Page 4 of Highland Lords of War & Thunder: The Prequel

One warrior fell and then another. A third never had the chance to lift his sword.

The Highland warriors closed ranks behind Legion, matching his measured pace. They shouted no battle cries. Raised no victory chants.

They simply advanced.

The enemy line faltered.

What moments before had seemed an unbreakable wall began to splinter. Men stepped back. Shields collided as warriors fought to regain ground they had already surrendered in their minds.

Legion saw the opening. He shifted slightly to his left. It seemed an insignificant move. Yet the Highland warriors moved with him as though they shared one mind, driving a wedge through the weakened enemy flank.

The commander on the hill stared in disbelief. He had seen great warriors before, and he had seen fearless men and brilliant commanders. But never had he witnessed one man command a battlefield without uttering a single order.

The impossible became undeniable.

The tide of war had turned.

By sunset, the banners of the enemy lay in the mud.

The cries of victory echoed across the field while the dying still clung to life.

Men searched for friends among the fallen. Others gathered the wounded, carrying them toward hastily raised tents where healers worked without pause.

The dead remained where they had fallen, crows already circling overhead.

Beyond the battlefield, fires burned bright. Barrels of ale had been rolled into the center of camp. Laughter rose above the clash of tankards, musicians found their tunes, and women who followed victorious armies drifted among the warriors with welcoming smiles.

Life and death had always shared the same battlefield.

Legion walked past the celebration without a glance.

Near the edge of camp stood a rain barrel beside a supply wagon. He removed his leather gauntlets, set aside his sword, and plunged both hands into the cool water before lowering his head beneath the surface.

The water washed away sweat and blood, but it washed away neither memory nor death.

He straightened, water streaming from his dark hair. For a long moment he simply stood, drawing slow breaths into weary lungs.

It wasn't long before footsteps approached. They always did.

Victory drew women as surely as it drew songs and overflowing tankards.

The first had offered him a smile. The second had promised to make him forget the bloodshed. He had sent them both away with the same quiet refusal.

The third moved with practiced confidence, her dark hair tumbling over one bare shoulder, her gown revealing enough to leave little to the imagination.

She stopped close enough to catch the scent of rainwater on his skin.

“You've caused quite a stir,” she said, her gaze traveling over him. “The men are saying you're the reason they won.”

Legion said nothing.

Her smile deepened. “Perhaps you should let someone reward you for it.”

There had been a time when he would have welcomed the challenging invitation. When victory tasted sweet. When a warm embrace chased away the memories of battle for a few fleeting hours.

That time had long since passed.

Legion gently caught her hand before it reached his chest and lowered it.