Page 25 of For an Exile’s Heart (Ancient Songs #2)

T his combat was unlike any Bradana had ever seen. Quick, sharp, and without mercy, the blades met and struck at each other again and again. If but once that metal should fail to strike metal and instead meet flesh…

Barely breathing, she stood within the circle of Maeve’s arms—for it was her friend who had yanked her out of danger’s reach—and watched the deadly dance. Those who would have been wedding guests ranged all around them. Bradana still did not see Kendrick, the one man who might stop this madness. But Mican stood at the forefront watching his son with what appeared to be satisfaction.

For, aye, at first glance the battle did not seem an equal one. Though the two men were nearly of a height, Earrach had twice Adair’s bulk, and the sheer power of the blows he delivered—in the manner of a smith hammering at the forge—argued naught could stand before him for long.

Adair, lighter, quicker, must soon tire and falter—and one miss at turning back that relentless assault must earn death.

Yet he did not miss. And a glint of green fire came to his eyes as he leaped and dodged, seeming to take his opponent’s measure.

They circled as Bradana’s ears cried out for release from the crashing, and her heart cried for mercy from the terror of it all. Och, what had she done? She’d thought to save him, even more than herself, by speaking out. Now…

A flurry and an abrupt change in the dance, and a line of red appeared on Earrach’s right forearm. The one that held the sword. He tossed up his head even as Bradana’s heart bounded, and he came on.

As if the sight of first blood was a signal, the pace of the fight quickened. Someone pulled in close beside Bradana and Maeve.

Kerr, with Toren at his elbow. Both their faces avid.

“He’ll ne’er take him down, our cousin,” Kerr said. “Earrach is a monster wi’ the—”

Another flurry. A second line of red on the monster’s sword arm. He shook himself and roared, aye, like an enraged beast.

Kerr swore. Adair’s blade had been too quick to follow with the eye.

But Earrach raised his sword above his head and came in howling. Neither man had a shield, and when that treacherous blow landed, it turned Adair’s sword aside. His feet shuffled in the grass furiously. He nearly went down.

Heat drenched Bradana and her heart leaped to her throat. He could not withstand many such blows, her Adair could not.

Would she stand here and watch him slain? She must stop this mad dance.

But Maeve’s arms enfolded her, and if she ran forward now, the distraction might be enough to give Earrach the advantage he needed.

Upon the thought, Earrach struck again and Adair whirled, barely in time. Earrach’s blade caught his shoulder as he spun. Now the blood started upon Adair’s tunic.

“Stop this!” Bradana cried, frantic. “Someone stop this!” No one heard. No one listened. She turned to Kerr and seized his arm in both hands. “Stop them.”

Kerr’s eyes met hers. They had never been what she might consider friends, but they’d grown up together. He must heed her.

“Please, Kerr.”

He started forward, but hesitated. How could he move between those whirling, crashing blades? For the pace of the combat had increased again. Earrach, standing firm with his feet planted in the grass, struck faster and harder. Adair danced around him, his braids flying out behind him in a flurry as he searched for an in, an opening for a deadly strike.

One of these two men would fall to the grass and likely rise no more.

Both of them were tired now and sweating heavily. Adair’s strikes were perhaps not so bright, Earrach’s not so powerful. Their breath came in gasps. All it would take was one mistake.

And then it came. Adair, dancing, whirled around to face his opponent. Earrach turned and his sword came up—not quite fast enough. Adair’s blade swooped in to kiss the side of Earrach’s neck.

For an instant everything froze. Not a sound pierced the afternoon. No one breathed nor cried out. Even the clouds seemed to pause overhead.

Earrach did not immediately fall. Instead, legs still planted wide, he stared into Adair’s face. Not until Adair, poised like a shard of quicksilver, withdrew his sword did the bigger man begin to go down, crumpling slowly as his legs failed him and he crashed to the grass in a shower of blood.

“My son! My son!” Mican bellowed, leaping forward to go down in the grass beside Earrach.

Earrach, who stared at the sky.

