Chapter Two
Callum MacCleod swung his sword to the right, slicing into his opponent’s arm as if it were butter. The man went down looking shocked. He had Callum’s men outnumbered three to one yet Callum had managed to deal him a fatal blow.
Callum didn’t pause. He saw a shadow in the corner of his eye. With a roar he turned, raising his shield just in time to fend off the counterattack. He could tell the battle was already won even if they couldn’t. The MacDonalds were fighting to the end but they were doomed.
Callum’s men encircled the remaining few aggressors. As soon as the MacDonald warriors realized they’d lost they should have run. Callum would not have chased them. He was content to let them go back home and warn the others what happened to raiding parties caught sneaking onto MacCleod land to try and steal grain.
The remaining half dozen were too stubborn, refusing to give up even though they no longer had any chance of success.
It showed the difference between the two clans. MacCleods knew when to cut their losses. They also had better technique. They trained hard every single day after turning ten. The MacDonalds did not.
Callum yelled above the sound of swords slamming into shields. “Throw down your weapons and walk away with your lives.”
There was no response other than ever more frantic sword swinging from the MacDonalds.
“Suit yourself,” Callum said quietly, raising his blade above his head. As he did so, he heard an unexpected cry behind him.
He turned in time to see something he never expected to see. Someone had thrown a dirk at Orm. That was where the scream had come from. The knife struck Orm in the chest and he was already falling to the ground.
One of the MacDonalds saw his opportunity and thrust his blade forward. Orm was skewered on the end of a MacDonald sword, swinging his own at the same time, bringing down his attacker with the last of his strength. The two men collapsed to the ground together.
Callum saw red. One of his oldest companions, Orm had been by his side for almost two decades. Felled by a MacDonald and not even in war, just by a stupid raiding party chancing their arm on the grain store nearby.
Callum ran at the few remaining MacDonalds in a rage. They took one look at him and turned, sprinting up the glen like whipped horses. Callum’s roar was still echoing around the glen as the last of them vanished from sight over the peak.
“Should we go after them?” Ross asked, wiping sweat from his brow.
“Nay,” Callum replied, getting his temper back under control with some effort. “Could be a trap. Keep a sharp eye out though.”
His sword dripped blood as he turned to kneel beside Orm.
“To the devil with them,” Orm said with a grimace, prodding the dead man beside him. “I let my guard down. My own fault.”
Callum managed a smile. “And I dinnae recall giving you permission to go to our ancestors yet. On your feet, laddie.”
Orm coughed up blood that ran down his chin in a trickle. “I regret I cannae obey you, my laird.” His hand clawed up at Callum, his skin turning pale. “I dinnae want to die out here so far from my wife.”
“I know.”
“Tell Moira I love her, won’t you.”
“Aye, I will that.”
Orm’s eyes remained open but the spark in them faded with the last of his words.
He was gone.
Callum wasted no time. He stood up and faced his men. “We bring him back to Frazer castle with us.”
None of them argued. The body would slow them down but not one man suggested leaving him behind.
Callum hefted the body onto his shoulders and then made his way through the glen to where his horse waited beside the others. Loading Orm onto the beast’s back, he then walked beside it as tradition dictated. It would be the last journey Orm took, he was duty bound to ride it alone. As the man in charge of the patrol, Callum walked.
The group headed back to the track they’d been following when they were ambushed. The MacDonalds were getting desperate. That could be the only reason for such a foolish assault. He had heard rumors their harvest had been poor enough to send them raiding but the bad weather affected all the highlands. He didn’t take his men on raiding parties into the land of rival clans. He tightened his belt and ate less so that what stores they had would last the winter.
Rumor had it the MacDonald feasts were as large as ever despite the approaching winter. They were being led by a fool and men were dead because of it. Men like Orm.
He shook his head at the senseless waste of life. The dead men would have been better utilized in the fields than in skirmishes. Now there were two dozen fewer MacDonalds to bring in the harvest. It was foolish logic the MacDonalds employed in their efforts to keep their people fed. Old Malcolm MacDonald would probably shrug when he heard and declare two dozen fewer mouths to feed was always the plan. He was the biggest fool of the highlands and isles.
