Page 35 of The Guardian

Both sides had suffered many losses. The ground was slick with blood, the scent of iron thick and nauseating. Still, neither army gave way.

The Ross warriors fought with the discipline of hardened soldiers. The MacLeods, with the madness of men who had nothing left to lose.

“Fer Laird Calum!” one of the MacLeod men shouted, his face streaked with blood, a jagged wound slicing across his scalp. “Revenge for our fallen chief!”

The cry rippled through the MacLeod line like wildfire, igniting a second wind. They surged forward with renewed ferocity, teeth bared, eyes wild.

Hendry gritted his teeth and raised his shield just in time to deflect a blow that would have split his skull. He countered with a swift strike, cutting deep into the man’s thigh and dropping him with a scream.

“They’ll nae stop,” a Ross warrior growled beside him, panting. “They’ll die before they retreat.”

“Aye,” Hendry called back, his chest heaving. “Then we’ll make certain they do.”

The fighting dragged on, and even the fiercest blades began to slow.

Muscles burned.

Vision blurred.

Men slipped in the mud and blood, rising only to fall again beneath another’s sword. Exhaustion clawed at every limb, but retreat wasn’t an option. To fall back now meant losing the keep. The village. Their families.

And still, the MacLeods kept fighting.

Sometime during the battle, Alexander and a group from the keep had joined in the fray. Their presence renewing them, but it didn’t last long.

Hendry’s arms ached with each swing. His legs felt like stone. Beside him, a warrior crumpled to the ground, a blade buried in his back. Hendry didn’t have time to mourn; he had to live long enough to protect the others. His blade met another, sparks flying as they locked. He twisted, drove his elbow into the enemy’s face, then drove his blade deep into the man’s chest.

He was turning to engage the next threat when a sound split the chaos. A horn. But not from the MacLeods.

It came from the west.

For a moment, no one moved. Heads turned. The MacLeods faltered, just for a breath, uncertainty flickering in their bloodshot eyes.

Then, through the haze and smoke, mounted warriors crested the hill, torches in hand, steel glinting beneath the moon. They came thundering down like a tide, war cries splitting the night.

“Ross! Ross! Ross!” The nearing warriors called out in unison, repeating the word over and over to ensure they were heard.

A rider in dark green plaid led the charge, his sword raised high, black hair whipping in the wind.

“Munro Ross!” someone cried out in disbelief. “He’s come!” It was Alexander’s brother who was laird of the southwestern portion of Skye.

The Ross warriors on the battlefield answered with a roar, their spirits reignited. Some wept, others laughed. Mad and breathless from relief, every man gripped his weapon tighter. Suddenly their strength renewed with hope.

Several of the arriving warriors had obviously been ordered by the laird’s brother to surround and remove the laird because they circled Alexander, guiding the angry man out of the battlefield.

The MacLeods, caught between two forces now, began to falter. Some turned, only to be met by the new wave of Ross steel crashing into their flank.

Munro’s men hit hard and fast, breaking the MacLeod line like a hammer through glass.

Hendry stumbled back from the fight just long enough to breathe. His vision found Munro, still on horseback, fighting like a man possessed. Their eyes met across the field, and Hendry gave a single, grateful nod.

The tide had turned.

It wasn’t long before the battle was over.

What remained was silence, broken only by the moans of the wounded and the distant crash of waves upon the shore.

Bodies were strewn on the shoreline, on the hill, and in the clearing. Victory had been claimed, but it had not come without a cost.