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Alasdair

“John, get behind me when you need to!”

“I’m fine, Da.”

Alasdair didn’t like fighting like this because the small space restricted the arc of his weapon. It was a central area that had been there for a long time, if he were to guess, the different paths likely built at different times.

From what he could determine, there were eight men attacking the four of them, though the weapons were much smaller than the Grant swords.

He swung at one, a false swing, before he changed his drive and thrust into the man’s belly, dropping him to the ground, though he had to fight to retrieve his weapon.

“Da!” John shouted, swinging his sword at the man who came at him while he readied himself.

“Behind you, John. I’m fine.”

Broc let out a Grant war whoop just before he felled one of his attackers. Alaric followed his lead and whooped behind Broc, taking another one down.

But Alasdair struggled. He’d never had this much trouble fighting; he hadn’t been fed much, and his thirst was overwhelming, so his strength waned because of it.

All he could think of was his father, how hard they’d always said Jake Grant fought. How he had the power of five men when he fought. Until the day he died.

Was he about to follow in his father’s footsteps? Nay. His bairns were too young. He was not ready to leave his wife and bairns behind.

“Nay, Da. I’m too young. Not yet,” he whispered to himself. “Help me. Da? Grandda? I’m fading.”

The man he fought became more aggressive, making swings he wasn’t anticipating. Then the bastard caught his thigh, almost dropping him, but he had a sudden surge of power that shocked him. He lifted his sword as if it were but a twig. What had happened?

The smell of mint leaves overpowered him. His sire was here, almost as if his arms were supporting Alasdair’s. He deftly blocked three swings from his opponent. Then an unknown force overtook him, lifting his sword with a power he hadn’t had a few moments ago.

Grant giggled loudly, and John’s sword took on its blue glow.

The opponents dropped in such quick succession that it took Alasdair by surprise.

He thought he was about to take a sword to his belly, but instead, his sire had somehow given him the strength and direction to end his fight, dropping his attacker easily.

His leg bled from the one strike, but not too badly.

Spinning around, he watched a magical display as Broc finished his attacker, then Alaric ended his battle, and finally John struck the last man in the tunnels.

Maitland exclaimed, “What the hell was that? I’ve never seen anything like it. Well done.”

Alasdair fought to regain his breath, heaving from the exertion of fighting in such a small space. Broc had turned back to his mother, checking on her, but all were hale.

“Mama, can you walk up the stairs? We’re getting out of here. Da and Uncle Connor are waiting down the path.”

“I can if you let me hold your arm, Broc. I’m just a bit weak.”

“Then I’m carrying you out of here. When we’re outside, you can stand.”

Alaric led the way toward the stairs, Broc behind him carrying his mother, then Maitland, John, and Alasdair.

As soon as they all stepped out of the stairs, they froze at the sight in front of them.

Kelvan sat atop his horse, his arms crossed. “My thanks for bringing them up. This makes it easier for us now. Glenna?” he asked, looking over his shoulder at his wife on a horse behind him, a wide grin on her face. “Which one do you wish to start with?”

She pointed to Alasdair. “I want Kyla’s son. Time to chop off a hand.”