Image: Battle of the Clans from Perth Museum and Art Gallery

Soundtrack: House Targaryen Theme from Game of Thrones

***

Skye

"And now," Aelshen proclaims solemnly, "it is time for swordsmanship."

"You've got to be kidding," Ace mumbles, gaze darting towards me as if sizing me up.

Aelshen turns and faces the young Lycan, placing his hands on his hips. "Something that needs sayin', MacLarty?"

"No, sir," he replies sweetly, reaching up to adjust his hair while eyeing the wolf spirit warily.

The ever-present grin on Aelshen's face deepens. "Somethin' that is worth sayin'," he continues, "is that if ye mess with one o' the Three, ye mess with us all."

Ace gulps. "Yessir."

Aelshen glances back at me, ignoring the confusion on my face. "Listen, Skye. Nwyfre and I are always here for ye. We'll come runnin' if need be, but in the case that we can't, ye need to be able to fend against as many enemies as need be. Ye need to protect the earth and every livin' thing on it. Stand up fer what's right."

"Hypocrite," Ace breathes.

Aelshen raises his eyebrows at the dark-haired Lycan. "Not at all. Nwyfre an' I had a falling out because what he wanted to do to the Covenant – to Patercius' Knights – was just as bad as what they were doing to him. In some cases, standin' up fer what's right does not mean fighting. Sometimes, it means running to live another day. Helpin' yer race to endure rather than putting 'em all in danger the way Nwyfre seems to enjoy doin'. Planning out a course—"

The goth snorts and Conall comes up beside him, eyes narrowed.

"Running?" the latter demands. "I tried to run from the soldiers that came to capture me. They put me in a fricken prison for five years. If I'd fought against them, maybe..."

Aelshen sighs deeply. "Ye'd have been killed on the spot."

"And how will sword fighting help us defeat soldiers with machine guns?" Ace demands as Damian and Conall nod vigorously.

"Hate to say it, but it's way too old-school," Damian says, crossing his arms over his chest. "We should get back to the fire and lightning."

The Father of Wolves glances at the edge of the clearing where he'd jabbed his sword, Adhair, into the soil. Raising his hand, he calls to the earth and wind, bidding them to return it to him. The weapon flies true, hilt first, into his awaiting palm.

"He isn't teaching me because it'll help against guns," I begin, a slow smile spreading across my face. "He's teaching me because it'll help me remember."

"Remember what?" Ace asks flatly.

"Ye'll see, MacLarty." Aelshen nods towards the second longsword, which rests in the dead centre of a rather large boulder.

I smile, breaking into a jog to retrieve the weapon. "Sword in the stone," I breathe. Raising my voice, I call to the others, "This is why Xunnu and Litu taught me archery and raven-flight! Sure, these skills don't directly help with our struggle, but they aid me in remembering who I once was. Bit by bit, the memories are coming back. Let's do this!"

"Aye, lass. Yer a spirit of the earth. Centuries upon centuries ye've been honing these skills. Let's see how quickly they come back to ye, young avatar. An' remember to keep yer thoughts to yerself fer the time being. We canna' risk it."

"Right," I concede.

My mind isn't ready to be reopened to the spirit connection. I might not be able to prevent Patercius' consciousness from trickling in like a rogue rivulet. He could find out our whereabouts and listen in to our training sessions.

I reach both hands towards the sword. The boulder quakes and shakes, crumbling to dust at my feet as I grasp the hilt of the sword and raise it above my head in triumph.

"Not quite the way Arthur did it, but well done, nonetheless," Aelshen proclaims proudly. "'Tis a fine weapon. Found it in an occult shop while you an' Flint were o'er in Conwy. Hadn't had the chance to give it to ye yet, an' of course I had to keep it secret from Matth—from yer father."

I admire the weapon, turning it this way and that and running a finger gently along its edge.

Aelshen clears his throat. "A weapon of destruction, that is, though it is also a thing of beauty. It just needs a name."

I continue to stare at the blade, mulling over various names in my head. "The name has to fit; I haven't used the sword yet," I tell the spirit matter-of-factly, twirling the weapon around in my hands and nearly dropping it.

Aelshen chuckles. "I was hopin' ye'd say that."

Ace groans, causing us both to glance at him. He's sunk to the grass again, pulling weeds out by the roots and tossing them in our direction.

"You spirits are so boring. Fight! Fight! Fight!"

"Eyes on me, lads," Aelshen calls out, raising Adhair in front of his burly frame and placing his left foot in front of his right, a shoulder's width apart. The point of the weapon is aimed at my throat, though far enough away that it's not a threat. His elbows are bent, giving the position a casual feel yet I know if I advanced on him, he'd run me through.

