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The next day…

Bang. Bang. Bang.

Ian hammered at his father’s sword in the workshop that stood by the house. The edge glowed orange red, the heat emanating from it bringing droplets of sweat to Ian’s forehead, bare back, and chest. The scent of hot iron hung in the air.

He’d need the sword verra soon, and the blade had some indents and scratches, so Ian set about repairing it.

Earlier this morning, he’d taken his father’s claymore from where it hung proudly on the wall of the great hall, and carefully brushed his hand along the length of its blade. It was a simple sword. Leather bound the handle, the pommel was a circle, and the ends of the cross guard had rings welded together forming two four-leave clovers on each side.

And it was blessed by his father. Ian would honor his father and the whole clan by using it for good.

He hadn’t had any uisge since the day before he’d gone riding on Thor. He didn’t need any. The night with Kate had made him drunk from happiness, despite the threat coming ever closer.

“Lord! Lord!” cried a male voice outside of the smithy.

Ian raised his head. “In here.”

Steps pounded against dry dirt-packed ground. A thin figure appeared in the doorway. It was Frangean MacFilib who Ian had seen a few days ago. The lad’s clothes were torn, and dried blood sprayed his face.

Ian straightened, the hammer hanging heavy in his hand. “What is it?”

The lad dropped his hands to his knees and panted. “The Sassenachs. They raided the farm.” He lowered his head. “Killed Da.”

Ian’s fists clenched. He’d been so wrong to underestimate how fast the army could move. “Manning didna reach ye?”

“This morning. We tried to defend ourselves, but there were too many of them. Went like a knife through butter.”

Ian’s pulse pounded against his temples, darkness welling up inside his gut. “How many?”

“A hundred, I think.”

“A hundred…”

That must have been the garrison he’d encountered with Kate. They made it so fast. Too fast. A hundred wasn’t a large number for a war, but for a small landowner like Ian, with only about seventy tenants, this was an overwhelming force.

And now they’d started killing his people…

A mixture of guilt and dread weighed on his chest. He’d already broken his vow to never kill another man again. And God would punish him for it. But whatever was in the future, Ian couldn’t live with himself if he let any more of his people suffer.

Mayhap, all that he’d been through was for this moment. Mayhap, he’d become a ruthless killer because his people would need him to lead them. Mayhap, he needed to take responsibility for his clan so that they wouldn’t lose their freedom even if it meant giving up his own.

Ian laid the hammer down and wiped his forehead with the back of his arm. “What is happening at yer farm now, lad?”

“I got away without anyone seeing me. I heard talk that they'd occupy the farm first before moving south.”

Ian came to stand by the lad’s side. “I am sorry about yer father, Frangean.”

“I am sorry about yers, lord.”

“Thank ye. Do ye have a sword?”

“Nae.”

Ian nodded. “I have one for ye. ’Tis time to raise the fiery cross. Will ye come with me?”

The lad’s Adam’s apple bobbed under his sparse scruff as he swallowed. His eyes watered and reddened, but he lifted his chin. “Aye, lord.”

Ian clapped him on the shoulder. “Good. I wilna let another Sassenach pig touch more of my people as long as I still breathe. Come. Let’s show them whose land ’tis here.”