Page 15 of The Guardian

Chapter Six

Hendry refused to remain idle. Restless and still sore, he ignored the dull ache in his side and strode out to the training field, his boots crunching on the hardened earth. Sword practice echoed across the grounds, metal clashing, warriors grunting, and barked commands piercing the air. The familiar rhythm of drills brought a measure of calm to his unsettled mind.

Liam stepped up beside him, arms crossed, his gaze trained on the line of archers loosing arrows at straw targets. The steady thwack of shafts hitting their marks filled the air.

“Ye are looking better,” Liam remarked, cutting a glance at him. “Still pale as a corpse, though.”

Hendry smirked. “And ye look like one who lost a wager and got dragged behind his horse.”

Liam’s bruised jaw and swollen eye told the tale. Purple bloomed across one cheekbone, and the corner of his lip was split. Still, he didn’t flinch from the jab.

“Cormac was cruel to a young lad,” Liam muttered, his voice low and tight. “I’ll nae stand for that, especially if it’s someone who cannae defend himself.”

Hendry nodded, his respect for his friend deepening. “I heard. I’d have done the same. Cormac’s as dense as stone. A knock to the head might actually help.”

Liam chuckled, then winced and touched his side. “Aye, worth even the aching ribs.”

The two of them stood in silence, the cool breeze stirring the scent of sweat, leather, and the faint iron tang of sharpening blades. But Hendry’s thoughts weren’t on drills or bruised egos. As the sun climbed toward its descent, unease bloomed inside him.

The patrol should return soon.

He prayed they’d come bearing news, and prisoners. Every hour that passed gave the attackers more time to vanish into the forests, or worse, escape the isle altogether. Despite the border patrols, the wild terrain of Skye was riddled with hidden paths, and the mainland was only just over a day’s ride away.

By the time the sun hovered low in the sky, casting a golden haze over the compound, the returning riders appeared on the horizon. Their massive warhorses trotted in, eager for rest and feed, snorting and pawing the earth as squires rushed forward prepared to take the reins and the warrior’s weapons to clean.

But there were no prisoners in tow.

Hendry’s chest tightened. The look in the men’s eyes told him everything. Faces drawn, jaws clenched, disappointment and something darker etched in every line. He strode toward the warrior he’d placed in charge, his voice clipped. “What happened?”

The man’s expression turned grim. “We found a man. Wounded. Beaten the same way as ye. He died before we reached his home, but he was able to give us a description of the ones who did it.”

Hendry’s breath caught. The warrior didn’t need to elaborate. The image was clear: blood, desperation, a final whisper of justice before a family’s world was shattered. That grief, raw and consuming, would follow them for many months, if not years.

Word spread quickly. Hendry joined the patrol in reporting to the laird.

Inside the great hall, tension crackled in the air as they recounted the news. Laird Alexander Ross, normally calm and composed, surged to his feet. Fury carved deep into his features, his hand slamming onto the table with such force that goblets rattled and the room fell instantly silent.

“At dawn,” the laird’s voice thundered, “the entire force rides out. Every mile of Ross land will be searched. Every croft, every barn, every crumbling ruin. No corner left unturned.”

He paused, his next words seething with righteous wrath.

“We will find the cowards. And make them pay.”

A roar of agreement erupted in the hall. Blades were unsheathed and raised high, the warriors chanting as one, voices rough with fury and justice.

“Death to them! Death to them!”

The cry echoed like a war drum, a storm gathering on the horizon. And Hendry stood among them, his pain forgotten, his blood humming with the promise of retribution.

The moment the warriors’ chants echoed through the hall Hendry’s thoughts flew to her.

Ailith.

His chest tightened painfully. Would the bastards, cornered and desperate, stumble upon her secluded cottage? Would they see her simple home as the perfect place to hide? To take what they needed?

To hurt her?

The thought sliced through him sharper than any blade. He pressed a hand to the edge of the table, steadying himself, though no one seemed to notice he was quiet.