Lucas MacGille pulled his spare plaid from his horse bag, wrapping it around his broad shoulders to ward off the pre-dawn chill. He was a large man, and usually the cold didn’t bother him, but he had been living on the land, battle to battle for some three odd months, and it was beginning to wear on him. The wind had kicked up and his fire-red hair, which was longer than he liked it kept, whipped around his face, stinging his eyes. It was still summer, but Autumn was finding her way into the Scottish air early this year. He closed his emerald-green eyes and took a deep breath, scratching the battle-weary growth on his chin.

He knew back at Cadney Castle it would be time to start bringing in the harvest to secure food for the clan for the long harsh winter to come. He missed his mother and sister, but he sorely missed the smells of baking bread, and the sounds of the keep waking up to begin the day’s work. Those sounds and smells he cherished were replaced these last three months with the smells of campfire, musket balls, and the filth of warrior and horse alike. Along with the snores of his father and brother cutting through the early morning mist.

After the Jacobite victory at Killiecrankie he thought they would be able to return home, and this madness would end. He was wrong. The Viscount of Dundee didn’t make it out of the battle, and as a valued ally to all Scots, his death needed to be avenged. John Graham was his father’s longtime friend and Angus MacGille, Laird of Clan MacGille, wished to personally avenge his friend’s death by driving the English out of Scotland forever. As his eldest son and the heir to the lairdship, Lucas couldn’t allow his father to continue the fight alone. His brother Gavin was lusty for battle and had been fighting along with them. But Lucas feared if he left the two men alone they would kill themselves or each other before they’d even set eyes on the enemy. So here they were out in the wilderness, with clansmen and friends alike, leading the charge into Dunkeld. The Jacobites would fight again.

In the distance a horn sounded, calling the men to arms. Lucas kicked his brother in the leg to wake him, before gently shaking his father out of his slumber.

“Och, why did ye kick me?” Gavin asked rubbing the sleep from his eyes. Gavin was a benefit in any battle, and Lucas would trust his brother with his life. Two years younger, and a head taller than he was, his brother had always been an adept fighter. But as he grew into a man, Lucas also found Gavin had a head for strategy. He also envied the younger man, he could sleep soundly through the end times on a bumpy log.

“Did ye nae hear th’horn?”

“Ya, I heard it, but you could hae woke me gently, like ye did da.”

“Ya, I could hae, but I dinnea,” Lucas said. “We need tae get up tae th' front ay th' line brother.”

“Yes ye dae lads,” Angus MacGille said as he stepped from behind a tree. Even in his later years the tall red-headed laird never failed to impress his son. Lucas was sure he had been taking care of his morning needs, yet still he managed to have one ear on his two sons. “Th' world doesnae wait for the English an' neither dae we!”

Lucas knew his father would love nothing more than to kill an Englishman before breakfast. Knowing today was the day they would ambush the government forces at Dunkeld, there was no way his father wanted to be anywhere, save the front of the charge. It was a miracle the old laird hadn’t gotten himself killed yet, and Lucas was unsure how he would manage to keep him alive if the fighting got bad. They walked up together to meet with the other clans. Lucas had a bad feeling about the day. He pulled Gavin aside. “Nae matter what happens in th' battle, bide on dad. Ye unnerstaun?”

“Don’t fash yerself brother, ye ken I will,” Gavin said. Lucas clapped him on the back and Gavin returned the affection. He longed for the days of their youth, when their worries were not life and death. Hopefully when this day was over, the Jacobites would prove victorious again, and they could all go home.

Highlanders were built and trained to fight in the lands of their youth, and not made for town fighting. Lucas tried to plead with the chieftain to turn back, retreat. There was no way for the clansmen to get ahead in the fight. The roads and stone kept them at a disadvantage. His pleas fell on deaf ears. The Jacobite cause was renewed with vigor after recent wins, and the doubts of a single clansman would deter the cause.

In the heat of battle, his worst fears were coming to fruition, and they were losing. The dead and wounded could be found in every corner, moans and screams of pain punctuated with the crack of musket balls were the only sounds that found their way through the thick smoke of battle.

He preferred sword combat but was wise enough to know he couldn’t beat the English by bringing a metal to a fight with fire. When Lucas had run out of his own ammunition and had no choice but to resort to wielding his broadsword, he feared he too would be felled by the government forces. A cold rain began to fall, and Lucas moaned. They were truly at a disadvantage on this day. His powerful arms tired from swinging, and blocking, but he searched wildly for any sign of his father or Gavin. He had lost sight of them early in the battle when the Laird had rushed forward ahead of the line. His sword held high, and a terrifying battle cry on his lips that would strike fear in the heart of any man who got in his way. Gavin and Lucas both rushed in to follow and protect their Laird, but in the crush of bodies it was near impossible to keep together.

He rushed past a group of men laying in the crook where two stone walls connected. He moved fast and almost missed one of the men, Magnus MacGille. His cousin, friend, and able warrior, was lying on the road, injured. Lucas doubled back, leaning down to check the man. The usually large and jovial man was moaning, holding his side, and covered in soot and blood.

“Magnus, are ye hurt, man?” Lucas asked, shaking the man to keep him conscious. His eyes flashed open as he recognized Lucas.

“It’s only a scratch, I’ll be fine in nae time, Luc,” he said, flashing a toothless smile.

“Good to hear lad, hae ye seen yer laird or Gavin?” he asked.

“I saw them runnin' toward the kirk,” he said before falling back hard against the wall.

“Can ye move man? Can ye walk?” he asked Magnus.

“Och, aye,” he replied, trying to stand. “Got tae git back to th’ battle.”

