Page 41 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

T he Highland night wrapped around them like a burial shroud as Colin crouched behind the rocky outcrop, his men gathered in a tight circle around him. Below in the valley, Fraser's camp flickered with the warm glow of cook fires, deceptively peaceful in the darkness.

"Listen carefully," Colin said, his voice barely above a whisper.

Every second counted now. His soldiers looked to him for guidance, and he couldn't falter.

The weight of the impending battle pressed down on him, yet the fire in his chest didn't waver.

He knew the cost of war, but he couldn't lose Morag—not when she was so close to danger.

His orders were firm as he drew his dirk and began sketching lines of strategy in the dirt. They would fight not just for survival, but for Morag's life.

"Fraser has the numbers, but he's made a mistake camping in the open valley.

No natural defenses, spread too thin across bad ground.

" Colin marked points on his crude map with quick, precise strokes.

"Main force here, around the largest fires.

Supply wagons to the east. Horse lines on the south side.

MacLeod, take eight men and hit their horse lines first. Scatter their mounts—cut off any chance of organized pursuit or escape.

" Colin's finger traced attack routes on the dirt.

"What about the lass?" Niven asked quietly.

Colin's jaw tightened. "Fraser will keep her close tae the center, probably under heavy guard." He paused, meeting each man's eyes in turn. "But remember—Morag comes first. If ye have tae choose between killin’ Fraser's men and protecting her, choose her."

"Aye, me laird," came the unanimous response.

Colin rose, checking his weapons one final time. "When ye see me signal—three horn blasts—we attack from all sides at once. Questions?"

There were none. These were seasoned fighters who trusted their laird's tactical mind.

MacLeod shifted restlessly. "How dae we breach their perimeter without alertin’ the whole camp?"

"We dinnae breach it," Colin said grimly. "We go through it. But nae all of us. Niven," he said finally. "Ye and I will go. "We will strike their supply wagons. Create chaos, set fires. That will be our signal."

"Me laird," Duncan protested, "if somethin’ happens tae ye?—"

"Then Niven takes command and gets our people home safe," Colin cut him off. "But naething's going tae happen. We get in, find what we need, and get out. When ye see flames in the enemy camp, that's yer signal tae attack. Hit them hard and fast while they're confused."

He traced arrows on his dirt map, showing attack routes. "MacLeod, take ten men and strike their horse lines first. Scatter their mounts, cut off any chance of organized pursuit. Duncan, take the rest and hit their supply wagons. Create as much chaos as possible."

"What about Fraser himself?" one of the soldiers asked.

Colin's expression went deadly cold. "Leave Fraser tae me."

An hour later, Colin and Niven bellied through the tall grass at the camp's edge, moving with the patience of seasoned hunters. The sentries were lazy, more concerned with staying warm than watching for enemies they didn't expect to find.

"Guard post ahead," Niven breathed, barely audible. "Two men by the supply wagons."

Colin nodded, drawing his dirk. They split apart, circling the guards like wolves stalking prey. The men died quietly, throats cut before they could cry out, their bodies dragged into the shadows between the wagons.

"Grain sacks," Colin noted, examining the supplies. " Perfect."

Working quickly, they punctured several sacks, letting the contents spill onto the canvas. Niven produced a small fire steel from his belt, but Colin caught his arm.

"Nae yet. We need tae find me wife first."

They slipped deeper into the camp, moving between tents with deadly purpose. The layout was haphazard—Fraser's men had pitched their shelters wherever they found flat ground, creating a maze of canvas and rope.

Near the center of the camp, they found what they were looking for. A large pavilion tent, richly decorated with Fraser colors, surrounded by a ring of guards. Six men stood watch, alert and well-armed.

"Fraser's tent," Colin whispered, his hand tightening on his dirk. "She has tae be in there."

As they crept closer, voices drifted from a group of men warming themselves around a nearby fire.

"...can't believe Fraser's keepin’ the Armstrong wench in his own tent," one was saying. "Askin’ fer trouble, if ye ask me."

