Page 48 of Ruining a Highland Healer
Whatever it takes, I will dae it. Whatever it takes.
The night and the trees, towering black firs and pines silhouetted against the moonlight, whizzed past them as they rode. Then, over the crest of a hill, Noah raised a torch to halt them.
Torrin and the rest of the men came to a sudden stop, all of them gathering around and looking straight ahead, down thehill. Below them lay a small valley, protected by the elements by the hills that surrounded it. There, outlined by a burning fire, two wagons sat in the middle, surrounded by five tents. A camp, one that didn’t seem to belong to travelers, but rather to soldiers, though from that distance, it was impossible for Torrin to judge if they were Keith’s men or other soldiers who happened to be traveling. If he had to guess, he would say there were about fifteen men; some at rest, others sitting on crates.
But then his gaze fell on a familiar face. There, tied to a wagon wheel, was Valora, bound and gagged and still screaming herself to death.
Torrin’s heart slammed against his ribs. The sight of Valora like that, in pain, trying to fight still, filled him with an unbridled rage that threatened to bubble over. Before he knew it, he was reaching for his sword, his hand closing tightly around the hilt, but Noah’s hand was quick to shoot out and grab his arm, stopping him.
"We could circle around, wait fer them all tae fall asleep?—"
But Torrin wouldn’t hear it. "Nay. We attack now."
"Torrin," Noah warned, his tone tinged with concern. "If we charge down there now, who kens what might happen? There are over a dozen soldiers there. Two tae one odds dinnae sound very good tae me."
It was true that the odds were against them. With eight of them and about fifteen men down there, at the camp, their forces wereoutnumbered. Nonetheless, that didn’t mean they would also be overpowered.
"I’m nae waitin’, Noah. Valora is down there. If ye dinnae wish tae come, then stay here."
"Torrin—"
But Torrin was already riding.
His men followed him silently, their swords drawn. Torrin didn’t wait for them, though—he barely even noticed when Noah caught up to him, riding right by his side with his sword drawn, his face twisted in a mask of rage.
They hit the Keith camp like God’s vengeance, descending upon the men like vultures.
Torrin’s horse tore into the camp, stomping on anything in its path. He didn’t pause, not even for a moment. His blade sliced through the neck of the first Keith soldier in his way with a single, brutal stroke. There was no mercy, no hesitation. Only the flash of his blade and the metallic scent of blood that filled the air as the man collapsed to his knees, then to his side, eyes glassy and devoid of life as blood fountained out of the wound.
Jumping off the horse, Torrin’s gaze searched for the next man to kill. As desperately as he wanted to rush to Valora, he knew he had to deal with the men first. If he wanted her safe, then he had to kill them all, even if he would have to do it single-handedly.
But he wouldn’t; his men were right there with him, throwing themselves into the fight. All around him, steel rang on steel. Shouts filled the air, some from his men and some from Clan Keith as the soldiers clashed, war cries echoing in the night air. And through it all, Torrin could still catch waves of Valora’s screams, muffled as they were, as she desperately tried to free herself, and the sound of it broke his heart into a million pieces.
Next to him, Noah fought with the rage of a wild animal, parrying an enemy sword with one hand and stabbing another soldier with the other—the left, which he favored in short-range combat. One Keith warrior tried to flank him, but Torrin was quick to intervene, piercing the man through the gut with his sword just as he tried to bring his own blade down on Noah.
With a gasp, Noah pulled his knife out of its target—the chest of the man he had been fighting, who was now looking at the blood that poured out of him with wide eyes, as if surprised to have been hurt. With a growl, Noah kicked him back and then descended upon him once more to finish the kill as another of Torrin’s men swooped in to fight the third Keith soldier.
Torrin, in his search for another enemy, saw Valora struggling and a Keith soldier moving towards her with a blade in his hand.
He wouldn’t kill her; Torrin already knew that. And yet, his first instinct was to cry out and run towards her, surely just as the man wished he would.
"Nay!" he screamed, his voice hoarse and strained from the fight. He charged, and was quickly intercepted.
The man blocked his path. He was young, fast. He moved with precision, but Torrin still managed to parry the blow he tried to deliver, sending him a few steps back. With a huff, the man stared at Torrin, his jaw clenched, and then swiftly attacked again, barely taking a moment to breathe.
Once again, Torrin blocked the blow, pirouetting to the side to avoid the one that came next. Sweat dripped down his temples and his back. His hands were slick with it, but also sticky with the blood he had spilled. His hair, having fallen out of the tie on his nape, now hung over his eyes, but he couldn’t take even a single moment to push it back.
The man attacked again, and Torrin met his sword halfway—but then, just as he was about to pull back and attack again, he stepped on a stone and lost his balance, the enemy’s sword sliding down against his own. Then, just as Torrin tried to step back, the Keith soldier managed to get in a lucky blow, slicing through his side. In return, Torrin struck back hard, driving his sword into the man’s side—but the delay had cost him.
Pain bloomed over his torso, spreading quickly all over his body. It was as though his entire side was on fire, and he could feel the blood seep through his shirt, drenching him.
Before him, Valora, still bound and gagged, tried to scream for him, tears streaming down her eyes. Torrin, already weak from the blood loss, pressed a hand over the wound and stumbled towards her. She was all that mattered; nothing else. As long as he could get her out of there, out of that hellish place and back to safety, then he could die a happy man.
"I’m alright," he gasped, but he was certain Valora couldn’t hear his reassurances over the ruckus of the fight. "I’m alright, dinnae fash."
Just as he approached her, though, a different Keith man came from the side—an older man, lean and scarred, a sword held tightly in one hand and a dirk in the other. Much like Noah, he seemed to be fighting with both weapons, and Torrin cursed his luck for having to fight the man now that he was injured.
Torrin turned just in time, parried the dirk—but the short sword was coming in fast. He was too exhausted, too dizzy to parry that too, and so instead, he tried to duck. But the sword was still too close. Torrin could see it as if in slow motion, coming closer and closer, threatening to take his life for good.
