The Knights of Christmas by Suzanne Barclay

her chest, her eyes wild with fear. Behind her hurtled a man straight from a child’s nightmare. Huge and dark, half his face obscured by a beard as black as his scraggly hair. He had arms and legs as thick as tree trunks, and a wolf’s skin slung across his body. A MacGory!
    â€œRun!” the MacGory shouted. “There’s naught I like better than a good hunt. Whets my appetite, it does.” His laugh as he lumbered after the girl was more terrifying than drawn steel.
    Duncan drew his sword and measured the distance across the clearing. Too far, he’d never reach the MacGory before he caught the girl. And once he did, the fiend would not hesitate to use her as a shield to force Duncan’s surrender. The lass darted through the trees like a hare driven before a mad fox, shifting this way and that. Suddenly she changed direction, heading straight for Duncan.
    â€œCome on,” he silently urged. “A few more steps.” They were close enough so he could hear her labored sobs under the panting of her pursuer. Now!
    Duncan stuck out his left hand, grabbed the lass’s arm as she stumbled by and swung her behind him. In the same smooth movement, he stepped onto the path and met her charging pursuer with a length of tempered steel.
    â€œArgh!” the man cried. He tried to stop, stumbled and pitched forward onto Duncan’s sword. His eyes rounded in shock. Blood bubbled between his lips as he reached for the blade protruding from the middle of his chest.
    â€œDamn.” A dead man would tell no tales. Duncan pulled his blade free and shoved the man down. Kneeling beside him, he pressed the dripping blade to the man’s throat. “Who are you?”
    â€œEgan...MacGory. Who...?”
    â€œWhat are you doing in the valley?”
    Egan shook his head, eyes already glazing over. He died before he could answer any more questions.
    Damn. Spinning on his heels, Duncan regarded the girl cowering against a rough-barked oak. “Where is the other one?”
    She shuddered and clutched her bundle more closely. It whimpered piteously, one tiny hand coming out to grasp at the air. “Dinna kill us,” the girl murmured.
    â€œI’ll not hurt you,” Duncan said as gently as he could with his nerves shouting for speed. She couldn’t be more than ten and so frightened she’d tell him nothing if he pressed. “I’m Kara Gleanedin’s betrothed. I’ve been trailing some bad men. Where is the one who was with this wretch?”
    Â 
    â€œHut,” she whispered. Her eyes went black with panic. “Mama. Poor Mama, she told me to take wee Peter and run while she...”
    Duncan nodded. Removing his cloak, he slung it around the shivering girl. “Stay here. I’ll go and see to your mama.” He cleaned his blade on the MacGory’s tunic, then trotted off toward the hut. As he cautiously approached the open doorway, he heard a woman’s cries and a guttural grunting that curdled his stomach.
    His teeth clenched so tightly they hurt, Duncan slipped into the hut, shoved the bastard off his victim and onto the floor. Once more, his blade flirted with dirty MacGory flesh.
    â€œWhat the hell,” the fiend snarled. He was older than Egan, his face scarred and weathered. “Who are ye?”
    â€œDivine retribution.”
    â€œThere’s no clan of that name hereabouts.”
    â€œWho are you? How many in your party?” Duncan asked.
    â€œSim MacGory’s my name.” His flinty eyes shifted toward the square of light coming in through the doorway.
    â€œEgan’s not coming. He’s dead.”
    â€œBastard!” Sim bucked, then lay still when the blade nicked his throat. “He was my son.”
    â€œI’m not surprised. Where is the rest of your clan?”
    The MacGory pressed his lips shut. It would not be easy to pry secrets from this hardened old reprobate. Duncan had never had a taste for