3
Lachlan swiped at the blood and rain dripping into his eyes as the battle continued to wage around him. A cacophony of shouts, grunts, and groans, clashed with the iron of swords and the whistle of arrows. Anguished cries of the wounded and dying sparred with the hollers of victory. These were the sounds of war.
As Lachlan avoided a blow from a Sassenach, diving and sliding on the muddied field to hit his opponent from behind, he scanned the melee.
The prayed-for cavalry had yet to arrive, and with every passing second, he grew more assured they would not. The English gained ground. Where once he’d been confident of triumph, now, Lachlan worried at just how many wives back home would be told their husbands weren’t coming home.
Without the reinforcements they’d been promised, the Scots were left to fight on foot against men on horses. Several of his own front line had already commandeered English horses for themselves which gave them an advantage. But not enough. The English seemed to have had some sort of insider knowledge of the Scot’s battle plans. And someone had made certain the cavalry did not arrive.
Lachlan shot his targe up to catch flying arrows. He couldn’t help but wonder if this had been a losing battle from the start, that they were doomed and someone had done this on purpose. But who would go against their own people and country?
Another volley of arrows forced him to duck. Questions and doubts pummeled his brain. But there was no time to tarry and think about it now. Even without reinforcements, he wasn’t going down lightly.
“Seasaibh is brisibh iad!” he bellowed, swinging his claymore leading a counterattack against the English. As long as he could stand, he would break them all. Until the entire country was rid of Sassenachs, they would not be safe. The future of the Scots would not be secured.
His men bellowed in return, a renewed energy coursing through their veins. They knew what was on the other side of victory. So too, did they know what was on the other side of defeat.
In the distance, he could make out Longshanks riding hard on his horse toward Robert the Bruce, who too had joined the melee. The English king’s crown, even in the rain, glinted with jewels. A pretty penny such a prize would gain them. Enough coin to feed their people for years.
William Wallace was in his own element, fighting off men left and right. The large man swung his sword with grace and lethality. An artist of war. The same as Lachlan.
Lachlan blocked a blow, cutting down the man in front of him and then the man to his left and then the one to his right. They came at him like ants on a forgotten apple. He was not going to let these bloody bastards get past him. As unrealistic as it was, he was prepared to take them all down. One by one.
The telltale whoosh of a weapon being thrown ticked in his ear, and Lachlan darted left in time for an English blade to be buried in an English man’s neck. He let out a curse, yanked out the offending blade from his enemy and threw it right back, hitting his own mark.
“Wolf!” the cry came from somewhere in the rain-soaked field, and he whirled in time to block another blow.
It would seem as though the English had decided he was their only target. He scythed down the enemy as if they were merely stalks in a field of barley.
Ewan and Callum engaged with the enemy just as fiercely, and returning the favor, Lachlan called out a warning. Ewan caught the blow of a mace with his sword that would have crushed his skull.
There was a reason that Lachlan was called the Wolf of Skye.
He would not take any prisoners. Any man that came across him would be torn to smithereens, not by his teeth but by his weapons. He prided himself on being as vicious on the field, as he was calm in his castle. When the battle cries had been called, there was something that came over him, a veil that protected him from the gruesomeness of war but also gave him the strength to see the deed done.
The English could not be allowed to win this day. Longshanks could not be allowed to prosper and continue his violence on the Scottish people, the eradication of their culture and line.
Their people needed this victory for the morale of not only the brave warriors who were willing to give their lives, but for their clans back home who counted on them for protection.
But without that massive cavalry that should’ve been on their flank, he worried that it was all in vain. And if he was to die on this battlefield today, then at least he was going to die the way he had lived—with passion and fury, refusing to retreat.
As Lachlan pushed his way through the English infantry, he spotted several English riders coming toward him through the rain. Mud flicked up from the horses’ hooves as they pounded over the moors. Their faces were shielded by helmets, the only holes two slits at the eyes. Like wraiths come to collect, they kept their attention solely on him.
During the height of battle, a few purposeful riders was not a good sign. Three assassins sent in to dispatch one of the strongest warriors, while the battle carried on around them.
Problem was, they underestimated the Wolf of Skye. Their metal clad figures did not scare him. Quite the opposite. They ignited a lust for blood. Lachlan hunched down low, picked up a spear, and threw it at one, hitting the man square in the chest, the iron tip of the spear piercing his armor. The soldier fell off his horse, the animal quickly commandeered by one of Lachlan’s own. The other two glanced at their fallen comrade briefly but did not slow their speed.
Lachlan picked up another discarded spear. Drew his arm back, aimed, and threw. But that Englishman, having seen him do so before, ducked to the left and the spear missed him, piercing the ground behind him rather than his heart.
Lachlan was not going to let that happen again. Undeterred, he picked up another spear and heaved it, and this time he didn’t throw it straight—he threw it to where the man might stoop. The crunch of his spear hitting the mark might have been the most satisfying sound of the day.
The final silver-studded soldier did not retreat, though his pace slowed for a second before speeding up. Though Lachlan could not see his expression, the way he bent forward on his mount showed he was more determined to take Lachlan down than before.
“Imbecile,” Lachlan grumbled under his breath, while he braced for impact, crouching low. As the man swooped his sword in an arc meant to decapitate Lachlan, Lachlan jumped over the singing blade, the tip skimming along the underside of his boots, and he hooked an arm around the man’s neck, using him as leverage to swing up behind the soldier, onto the horse. Lachlan grabbed him from behind, an arm around his neck, an arm around his waist.
“You bloody fool,” the man whined through the metal of his helmet, as he twisted in the saddle trying to bat Lachlan off the horse. “You… will… lose…”
“On the contrary, I win.” And with that, Lachlan tossed the man off his own horse where he fell in a heap of metal and was descended upon by a horde of MacLeods.
