Firth of Moray, 923 AD

Eamon Gordon tightened his grip around the bridle of his horse as he rode along the hills of northern Scotland toward an ominous cloud of smoke. An amber haze became more visible on the horizon as they journeyed onward. His saddle jostled against the animal as the terrain became more rugged near the coast. Despite the growing discomfort of his ride, Eamon clicked his tongue to urge the horse forward so he could see above the cresting hills.

The thunder of hooves beat against the rocky landscape as the other men rode up behind him. He was just one of many from clan Gordon who gathered steel and mounted a horse to join them for the cause. His brother Keenan heard news of the smoke around midday and rallied their forces to travel north towards the shore and go investigate. As their chieftain, it was Keenan’s duty to protect their borders from foreign invaders, and with signs of struggle growing ever-closer, it seemed as if their days of peace were numbered.

To the best of their knowledge, the north was an uninhabited region, without a town or settlement to speak of, yet something had been destroyed – smoke did not rise from the earth unbidden. Someone had been there and left their curse upon the land.

There had been attacks like this before, the purges of monasteries and vicious slaughter of their people. Holy men, who carried no weapons to defend themselves, butchered in places of worship. Viking long ships would come ashore, bringing bloodthirsty Norsemen and their weapons, seeking gold. They raided everything their ships came upon, like ravenous wolves unable to slake their appetite. Everyone knew that Viking men were not warriors. They were demons sent from hell to destroy everything good and beautiful. The smoke and ash rising in the air above the smoldering wreckage was testament to their barbarism – no one else could have done this.

When they grew closer, he saw buildings and farmland set ablaze, leaving nothing to be rebuilt. Everything that remained was black and charred for as far as the eye could see, leading up to the rocky shoreline. Eamon and the others paused at the crest of the hill, resting to survey the damage in horrorstruck silence.

It was worse than they could have possibly expected.

Whoever had done this was long gone, leaving only a swath of destruction in their wake, barely anything was not smashed or burned. All they left behind was an eerie quiet, broken only by the crackling of small fires and scavenging beasts. There was no screaming, no clash of metal, nor sound of battle of any kind. If there were survivors, surely there would have been some sign of a struggle.

So much death, Eamon thought to himself. Will the conflict never end?

Seven villages had been pillaged in the last year. Leaders were losing spirit and the women and children were frightened. The Northern invaders had become the region’s greatest threat. The clans, now more than ever, had to join forces and push back. They would not survive without each other.

He looked to his brother Keenan, chieftain of Clan Gordon, and waited for his order. The chieftain’s face was stained with tracks of sweat and dirt from their ride, but his expression was passive. His eyes squinted in the sunlight, crinkling into crow’s feet around the edges. He’d seen many battles throughout his life and recognized the signs; this was an annihilation.

In one swift motion Keenan cracked the reins and galloped down the hills toward the wreckage. “Yah!”

The warriors followed, riding down to the curious remnants of a port village leveled to the Earth in burning cinders—a village no one had even known existed. Buildings still in the middle of construction had been obliterated along with the inhabitants. It was still not clear what had happened, except that a village was being established and was cut down before anyone else had learned of it. The structures were all in place and it would have been a valuable asset to have friendly access to the sea. If Keenan had known a new Highland settlement was under threat, Clan Gordon would have come to their aid.

Not that any of that mattered.

The smell of death was everywhere. The flayed remains of the village inhabitants scattered on the ground, soaking the earth with crimson blood. By the looks of things, six or seven families had been butchered. All along the beach patches of red were being washed away with the tide.

Overhead the eerie sound of seagulls drifted across the waves before they landed on the shore.

“Check fer survivors,” Keenan commanded. “There may yet be a soul we can attend. Yet keep a wary eye. We cannae be sure the Northern invaders dinnae leave a trap.”

Following his laird’s orders, Eamon dismounted and drew the top fold of his plaid to hold over his nose. The wool didn’t do much for the smell, but helped a bit for the thick ash and smoke still hanging in the air.

“Keenan, I’m afraid we’re too late,” he muttered dismally. “There are none left.”

“Aye, those bastards slaughtered them like cattle.” The chieftain scowled, casting his eyes across the scene. It was a fair assessment of the travesty, but Eamon could tell his brother was not ready to give up on their search just yet. He, too, was unwilling to leave without making a valiant effort. “Keep searching, lads. If we find even one, our cause is worthwhile. Dinnae let yerselves lose heart.”

The warriors bowed, taking the declaration as dismissal and went to search the ransacked cottages. “Aye, Laird Gordon.”

Eamon’s brother in-law, Bruce, walked towards them. “What do ye think happened here?”

Keenan grunted and climbed off his horse. “It matters not. Whoever’s responsible is long gone by now.”

