrior’s abilities? Did I not, with only a wee bit of aid from ye, hold off seven men until help arrived? The stakes are different now, but just as high. I can do it again. I have to.”
Niall turned back to the parapets. “I claim right to do battle for the chieftainship!” he shouted in clear, ringing tones. “Send out yer champion!”
Iain exchanged a glance with his father. “Ye misjudged Niall, if ye thought he’d give up easily.”
Duncan shrugged. “Did I? By the looks of him, he’s tired and sorely wounded. Killing him won’t be such a difficult task for a man such as ye. Go down, Iain. In the condition he’s in, ye’re his match and more. Once Niall’s dead, I’ll name ye my tanist. And ye can have his woman in the bargain.”
His son’s gaze narrowed. “I thought ye hated Anne and believed her a witch. Why would ye now offer her to me?”
“Aye, brother,” Malcolm heatedly interjected. “That wasn’t part of the—”
“She’s no more a witch than ye or I,” Duncan replied, raising a hand to silence the preacher, “but I dared not disobey the law. However, since the royal envoy already confided to me there was no case against the lady, I’ve little problem now with giving her to Iain.”
He turned to his son. “Ye do want her, don’t ye, lad?”
Iain stared down from the parapets, his eyes seeking out Anne possessively clasped in Niall’s arms. “Aye, I want her,” he admitted softly. “But she loves Niall and would never have me the way I want her. Nay,” Iain finished, his deep voice raw with emotion, “I’ll fight
Niall for her safety and for the clan. But not to have Anne. If I kill him, she’ll never be friend to me again.”
“It’s for the best, at any rate.” Duncan gripped his son’s arm. “Have a care how ye fight Niall. Work to tire him and wait for yer opening. Give no quarter for he’ll give none, not for a cause such as this. One mistake and, wounded as he is, he could well kill ye.”
Iain jerked away. “Ye needn’t lecture me on battle techniques. I’m well aware of Niall’s prowess with the claymore. I know the fight could go either way.”
“Go then,” his father said, “and don’t fail me.”
As Iain strode away, he heard his father bellow down to Niall that his champion would soon meet him. His long strides carried him to his bedchamber, where he quickly girded himself with his own claymore, while keeping a firm rein on his emotions. There was no time left for doubts. No time to ponder the turn of events that had led to this moment—a battle to the death with his cousin and boyhood friend. Yet as strong a hold as Iain kept on his feelings, he couldn’t help but wonder if something outside them all hadn’t driven them to this sad course of events.
It was an uneasy, sickening feeling, but it crept back to haunt him again and again as he strode through the castle to the outer gate. He, Hugh, Niall, and Anne. All driven, all manipulated, but why? And by whom?
Kilchurn’s gates swung open. Iain walked through, claymore in hand. At the sight of him, Niall cursed softly. Anne gave a small cry.
She grabbed his arm. “Nay, Niall. Not Iain. I beg ye. Don’t fight Iain!”
He swung to face her, his eyes blazing pits of fire. “By mountain and sea, woman! I didn’t choose to fight him. He decided that!
Accept it, once and for all. He’s the traitor. And accept the fact ye must finally choose between us!”
Niall advanced toward Iain. “Ye’ve dreamt of this day, this verra moment, for a long while now.” He raised his sword before him. “Come, cousin. Let us do battle, and I’ll show ye the fate of traitors!”
Iain glared back at him. “I’m not a traitor! Yer own arrogance has brought ye to this day!”
“Then let my arrogance win it for me!” Niall declared, swinging his sword.
His opponent moved quickly to parry the blow. The metallic clang of weapons meeting, the grunts of two men straining with all their might to overcome the other, filled the air. Back and forth they thrust and hacked as the minutes ticked by with lumbering slowness.
Sweat beaded Niall’s brow. His recent wounds tore open to brightly stain his bandages, and he soon began to tire. Iain worked him around the battle area, quickly settling into a defensive posture in an effort to conserve his own strength while draining Niall of his.