"Aye, well, naebody's askin’ ye," another replied with a laugh. "Besides, where else would he put her? Can't trust the lads nae tae have a go, and Fraser wants her unmarked fer whatever he's planning."

Colin's blood ran cold. She's in there. Right there, twenty yards away.

He started to move forward, but Niven's iron grip stopped him.

"Six guards, Colin. Maybe more inside. We can't take them quietly."

"I don't care about quiet," Colin snarled, but even as he said it, he knew his friend was right. A direct assault would bring the entire camp down on them before they could reach Morag.

"We stick tae the plan," Niven insisted. "Create chaos, then strike in the confusion."

Frustrated, but knowing it was their only chance, Colin nodded. They began working their way back toward the supply wagons, but their luck ran out at the worst possible moment.

"Ye there! What are ye daeing?"

The challenge came from a Fraser soldier who'd emerged from behind a tent, probably relieving himself. He was too far away to reach with a blade, too close to ignore.

Colin's mind raced through options, but there was only one choice that might work. He stepped into the firelight, projecting the arrogant confidence of a man who belonged there.

"Orders from Fraser," he said curtly. "Checking the perimeter."

The soldier squinted at him suspiciously. "Dinnae recognize ye. What's yer name?"

"New recruit," Colin replied, taking a step closer. "Just arrived from the northern clans."

But the soldier's expression was already changing, suspicion turning to alarm as he took in Colin's clothes, his weapons, the way he carried himself.

"Ye're nae a Fraser?—"

Colin's dirk took him in the throat before he could finish the sentence, but the damage was done. His dying cry echoed across the camp, and suddenly shouts erupted from every direction.

"Intruders! Intruders in the camp!"

"Back tae the wagons!" Colin hissed, grabbing Niven's arm. "Now!"

They ran through the maze of tents as the camp erupted around them. Men poured from their shelters, weapons in hand, searching for the source of the alarm. Torches flared to life, turning night into flickering day.

Colin struck the fire steel as they reached the oil-soaked supplies, sparks catching in the spilled fuel. Flames roared to life, racing across the grain sacks and up the canvas wagon covers. Within moments, half the supply train was engulfed in a roaring inferno.

"This way!" Niven shouted over the crackling flames and shouting men.

They ran for the camp's edge as Fraser's soldiers converged on the fire, some trying to douse the flames, others searching for the saboteurs. An arrow hissed past Colin's ear, then another.

"There! The bastards are escaping!"

A squad of Fraser men broke away from the fire, pursuing them into the darkness. Colin and Niven ran with desperate speed, using every shadow and depression in the ground to mask their flight.

Behind them, the camp was in complete chaos. Flames leaped high into the night sky, ammunition began exploding in the burning wagons, and horses screamed in terror as the fire spread.

They reached their own men just as Fraser's pursuers caught up. Steel rang on steel as the two forces clashed in the darkness, and the battle for Morag's life began in earnest.

But the initial skirmish was brief and brutal. Colin's men had the advantage of position and preparation, cutting down the Fraser pursuers before they could raise a proper alarm. Within minutes, the enemy soldiers lay dead in the heather, their blood dark against the earth.

"Back!" Colin commanded urgently. "Before the main force realizes what's happened!"

His warriors melted into the darkness, retreating to their prepared position on the rocky outcrop overlooking the Fraser camp.

Below them, the enemy settlement buzzed with activity as men investigated the disturbance, but the flames from the burning supply wagons created enough chaos to mask their withdrawal.

Niven was the first to speak. "What's our approach?"

"Direct assault on their main camp. Hard and fast while they're confused." Colin looked around at his men's faces, pale shadows in the darkness. "We go in like Highland warriors—screaming and wild. Make them think we're a hundred men instead of just a few."

The men nodded grimly. They'd followed Colin through worse odds before.

"Then may God preserve us all," Colin said grimly. "Fer Armstrong! Fer our lady! Listen fer me command!"

