“They should be just ahead. Here, let me lead the way so ye do no’ come upon them unexpectedly and take a tumble. They’re steep, the edges on the stairs deadly sharp. Ye do no’ want to tangle with them.”
Conran stopped and turned sideways in the narrow passage. Pressing his back tight to the wall, he held his torch high and waited for the older man to slide past. It was a tight fit, but the Maclean managed it. Although the wince that crossed his face, and his sudden inhalation halfway through the maneuver, suggested to Conran that the old man might have rubbed his injured behind up against the opposite wall in passing. Fearghas didn’t complain about it. However, Conran noted that he was hobbling a little more than he had before as he led the way to the stairs.
“It’s narrow and turns,” the Maclean warned, pausing suddenly. When he put one hand out to the side to brace himself, Conran suspected they’d reached the stairs and held his torch up a little higher. Over the man’s shoulder, he could see the steps hewn into the stone, and that they disappeared around a curve. They were entering the wall of the tower now, the stairs following the curve around the outside as they descended.
Conran waited, watching until the man was three or four steps down. He started to follow then, but a noise behind him made him hesitate. Turning, he held the torch up and started back the way they’d come, his eyes narrowing as he searched the shadows. He didn’t see anything, but something had made that noise.
“Oy! What’s happening? The light is dimming. Buchanan?” the Maclean shouted, sounding distressed.
“I’m here,” Conran reassured him, spinning back the way he’d come. He started forward, but a slight sound, almost like an exhalation, made him stop once more. Before he could turn again to look around, he was punched in the upper back.
Caught by surprise, Conran stumbled forward three steps. It was only three, because on the third when his foot came down, the ground suddenly wasn’t there. It was the first stair tread leading down, but by the time he realized that, it was too late. He’d lost his balance and was falling.
Conran shouted as he went. He heard the Maclean’s responding shout of alarm, and then he was crashing and rolling down the stairs, pain exploding in his head, his shoulder, his leg. He was vaguely aware of something catching at his plaid at one point, but it barely slowed him. A tearing sound rent the air as he continued careening down the sharp, hard steps. By the time Conran came to a halt at the bottom of what he’d begun to think was an endless stairwell, he was hurting everywhere. But he hadn’t been knocked unconscious. That was something.
“Buchanan!” That shout was followed by the sound of the Maclean hobbling quickly down the stairs after him and he wondered a little dazedly how he hadn’t knocked the man down in the narrow space, and sent him tumbling too.
“Are ye all right, lad?” The Maclean’s voice sounded closer this time and Conran wanted to tell him he was all right, but was busy trying not to scream in pain. Dear God, he hurt everywhere, but his back hurt the worst.
Something brushed up against Conran’s foot, but he couldn’t see what in the darkness, so was relieved when the Maclean spoke. “That’s you, is it? Damn, lad, ye took a hell of a tumble.” His voice was at the same level as Conran now, and he guessed that the man had dropped to his knees beside him. “I should have warned ye the stairs were uneven and like to trip ye up if ye were no’ careful.”
“I didn’t trip. I was pushed,” Conran hissed through his gritted teeth.
“Pushed?” Fearghas gasped with a new alarm.
“Aye, well, punched in the back, really,” he said grimly. “Either way, I didn’t fall, and the bastard is here somewhere.”
“Damn, he could be creeping up on us as we speak,” the Maclean growled. “It’s bloody dark in here without the torch. I can no’ see a thing, whether we’re alone, how badly ye’re hurt, nothing.”
Conran had no idea where the torch was. He’d dropped it as he fell, and it had apparently gone out. He didn’t bother to say that though; he was busy listening for any sound of someone approaching.
“Can ye stand?”
Conran gave up listening and slowly began to sit up. Everything hurt. His head, his chest, his back, his shoulder, his hip, his knee . . . but he managed to sit upright. Now he just had to stand. Grimacing, he braced one hand on the ground and one on the wall and started to push himself to his feet. His legs were oddly weak and shaky, however. Probably from the shock of the fall, he thought grimly.
“Here.” The Maclean felt around until he found the hand Conran had braced against the wall and drew it up over his shoulder. “I’ll help ye up, son. Just put yer weight on me.”
Conran shifted slowly, bracing his other hand on the wall now to help take his weight as he half pushed himself upward, and was half pulled to his feet.
“Damn,” Conran breathed once he was upright. He was standing, but felt like hell and thought he must have taken a good crack to the head.
“Ye’re none too steady on yer feet, son,” Fearghas said with concern. “Mayhap I should go get some help.”
“Nay!” Conran grabbed his arm to stop him as the man started to shift away in the dark. “If whoever punched me is still here, they could attack ye. It’s better to stick together. I’m fine. I can make it. Just give me a minute to catch me breath.”
The Maclean held his tongue, but Conran could practically feel his concern reaching out to him through the darkness. Fortunately, after taking a few deep breaths, he felt a good deal steadier.
“Let’s go,” he said, shuffling in the direction he thought the stairs must be. A little relieved breath slipped from him when the toe of his boot bumped up against the first step.
“Take it slow and easy,” Fearghas warned, following so closely behind him Conran was sure he could feel the heat from the old man’s body at his back.
“Aye,” was all Conran said. Slow and easy was all he could manage at the moment anyway. At least, at first, but after several steps some of the aches began to recede and he started to feel a little better and began to move more quickly. Dear God, the stairs felt as endless going up as they had coming down, and Conran was just about to ask how much farther the Maclean thought they had to go when he heard his name called. Pausing, he peered up, and noted the weak light creeping around the curving staircase, pushing into the darkness ahead of them.
“Aulay?” he asked, quite sure that was who had called his name.
“Aye,” came the reply. “We heard shouts. Are ye all right?”
“I’ve been better,” he muttered, starting to move again, but warned, “He’s up there somewhere. The bastard punched me in the back and sent me tumbling down the stairs. We’re coming up now.”
“Is anything broken?” Rory asked. “Do ye need help?”
“Nay,” Conran sighed the word, and then said it louder, before adding, “I lost me torch, is all, so we’re moving slowly. We’ll be there . . .” He paused in surprise as he took the next step and realized how close to the top they’d been when the lit torch and a lone figure came into view.
“Rory?” he asked, squinting at the figure as he continued up the steps.