The building would be in the old style - one -room floors connected by a spiral staircase - and it would do no good to announce his arrival by tumbling down the attic steps. Campbell's room would be on an upper floor, and would likely be empty. But he'd need to tread with care as he approached the lower floors. It was late, and MacColla hoped either sleep or drink - or perhaps both - would make easy work of dispatching his enemy's men.
MacColla wagered he'd find his sister in the cellars on the ground floor. Rather, it was where he hoped he'd find her. The guards wouldn't want to spend much time in the vaults beneath the castle, likely thick with rats, urine, and damp. If they used Jean even now, it was above ground that MacColla would find her, and he'd prefer finding his sister bound and untouched than being used for sport in the castle hall.
He sensed the opening in front of him, even before his toes slid over the lip of the first step. MacColla took his dirk in his left hand and felt his way down the tight spiral stairs that had been hacked crudely into the stone. He came to a landing and, shifting his dirk back to his right hand, gave himself a moment to let his eyes adjust to the fall of light and shadow in what was a much larger space.
Every floor will look this way, he thought, easily imagining the castle in his mind's eye. One of the lower stones would house whatever family Campbell chose to keep close, below that would be a great hall, and the kitchen and cellars would be on the ground level.
He scanned the room. A wardrobe, some chests, and a desk emerged from the shadows. It was well appointed, considering. This one would be the chief's then. MacColla spat in the direction of Campbell's bed, a gray hulk faintly illuminated by what was less a window than a rectangular hole to the outside.
MacColla continued down, opening his senses wide. Men were close, and he'd rather keep the benefit of surprise.
Eyes wide in the dark and nostrils flared, he was like a wild hunting thing, taking the measure of the floor below through pure instinct.
Distant snores. The quiet rumble of two men's voices speaking in a hush. Firelight licking at the bottom steps, too weak to cut through the black shadows of the stairwell. The charred bite of wood smoke in his inuses, overlaid with the sour tang of ale gone foul.
A voice jarred the relative calm. Much closer than the others. A third man, then, sitting just out of view of the staircase. MacColla crept down and into the orange firelight of the landing. Two sat at their ease in chairs in front of the fire, nursing their cups. The third sat on a small stool, his back to MacColla.
MacColla slid behind him and, for one strange moment, felt the rumble of the man's low laugh reverberate through his own chest as he slipped his hand around the Campbell's forehead, pulling him close to slit his throat.
The man's death was silent, but the scrape of his stool was not, and he soon had the attention of the other two Campbell clansmen. The taller one raised a call of alarm, but MacColla was unfazed.
He dropped their dead kin to the ground and stepped over him to assume a ready posture. He'd let the first move be theirs, as that was often when men made their fatal mistakes. Legs apart and knees bent, his arms held just up and out from his sides, MacColla was a stalking animal poised to pounce.
And the first to move was indeed the first to fall. The taller of the two Campbell men leapt forward, slashing his broadsword as he lunged toward MacColla. But MacColla caught him easily, seizing the man's sword arm with his left hand, and impaling the Campbell with his dirk.
The hush in the room was palpable, with a few grunts, heavy breathing, and the scrape of chairs the only things to echo off the stark stone walls.
He could see that the second man would pose more of a challenge, despite his much smaller size. The other Campbell man was fast, faster than MacColla, whose six foot six inches of brawn made him powerful but somewhat stiff when it came to combat in close quarters.
The Campbell kinsman didn't have a sword to hand so he jabbed at MacColla with a small dagger pulled from his boot. MacColla pulled back, but not fast enough to avoid the bite of the blade at his chest. The pain focused him, and he peeled his lips back into a snarl.
The Campbell pestered him with much hopping and a few quick feints and stabs of his small blade.
“Enough.” MacColla slashed his dirk down and standing so much taller, he easily caught the flesh at the man's collarbone.
The Campbell glanced at his bloodied shoulder and panic replaced what had been arrogance just a moment before. Frantic now in what he knew was a fight for his life, the man dashed to MacColla's unguarded left side, but before he could strike, MacColla flexed his arm.
Sometimes, he thought, a man simply prefers his fists. MacColla's bicep was a thick mass of muscle, straining like a rock against his linen shirt. He pulled back and swung, clubbing away his enemy's blade and striking him squarely on the jaw.
The sharp, clipped sound of pain shattered the focused quiet of the chamber, and MacColla's grimace turned into a smile. Flipping the dirk in his hand, he tucked the blade close against his forearm and punched the side of the man's head, his broad fist landing with devastating force across the Campbell's temple and ear. Dead weight fell with a crash that belied the man's small stature.
MacColla was primed now. He descended the stairs and came to the great hall. The snores he'd heard two stories up echoed off the cold stone. A low fire flickered, mostly a few angry embers casting amber light across the men strewn on blankets in front of the hearth. The acrid smell of piss and ale filled the room, and MacColla could tell he'd likely have no need to blood his blade further while these half-wits slept off their drink. In fact, he thought, looking toward the main door with a smile, he fancied that once Jean was safe in his charge, the two of them could even take the civilized way out.
The steps connecting the great hall to the floor below were wooden, rotted and bowed with age. MacColla tread along the very outer edge, but it wasn't enough to avoid the complaining creak of old timber underfoot.
He paused and held his breath, then moved down in a swift, final burst. If someone had heard him, he'd face them head-on. Otherwise, he'd not tarry, wanting to get to his sister as quickly as possible.
The kitchen had a low, vaulted ceiling and brick walls covered in a decades-old veneer of oil and soot. An elderly woman slept curled close to the hearth. A few coals remained, smoldering amidst the thick blanket of black ash that had been the cook fire.
Some sort of lumpy, beige stew congealed in a cast-iron pot above it. Potatoes. MacColla scowled. His days in Ireland had cured him of the taste of potatoes forever. His grandmother had railed against the foreign, dirty little things. Swore up and down that a food not found in the Bible wasn't fit to be found on a good Christian table . She'd relented only after they'd sprinkled the ugly lumps with some holy water, and they'd been a staple with the MacDonald clan in Ireland ever since.
MacColla worked his way through two narrow pantries and a buttery before discovering the padlocked door. The lock was a rusted old thing, and he wasted a few minutes jiggling his dirk through the keyhole in an effort to spring it. Growing impatient, he finally just drew his arm back and sheared the hasp from the door with the butt of his weapon.
Jean cried out at the intrusion, and the sound near broke his heart. His sister stood in the pitch-black of a dank vaulted cellar, squinting and blinking her eyes rapidly to adjust to what was merely the faint ambient light of the kitchen.
Fury boiled in him.
“It's me, lass. Alasdair.” He ran to her, lifting her easily into his arms, and the sight of the filth that soaked the hem of her dress made something in him snap. “Och, Jeannie… bonny wee Jeannie.” Anguish tightened his voice as he scanned her body for signs of misuse.