Page 5 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
Either the boy was wearing a stolen plaid, or Laird MacCarthy didn’t bother to train his men properly. He had blond hair, unusually fair for these parts, and olive skin.
“Ye cannae pass,” the boy repeated.
Lachlan sighed heavily and took a step forward, lifting his knife. Callum held out a hand to stop him.
“Leave it, Lachlan. I’ll deal with this. What’s yer name, boy?”
The boy blinked, obviously not expecting the question. “Marin,” he responded before he could stop himself.
“Marin. A fine name. Me name is Callum, Callum McAdair, but I think ye ken that already. Now, Marin, I see ye fancy yerself a swordsman, eh? How good are ye?”
“Good enough,” the boy retorted and moved fast as a flash, keeping his sword leveled at Callum.
Callum eyed the point of the blade—not as sharp as it could be, he noticed—for a long moment. Then, he brought his own blade up, fast enough to blur, and iron met iron with a screeching clash.
The boy—Marin—hadn’t been expecting that. He stumbled, flailing, and nearly lost his grip on his sword.
Nearly, but not quite. While he was staggering around, his arm no doubt ringing from the jarring blow Callum had inflicted on it, Callum prowled around him in a wide circle, cutting him off further from the rest of the MacCarthy soldiers.
“Rule one,” he announced, loud enough for everyone to hear, “swordsmanship is about flexibility, not strength. It isnae a case of brute force, bringing blade to meet blade. Nay, nay. It’stactics. It’s chess. It’s about endurance, stamina, and quickness.”
Marin was bone-white, and his hands shook. Callum guessed he was no more than sixteen, maybe seventeen, with a hastily grown fuzz of hair on his cheeks that was meant to make him look older but only managed to make him look more of a child.
He was getting angry now, and desperate. With a strangled cry, the boy leaped at Callum, his blade whizzing through the air.
Callum sidestepped neatly. He didn’t even have to raise his own blade to parry the blow. The boy staggered again, overbalancing, and ended up with his back to Callum.
It would have been the easiest thing in the world to end it there. A quick blow through the boy’s back would sever his spine and burst out through the front of his chest. A good, strong blow at the waist might even have cut the boy in two.
Callum did no such thing. Instead, he used the flat of his blade to smack Marin on his backside, like an irate mother would whack a naughty child with a wooden spoon.
The McAdair men hollered with laughter, clapping, and Marin whirled around to face Callum again, his face crimson. He was tiring already, but his grip on his sword stayed steady.
“Rule number two,” Callum continued, and now, even some of the MacCarthy men were hiding smiles, “never turn yer back to the enemy.”
Marin was looking death in the face now. He hurled himself at Callum once again, bringing down his sword in a blow that had impressive strength behind it.
Callum, however, was getting bored. He parried the blow with ease and kicked out, sweeping Marin’s feet out from underneath him. The boy finally lost his grip on the hilt of his sword, and the weapon went clattering away across the earth. Lachlan swooped down and snatched it up, and the boy wilted, kneeling on the ground.
Callum tapped the underside of the boy’s chin with the tip of his sword. “Rule number three,” he said softly, “never let go of yer weapon.”
Marin looked up at him, his teeth bared, meeting Callum’s eyes squarely. “Go on, then,” he whispered. “End it. Finish me, then.”
Callum pursed his lips, letting the moment stretch out. Then, he withdrew his sword. “I think nae,” he said shortly. Dropping down to one knee, he grasped Marin’s chin, forcing the boy to look him in the eye. “Have ye heard of any of those rules before?”
Bewildered, Marin made an abortive attempt to jerk his chin away. “What? Nay, of course not.”
“I thought nae. It’s the first thing a swordmaster will teach a student. How did ye come by that plaid and sword, boy? Did ye steal it?”
“Nay, I didnae!” Marin snapped, clearly outraged. “I was recruited for Laird MacCarthy’s service, happy to die in—”
“I thought as much,” Callum interrupted, releasing the boy’s chin and rising to his feet. “Laird MacCarthy, do ye make a habit of recruiting untrained children for yer army?” He lifted his voice so that everyone could hear.
Marin remained where he was, crouching on the ground, his mouth agape. Perhaps he still thought Callum was going to decide to cut his throat.
Relax, laddie.I dinnae kill unarmed folks or children. Certainly nae both at once.
Laird MacCarthy pushed his way to the front of his men, red-faced. “How dare ye?” he snapped. “Ye are nothing but a murderer,Laird McAdair.”