“Forget th' battle, Magnus, get yerself tae safety, and any other men ye see on th’ way. That’s an order,” Lucas replied, he could not risk the loss of more good men in this fight. Magnus had a wife and a young son back home. How could he face the woman knowing he didn’t do everything in his power to save her husband?

Lucas was maybe a house or two away from the cathedral. It was where the fighting was the heaviest. He needed to get there, and quickly. He wouldn’t leave his brother and father to fight alone, but he couldn’t leave his clansman alone wounded and exposed.

“Aye,” the man said. “I will dae as ye say, Luc.”

“Thank ye,” he replied clapping the man on the back. Once he was confident Magnus would follow orders he headed in the way of the church.

The fighting was thickest the closer Lucas got closer to where the cathedral sat. It was hard to miss—everything around the area appeared to be on fire. Not for the first time since he’d left the keep, Lucas reflected on what a tragedy war was. The energy and resources that would be needed to rebuild all that was lost would surely put a strain on good people in the lowlands and highlands alike, and for what? It would be easy to hate the English, but he was not able to bring himself to judge a whole nation based on the acts of so few. He didn’t hate the English, but he did hate what the idea of English rule over Scotland represented.

He knew one day he would be laird of his clan, and as such he would be responsible to not only his family but all the clan. The job was large, and his father had been training him for it since he was less than knee high. He knew his responsibilities and he knew he would need to wed and produce an heir. But how could he find love and raise children in a world that could so easily lay waste to all that people worked so hard to build. And for no good reason other than God and the whims of man. It was such a waste.

The familiar battle cry of the MacGille clan pulled Lucas from his lonely thoughts. He rushed forward toward the noise. He was stopped short by a government soldier rushing toward him, musket up and aimed. Lucas ran with all his might and jumped, high, bringing his sword down swiftly upon the man’s shoulder, knocking him to the ground with a wound that would likely cause the loss of the soldier’s arm. He could think of nothing else but to get to his father.

There was no mistaking the shock of red hair he saw at the entrance of the cathedral, it was Angus MacGille locked in battle with what looked like a government soldier of rank, a commander or lieutenant-colonel. Lucas was too far away to make out exact features, but the dress of the man gave away his rank. He looked around, where was Gavin? His father was strong, but age gave him the disadvantage against his opponent who appeared younger than his father by a decade, maybe more. The fighting between the two was fierce and Lucas rushed to cross the distance between them and get to his father’s defense. Government soldiers closed in around him, but he did his best to cut through them. Determined to get to his father, and he would not allow anything to block his way.

A crack broke through the thick air, Lucas felt something tear through his right side. He let out a rush of breath. Warm liquid spread through his middle, but he pushed forward. He was closer to the cathedral entrance now, he pushed through the pain. His father needed him. The clank of metal against metal rang in his ears. He looked up to see his father lose his sword. Lucas let out a scream, and dropped to his knees, just as the commander’s sword felled his father, splitting his head in two. Adrenaline surged through Lucas and he charged toward the man. Turning to face his new opponent the commander looked spent and terrified as the giant, muscular highlander charged. He turned and fled into the cathedral, but not before Lucas was able to get a look at his small beady eyes. He would not rest until he saw the life leave those eyes, he swore it. Another crack broke through the air and he felt his leg give way. He dropped to his father’s body, ignoring his own pain, he checked for any hope of life. There was none. The Laird was dead.

Lucas opened his eyes, the rain felt cool on his face. He looked up, he was laying down? Where was he? He heard men moving above him. He was no longer in Dunkeld, that he knew by the soft, meadow grass that was underneath him. He groaned and tried to sit with no luck. Pain swirled through his body. There was a massive, hulking man standing above him covered in filth, dirt, and blood, but the man was familiar, a clansman. Was it Magnus?

“Dinnae fash yerself, Laird we hae a cart, we’re gettin' ye tae a safe place,” Magnus said quietly, running a cloth over Lucas’s face. Why was Magnus calling him laird? The memory of his father’s gruesome end came rushing back. His breathing became rushed, he had to get to the cathedral. He had to kill the commander. Where was Gavin?

“Gavin?” he croaked out, frantically grabbing Magnus’s arm. “Where’s Gavin?”

“I dinnae ken my laird. Th' lest he time he was seen he was runnin' intae th' kirk,” Magnus said apologetically.

“Magnus, I told ye tae retreat,” he whispered, pain shooting up his leg.

“An' allow my laird tae suffer a worse fate than his poor father? I dinnae think sae. Now hush man,” Magnus said. Lucas thought he was a fool to have come back for him. He wanted to suffer the same fate of his father. He failed him. He failed everyone. The only hope he had was that Gavin was able to find and murder the commander who killed their father. Revenge was the last thought on his mind before the blackness overtook him.

When Lucas woke again it was dark. He didn’t know how much time had passed, but he knew it wasn’t night. He could see shafts of light peeking through holes along the walls. He was indoors. He hadn’t slept indoors in months. The bed he was on was soft straw. The plaids and wools covering him made him warm, but he was too weak to move the coverings. He tried to sit up and failed.

He couldn’t see where he was, but he heard rustling. Why was he so tired? He felt like he could sleep through ages. What did he smell? Was it horses? No, not horses, but sheep. He smelled sheep and hay. He was not in the keep at Cadney. If he had been, he was confident he would not be in a barn but rather in his own bed chamber. So, where was he? His skin felt hot. He tried to move but found he was too weak to even lift an arm. His mouth was dryer than the bottom of a stew pan left to smolder and crust. He wanted water, but he couldn’t speak. Pain caused him to groan.

“Hush now, tak' some water,” an elderly man was leaning over him gently holding a cup filled with fresh water. A cool cloth came down on his forehead. Relief washed over him as he faded into blackness once again.