Page 95 of The Icy Highlander's Virgin
The path up to the ridgeline was every bit as treacherous as Erica had warned. In places, it was barely wide enough for a single horse, with loose stone that threatened to send riders tumbling down the steep slope. The rain made everything slippery, and more than once, Lachlan had to dismount and lead his horse around particularly dangerous sections.
But the trail held, and as they climbed higher, Lachlan could see the tactical situation spreading out below them like pieces on a chessboard. The besieging forces had arranged themselves in a rough semicircle around the castle's main approaches, but their attention was focused inward, toward the walls they were trying to breach.
"Look at them," one of his men said with disgust. "They're so sure of themselves they're nae even postin’ proper sentries."
It was true. The enemy commanders had grown overconfident, assuming that their overwhelming numbers and siege equipment made them invulnerable to counterattack. They had forgotten one of the fundamental rules of warfare: never assume your enemy can't surprise you.
From the castle walls, the sound of fighting had grown more intense. Lachlan could see grappling hooks flying up toward the battlements, followed by the dark shapes of men attempting to scale the walls. The defenders were fighting hard, pushing back the assault with spears and swords, but he could see that they were being pressed.
"We need to move," he told his men. "Ewan cannae hold them much longer."
The attack, when it came, was swift and devastating. Lachlan led his men down from the ridge in a thunderous charge that caught the besiegers completely by surprise. The morning air filled with the clash of steel and the screams of horses as Highland warriors crashed into the enemy's unprotected flank.
"For McLaren!" Lachlan roared, his sword cutting down the first enemy soldier to turn and face him.
The cry was taken up by his men as they carved through the siege lines like a blade through cloth. These were professionalfighters, men who had trained together for years and knew how to coordinate their attacks for maximum effect.
But the mercenaries were professionals too, and they recovered quickly from their initial surprise. Lachlan found himself facing a grizzled sergeant with scars across his face and the kind of practiced sword work that spoke of decades of experience.
"Highland dogs!" the man snarled, his blade weaving a pattern of steel that forced Lachlan to give ground.
"Aye," Lachlan replied grimly, "and we bite."
The fight was fierce but brief. Lachlan's superior reach and the momentum of the charge gave him the advantage he needed, and his sword found the gap between the sergeant's helmet and mail shirt.
Around him, the battle was spreading as more enemy soldiers turned to face this unexpected threat. But the damage to their siege lines had already been done. Without the coordinated pressure on the walls, Ewan was able to launch his own counterattack from the castle.
"There!" Frederick shouted, pointing toward the main gate. "Ewan's makin’ his move!"
The castle gates burst open, and McLaren defenders poured out, led by Ewan himself with his sword raised high. The coordination wasn't perfect—they were operating on improvisedsignals rather than detailed planning—but it was effective enough.
Caught between two forces and with their siege equipment abandoned or overrun, Boyd's alliance began to crumble. Lachlan could see officers trying to rally their men, but the psychological advantage had shifted decisively. What had been a confident siege was rapidly becoming a desperate retreat.
"Boyd!" Lachlan called out, spotting the man who had started this whole conflict. The former councilman was near the ballista, sword in hand, trying to organize a fighting withdrawal. "Boyd! Face me!"
The older man turned at the sound of his name, his face twisted with rage and desperation. "Kinnaird! This isnae yer fight!"
"It became me fight when ye threatened me McLaren people." Lachlan's voice hardened as he spurred his horse toward the man. "Because that means ye're threatenin' me, too."
Boyd was no match for Lachlan in single combat, but he fought with the fury of a man who knew he was facing his final moments. Their swords met in a series of ringing clashes that sent sparks flying in the gray morning light.
Boyd's blade swept low, aiming for Lachlan's thigh, but the younger man twisted in his saddle and parried with a force that nearly knocked the weapon from Boyd's grip.
"Ye're stronger than I imagined, lad," Boyd snarled, circling his mount as he sought an opening.
"That's laird to ye. And ye're too slow for someone seekin' a battle," Lachlan replied, his sword moving in tight, controlled arcs that kept Boyd at bay.
The older warrior pressed forward with desperate aggression, raining down blow after blow, but each strike met steel instead of flesh. Sweat beaded on Boyd's forehead despite the cool air, and his breathing grew labored. Lachlan, by contrast, seemed to fight with effortless precision, each movement calculated to wear down his opponent.
Boyd feinted left, then drove his sword toward Lachlan's ribs, but the blade found only empty air as Lachlan leaned back and delivered a punishing counterstroke that opened a gash along Boyd's sword arm. "Ye think ye've won?" Boyd gasped as Lachlan's superior skill began to tell. "There are others! Others who will never accept her rule!"
"Then they can join ye in hell," Lachlan said coldly, and his next stroke ended Boyd's rebellion permanently.
With their leader dead and their siege broken, the remnants of the attacking force scattered. Some tried to retreat in good order, others simply fled. The warriors of Morrison, Ross, and MacGrath had come expecting easy victory against a weakened clan, not a pitched battle against determined defenders and Highland cavalry.
"Let them go," Lachlan ordered as some of his men made to pursue the fleeing enemies. "We've won what we came for."
The courtyard of McLaren Castle was a mixture of celebration and sorrow as the defenders tallied the cost of their victory. Ewan approached with a broad grin on his weathered face, despite the blood seeping from a cut on his forehead.
