Page 60 of Fallen
Craeg slashed his way through the fray, searching for his half-brother. It seemed that MacKinnon had done the same, for when they finally found each other, the two men paused amongst the chaos, frozen for a moment.
We share the same blood, Craeg thought, a strange heaviness settling within him,andyet he’s my mortal enemy.
Craeg knew he shouldn’t be surprised by the hatred between them. How many siblings had turned against each other over the centuries? There seemed to be no greater hate than that between brothers.
Half-brothers.
Aye, that was the root of it. Craeg was a bastard, spawned by a whore, while Duncan was the rightful heir and ruler of these lands. And yet it had never stopped him being threatened by Craeg.
He circled MacKinnon, shrugging out the knots in his shoulders. Years of hiding, years of slowly whittling away at the man who’d nearly killed him—and here they finally were.
MacKinnon attacked first, with an aggressive lunge that nearly took Craeg unawares. His brother was ill—he could see it in the rictus of pain and effort in his face, the wild look in his eyes, the pallor of his skin, and the sweat that poured off him. But his sickness had turned him vicious.
Yet reckless behavior also made a man careless.
Craeg only had to bide his time.
“Bastard,” MacKinnon hissed, repeating the word, again and again, as he attacked. “Baseborn. Son of a whore. Misbegotten.Bastard.”
“Save yer breath,” Craeg grunted as he brought his sword up to counter a violent overhead swing. “I am who I am … the whole world knows about it but onlyyecare.”
MacKinnon’s eyes burned with loathing. It had all begun that day Jock MacKinnon brought Duncan toThe Goat and Gooseso he could meet his half-brother. The clan-chief had known what he was doing—but it pleased him to sow the seeds of hate.
And that hate had grown into something monstrous, something that risked destroying both men. It didn’t matter to Jock MacKinnon anymore. He was dead, nothing but bones in a crypt. Yet his legacy lived on.
MacKinnon’s onslaught was growing wearing. He attacked relentlessly, not giving Craeg the opportunity to counter. Around and around they went, Craeg’s teeth jarring with each blow.
Craeg bided his time, waiting for the opening that would surely come. MacKinnon was a formidable swordsman. Even sick, his brother was the best he’d ever fought.
And then as Craeg shifted backward to block another overhead swing, he slipped on a patch of gore.
His feet flew out from under him, and he reeled back.
MacKinnon was on him in an instant, slicing downward in an attack designed to split his skull asunder.
Only Craeg’s quick reflexes saved him. He dropped his sword, rolled, and drew his dirk.
MacKinnon lunged again, the blade of his claidheamh-mor whistling through the air. Craeg rolled once more, a chill sweeping through him as he realized that his half-brother now had the advantage.
Craeg was down, and MacKinnon’s relentless attack made it impossible for him to rise to his feet.
Duncan was going to kill him. He swung his sword toward Craeg, in a deadly arc.
And then MacKinnon froze, his blade stilling. Craeg stared up at him, raising his dirk in an attempt to deflect the blow.
Yet the strike never came.
Instead, his opponent staggered forward, and then sank to his knees. MacKinnon grasped at his right armpit, his fingers coming away slick with blood. He gave a pained wheeze, color draining from his already pallid face, and slumped sideways onto the ground.
Behind MacKinnon stood a small figure swathed in black, an iron crucifix gleaming upon her breast: Mother Shona.
Breathing hard, the abbess lowered the sword she’d just plunged into him.
Duncan MacKinnon could no longer hear the fighting.
It was as if his ears were suddenly filled with wool. Lying upon the ground, he stared up at Craeg. The man’s mouth was moving. He was speaking, saying something to him. But Duncan couldn’t hear the words.
He was grateful for that.
