“Aye, we dae have such a rule. For our fella brothers an’ sisters; no’ for the likes o’ ye,” Kieran watched the Englishmen beginning to move slowly for their weapons, hands inching towards their scabbards.
“What a shame. I really expected a better welcome from the Laird who will soon be bending his knee to an English Lord.”
“Over my dead body,” Kieran snarled, his anger no longer in check, “Ye best start movin’, afore I mak’ ye. There isnae a reason to shed blood here for no good reason, eh?”
The man smiled, nodded, and without preamble, drew his sword. His fellow soldiers did the same thing, rushing forward across the clearing, ignoring the dead boar in their way, bloodlust raging in their eyes.
Kieran shook his head; these Englishmen had come here looking for a fight. Between Tilly’s reaction and his own, they had led themselves straight to the slaughter. He found himself regretting every word he’d said. He would lose good men – good soldiers – because of his own arrogance and refusal to even attempt being diplomatic.
His men shouted their war cry as they rushed forward, weapons in their hands, the spirit and fight of the Scottish Highlands in their hearts. They may not have been afraid of this battle, but Kieran knew it would be a waste of lives that he would have to bear the responsibility of.
With a heavy heart, Kieran swung his sword through the air, singing its sweet notes as it met the English leader’s sword in the air. All around him, his men were engaged in combat with the English; they were sorely outnumbered as more soldiers entered the clearing from within the woods where they had been hiding.
Kieran swore out loud, cursing their deception, as he parried his opponent’s next blow to his left arm. He met the blade with his, pushing the man’s sword away with brute force, before moving his feet backward, balancing on the back leg as he cut down with his sword. The blade hit home in the man’s throat, between his shoulder and neck. He fell to his knees instantly, blood gushing out of the wound. His eyes closed as his body collapsed to the ground, his face ashen gray from the loss of blood.
One down, Kieran thought to himself.
The sound of battle echoed around him – swords clashing against swords, the howls of the injured and dying, the battle cries his men continued to shout, the sound of bones crunching beneath blades. All of it reminded Kieran of every battle he had ever fought in, every nauseating thing he had ever seen and endured. He had survived them all.
The copper tang on the air was overpowering. If Kieran had been focusing on anything other than his next opponent, he might well have gagged at the smell. For now, he couldn’t risk even looking around him. He wouldn’t. He refused to see how many of his men had already been felled by the English dogs around them.
He rushed the two men who had decided to become his next targets. He swung his sword from above his head, bringing the cutting edge down across the first man’s throat, severing his artery. The man went down like their leader had, gone in seconds.
The second ran at Kieran, sword blazing through the air, as Kieran met the edge of the sword with the hand guard of his own. He pushed the sword away from him, but the Englishman was too quick. He swung his sword back around, causing Kieran to jump out of the way, spinning around as he did.
It wasn’t fast enough; he felt the sharp sting of his opponent’s blade as it dug into his left shoulder. Pain lanced through his arm as he completed his turn, sword point low. He knew it was only a superficial cut, but the pain was undeniable. There was no time to cradle the arm or press something to the wound to staunch the blood flow. He had no choice but to carry on. Kieran ran at the Englishman, his reaction too slow, his blade too high in the air to block Kieran’s blow to his gut.
The Englishman bent over double, his sword dropping from his hand as blood spurted from his mouth.
Kieran barely stopped to make sure the man was dead before turning to find another to face. He could only be grateful that the English bore no shields. He and his men hadn’t been prepared for a fight; most of them had come with only their long swords and dirks. They wore no armor, no helmets, no shields. Only their pride of steel carried them through this.
He turned, only to see Bailey, who was cornered by two brutes double his size, trying to fight his way out. Bailey wasn’t a warrior by any stretch of the imagination; he was a slight man, taken more to the scholarly side of life than fighting with weapons. He wouldn’t survive their attack for much longer; they were pushing him further and further towards the tree line behind him.
“Bailey, move,” Kieran shouted as he ran towards his friend, dodging others engaged in their own fights for their lives.
The ground was littered with bodies, the stench of blood and gore overwhelming. Too many of the bodies had braided hair, thick beards, his clan’s tartan colors clipped to their clothing.
The smell of smoke reached Kieran, who disregarded it as nothing of importance.
He watched as one of the brutes rammed his sword through Bailey’s abdomen, a grin of pleasure and hatred splitting his face. Kieran swung his blade from behind the two men – they had been too focused on Bailey to notice Kieran running towards them. His sword made the most beautiful song as it sliced through the air, splitting the man’s skull. Before the second man could turn around, Kieran’s sword was singing again as he swung it around, aimed at the man’s gut. The blow was deadly; without armor to protect his stomach, he stood no chance of surviving. He stared at Kieran, eyes wide, as he fell to his knees.
“Tha’s what ye get for attacking my men,” Kieran grated out through clenched teeth to no one in particular.
He turned to Bailey, whose face was devoid of color, his hands clutching at the wound in his side.
A new sound resonated through the clearing. It was no longer the screams of the injured and dying but screams of terror instead. Smoke billowed across the clearing, and the sound of crackling and snapping wood became prominent. Kieran looked around him where he knelt at Bailey’s side.
The forest was on fire.
The Englishmen had retreated, a few stragglers disengaging from their individual battles, taking off in a westerly direction, away from the Scotsmen – and the fire.
“Tilly?” Kieran cried out, trying to find his sister in all the commotion.
“I’m here,” she coughed, staggering towards him, her eyes wide, darting all around her. She was covered in blood, but thankfully most of it seemed to be someone else’s.
“Oh, thank the Gods,” Kieran sighed, “We need tae get out o’ here, now, Tilly.”
“I cannae believe this – I’m so sorry, Kieran,” she whispered, her hands trembling at her sides. She seemed to have dropped her sword somewhere along the way, her entire body beginning to shake like a leaf in the winds on the plains of their homeland.
