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Haldor sprang into the center of the room, coming face-to-face with Bairre. As the two men faced off, Bairre roared at Haldor.

“How dare ye enter me private lodging with yer sword drawn and have yer men attack mine?”

Haldor, crouching in battle stance, responded in a cold, menacing tone. “And how dare ye kidnap me sister and hold her and yer own kinsman prisoners in this room?”

Bairre sneered. “Ye forget, MacLeod, that King Robert has given yer sister tae me. She is tae be wed with me tomorrow.”

Dahlia cried out. “I’ll take me dirk and kill mesel’ before I be wed with him.”

Haldor lifted his head. “Ye heard the lady.”

Bairre swung his sword, lunging a mighty blow at Haldor. “Ye’ll nae stop me taking the lass. She is mine.”

Haldor parried Bairre’s blow and the two men fought with the ferocity of old enemies at last meeting in battle, evenly matched and each one determined to end the other’s life.

Meanwhile, in the hallway, Arran went to deal the guard a ringing blow and the man sank to the floor clutching his arm, blood flowing freely from a savage cut.

As he fell, groaning, another guard launched himself at Arran, sword raised, his face a twisted snarl.

There was still no sigh of Craig.Had he fled the scene, afraid tae face the enemy who had, a short time ago been his friend?

In the confined space of the narrow hall, it was almost impossible to swing his sword while keeping a distance between himself and the battle raging between Bairre and Haldor. Arran took his fight with the guard outside onto the landing, parrying the man’s thrusts with ease while backing him out the door and into the corridor at the top of the stairs.

The passageway was littered with wounded men, some curled in a ball, clutching their wounds, moaning softly, others spread-eagled, bleeding from their chests and bellies. One man lay prone in a pool of his own blood, his throat cut from ear to ear.

It seemed most of the struggle was now located outside the tavern itself as Ivar and Arne, along with their guards, gave chase to the last of Bairre’s men.

One final blow with Arran’s sword sent his opponent reeling, clutching his arm. The man looked at Arran with fear-filled eyes. “Melord, enough,” he screamed, throwing up his hands in surrender. With that he turned and raced down the stairs as if the devil himself was at his heels, heedless of his wound.

After watching the man flee, Arran turned to the doorway again, his chief focus now to get Dahlia to safety. Before he took another step he froze at the sound of her shrill, terrified scream. A moment later she stumbled into the corridor, her arm twisted behind her back, held fast by Craig. The light shone on the bright steel of his dirk as he pressed it against her throat.

“Dinnae try and stop me Arran,” he snarled. “One step toward me and I’ll slice the lady’s pretty white throat with me dirk. And, trust me, it’s sharp enough that it will be quick and she’ll hardly feel a thing.”

Already blood was trickling down Dahlia’s throat from where the point of Craig’s blade had penetrated her flesh.

Arran glowered at Craig. He could scarcely believe this man, who he’d thought of as his friend since they were bairns, was threatening tae harm his beloved.

“I’ve kent ye many years, and yer betrayal doesnae sit well with me. But in all that time I never realized ye were a coward who would use a lass tae shield himself. Throw down yer dirk and take up yer sword and meet me like a man in honest combat.”

Craig sneered, his response to press his dirk harder into her throat so that the blood flowed freely. “D’ye take me fer a fool? Ye’ve always bested me in training and sparring, d’ye expect me tae throw me life away on the point of yer sword tae prove mesel’ worthy?

Feeling the rage of the warrior’s red mist descending, Arran crouched, growling like a wolf, ready to take down his enemy. All thoughts of friendship had evaporated, destroyed by Craig’s unrepentant determination to do his worst. Not only was he a traitor, but he was also a man without honor. The only thing holding Arran fast, preventing him from gutting Craig like a fish was his overriding fear that the coward would be true to his word and that, as he died, he would snuff out Dahlia’s life without a thought.

His sword was poised, held loosely in his hand, ready to strike with lightning speed when the moment presented. But he was frozen, unable to make a move for fear of what Craig would do to Dahlia.

Craig eased himself and Dahlia out of the doorway and past Arran, treading carefully toward the top of the staircase.

Arran could only stand by helplessly, his heart pounding with an overwhelming rage, his mind still, calculating, alert.

It was at the moment both Dahlia and Craig placed their feet on the first stair that Dahlia suddenly slumped, limp as a fallen autumn leaf, her body flopping onto the step.

Momentarily off balance, Craig stumbled slightly, shifting the hand holding the dirk inches away from Dahlia’s throat.

This was the opening Arran had been waiting for. It took only an instant for him to swing his sword and, heedless of anything but Dahlia, he drove it hard into Craig’s heart.

A look of surprise on his face, the man collapsed, going down like a sack of barley, twisting and rolling to the bottom of the stairs where he lay still.

Arran sprang to Dahlia’s side and seized her in an almighty embrace. She clung to him, her eyes filling with tears.