“It had to be a Viking raid, only they are capable of such merciless slaughter,” Eamon muttered.

“These pagans are barbaric,” Bruce spat out between clenched teeth.

Keenan glanced towards the shore and frowned. “Where are all the ships?”

“My laird?”

“The ships,” he repeated. “Fer a settlement on the coast I would expect to see some boats along the shore. Yet there are none. What happened to them?”

Eamon followed his gaze towards the shoreline and saw he was correct. “Mayhap they were destroyed as well? Or could be the ships were taken with them.”

Laird Gordon stroked his beard with a thoughtful look in his eye and turned back towards his men. “Forget the ships. What’s important now is that we find any survivors.”

The men walked off together, searching for any signs of life while Eamon was left alone. His brother, Keenan, was brave and wise, which served him well leading as chieftain of their clan. Eamon was honored to have him as a mentor to look up to. He clicked his tongue again and pulled on the horse’s reins, leading it carefully through the wreckage. His boots clomped across the ground and Eamon came across the charred framework of a house. When he glanced down, he saw a gap beneath one of the beams just large enough for a child. The structure was merely a barricade of ash and stone, but something pricked at the back of his mind, urging him to explore. The horse whinnied as he moved towards it, stamping its hooves in reluctance and yanking back against the reins. Eamon chuckled, patting the horse on its side and brushed his fingers through its shaggy mane. “Calm yerself, Angus, there’s nothing to be afraid of. Shall we take a look inside?”

He released the horse’s bridle and knelt to pull back one of the fallen beams. To his surprise, there was a pair of tiny bare feet in a hidden culvert. They appeared to be untouched by fire, yet covered in dirt and soot, and more importantly alive. Once his thoughts caught up with him, panic struck like a blow to the chest and he offered a silent prayer. In an instant he was on his knees, pulling back the rubble to rescue the child they belonged to.

When his eyes finally adjusted to the darkness, Eamon was delighted to find a young girl sitting in the ashes. Her hair was as red as flame, her eyes a piercing, emerald green.

She gazed back at him, terrified.

Green as a Scottish loch. Green as clover in the mossy glen, and green with innocence and life. Eamon gasped when he saw her; the child was an angel sent from heaven with eyes that could bore straight into a man’s soul and come out the other side.

Her garments were ripped and barely more than ash themselves. She was no more than a wee lass, no older than eight and even if that old, small for her age. Yet somehow, she managed to survive the Viking horde. A wave of paternal affection swept over him and he eyed the child with a tender gaze.

“Hello there, lassie. It’s safe now, ye can come out. I will not harm ye,” he murmured as soft and gentle as his voice would manage. “Come here and let me see ye.”

The girl didn’t speak, her eyes wide with fright as she cowered even farther back in the crevasse. The last thing he wanted was to cause her more grief, but all the same he had to get her out of the wreckage. He could not let her remain amongst the ashes alone and uncared for. Eamon reached out to her in welcome, offering his hand with a timid smile. She looked at him, her blazing red hair cascading down on either side of her face, and then down at his hand in confusion.

The girl stared back at him, but after a moment, placed her hand in his. Eamon’s smile widened and gestured to the outside world where he could help her escape from the horror surrounding her. Her eyes flickered to the horse a few feet away and made no gesture to move.

“Ah, lass. We’ll have none of that. Ye need to come out, so we can help ye,” he insisted.

Her hand clutched tighter around a piece of metal she was holding when he spoke. Brows drawn, he asked, “What have ye got there, lass?”

He held out his hand to her. The girl looked back at him with green, calculating eyes. Eventually, she handed him the metal trinket she was hiding and placed it in the palm of his hand.

When he took it from her, the girl cried and buried her face in the crook of her arm. Eamon glanced down at the pinnacular brooch and admired the intricately woven pattern. It was a maze of knotwork woven around two dragon heads, with one on either side. Eamon had never seen anything like it; the craftsmanship was different than anything Scottish made. Examining it closer, Eamon brushed his finger across the tiny worked ridges before staring at her in awe. “Where did ye get this, child?”

She didn’t answer, but her lip twitched as silent tears streamed down her cheeks. As the pieces fit together, realization crept into his heart and Eamon’s eyes grew wide with understanding. “Ye’re one of the Norsemen,” he whispered. “They brought a child on their raid?” The thought of these violent invaders brought a heat to his neck and a sharpness to his eyes.

His voice became more agitated and the girl’s tears came swifter, her tiny frame shook with quiet sobs fighting to break free. Eamon gazed at her with new eyes, completely mystified as to why they had left a child behind. He couldn’t fathom a logical explanation for any of it, or why she would have been brought there in the first place.

