Chapter 3
Lachlan swiped at the blood and rain dripping into his eyes as the battle continued to wage around him.
A cacophony of shouts, grunts, and groans, clashed with the iron of swords and the whistle of arrows.
Anguished cries of the wounded and dying sparred with the hollers of victory. These were the sounds of war.
As Lachlan avoided a blow from a Sassenach, diving and sliding on the muddied field to hit his opponent from behind, he scanned the melee.
The prayed-for cavalry had yet to arrive, and with every passing second, he grew more assured they would not. The English gained ground. Where once he’d been confident of triumph, now, Lachlan worried at just how many wives back home would be told their husbands weren’t coming home.
Without the reinforcements they’d been promised, the Scots were left to fight on foot against men on horses.
Several of his own front line had already commandeered English horses for themselves which gave them an advantage.
But not enough. The English seemed to have had some sort of insider knowledge of the Scot’s battle plans.
And someone had made certain the cavalry did not arrive.
Lachlan shot his targe up to catch flying arrows. He couldn’t help but wonder if this had been a losing battle from the start, that they were doomed and someone had done this on purpose. But who would go against their own people and country?
Another volley of arrows forced him to duck. Questions and doubts pummeled his brain. But there was no time to tarry and think about it now. Even without reinforcements, he wasn’t going down lightly.
“Seasaibh is brisibh iad!” he bellowed, swinging his claymore leading a counterattack against the English. As long as he could stand, he would break them all. Until the entire country was rid of Sassenachs, they would not be safe. The future of the Scots would not be secured.
His men bellowed in return, a renewed energy coursing through their veins. They knew what was on the other side of victory. So too, did they know what was on the other side of defeat.
In the distance, he could make out Longshanks riding hard on his horse toward Robert the Bruce, who too had joined the melee. The English king’s crown, even in the rain, glinted with jewels. A pretty penny such a prize would gain them. Enough coin to feed their people for years.
William Wallace was in his own element, fighting off men left and right. The large man swung his sword with grace and lethality. An artist of war. The same as Lachlan.
Lachlan blocked a blow, cutting down the man in front of him and then the man to his left and then the one to his right.
They came at him like ants on a forgotten apple.
He was not going to let these bloody bastards get past him.
As unrealistic as it was, he was prepared to take them all down. One by one.
The telltale whoosh of a weapon being thrown ticked in his ear, and Lachlan darted left in time for an English blade to be buried in an English man’s neck. He let out a curse, yanked out the offending blade from his enemy and threw it right back, hitting his own mark.
“Wolf!” the cry came from somewhere in the rain-soaked field, and he whirled in time to block another blow.
It would seem as though the English had decided he was their only target. He scythed down the enemy as if they were merely stalks in a field of barley.
Ewan and Callum engaged with the enemy just as fiercely, and returning the favor, Lachlan called out a warning. Ewan caught the blow of a mace with his sword that would have crushed his skull.
There was a reason that Lachlan was called the Wolf of Skye.
He would not take any prisoners. Any man that came across him would be torn to smithereens, not by his teeth but by his weapons.
He prided himself on being as vicious on the field, as he was calm in his castle.
When the battle cries had been called, there was something that came over him, a veil that protected him from the gruesomeness of war but also gave him the strength to see the deed done.
The English could not be allowed to win this day. Longshanks could not be allowed to prosper and continue his violence on the Scottish people, the eradication of their culture and line.
Their people needed this victory for the morale of not only the brave warriors who were willing to give their lives, but for their clans back home who counted on them for protection.
But without that massive cavalry that should’ve been on their flank, he worried that it was all in vain. And if he was to die on this battlefield today, then at least he was going to die the way he had lived—with passion and fury, refusing to retreat.
As Lachlan pushed his way through the English infantry, he spotted several English riders coming toward him through the rain.
Mud flicked up from the horses’ hooves as they pounded over the moors.
Their faces were shielded by helmets, the only holes two slits at the eyes.
Like wraiths come to collect, they kept their attention solely on him.
During the height of battle, a few purposeful riders was not a good sign. Three assassins sent in to dispatch one of the strongest warriors, while the battle carried on around them.
Problem was, they underestimated the Wolf of Skye.
Their metal clad figures did not scare him.
Quite the opposite. They ignited a lust for blood.
Lachlan hunched down low, picked up a spear, and threw it at one, hitting the man square in the chest, the iron tip of the spear piercing his armor.
The soldier fell off his horse, the animal quickly commandeered by one of Lachlan’s own.
The other two glanced at their fallen comrade briefly but did not slow their speed.
Lachlan picked up another discarded spear. Drew his arm back, aimed, and threw. But that Englishman, having seen him do so before, ducked to the left and the spear missed him, piercing the ground behind him rather than his heart.
Lachlan was not going to let that happen again. Undeterred, he picked up another spear and heaved it, and this time he didn’t throw it straight—he threw it to where the man might stoop. The crunch of his spear hitting the mark might have been the most satisfying sound of the day.
The final silver-studded soldier did not retreat, though his pace slowed for a second before speeding up. Though Lachlan could not see his expression, the way he bent forward on his mount showed he was more determined to take Lachlan down than before.
“Imbecile,” Lachlan grumbled under his breath, while he braced for impact, crouching low.
As the man swooped his sword in an arc meant to decapitate Lachlan, Lachlan jumped over the singing blade, the tip skimming along the underside of his boots, and he hooked an arm around the man’s neck, using him as leverage to swing up behind the soldier, onto the horse.
Lachlan grabbed him from behind, an arm around his neck, an arm around his waist.
