Chapter ThirteenI turned quickly, prepared to run or fight, but Lachlan was fully armed and staring at me. Lifting a hand to his shoulder, he lifted free his claymore and held it across his chest, preparing to strike.
Ill Will” he said, and his voice was soft as a summer's breeze and as friendly as the snarl of a trapped wolf. “Ill met, Ill Will.” He was as broad and ugly as ever, with the chain mail reaching past his knees and starlight playing the full length of that deadly claymore.
“Ill met indeed,” I agreed, eyeing the sword. If Lachlan chose to kill me, I would stand no chance, but even in my defenceless state I was still a warrior. I would run from Alistair and Aela, and know that I was right, but I could not flee from a straightforward fight and keep any self respect. I prepared