Her tears stirred up complicated emotions inside him, catching Eamon off guard. The clans had always fought off the Vikings and cursed them in raised voices often, but this girl was just a wee lass and she needed care like any other. He couldn’t find it in his heart to hate her. It was his duty to protect the innocent, so he couldn’t very well leave her there to die. But if his kinsmen found out the truth, that’s exactly what would happen, they wouldn’t jeopardize the safety of the village.

While he was contemplating what to do, a voice called out in the distance signaling Keenan’s return. “Gather the bodies, we’ll build a funeral pyre.”

Eamon and the child both heard them, and she looked back at him in fear. Her brilliant green eyes captivated him once again and Eamon couldn’t help but think back to his wife at home. They had tried for many years to have a child, but fate had not granted one to them.

He considered the wee lass again. She had the face of an angel. Surely, his Moira would find this to be a blessing from the Lord, a belated answer to their prayers. Her heart would burst with love and happiness at the chance to become a mother.

He’d wanted that as well, to be a father and protector of a child who needed him. Perhaps God had seen fit to put a child in his path after all. Children should not be held accountable for the sins of their parents.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. He could only imagine how terrified she must be, alone and separated from her family. Her chest heaved, letting out a tiny cough from inhaling all the smoke. Heat of the burning cottages warmed Eamon’s back as the other warriors came around the bend.

His brother called to him, “Eamon, what have ye found?”

Eamon crouched in front of her when they addressed him. Could he do this? Could he bear the consequences if any of his clan ever learned who she was? Could he bear the weight of his guilt if he didn’t protect her? His heart thudded in his chest as it would if he were fighting for his life. And perhaps he was.

When his brother grew closer, the girl gasped, looking up at Eamon in fear. She shook her head in protest and backed deeper into the crevasse. Her expressive eyes spoke clearly, let me stay hidden. He couldn’t do that. His decision was made. Eamon stuttered, closing his hand around the brooch to hide it from their view before turning around to face their chieftain. “It’s a child,” he responded simply. “She was hiding in the rubble. Poor lass saw the whole thing, but somehow managed to escape.”

Keenan glanced past him at the little red-headed child still cowering in the shadows below him with ash and cinders at her feet. Her small body trembled in her hiding spot, shying away from them as best she could. Keenan’s eyes narrowed suspiciously as he looked her over from head to foot. “That’s a tender mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ, saving her from those heathen miscreants. We will take her back to Elign with us.”

As he was about to walk away, Eamon called out, “Brother, if it pleases ye, Moira and I would tend to the lass ourselves. Ye ken how much we’ve wanted children, but God has not yet blessed us with one. Such a boon would be a light in these dark times.”

Keenan raised an eyebrow at his suggestion, looking back at him with steel gray eyes. “So be it. I’ll not deny a child the opportunity to be loved and cared for. Ye’ll be responsible fer her then. Take the lass home, she’s yers to guard and keep.”

Eamon breathed out in relief and said, “Thank ye, Keenan. I will not forget the kindness ye have bestowed on us this day.”

The chieftain nodded stiffly and climbed up on his horse without another word. As they trotted away to help the others clean up the mess, he called back over his shoulder. “Get her out of here as soon as possible. I dinnae want any more death to fall on innocent eyes. Ye’ve taken on a great responsibility and I won’t keep ye here any longer, especially when there’s still a decent ride ahead of ye.”

“Aye, Keenan.”

Eamon was left to take her and reached to pull the girl out of the wreckage. As his hands wrapped around her body, the child let out a blood curdling scream and started babbling incoherently between her tears. Afraid of what the other men might hear, he put a hand over the girl’s mouth to silence her. Eamon didn’t want to draw more attention than they already had and if she put up more of a fuss they might search her. If they realized she was speaking another language it would give away her heritage and all would be lost. “Quiet, lass. Ye’re too old to be doing that. Ye’re safe.”

He mimicked eating food to try and show he was going to care for her, then looked again at the brooch before giving it back to her.

“We’ll have to keep this bit a secret.”

He put a finger to his lips and pointed to the jewelry. Her eyes widened with understanding and she let him carry her to his animal. She was such a tiny thing that as he placed her on the saddle her legs didn’t even reach the stirrups. A few more sobs escaped before he climbed along behind her and put his arms around her waist to secure them for the ride.

“Hush now, lassie. We have a good home fer ye back in Elign,” he whispered against the tangled mess of her flame red hair. “Moira will be glad to meet ye.”

Angus clomped down the path out of the smoldering village and off into the grassy hillside. As they left the death and destruction behind them, she turned her head towards the coast and stared off into the sea. In the distance, he could hear the waves crash against the shore while her body shook from crying on the saddle in front of him. After a while, Eamon felt her little body relax. She leaned into him. Her breathing became slow and regular as if the rhythm of the horse finally lulled her to sleep.