Page 2 of The Guardian

“This is nae yer first time robbing someone. Is it?” Hendry asked, stopping all pretense of untying the pouch. He held his sword toward the man nearest and took quick steps to close the distance.

The man with the sword began swinging wildly, his wide eyes moving to the one who held a dagger, as if asking why it took so long for him to throw.

Ensuring to keep moving, Hendry did his best to avoid being struck by a dagger while blocking against the wide swings. If not for the danger of death, he would find parrying against such an untrained fighter hilarious.

“If ye dinnae stop, ye will hurt yerself,” he teased, as he swung his sword with a swift motion cutting across the man’s wrist sending the man’s sword flying.

The man grabbed his injured hand, and while yelling out curses, he ran to stand behind the other man, who now held a dagger in each hand.

Instinct told Hendry that this one was lethal. It was in the eyes. Men who killed and enjoyed it, had hollow empty eyes. All humanity had been replaced with a need to kill again. The intoxicating exhilaration of domination, and the thrill of taking a life becomes nigh irresistible to men like that.

Keeping his attention on the man’s hands, he moved across toward his steed, hoping to grab his shield. The first dagger flew across the air. Hendry saw it, jerked sideways, but the weapon managed to cut through his left side.

The grungy man cackled. “I can kill ye where ye stand and take yer coin. Be a good boy and save me the trouble.”

Hendry wasn’t fooled. The man was enjoying the hunt, wanted to prolong the time between injuring him and killing him.

“I am a guard for Laird Ross. Be on yer way,” Hendry growled. “Ye will nae win.”

Again the man cackled, this time joined by the other one. “I beg to differ,” the man replied.

Hendry watched the man’s hand, concentrating so as to see when he flicked his wrist in hopes of avoiding the dagger.

Just as the man lifted his hand, his eyes moved past him. Unsure if it was a trick to take his attention away, Hendry refused to look.

At first, he wasn’t sure what had happened. The sharp pain on his right side was startling. A second later, he realized it had not been a trick. Another person had come from behind and plunged a blade into him. A blow to the back of the head made a sick cracking sound, and Hendry fell face-first into the dirt. His vision swam as he struggled to get to all fours. It proved impossible, and he collapsed just as darkness took over.

Something nudged him. Hendry fought to open his eyes until finally he could see light. Everything swayed, as if the world was tilting until he had to close his eyes to keep from throwing up. Waves of nausea and an excruciating headache made it hard for him to get up.

Another nudge and he turned his head to the right and peeked through barely open eyes. It was his horse. The creature appeared to be aware something was amiss with Hendry.

“I am alive horse,” he grunted. “Stop moving me.”

The horse responded by shoving his large nose against Hendry’s face, seemingly glad to hear him speak.

It took a while before he finally pushed from the ground onto his knees. His stomach rolled, and he crawled on all fours to the creek. Each movement sending shards of pain down his sides where he’d been cut. The injuries, headache, and nausea made for a miserable trek.

At last, Hendry reached the stream. He staggered to his knees and plunged his face into the water, the cold bite shocking his skin. He drank deeply. The chill easing the fire in his throat, but the true torment throbbed inside his skull.

He threw up, dry heaving once his stomach was empty. Each time, his left side protesting with piercing pain.

It took colossal effort to climb onto the horse. The injury on his right side was not deep, but stab had fully penetrated through his side, but it had cut deeply enough that blood seeped through his tunic. The blow to the head was causing the disorientation and a headache so piercing, he wanted to pull his hair out.

The nearest place he could go was the cottage belonging to Ailith Shaw. A widow who never ceased to hide her disdain for him. Unfortunately, he had to get shelter somewhere. Staying in the woods could prove fatal if the bandits returned to ensure he was truly dead or if he bled out.

Hendry’s head swam, his vision blurring and clearing. Every glint of sunlight that filtered through the trees made him flinch, the brightness like shards of glass to his sensitive eyes. The headache persisted, and several times his stomach tumbled, but as nothing was left in his stomach, the nausea made him lean to the side and dry heave. Hendry clung to consciousness by sheer will, his grip slack on the reins, his body swaying like a drunkard in the saddle. Each step the horse took jarred his wound. He muttered curses under his breath.

Just when he was on the verge of giving up and finding a place to hide in some foliage, Ailith’s humble cottage came into view.

He didn’t dismount. He collapsed. His boots hit the ground first, knees buckling as he dropped out of the saddle and stumbled toward the door. His body gave a final protest, swaying violently before he slumped down beside the threshold. With trembling fingers, he reached out and knocked…three weak raps.

A dog barked from within, a furious warning. Then silence.

No footsteps. No voice. No sign of her.

He lifted his hand again to knock but froze as a surge of nausea rose like a wave and crashed over him. He fell forward onto all fours, heaving again. Pain tore through his side, the wound feeling as if tearing open, fresh blood dripped soaking into the dirt. But the aching was nothing compared to the dagger cleaving through his skull.

With sweat slicking his brow, blood darkening his tunic, and the world spinning beneath him, Hendry slumped against the doorframe and closed his eyes. If he was to die, at least she would inform the laird, who would, in turn, send a messenger to his family.