“You bloody fool,” the man whined through the metal of his helmet, as he twisted in the saddle trying to bat Lachlan off the horse. “You… will… lose…”
“On the contrary, I win.” And with that, Lachlan tossed the man off his own horse where he fell in a heap of metal and was descended upon by a horde of MacLeods.
With a stroke of his bare hand over the horse’s neck, Lachlan whispered into the mount’s ear, letting him know he was safe. The horse, whose muscles had rippled beneath Lachlan’s claiming, calmed, submitting to his new rider. With renewed energy, Lachlan turned his attention on more armed English.
As he charged, as every blow hit its mark, he dared to hope they might just win this thing yet.
The clans were coming together, fearless, fearsome.
Every Highland warrior could take on at least five English.
They might be at a disadvantage without their cavalry.
But what they lacked in horsepower, they gained in mettle.
The thud sounded in his ear before he registered pain. And then there was a massive stinging coming from the back of his right shoulder. Lachlan slowed his mount and glanced behind him. The shaft of an arrow protruded from the spot.
Someone had bloody shot him. How the hell…
? He broke off the end of the arrow shaft, leaving the arrow in his body to be removed later.
There was no time to tend the wound now, the battle had to be fought.
A little injury like that wasn’t going to take him off the field. He’d suffered worse in the past.
Blood dripped down his arm, past his elbow to his fingers, making his grip on his sword damp. A tingling sensation rippled up and down his arm, worming its way into his fingers and making them go numb. Bloody foking hell… Whatever the arrow had hit was somehow affecting his grip.
Effortlessly, Lachlan switched his sword to his other hand, equally good with his left as he was with his right.
One of the skills he’d honed hour after hour, day after day, year after year.
An expertise he’d pushed his men to achieve as well.
What good was a man who was talented with the sword, if he lost his sword arm?
No good at all. A warrior had to be able to use both his hands with equal precision.
Mastery with both hands was a matter of life and death that no true warrior would be willing to give up.
There was no doubt now that his ability to dispatch the enemy was drawing attention from Longshanks’ men. Lachlan fought fiercely, ignoring the pins and needles in his shoulder and arm. There was no time for that.
Men were coming at him left and right, giving him no chance to breathe. Overwhelming the horse. None of their blades could take him down. Nay, it was a spear that came from the air that did him in.
Lachlan did not notice until it was too late, the whistle of a spear drowned out by battle as it soared through the air and sunk deep into his thigh.
Searing pain made his vision fade, and the horse reared on its hind legs.
Lachlan grappled, trying to hold on, but nausea and pain filled him and he started to fall.
At the last second he twisted, falling onto his back, an effort that likely saved his life–for the moment.
He landed with a hard thud, the wind knocked from his already heaving lungs.
The horse stumbled and then galloped away as though the spear had been meant for his hide and not Lachlan’s.
Swallowing down the saliva gathering in his mouth, and forcing himself to ignore the pain, he searched blindly for his sword.
Just because he was down did not mean the enemy wouldn't come for him.
Quite the opposite in fact. His head would bring a hefty prize.
With a sword found in one hand, Lachlan gripped the wooden shaft with the other but did not dare pull.
For the moment, it appeared the spear itself was keeping him from bleeding too profusely.
But once removed, this was a deadly wound.
Very soon after, he was going to bleed out. Already, his vision was blurred.
Lachlan moved to his knees, holding the twelve-hand spear in place. His enemies, for the moment, did not deal him a killing blow, however. They stared, in silent metal union. But their pause only gave Lachlan’s own allies a chance to intervene.
He swallowed, feeling his body go numb. “What are ye afraid of, ye bloody bastards?” Lachlan bellowed, swinging his sword in wild arcs.
He tried to stand, and stumbled back to his knees, the fall jarring the shaft in his leg and sending white hot pain through his body.
He dropped his sword, bent to reach it, the tips of his fingers missing the hilt.
Scooting forward, he saw from his periphery as the English surged.
But his men stopped them, and when they couldn’t, Lachlan fought from the ground, refusing to stop fighting just from a little wound, even as the mass of English metal clad soldiers blurred into one steel wall.
Even though he was not long left for this earth.
“Seasaibh is brisibh iad…” His lips moved, but he did not hear the sound of his clan’s motto coming from his throat, rather an echo in his mind. Stand and break them. He couldn’t bloody well stand, but he could still break.
Little black dots danced across his vision. He swayed where he sat, his fingers losing their grip on the shaft, and he fell backwards, barely feeling the pain of the arrow shaft pushing itself deeper into his shoulder.
In over a decade, he’d never bowed out of a fight, never stopped fighting even when wounded. Just his luck that it would be this one, when they had been abandoned by those who were supposed to help, that he would suffer an injury in which he could not help anymore.
Lachlan stared up into the rainy sky, the gray clouds, wondering if it would be seconds, or if his life’s blood would take longer to soak into the earth.
Smack. Smack.
Lachlan blinked open his eyes. Had someone slapped him?
Hovering over him were Callum the Red Blade and Ewan the Black Stag.
Surrounding him were some of his men, Angus, James, Malcolm, Roy, Mungo, Finlay…
They’d rallied, fighting for their lives, and his, keeping him safe.
Duncan and Caelan barreled down on horseback, taking out half a dozen.
Padraig and Hamish coming at them mounted from the other side.
Thomas seemingly dropped from the sky, cutting off a hand holding a sword about to slice into Lachlan’s neck.
How lucky he was to be protected even in death.
The Wolf of Skye stared into the growing blackness and finally lost consciousness.