Adair did not move a step, merely stood with his blade, smeared in gore, at his side.

“’Twas a fair fight.” The words were on Bradana’s lips almost before she could think, for all she could think on was him. “Ye all saw, ’twas a fair right.”

Toren leaned past Kerr to look at her, an assessing expression such as she had never before received from him.

“Come,” he told her. “Quickly.”

But Mican had already stumbled to his feet and swung to face Adair. “Ye ha’ murdered my son.”

Adair’s head came up. His nostrils flared. At that moment he looked like a battle pony fit for the charge. There was more to Gawen MacMurtray’s third son than even Bradana had guessed.

Toren stepped forward. Bradana still could not imagine where Kendrick was, unless her mother…

By the gods, what had happened to her mother?

Yet to her surprise, Toren stepped up in his father’s place. “My sister is right. ’Twas a fair fight. Everyone saw.” He turned to Kerr and mouthed, Take them.

Kerr grabbed Bradana’s hand, yanked her from Maeve’s grip. With his other hand he snagged Adair’s arm and towed him away out of the crowd. Towed both of them. “Come.”

Kerr was not what Bradana would call a man of practical considerations. Yet now, as they left the thronged area and the man lying on the ground awash with blood, he said, “Go to your rooms. Grab what ye need. I will bring ponies. Ye maun get yoursel’s away. Understand?”

Scarcely listening to him, Bradana looked back, sure someone—Mican—would be coming after them.

Adair had killed Mican’s son.

But no one had left the crowd.

It had been a fair fight.

Toren still held Mican there, talking to him. But aye, he would be coming. A man like Mican would want blood for blood.

“He will be coming,” she said aloud.

Kerr glanced at her. “Aye, so I say.”

Adair dragged all three of them to a halt. “I ha’ done naught wrong. I will stay and face whatever justice your father hands out.”

“Ye cannot,” Kerr objected. “Father will want to keep the alliance intact. He may—”

“Sacrifice Adair,” Bradana concluded.

“Aye, so.”

“Kerr.” Now Bradana grabbed hold of her stepbrother. “Where will we go?”

“Better,” Adair said, light and darkness flickering in his eyes, “for us to take my boat away to Erin.”

“The boat is the first place they will seek ye.”

“Then I cannot get my belongings—”

“No’ from the boat, nay. Only from your quarters. Hurry, for the gods’ sake. I will bring the ponies.”

Kerr pelted off. Adair looked at Bradana and she at him.

“I need to go back,” he told her. “Face my actions.”

“Nay. Please. Come wi’ me.”

Hand in hand, she led him away in a large circle through the settlement. Everyone had been at the wedding, so no one saw when they circled back and approached her quarters. She could hear voices, though. Shouting.

Adair stood in the doorway of her chamber, reddened sword still dangling from his fingers, and watched while she gathered what she would need. A warm cloak. A blanket, which she used as a bundle. Supplies for her monthly. A few things she might barter if she had to.

Wen.

The great hound had been lying on her sleeping bench waiting for her. Like Adair, he watched her preparations with solemn eyes, never a twitch of his tail.

He would come with her. At the thought, a great wave of relief crashed upon her heart. She would not have to leave him behind to go with Earrach. She would not be going with Earrach, to the north.

At the last moment, as she surveyed the chamber, her eyes fell upon the harp. She laid it carefully atop the other items and tied the bundle shut.

“Wen, come.”

“Bradana?”

She looked at the man she loved. He who had taken on this burden for her sake.

He told her, “I think I should stay.”

Aye, perhaps they both should. She needed to find out if harm had befallen her mother. And he had done naught wrong. Why should he flee?

Except he had taken the life of an honored guest. For no fit reason Mican could see.

“Perhaps we should do what Kerr says and leave for a time. Just until things settle down.”

“’Tis a cowardly way to behave, that.”

Mayhap it was. But och, could she take the chance that Mican would retaliate?

“I canna lose ye,” she said.

“Aye, so.”

It was for the sake of love, after all, that they fled.