A raven flew overhead, flying swiftly across the sky. A cloud shifted into position, momentarily darkening the field to gray shadows. An omen. One that Lachlan took this time as being good for them, for in addition to the wolf on his crest, there was a raven.
The horses of the Bruce and Wallace shifted impatiently on their hooves, waiting for the command to bolt forward. Interesting that all the animals present seemed to have the same battle lust Lachlan felt flooding his veins.
Lachlan also just wanted to be done with it. He had promised his men a feast after this battle was won. They were wet, their tartans growing heavy. But none would complain; these minor inconveniences would not stop them from fighting until the last horn blew.
Lachlan banged his sword against his shield, the clang resounding and echoing through the air. His men followed suit. The thunder of their thumping outdoing the rolling clouds.
“I will give ye the signal and we will attack,” Wallace shouted.
The line of Highlanders shifted, targes locking edge to edge, Ashwood pikes lowering until they formed a deadly wall of iron points. They’d fought with Wallace more times than they could count, and they knew what to do.
Several hundred feet ahead of them, the English cavalry gathered, awaiting with their own deadly intent. William Wallace looked from their army gathered to the English across the way. Longshanks himself had come from England to see that this battle was won, as though his men were not doing the job well enough on their own.
And it was true. The Scots had made enough headway to give hope for a victory soon to come. And with this battle, Lachlan prayed they might finally drive the Englishmen from their country.
Drums beat from the other side of the battlefield, indicating that the English, too, were eager for this battle to be done. The Scots pipers blew, a haunting melody floating down over the glen.
“We begin,” Lachlan bellowed, his gaze fixed briefly on the empty stretch behind them where the cavalry should have been. Then he started to trot his horse in front of them, shouting words of encouragement. “The horsemen are late, or lost, but we are no’. We hold here, for Scotland! We break them here, for our women, our children! And if there is a gap at our backs, then we become the wall that fills it. The English will dine no’ on our blood this day, but their own.”
As he marched back and forth, meeting the eyes of his warriors one by one as he went, they bellowed back at him, eager for the battle.
He had led them for many years, ever since he was a young pup of fourteen, when he’d had to take over his father’s army after his father was killed on the battlefield. Only a squire at that time and, brazen in his own thoughts as are often those of youth, Lachlan had taken up his father’s sword to continue to fight, howling with grief the entire way. It was only by the grace of God that he’d been victorious that day. But that moment had given him a name—the Wolf of Skye—and his father’s men had been eager to follow him ever since. It had been nearly two decades from when he had first kept his family’s land and clan safe.
And he intended to do so again right now.
There was no room for loss in this war. They must get the English back across the border. They must secure their lands for future generations.
Wallace gave the signal, fist in the air as he bellowed. The Bruce rode back behind the infantry where he would observe from behind until he, too, needed to engage the enemy.
From across the way, the English king had shot up, aware now of the Scots plans.
Lachlan MacLeod raised his fist in the air. Turning once more to his men, he shouted the motto of their clan. “Seasaibh is brisibh iad!” Stand and break them. And break the bastards they would.
There was a coolness that came to his blood then, something that surged through his veins and gave Lachlan energy. His vision became sharper. His ears keen to the sound of an approaching enemy. No man was safe in his vicinity.
“Forward!” Lachlan shouted.
Boots churned the wet ground as they drove ahead, the formation tightening, every man shoulder to shoulder, shield to shield. Their cries carried down the line as they advanced, a wall of steel and muscle pushing toward the enemy.
But then the sky darkened.
“Targes up!” Lachlan ordered.
The first arrows fell in a hushed whisper and then a roar. They struck hard, thudding into wood and leather and flesh. Rattling against the iron rims of the targes, a relentless drumbeat as the men kept their shield-covered arms raised overhead. The sound was deafening, like hail hammering stone, only more deadly and violent.
Lachlan held his ground beneath the strain of the arrow shafts slamming only inches from his face. One iron head managing to pierce through to graze his cheek. When the volley passed, the line stood, prepared to continue forward.
They were lucky with this round; not one of his men went down. But he could see that other clans had not been so fortunate. Men staggered with arrows buried deep in their thighs and chests, some collapsing where they stood. Others were dragged back through the mud as the formation closed ranks.
This kind of death was a brutal thing. The very reason Lachlan himself had not taken a wife or started a family.
Battles were often romanticized by the bards. They could make songs and music about the epic swordsmanship and the victory that followed. In reality, it was a gruesome, deadly business. But it was his business. And he was damn good at what he did.
He was bound by duty and determined to make sure that not one of his men fell on this day.
And with that renewed vigor forced through his skin, he swung his sword toward the enemy.
2