Niall’s hard-driving offense required more power and effort, but Anne knew it was the only tactic he dared use. He must overcome Iain before his strength was exhausted, ebbing away as inexorably as the blood now streaming from his wounds. It was a dangerous ploy, yet the only one he dared use.
The gamble paid off. Iain, once more inching back from a particularly vicious onslaught, stumbled over a rock jutting from the ground at an odd angle. He lost his balance. Niall took quick advantage and slammed into him.
Iain fell, his weapon still clenched in his hand. As he hit the ground, Niall lifted his sword to deliver the fatal blow. “Die, ye craven coward! Die the traitor’s death ye’ve earned!”
“Nay!” Anne screamed, and flung herself onto Niall’s sword arm. “Don’t do this. I beg ye!”
Disbelief twisted his features. “Ye’d beg for his life, knowing he meant to kill me? Get out of my way, Anne! I won’t have ye shame me by begging for him before all.”
“And would ye rather live with the shame of knowing ye killed an innocent man?”
“What would ye have me do? Allow him to fight me again? Who would ye rather sacrifice? Iain or me?”
“He isn’t a traitor!”
Something hardened in Niall. “And if ye’re wrong, I could well die. Do ye wish to take that chance? Choose, and choose now, Anne.”
“I don’t want either of ye to die!” she cried. “I love ye, Niall. Ye’re everything to me. But I can’t condemn an innocent man to death because of that love. I can’t; I won’t choose.”
He stared at her, his eyes gone suddenly bleak. “Then I’ll choose for ye.” Niall sighed, the sound weary and defeated. “I only hope ye can live with that decision.”
He stepped back, motioning for Iain to rise. “Come, cousin.” He lowered his sword to his side. “Anne claims ye’re no traitor. Prove the truth of it to her—and me.”
The younger man climbed to his feet, his blue eyes narrowed in suspicion. He lifted his sword to Niall’s chest. Niall didn’t move.
Confusion furrowed Iain’s brow. He glanced at Anne.
Fear, stark and vivid, glittered in her eyes. “Iain, please. I trusted ye. I’ve always been yer friend. Don’t do it.”
He turned back to Niall, his sword falling to the ground. “I can no more hurt her by killing ye,” he whispered thickly, “than ye can by killing me.”
The claymore was resheathed in the scabbard hanging at his back. “And Anne’s right. I’m no traitor!”
“Then who?” Niall rasped. “Who is the traitor?”
“Kill him!” Duncan roared from his perch high on the walls. “It’s past time for the misfortunes of our family to be righted, for the chieftainship to pass into our hands. Kill him, Iain, and the chieftainship will finally be ours!”
Three pairs of eyes turned to gaze up at the Campbell tanist, the truth of Duncan’s treachery filling each with horror. And, all the while, the man raved down at them.
“Kill him!” he screamed. “None will follow him anymore, not with that MacGregor witch at his side! I’ve seen to that. We’ve got MacGregor lands. We’ve weakened them with the feud I’ve stirred all these years. We can soon have it all. Don’t fail me like Hugh and Nelly did. Ye’re my son, Iain. Ye’ll be chief someday. Kill the arrogant fool. Be done with it!”
Iain shook his head. “Nay, Father!” he shouted back. “Ye’re the one who has failed us all. Ye’ve shamed our family with yer treachery. I’ll have no part of it!”
“Then die, as will the witch and her consort!” A crossbow appeared in Duncan’s hands.
“Get down, Iain!” Niall cried, pulling Anne behind him.
The crossbow glinted in the early morning sun, aimed straight at the Campbell chief. Something flashed. With a cry, Iain flung himself in front of Niall. A quarrel sunk deep into his chest.
He fell. Anne screamed and fought to go to him. Niall held her firmly behind him.
High on the parapets, swords gleamed as clansmen rushed to halt the tanist, slashing up and down until blood streamed from their razor-sharp blades. Duncan’s voice rose, screeching in agony, then faded with a strangled cry.
“Kill him! Kill him! Kill hi—”