Page 46 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander
The rider swallowed hard, his voice hoarse from shouting earlier. “They came just an hour ago, Me Laird. A dozen of them—maybe more. Armed to the teeth, and bold as ye like. They tried to set fire to the storage barn, and when they failed, they torched a few cottages instead, and some shops, and set loose the livestock…”
Damon’s jaw tightened. “Were there casualties?”
“Aye,” the rider admitted, his voice heavy. “Four wounded. The fighters in the village did what they could—chased the bastards toward the forest. They’ve got them pinned now, just outside the village.”
Damon’s gut twisted with a mix of fury and guilt. He had known the brigands were a threat, but he’d failed to send reinforcements to Kiel in time. It was his responsibility to ensure the safety of every village under his protection, and now lives were in jeopardy because he hadn’t acted swiftly enough.
The failure cut deep.
“This should never have happened,” he muttered under his breath, but the rider was close enough to hear.
“Ye couldnae have kenned, Me Laird,” the man offered, though there was little conviction in his voice.
But Damon wasn’t interested in excuses. He’d known the risks, and he’d let his focus linger too long on Branloch, leaving Kiel vulnerable. It wouldn’t happen again.
By the time they neared the village, his party had been joined by a group of riders from the castle, led by Tristan Gunn.
The councilman rode at the head of the group, his posture straight and confident. Damon felt a flicker of annoyance at the man’s presence—Tristan’s calm composure grated at his simmering anger—but he tamped it down. The more hands they had, the better.
As they approached Kiel, the flickering torchlight came into view. The villagers had gathered near the outskirts of the village, their faces drawn and pale in the firelight.
Kerry, the village leader, stepped forward to meet them, his weathered face lined with worry.
“Laird McCallum. Tristan,” he greeted, his voice strained. “We’ve done what we could. The brigands are stuck in the forest, but they’ve got good cover. Our men are keepin’ them surrounded, but we’ll need yer help to finish this.”
Damon dismounted, his boots hitting the ground with a thud. He extended a hand toward the man, gripping his forearm firmly. “Ye’ve done well, Kerry. We’ll handle the rest.”
Tristan dismounted as well, his movements deliberate and smooth. “What’s the terrain like?” he asked, his tone businesslike. “Do they have an escape route?”
Kerry shook his head. “Nae unless they want to risk crossin’ the river. It’s deep and fast this time of year.”
Damon listened as Tristan continued to question Kerry, his sharp mind working through the details with practiced ease. He found himself begrudgingly impressed. Tristan wasn’t just a councilman—he clearly had experience in matters of strategy and combat.
The three men huddled together, discussing their options. Tristan proposed a plan that was as bold as it was efficient—divide their forces into two groups, one to flush the brigands out of their hiding place and the other to intercept them at the riverbank.
Damon considered the plan carefully, his gaze flicking between Tristan and the other men, nodding in consideration.
The councilman’s confidence was undeniable, and Damon couldn’t ignore the fact that his knowledge of the land and its people far surpassed his own.
Lilith’s earlier words about Tristan echoed in his mind. The councilman had voiced his dislike for Magnus and had the support of the people in Branloch. He was well-connected, and he lived close enough to Kiel to have a good understanding of the weaknesses in its defenses.
If anyone has the means to fund an assassin or stir unrest in the McCallum lands, it is Tristan Gunn.
But now wasn’t the time for suspicions.
Damon clicked his tongue. “I like yer plan, Tristan, but we will need three groups,” he said as he pointed at the makeshift battleground dug into the dirt between them. “The first to flush them out—as ye said—the second to intercept them at the riverbank, and the third to attack them head-on.”
The men hummed in agreement.
“Good. Tristan, ye lead the third group. I’ll lead the first, and we’ll have Craig lead the second. Now, let’s move.”
Damon’s order was all they needed to hear before dispersing quickly.
Tristan looked irritated, but the men still split as planned.
Damon rode with the first group, his blood thrumming with anticipation. The forest was dense and shadowed, the bare branches above weaving a skeletal canopy that blocked themoonlight. His men moved with purpose, their weapons drawn and their eyes scanning the undergrowth.
It didn’t take them long to find the brigands. The clash of steel and the shouts of battle broke the stillness of the night, and Damon charged into the fray without hesitation.
