Page 111 of Highlander Lord Of Vengeance

Ryland drew his sword and with his back to Esme, ordered, “Get in the keep and stay there.”

Esme didn’t move, waiting to see what Patrick would do.

Ryland raised his sword, ready to battle.

“I have no fight with you. I left when I did to see if I could find out who means you harm. It is the least I could do for the good son of the woman I loved with all my heart.”

Ryland had no time to respond to the shocking revelation. Esme grabbed his arm.

“Look,” she urged anxiously, pointing in the distant at the low rise.

Ryland’s eyes shot wide. A large troop of warriors were charging down the rise and they wore the colors of…

“Clan Rennoch!” Ryland roared out and behind them rode Clan Stott.

“That is what I found out. Rennoch and Stott clans work together to see you and Esme dead, and Ryland too.”

“Why? Esme asked.

“That I had no time to find out,” Patrick said. “I thought it more important you knew who meant you harm.”

Ryland searched through the chaotic crowd for Roland, but he couldn’t find him. What he did see infuriated him. Roland’s warriors were already raising their swords against his people.

“Get in the keep, Esme, and stay there,” Ryland ordered again.

This time she went but not before she kissed him and demanded, “You will survive. I will have it no other way.”

“Since you command it what other choice do I have,” Ryland said, then rushed down the stairs, Patrick at his side, straight into battle.

Esme stood rooted on the steps of the keep, the chill wind biting at her cheeks, and the sky heavy with dark clouds that threatened to split open. She was unable to move, though Ryland had ordered her inside for her own safety. She could not take her eyes off the battle, not while the man she loved fought heroically and not while the fate of Glencairn hung in the balance.

She stared at the village. It had become a battlefield.

Men poured into the open square, warriors of Clan Rennoch and Stott flooding the village like a tide of fury, blades drawn, faces twisted with bloodlust. She could not tell how many, but she could see there were too many.

And yet Glencairn’s people rose to meet them.

Blacksmiths, farmers, stable boys, men who had never known the feel of a blade beyond their everyday tools armed themselves with axes, pikes, swords, pitchforks, whatever was near and deadly enough. Something in Ryland’s speech had stirred in them. They fought not just for their land but for the clan, for the hope of a better leader, a promise of a better tomorrow.

Her glance caught on Brack. He fought near the gate like a man possessed, his sword flashing as he brought down two warriors in rapid succession. His shoulder bled, but he did not falter. He moved with brute force, sheer will driving him forward with each blow, each block, each guttural shout.

And Ryland?—

Esme’s heart pounded with every swing of his sword. He fought at the center of it all, eyes cold with focus, movements honed and deadly. She saw him fell one man with a clean stroke, then pivot to parry another. Mud splattered his legs, blood streaked his cheek, and still he pressed on, never hesitating, never pausing. He was a storm in human form.

Patrick fought at his side, roaring with every swing, his axe cleaving the air and bone alike. His laughter, feral and fearless, rose even above the screaming.

Esme’s fingers gripped the edge of the stone balustrade, her knuckles white. Smoke from cottages that were torched stung her eyes, or perhaps it was tears. She did not know.

All she felt was fear. It rose sharp and unrelenting.

This could not be won. Not with so many enemies. For every man that fell on the other side, another seemed to take his place. And Glencairn’s warriors, fierce as they were, were fewer, outnumbered. Even the villagers who fought bravely were starting to fall back, retreating wherever they could.

She spotted a young boy, barely more than eleven years, swinging a broken spear and losing it in the fray. Another man,gray-bearded and limping, drove a pitchfork into the leg of a Rennoch warrior before being struck down.

There was no line. No formation. Just the raw crush of battle, steel against flesh, screams and roars and the endless, terrible sound of death.

And Ryland, her Ryland, fought on.

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