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The sound of footsteps in the hallway woke Konnor later that night. Using an old soldier’s trick, he opened his eyes without moving another muscle. He was still in his room in the castle. It was dark, the middle of the night, and the torch on the wall was out. He was alone, as far as he could tell.

He heard another scrape of a shoe against the stone floor from somewhere outside his room. He automatically slid his hand under his pillow for a weapon, only to find nothing there. He cursed inwardly. Of course, he didn’t have a gun, or even a knife. The castle was full of swords and spears and arrows, but he didn’t have anything.

He sat up and reached for the crutch. He’d gotten the hang of it during the day, making his way up and down the stairs and along the uneven stone floors and the courtyard. Without putting his shoes on, he stood up and made his way towards the exit. He put the end of the wooden crutch against the floor as quietly as he could. Once he came to the door, he listened. Someone yelped, and then there were muffled grunts and curses.

Hell.

Marjorie’s room was next to his. He opened the door to a slit. The landing was lit up by a torch.

Empty.

The sounds came from the circular flight of stairs leading to the next floor. Metal clanked softly, barely audible. Steps.

That didn’t sound good at all.

Konnor took the crutch in his hands like a weapon and moved onto the landing without a sound, ignoring the pain in his ankle. A muffled cry reached him from upstairs.

What was there? Someone’s room? Konnor made his way towards the stairs, making sure he stepped without a sound. Halfway up the stairs, he heard a voice.

“Dinna make a sound, or I’ll cut yer throat,” a man whispered loudly.

Konnor peeked around the round wall at the next landing, his ankle tearing him apart from pain,. Empty. But one of the doors was open.

He moved towards it and looked inside. There were three men in the room. Two held a boy in his bed, trying to tie him up. One stood by the door with his back to Konnor.

Konnor didn’t hesitate. He took five steps and hit the back of the man’s head with the crutch. The intruder fell to the floor like a rock. The two others looked up at Konnor, as did the boy. He was probably ten years old, eyes big and white against the darkness of the room, and he thrashed and kicked in the hands of the fuckers.

Fire lit Konnor’s blood. He wouldn’t let them hurt the child.

One of the men left the side of the bed and drew his sword. The blade glistened in the moonlight. He thrust the sword, but Konnor ducked, stepped aside, and hit his side with the crutch. The guy crumpled but rose to his feet again.

The boy thrashed harder, and the man by his side grunted in pain. The boy’s scream pierced the air. A hard slap followed, and he was silent for a moment. He screamed again, but the man gagged him.

“Finish him,” the guy growled. “He’s just a cripple with a stick!”

A cripple with a stick? Konnor swung the crutch and struck the man on the side of his head. His sword fell to the floor with a loud bang, and Konnor leaned down to take it, but his opponent was smarter than he’d thought. The man thrust both elbows into the back of Konnor’s head. Pain exploded in his head. He fell forward and landed against a wall, knocking wooden swords and shields that hung there.

There was one real sword that glistened in the light of the fireplace. Konnor grabbed it, spun around, and slashed at the man. The blade sliced through flesh, and blood sprayed on Konnor as the man yelled in pain and fell.

Without knowing if he was holding it right, Konnor thrust the sword towards the third guy but hit only air. The man holding the boy let him go, and the boy removed the gag from his mouth. The guy drew his own sword and came towards Konnor making a series of downward strikes. Konnor defended himself from the thrusts with his sword and moved back step by step. Clunk. Clunk. Clunk. The room was filled with the ring of metal against metal.

From the corner of his eye, Konnor saw Marjorie appear in the room, a sword in her hand, and fear for her twisted in his gut. He had to act. The man he faced wasn’t bigger than him, but he was much more experienced. Konnor took the initiative and went on the offensive, but the man easily deflected his strikes.

Somewhere in the storm of sharp swords, blood, the unconscious man lying on the ground, and the men’s attempt to hurt Marjorie, a thought entered his mind.

This is real.

He knew it like he knew he might die by the sword wielded by this intruder. This castle wasn’t a small medieval community. It wasn’t a cult. And it wasn’t a dream. Whatever explanation there was for all this, this was a different world—or era—altogether.

Suddenly, time travel didn’t seem like such an impossible explanation.

Konnor’s back was against the wall. The man raised his sword high above his head. Just as Konnor stared death in the face, Marjorie appeared behind the man and pressed the edge of a sword to his neck. The man froze, his eyes wide.

“Aye, ye pig,” Marjorie said. “If yer life is dear to ye, throw yer claymore on the floor far away from ye and step away from him.”

The man’s lip curved downward in an angry snarl. He threw the sword, and it landed on the floor with a loud clank. Konnor put the tip of his own weapon to the man’s throat.

“Put your hands behind your head,” Konnor said. “And lie on the floor facedown.”