The last five years faded away, and Alex stood on the bloody corrie under the looming majesty of the great Cuillin mountain range, catapulted back to the day that would be forever branded into his conscience.
The promise of blood permeated the morning mist. His warriors were eager for battle. It was so close now, Alex could almost smell it.
It was his first command, and Alex swelled with pride in the responsibility he’d been given. Not only would he lead his brother’s men, the MacLeods of Dunvegan, but he would also lead their kin the MacLeods of Lewis. Both branches of the clan had joined forces to fight the MacDonalds.
They hunted their quarry from the giant shadow of the great Cuillin mountain range. The kinsmen, descendants from the sons of Leod, numbered near fifty warriors strong. A large group, yet they moved soundlessly up the grassy path, climbing ever higher into the looming mountain above them.
Alex lifted his hand, signaling the men to halt. He motioned for two of hisluchd-taigheguardsmen, his cousins John and Tormod from Lewis, to follow him. The three powerful mail-clad warriors took a few cautious steps forward, then got down on their bellies, slithering forward to peer over the edge of the hill.
The sight below them was not a pretty one for a MacLeod. Their prey—the despised MacDonalds—were celebrating a successful foray below them. The stolen cattle that the MacDonalds had lifted during their bloody raid on his brother’s Bracadale lands grazed peacefully in the corrie along the grassy banks of the fairy pools.
The bucolic scene fired Alex’s already smoldering anger. He was responsible for watching Rory’s lands while his brother was away. Even now, the brazen fools celebrated while still on MacLeod lands. Alex fought to control his anger, for this raid had occurred under his first command.
It was time to teach the thieving bastards a lesson.
With a fierce battle cry that pierced the quiet morning like the high-pitched wail of the Banshee, the MacLeod clansmen charged down the hillside and fell upon the unsuspecting MacDonalds.
The battle had begun.
The blistering sun moved slowly across the cloudless midsummer sky. After hours of relentless fighting, Alex and his men had long ago lost any advantage of surprise.
At the head of the battle, Alex faced Dougal MacDonald, leader to leader, champion to champion.
Blood saturated the crushed grass below Alex’s feet, making it difficult for him to move and maintain his footing. Sweat pooled behind the heavy mail and spewed off his weary limbs with each shattering stroke that he met of his opponent’s blade.
His grip on his claymore was starting to slip.
His vision clouded with perspiration that dripped from his brow. He fought to breathe through the overwhelming stench that filled the heavy air. The pungently sweet smell of death had long ago drowned out the fresh scent of heather.
Alex was tiring. His opponent sensed it and swooped in for the kill. Alex met the powerful force of Dougal MacDonald’s stroke, and a shuddering pain exploded up his arm. His fingers loosened, and his claymore suddenly lifted from his hands. It flew through the air like a gleaming silvery cross and landed with a dull thud well away from him. Shocked by his disarmament, he turned back to find the point of his enemy’s blade pressed firmly at his throat.
“Surrender,” Dougal warned. “Call off your men or we’ll slaughter them like the swine that they are.”
Alex glanced around at the carnage surrounding him—a bucolic landscape no longer. Bodies littered the once peaceful corrie. Blood tinged the clear waters of the fairy pools a gruesome crimson. A few of his men were still fighting. Some, like him, were caught. No matter. While there was still breath left in his lungs, he would fight. He’d never willingly face the shame of surrender.
He spat at Dougal’s feet, clenching the dirk still in his hand. “I’ll never surrender to a MacDonald whoreson.”
Dougal MacDonald appeared pleased with Alex’s words. He nodded to two of his men standing across the corrie and smiled.
In horror, Alex realized Dougal had motioned to the two men who held his captured cousins John and Tormod. Alex lashed out in protest and tried to pull away, but it was too late. His cousins tumbled to the ground in a horrible thud, gulleted—the dirk slashed across their throats so deep, there could be no doubt that they were dead.
“Shall we try again?” Dougal asked pleasantly. “Surrender, or I will give my men leave to kill them all.”
The taste of defeat bitter on his tongue, Alex turned to the rest of his men. His pride had killed his cousins, it wouldn’t kill the rest of them. “Throw down your arms,” he said hoarsely. “’Tis over.”
The pipers had longed ceased playing as Alex and the surviving MacLeods were bound and led away—prisoners instead of victors.
Twenty-two of his clansmen were left dead in the “Corrie of the Foray.”
Dead under his command.
And now the man who’d murdered his cousins and held Alex prisoner for those long months afterward stood not twenty feet in front of him, with his vile hands on Meg and a familiar gloating smile twisting his mouth. At one time, that smile had held the power to make Alex lose control, but no longer.
Alex’s face was a mask of ice while rage festered inside him like an open wound. Every instinct cried out for battle, to avenge his cousins’ deaths, to raise his sword and crush Dougal MacDonald into the ground. He struggled to contain that hatred rising inside him, threatening to erupt. Hatred that would turn this glittering hall into a melee of death and destruction. But he would never allow Dougal MacDonald to see his anger.
Slowly the shock ebbed, replaced by cold certainty. Alex would have his retribution; he and Dougal would cross swords again. But not here. This was not the place.
There was only one way to atone for his past, and that was to help his cousins defeat the incursion by the Fife Adventurers. Seeing Dougal had done one thing: It had brought back the importance of his mission full force, reminding him of why he’d driven himself so relentlessly the last five years. All the fighting, all the toil, had been to bring him to this point.
