Excerpt from Beneath the Highland Skies by Ethan Blackwood
Prologue - The Assassin
Ewan McWhorter was born wielding a sword under the Highland Sky. This evening, Isobel Campbell had been tasked with making sure he died the same way.
Isobel checked her ropes and harness carefully, and repelled down the Crag of Echoes toward the United Clan’s secret camp. She landed mere inches from a sentry who heard nothing and saw even less. She drew her twin daggers from the sheaths hidden deep within her robes as she shook her head in disgust. Untrained. Undisciplined. It was truly outstanding that Ewan had been able to bring these men this far against her father, Chieftain Murdoch Campbell.
Isobel moved through the shadows of the camp like smoke, reaching the warlord’s tent undetected. More sentries stood guard, but they were lulled into a false sense of security, convinced no one could penetrate this deep. Isobel could have slit their throats just to prove them wrong, but that wasn’t her task. There was no need to spill the blood of ten men when only one was required.
With one fluid motion, she slipped inside. She rolled under the cot, lying still in the dark, gathering every ounce of her will for the final thrust. With a savage, guttural scream, she lunged upward, driving both blades through the mattress, one where Ewan’s heart should have been, the other through the space where he should have rested his head.
Both blades stuck fast in the wood frame with a jarring thwack.
She retrieved her blades, and rolled out from under the bed. The tent flap fluttered open. Ewan McWhorter stepped inside, his brow furrowed from a late-night stroll.
He looked at the shredded cot, then shifted his gaze to Isobel. He reached for the broadsword leaning against the corner. “You almost got me that time.”
He swung the sword in a practiced, heavy arc, but Isobel didn't retreat. She slipped under his guard with the grace of a dancer, wrapping her arms tightly around his waist in a warm embrace. "You're getting predictable," Isobel replied.
He looked down, the mischief fading from his eyes as he tilted her chin up to kiss her.
Lachlann Robertson stepped into the tent behind him and let out an exaggerated, weary sigh. “Good evening, Isobel. Sent to kill us all, I wager?”
“My father only sent me to kill Ewan, Lock. Father seems to think the rest of the United Clans would fall apart the moment he’s gone.”
Lock crossed his arms. “Oh, sure. Let’s kill the hero. He’s so bloody important.”
Isobel teased him, “Are you looking to die, then?”
“No,” Lock grumbled, “I just want to be important enough that someone actually bothers to try!”
Isobel finally separated herself from Ewan, giving Lock a soft, familiar squeeze on the arm as she passed. “Don’t worry, old friend. I am sure someday I will have to kill you, too.” She reached into her sleeve, unfurling a concealed scroll across the bed. “Come see, Ewan. I have the latest field reports.”