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He had danced around to Fraser’s rear and thrust his sword forward. Fraser lifted his sword to block it, but he couldn’t prevent the blade from tearing a gash in his arm. Blood spurted out, and Fraser cried out in pain, clutching his arm. He held his sword in one hand. It trembled under the strain.

“Kneel, and I will spare ye,” Niall said. It was a lie, but he knew he would not have to deceive his brother because Fraser was not the type to yield.

As expected, Fraser roared and charged forward, hoping again that a violent offense would be enough to dispatch his opponent. Niall hadn’t even been scratched. It was almost pitiful how easy it was to defeat his half brother, how predictable he was. Niall stepped out of the way. Fraser was in the midst of turning around, but it was too late. Niall swept his sword through the air and cut the man’s head off. Fraser’s face was still twisted in rage as it fell to the ground, hitting the grass at the same time as his body fell down.

Niall stood over his half brother and spared a thought as blood trickled out toward his boot. He took his brother’s sword and whistled out to his fellow men, notifying them that the enemy commander had died. It was a shame that a price had to be paid in blood, but Niall was powerless against the hands of fate.

His home beckoned, and he lifted his gaze, ready to set his sights on a place he hadn’t seen in years.

* * *

Niall exhaled deeply as he geed his horse and rode down to the village. The castle was a squat stone tower protruding from the ground, like an ugly growth that needed to be lanced. The village was a cluster of huts, with a pyre blazing in the middle of a field and some animals standing in fields. It had barely changed since he had left, and he lamented his half-brother’s lack of foresight. There were so many things that had to change. Perhaps he had been wrong to leave in the first place. Perhaps he should have made more of an effort to be a better brother and guide Fraser into being a better laird…but no. He remembered the pain in his heart in those days and how it had been a struggle to even look Fraser in the eyes. There were many paths his life could have taken, and it was just a shame that the path he walked had been one soaked in blood.

He prepared himself for jeers from people he had once called his clansmen. He knew that many of them saw him as a traitor for leaving, as having betrayed the needs of his family. Rationally they were right, but as far as he saw it, his family had betrayed him first.

People got to their feet and regarded him with tense stares. Niall rode slowly, making sure they saw his face and the fact that he carried Fraser’s sword. Blood dripped from his own. His clansmen laughed and boasted at their victory. Niall had warned them to be respectful and solemn because it was going to be difficult enough to convince them that him taking charge of the clan was going to be a positive thing. They weren’t doing him any favors by jeering at the people who had not taken up a weapon. Niall recognized some faces, and he saw recognition flicker in their eyes, followed by disbelief. He was well aware that most people would have expected him to be dead by now, for the Highlands were never usually gentle with people who ventured north. He shuddered as he thought about some of the sights he had seen, and although these people could not see it, his body was lined with scars.

He would make them all understand soon enough, though, and make them see why he had returned. The castle loomed forward. It was time for him to meet his half-brother’s widow and tell her that he was here to take his rightful place as leader of the clan. He could well imagine the kind of woman that his brother had married, most likely some vapid wench whose giggling beauty would fade as the years passed and who would fade into the background, falling to some tavern somewhere. He felt an odd sense of calm wash over him as he approached the castle. As much as he hated this place, it was where he belonged.

It was his birthright.