Page 92 of Bride of the Mad Laird
Tòrr turned the handle and the surged forward.
A shout went up and two men wearing MacDougall plaid rushed over.
“What is this?” the first man demanded. Before he could utter another word, Edmund, who stood nearest him leapt forward and stabbed him in the throat. The second man engaged with Tòrr in a clash of swords, parrying back and forth, while two other men ran to tackle Matheus and Jacob.
Tòrr’s fury granted him extra strength, he felt his blood coursing in his veins like fire, and he used his superior height and strength to quickly outclass the smaller man. His fight had hardly begun before Tòrr pinned him against the wall and sliced through to his heart with his claybeg.
Through all this, Tòrr was dimly aware that one of the men had fled through the door. This left only a single remaining guard to defend the MacDougall, who remained standing in the shadows by the window, a tall, silent figure observing the skirmish with disinterest.
Another man with the appearance and garb of a gallowglass leapt forward, sword drawn, a vicious snarl on his face, only to be intercepted by Edmund. The man fought well. He was nimble on his feet, but his blows were too slow for Edmund, who parried them easily, circling the man, waiting for his moment to strike.
The man who was fighting against Matheus was strong and fast, but he was slow-witted and unable to anticipate the moves the well-trained warrior was making. His slow-wit worked against him at last, as, although he dealt Matheus a heavy blow that cut through the chainmail on his arm, he soon tired, slowing his thrusts. Matheus, swiftly taking advantage, dealt him an upward blow, striking him beneath his ribs, putting an end to him.
Tòrr pivoted as another man came at him, sword raised, and he twisted away as the blow came down, but he was caught by a slicing blow across his side. He grunted, feeling the blood flow. But making the blow had unbalanced his assailant and he turned too slowly. Tòrr finished him with a fierce blow of his own to the man’s neck as he was turning to face him.
Meanwhile, Jacob’s opponent was on his knees pleading for mercy. Jacob looked down at him in utter disgust, kicking the man’s weapon out his reach, and landed him a heavy blow as well, cracking the crown of his head with the hilt of his sword. The man fell sideways, eyes closed and lay there without moving.
There came a scream. Edmund had finally found the right moment to deal the death-blow to his opponent.
A momentary hush fell over the room as the men caught their breath. Only one enemy remained standing, the man who was guarding MacDougall.
He moved to block them from moving any closer to their quarry.
“Wait,” MacDougall’s voice rang out as the door flew opened and two men entered, dragging a struggling Lyra into the room.
Tòrr made to rush to her, but one of the men raised his dirk to her throat while the other man pressed his sharp claybeg to her breast.
Tòrr froze, the blood roaring at his temples at the sound of MacDougall’s laughter.
“Bring the lady tae me,” the Laird MacDougall commanded and Tòrr was helpless to watch as the men dragged her to the place where MacDougall stood.
He fumed at the sight of the purple bruise under her eye and the blood seeping from the ties at her wrists.
But the tide had turned. There were now only three men where there had been six and although Tòrr and Matheus had been wounded, their blood was up and they were both ready to fight alongside Jacob and Edmund.
Once Lyra was close enough, MacDougall seized her arm and the two men stepped away.
That was enough for Jacob and Edmund, who sprang forward, wielding their swords with the mastery of long practice. Within mere moments both their opponents lay bleeding on the floor, grievously wounded.
MacDougall laughed again, a mirthless old man’s cackle.
“Ye, pup.” He sneered. “Ye may be the Mad Laird as they call ye, but yer bride is mine. Ye only wed the lass tae gain control of her lands. Ye’re the same as me.”
Tòrr growled. It was the sound of a wild animal, a bear or a wolf, ready to defend its pack. He lunged toward MacDougall and the remaining guard stepped forward to meet him.
Ignoring the sting of the wound in his side, the red mist of battle spread over Tòrr. He paid no heed to Edmund calling to him, begging him to stand aside and allow him to fight his opponent in his stead.
Tòrr whirled to the side, feinting a blow, the other man took the bait and followed with his sword. Too late, the man sprang back, realizing that Tòrr’s blow was coming from the other side. But before he could lift his sword for a second blow, Tòrr’s claybeg had sliced through the chainmail of his hauberk, piercing straight between his ribs to his heart.
As the man fell, Tòrr confronted MacDougall who had seized Lyra in a fierce grip and was holding a dirk against her neck.
“Another step, and I slit her throat.” MacDougall’s voice was as cold and as hard as steel, momentarily freezing Tòrr where he stood.
He heard Edmund's sharply indrawn breath from somewhere close behind him, and dropped his hand, signaling him not to make a move.
MacDougall took a step forward. “Back away, lad.” His voice was a vicious snarl. “Let me pass.”
In all this, Lyra had not spoken. She stood resolute, chin held high, her eyes glittering with an unholy rage. Meeting Tòrr’s gaze she gave an almost imperceptible nod and he stepped back, giving MacDougall room to move past him, holding Lyra.
