Page 88 of A Highland Healer Captured
The yard heaved with sound—shouts, hoofbeats, the crack of rope and timber, steel on steel.
And then Marcus’s voice split it all, bright as brass, “Och, Zander! Still hiding behind walls? I’ll break them again for ye!”
Zander turned toward it, fury already sharpening his strikes. He cut down two more, shoulder to shoulder with Mason for a moment before driving forward alone. Marcus had carved himself space near the well, three men braced about him, one torch flaring too big, a stage set for mockery.
“Ye left me for dead once,” Marcus called, grin flashing white. “Ye couldnae even get the head clean!”
Zander didn’t answer. He plowed forward, shield smashing, sword stabbing. The last guard fell gurgling.
Marcus stepped clear, blade flashing. “There he is! The widower! Tell me, did yer wife scream long before she quieted?”
Zander’s world narrowed to steel and voice. He pressed, cutting sharp, forcing Marcus back a pace.
“Or was it the bairn ye failed first?” Marcus sneered, darting in. His blade scraped across Zander’s mail, biting shallow. “The cough still wakes him? A shame ye couldnae bury him quick enough. He’ll follow her soon enough.”
Zander growled low, every muscle straining. The battle blurred around them—men crying out, rope snapping taut, the hiss of arrows. His vision tunneled to Marcus’s grin, his words.
“Ye talk too much,” Zander said, voice low, flat as a whetstone.
Marcus only laughed louder. “Aye, because ye listen,laird. Ye always listen. That healer ye keep at yer table—does she scream like yer wife did, or does she bite like the whorish viper she is?”
Red haze boiled up Zander’s spine. He lunged, blows heavy, shield ringing with the force of each strike. Marcus laughed still, parrying, mocking, feeding fury with every taunt.
The yard burned bright with torchlight, steel, and rage. Zander swore the man would choke on his own grin before the night ended.
Marcus pressed close, the fight a storm of sparks and breath. His blade caught Zander’s shoulder where the mail lay thin; heat spread, blood soaking quick. Pain lanced sharp and bright.
Marcus saw it, laughed, pressed harder. “There now. Ye’ll bleed out before cockcrow. I’ll take yer son to finish what I swore that night. I’ll rebuild Strathcairn with his bones. And I’ll keep the healer—och, aye, I’ll keep her—until she breaks.”
Zander’s vision went red. His teeth ground so hard his jaw ached. He shoved Marcus back with his shield, breath coming hard.
“I’ll put yer head on a spike,” he said, voice soft and steady. “In the very spot ye fall.”
Marcus’s grin stretched wider, mad. “Do it, then,laird. If ye can finish a stroke this time.”
Zander didn’t hesitate. He feinted high, cut low, and his blade sheared through leather and flesh along Marcus’s wrist. The man howled, grip faltering. Zander slammed his shield into the wound, forcing him to stagger.
Steel rang again, sharp and fast. Marcus slashed with his off-hand, wild, nicking Zander’s cheek. Stars burst in his sight. He pressed in regardless, rage anchoring his limbs.
The fight turned brutal. No finesse, no rhythm—just two men locked in hate, each strike meant to end. Zander’s sword found Marcus’s shoulder, biting deep. Blood spattered, hot and thick. Marcus reeled, spitting crimson, but still he laughed.
“Ye’ll lose again. Yer a clumsy excuse for a laird. Yealwayslose.”
Zander drove his pommel into Marcus’s jaw. The crack snapped loud. Marcus staggered.
Zander took his head.
The blade chewed through stubborn bone, not clean, not pretty. The second stroke finished what the first started. Marcus toppled, body crumpling in the dirt, head rolling into torchlight, mouth frozen in that hateful grin.
Silence pulsed for a heartbeat. Then the yard’s din crashed back—men shouting, some in triumph, some in fear, rope hissing taut, hooves striking stone.
Zander bent, seized Marcus’s hair, and lifted the head high. His men roared, their enemy faltered. Mason’s voice bellowed, “Press ‘em! Close the gate!”
The rout broke quick. Marcus’s men scattered, tripping over bodies, some caught in rope, others skewered by spear or cut down as they fled. Zander didn’t watch them run. He strode to the courtyard’s iron spike—an old relic left from crueler days.
He set the head down with his own hands, forcing it onto the iron until it took. Blood ran dark, dripping down the shaft. The grin still twisted the dead mouth, but now it was his jest no longer.
Zander stepped back, chest heaving, face slick with sweat and blood. His shoulder burned, ribs ached, but he lifted his voice until it broke the night wide open.