Colin's horn sounded three long, mournful notes across the Highland valley, and thirty Armstrong warriors erupted from the darkness like demons from hell itself.

MacLeod's group struck first, sweeping through the Fraser horse lines with brutal efficiency. Steel sang in the night air as startled guards fell beneath blades. Horses whinnied and reared, breaking their tethers to stampede through the camp in wild panic.

On the eastern flank, Duncan's men torched the supply wagons, sending flames leaping high into the star-filled sky. Barrels of oil exploded with thunderous crashes, ammunition cooked off in a series of sharp reports, and thick smoke began rolling across the camp.

But it was Colin's frontal assault that truly shattered Fraser's peace.

"ARMSTRONG!" The battle cry tore from thirty throats as they charged down the hillside, their weapons gleaming in the firelight. They moved like a Highland storm—wild, fierce, unstoppable.

Fraser sentries barely had time to sound the alarm before Colin's men were among them. Years of border warfare had honed these warriors to deadly perfection. They fought with the fury of men defending their own, every stroke calculated to kill.

Colin led the charge, his sword weaving deadly patterns as he cut through the enemy's outer defenses.

A Fraser spearman lunged at him—Colin sidestepped and opened the man's throat with a backhand slash.

Another came at him with an axe—Colin ducked under the swing and drove his dirk between the warrior's ribs.

Behind him, his men fought with equal savagery. Niven's blade work was poetry written in blood, each movement flowing into the next with lethal grace. Young Dougie fought beside him, his youthful enthusiasm tempered by years of training under Colin's watchful eye.

But even as they pressed their initial advantage, Colin could see the terrible mathematics of their situation. Fraser's men were recovering from the surprise, forming defensive lines, bringing their superior numbers to bear. For every enemy warrior that fell, two more seemed to take his place.

"Shield wall!" Colin roared as a group of Fraser soldiers charged them with lowered spears. "Lock shields and hold!"

His men responded instantly, their small round shields overlapping to form a bristling barrier of steel and leather. The Fraser charge broke against it like waves against granite, but Colin knew they couldn't hold this position for long.

An arrow hissed past his ear, then another. Fraser archers were finding the range now, raining death from the camp's perimeter. One of Colin's men cried out as a shaft took him in the shoulder, but he kept fighting.

"We need to break through!" Duncan shouted over the din of battle. "They're surrounding us!"

Colin could see it happening. Fraser warriors were moving to encircle his small force, using their numbers to cut off any retreat. Soon his men would be trapped in the center of the enemy camp with nowhere to run.

Think, ye fool. Ye’re a warrior.

His eyes swept the burning camp, searching for advantage. There—a gap in the Fraser lines where Duncan's diversionary attack had drawn defenders away. If they could punch through there, they might be able to reach the camp's center before being overwhelmed.

"Follow me!" Colin bellowed, breaking from the shield wall. "Push through their left flank!"

It was a desperate gamble, but it was all they had left. Colin's men followed him in a wedge formation, using their momentum to smash through the thinner enemy line. Steel clashed on steel as they fought their way deeper into the Fraser camp, leaving a trail of bodies in their wake.

The fighting was vicious now, hand-to-hand combat where skill mattered more than numbers.

Colin's sword took a Fraser warrior across the chest, spun to parry another's thrust, then drove his pommel into a third man's face.

Blood sprayed across his mail as he pressed forward, seeking any sign of where Morag might be held.

But Fraser's men were rallying, closing the gap his charge had opened. More enemies poured in from the camp's edges, their weapons glinting in the firelight. Colin could hear the ring of steel on steel, the grunts and cries of men locked in mortal combat.

One of his warriors fell—then another. The odds were simply too great.

"Me laird!" Niven appeared at Colin's shoulder, his sword red to the hilt. "We can't hold much longer! There are too many of them!"

Colin knew his friend was right. They'd fought bravely, fought well, but thirty men couldn't stand against an army. Unless something changed soon, they'd all die here in this burning camp, and Morag would be lost forever.