I mirror his pose. Wish we could link minds; he'd be able to share memories with me so I could remember the way each stance feels.

"Two hands. Right above left," Aelshen orders. "Left above if yer left-handed."

"Breve," I breathe.

"That's the Italian term fer it, mind ye, but aye. Posta breve – short guard position. How about this one?" Aelshen slinks into the next. He holds the sword's handle at eye level now beside the right side of his face with the blade pointing in the same location as the last guard position: at my throat. The blade itself is parallel with the earth.

An image tugs at the edge of my mind and I ease it in, taking care to subdue any foreign minds from gaining entry – Patercius', in particular.

***

I stood with longsword in hand alongside hundreds of my brethren: Scots fighting just one of the many battles of independence they would share with England throughout the centuries. Each ally carried a claymore – a longsword with angled crossguards. Some of these weapons were a lot more worse-for-wear than others. Mine had been passed on through the generations, once wielded by my great-great-grandfather.

I was male in this life. It was not so much a choice as a necessity. Much easier to blend in and make a difference when one could join the army rather than be expected to stay at home with the children. I would not raise young of my own in this life; until we could settle the peace between these two peoples, there was no point in it. There would be many more lives in which to consider settling down and starting a family.

The men around me began to roar with invigoration. I could sense their fear. I swallowed heavily and stifled the connection I had with them. I had my own fear to deal with.

In unison, we raised our blades and rushed into battle. I put on a burst of speed, intending to be the first one into the fray. I kept my mind's eye on the myriad spirits around me, ready to make use of adhair and uisge and all other elements at my disposal. These elements I would use sparingly; no one here knew or would ever know my true identity as Spiritborne. I could not risk it in times such as these.

A wind picked up as I launched myself at the opposing ranks. Harsh breezes blinded the enemies, causing them to falter. I tried desperately to ignore the fear and desperation emanating from those soldiers' souls. They were on orders from the king, after all, and many of them did not agree with the occupation.

I would ensure this battle ended as quickly as possible to minimize loss of life. Tip the scales enough to allow the Scots a sufficient advantage to regain their foothold. If the king insisted on further battles – which, undoubtedly, he would – I would seek the aid of Mac Tíre and Nwyfre. The three of us would pay him a visit.

Two armoured knights advanced upon me, sizing up my tartan-clad and very much unprotected form. My eyes pleaded with them to stay away. They would have a chance if targeting any other Scot than myself. But they misinterpreted my expression for fear. Their roars echoed across the moor as they raised their swords above their heads.

I raised my claymore at an angle and with a loud clang, I deflected the first blow. The first knight's blade shot aside so rapidly that he nearly lost his grip. The second faltered and I swept my blade back around, meeting his weapon with might. I imbued the tip of my sword with a spurt of lightning, and, kicking the second man to the ground, I brought my blade down on his chest, willing the lightning to take hold. The man shook as his flesh lapped up the electrical charge. He would be disfigured, but alive, if only someone would recognize his unmoving – but breathing – body at battle's end. I would be there, too, long after the armies had parted ways. I would pick up the pieces their senseless fighting had brought on.

The first man came back at me and before I could attempt a similar manoeuvre, a Scot surged forward, clanging his aged claymore against the knight's armour. The knight shoved aside his attacker's blade and brought it around, sinking it deeply in the Scot's shoulder. I bit my tongue at my ally's scream and lunged towards the knight. His sword was still caught up, buried deeply in his enemy's flesh. He could not move.

"Finish...him!" the Scot gasped between wails of pain.

What could I do but adhere to the rules of battle when he – and now others – were watching?

In the blink of an eye, I swept my longsword underneath the knight's, cutting into his hand so he would let go of his blade. As he stepped back, temporarily losing his footing, I kicked at the back of his knee, forcing him to the ground. Holding my sword with my right hand and wielding adhair with the other, I forced the blade down through the slit in his visor, cutting into his cheek so when I withdrew it, it would be drenched in blood. I sent a shockwave of wind forward, effectively knocking him out.

I released the breath I had been holding as I sought out the knight's spirit – very much alive. I made a show of wiping my blade on my already-bloodstained sock and continued on. Fortunately, the knights' bodies were concealed behind thick armour so my army couldn't tell I had let many of them live. They would no longer be soldiers; I had maimed their legs and worse. But they could go home to their families. With luck, they would be given a choice many did not ever get to make.