Page 74 of Highlander’s Heart

“Here!” he cried. “Here, ye English bastarts. Ye pig cocks. Here, take me!”

And as heads turned to him and three men ran at him, he went somewhere else. To the place where his head became empty. Where body and his instincts reigned, where his claymore sang its uneven, deadly song. Where he was free of thought and doubt.

He set the killer within him free.

Bodies fell. His blade sprayed blood. He sweated and ached. And his sword wanted more.

He didn’t know how long he fought before a familiar face staring up into the sky made him stop. Alan. Dead. A gaping wound in his stomach.

Ian turned around and saw more Highlanders wounded or dead. Alpin Mac a' Bhàird, Caden Rosach, Donal Umphraidh… Many, many more. He became aware of the smell of burning flesh and woodsmoke in the air, so thick he could taste it on his tongue. Nausea rose in his throat.

They were losing.

They’d already lost. He could see only half of his men still standing, and many more English.

His stomach sank. What had he done—he’d sentenced his people to slaughter. Two men fought with Frangean, and Ian went towards him to help.

Ian didn’t see the man coming until he was upon him, a big Englishman with a wolfish grin. A huge, black-haired monster of a man. His sword gleamed as it came towards Ian’s throat. He wouldn’t even have a moment to block him.

Goodbye, Kate.

He closed his eyes.

A low, pained grunt came… But Ian didn’t feel anything. He opened his eyes. A spear pierced the man’s stomach, his hand grasping the end that protruded.

“Cruachan! Cruachan!” called dozens of voices over the rumble of horses’ hooves.

From the darkness of the woods, the fierce riders descended, swinging their swords, cutting down the shocked English.

Who?

Craig’s drawn face among the first row of the riders said it all. Owen rode right next to him, taking down the English one after another.

They came.

With renewed strength, Ian called, “Cruachan! Our brothers have come!”

But whether that would be enough or he’d be sentencing even more people to death, he didn’t know.

All he knew was that he was not ready to say goodbye to Kate. And all he could do was fight.

* * *

Kate paced the woods. When she’d seen Ian and his men go into battle, she’d brought the horse closer to the action in case they needed immediate help.

Her hand on Ian’s dagger, she paced between two trees, her eyes glued to the orange-red glow in the small valley below.

Shadows and figures flickered there. Men fighting with swords, with fists, men throwing each other in the fire. The scent of burning hair and flesh was like a sickening barbecue. Cries of pain, fury, and surprise reached her, as well.

She didn’t know how long she waited. Time lost its meaning while the images of Ian wounded and hurt invaded her mind. They knocked the air out of her lungs and made her gasp like an asthmatic.

“Oh, Ian,” she whispered over and over again, “please be all right.”

Then, surprising herself she prayed, “God, please keep him safe.”

A tall, muscular figure walked towards her from the direction of the farm, holding a sword in one hand. She couldn’t see the man’s face, but his broad-shouldered stance, like he was ready to take on the world, could only belong to Ian. Relief flooded her, filling her lungs with freshness and life.

“Oh, thank God!” she cried and flew into his arms.