“Press them forward! Dinnae allow them tae reform!”
Domhnall turned his head. Sir Laurence Kerr no longer stood apart. He moved among MacGregor’s men as one who belonged there, issuing orders with quiet authority. He was stripped of all pretense now.
The last remnant of advantage, of law, of witness, was gone. Domhnall did not waste thought upon it. There would be time, if time were given. And if not…
It would end there.
“Stand fast!” he called again, his voice cutting through the clash as the line faltered once more. “Yield nae ground!”
But they were yielding inches, not yards. Still, it was enough.
The pressure increased. Men forced inward, their numbers too few to meet the encirclement that tightened with each passingmoment. And then, the advance shifted. The men before him parted in allowance and through them stepped Kenneth MacGregor himself.
He did not hurry. He had no need.
His approach was utterly composed, as though the disorder of the field were of no consequence, as though the outcome had already been determined.
His gaze fixed upon Domhnall.
“So, Campbell,” MacGregor addressed him, his tone almost conversational, though edged with something far less benign. “Ye have come.”
The noise of the field receded, as though all that mattered had drawn into a narrower space.
“I have,” Domhnall replied.
MacGregor regarded him for a moment, his expression touched with a satisfaction he did not attempt to conceal.
“Ye shouldnae have,” he advised. “This ground was never yers tae hold.”
Domhnall’s grip upon his sword remained steady.
“This ground,” he said, “is mine wherever I stand on it.”
For the first time, MacGregor’s eyes narrowed into thin slits.
“Then we shall see how long that remains true.”
He stepped forward, and the battle, already fierce, closed upon them in earnest. He did not yield. He could not. MacGregor stood before him, and that alone was sufficient reason to hold.
Steel met steel. Once, then again, each strike answered with equal force, neither man inclined to retreat nor to grant the other even the smallest advantage. There was no ceremony in it, no exchange of words beyond what had already been spoken. What lay between them had long since passed beyond speech.
Domhnall drove forward, his blade cutting low, then rising. MacGregor turned it, answering in kind, the clash of iron sharp and immediate.
Around them, the battle strained. And then, a different sound came. A distant horn sounded off in the distance. Another followed, and then another, three in total.
The hills answered. Domhnall noticed the sudden hesitation in the men pressing against his line and the break in their rhythm that had not been there a moment before. MacGregor heard it as well. His gaze traveled into the distance.
Domhnall did not look. He did not need to. Heknew.
From the ridge to the east, men descended in force. MacLean colors carried openly, while their approach was swift and unrelenting. They did not pause at the edge of the field. They struck directly into the rear of MacGregor’s line, breaking it where it had been most secure.
From the higher ground beyond, arrows fell. MacKenzie archers had taken the height, their position held with quiet precision. Each shot found its mark with devastating effect. The men who had pressed so confidently from the ridge faltered, then broke, having their advantage turned against them.
And to the west, cavalry rose. Gordon men, mounted and swift, swept across the edge of the field, cutting off the line of retreat toward the forest. What had been an escape became a trap.
The battle changed at once.
“Press them!” Cameron’s voice rose above the clash, no longer strained, but commanding. “Drive them back!”
