Hello! If you are a normal reader, please skip this chapter and start on the chapter titled "prologue"

For any reviewers or judges, welcome! Please use this Chapter to judge my book, as it contains the Prologue and first ten chapters of my book in a more organised and edited version. Thank you.

When pasting this over from my offline manuscript, there seems to be an issue with the spacing on mobile, however, it is fine on Wattpad Web.

Prologue

The church bells clanged the eleventh hour. The ceremony had begun. Nine, ten, eleven. Silence. And then, a voice whispered from the deepest realms of his mind.

I thought this was what I wanted?

The Knight genuflected deeply in front of his King, causing the tail of his ceremonial cape to skirt the floor. Approaching him, the King fastened the breast star around his neck, clinking as it brushed the polished steel of his armour. It was blazoned with the Royal Arms of England -three golden lions- which were reserved only for His Royal Majesty and the highest ranking nobility.

"Rise, Firmin, Knight Commander, leader of the King's guard."

Firmin arose to the thunderous applause of the crowd that filled the throne room.

I have strived my entire life to reach this moment and yet.. .

"You will lead my army North to defeat the raging Bulls of Carlyle."

I would give it up in a heartbeat, but I can't turn back now.

"We will show them no mercy, for God and Country!" Shouted the King over Firmin's head, out into the rabble.

The crowd erupted once more as Firmin lowered his head, and backed away from his King. He turned, striding down the ruby carpeted stairs and through the masses. A hero.

How could I have known I would have to sell my soul to achieve my dreams? I became a Knight to be a herald of peace, yet, I have never been farther from it.

Chapter 1

"We have won." Edward fell to his knees as the strained words barely left his lips. The syrupy mire clung to his armour as he lay in it, exhausted from the battle that had just taken place. The Royal army had triumphed over Clan Carlyle, so the lands of Caer-Luil now belonged to the King of England.

"To your feet Prince Edward." The Knight Commander of the King's guard, Firmin, emerged from the ashen fog that had consumed the battlefield. A miasma of rotten flesh stung the back of his throat as he spoke, clinging to the stale air around him.

A sharp pain hit Edward's stomach with the intensity of a steel-tipped arrow, causing him to paint the boggy ground below him a crimson red. It appeared that the copious volume of wine he had drunk before the battle had made a reappearance. The Commander solemnly shook his head as he began to help Edward to his feet.

"Come on lad, your father wants to see you," said Firmin sympathetically. He had trained Prince Edward in the way of the sword since he was old enough to hold one, and seeing him alive after such a bloody battle brought an acute sense of relief. Using the last of his strength, Edward wiped the vomit from his blood-stained face, and uneasily stood to his feet.

"Firmin, we have won," he repeated wearily, leaning heavily on his mentor for support. The pair were a stark contrast to one another. This was Edward's first battle, and the horrors of war had not yet consumed his youth. It was too late for Firmin, having served Athelstan for fifteen years.

He had committed countless atrocities in the name of the Butcher King, and it showed. No signs of life peered from his restless eyes, as if his soul had exited his body long ago. Pronounced wrinkles surrounded his eyes, intertwining with the deep creases along his forehead; each wrinkle like an abstract brushstroke painted on the canvass of his face.

"Let's get you looking more presentable," said Firmin wiping the pooled blood from under Edward's eyes and rustling his matted ginger hair into a semblance of normality. They set off towards the mound in the distance, where Athelstan had perched for the entirety of the battle. Looking up for the first time, Edward felt the urge to vomit again as he surveyed the aftermath of the chaos.

A few Englishmen wandered gauntly through the sea of corpses-awash of tartan, iron chainmail, and leathered hides with demonic horns-prodding anything that groaned or whined with the sharp end of their swords.

They continued to trudge through the mud and the bodies till their eyes were drawn by the carcass of an enormous bull. Arrows littered its body and a silver-tipped spear pierced through its imposing skull, making it appear as though it had three horns.

Edward gasped, "The Chief of Clan Carlyle... is dead." As soon as he said it he noticed the mass of deceased English soldiers strewn around the bull, probably fifty in total. Each bore a mortal wound that could have only been inflicted by the bull, their armour was torn through like the scar left by a boulder fired from a trebuchet against a castle wall.

Firmin felt divided between relief and despair as he recalled inflicting the fatal blow on Carlyle, slowly watching the fiery blaze in his eyes fade from existence. Yet, he could not forget witnessing the bull rampage through his comrades that lay before him, who now served as nothing but nourishment for the soil they would soon return to.

His innocence had long since been shattered, but he was still human. Nightmares of past wars relentlessly plagued his disturbed slumber, and surely the scenes he was witnessing now would further add to his torment.

Lies. All of it. Peace, a mere illusion to justify slaughter. It only serves to give hope to the powerless.

Like all noble-born families, Firmin's upbringing indoctrinated him with the notion that nobility were chosen by God as special peoples; with the King as the righteous leader and ruler of all men. He remembered listening to Athelstan's grand speeches as a child. Talk of the monsters across the border, how they killed innocent women and children, and the brave Knights that were sent away to fight them. Firmin watched the armies of silver soldiers march to war with adoration, swearing that he would grow to be the strongest Knight that ever lived. He would defend the weak-thrust his sword into his enemies. How naive, he thought as his mind wondered back to his childhood.

He grunted, pulling Edward away from the bull towards the direction of the King.

*****

A vacant look was plastered on the King's face. "My son, I feared you had not survived." His insincerity was clear to all those around him, as he reluctantly cast his line of sight down to the foot of the mound; looking at his son who had crumbled from exhaustion.

"With royal blood flowing in your veins, I expected more of you Edward."

"Father..." gasped Edward unable to formulate a response.

"Guards, get him to his tent, but first throw him in the river and wash that putrid smell off his body," the King exclaimed whilst turning his nose up in disgust.

"My King." Firmin knelt on one knee in front of Athelstan. "This has been a decisive victory for the crown, Caer-Luil now belongs to you."

"It has always belonged to me," snapped Athelstan.

"We have simply removed the beasts that inhabited it." He began to gesture dismissively, "leave me at once."

Firmin once again performed a deep bow, and set off with two of the other guards, carrying the now unconscious Edward off towards the river. Blood oozed from the torn steel of the prince's armour; streaking down the silver plate and leaving a crimson trail on the trodden grass.

"You have fought valiantly, Edward," whispered Firmin, leaning in closer to the prince's slumped head. "Your father may never say it, but I am proud of the man you have become."

The King took one last gaze over the wasteland. "Hmmph, filthy animals," he muttered under his breath.

"Send out a party of twenty fresh men and execute any stragglers," he barked at the remaining knights that stood before him. "I want to ensure any remnants of this clan are scourged from my land!"

"Yes, my liege," one of the Knight's said agreeably, leaving for the encampment below.

Athelstan was not particularly tall or muscular, but his sculpted golden armour gave the impression of immense power. Few dared gaze in his direction, let alone set eyes on his chiselled features. Blazing red hair exploded from the top of his head, consuming the adorning crown that perched upon it, like ivy that clambers up the trunk of a great oak. He returned to his royal tent in the centre of the sprawling English camp. It sprung up through the river of cloth that surrounded it, emanating its dominance over the others.

Nervously waiting for the King in his Chambers was a young servant boy, around sixteen. The King did not acknowledge him upon entering but extended his arms allowing his servant to remove his armour. The boy trembled as he untied the weathered leather straps that bound the armour to the King's body. The first right arm piece was removed and suddenly clattered the ground.

"Careful boy, this armour is worth more than your life ten times over." Athelstan's words were full of malice as he barked them in the direction of the servant. Tears welled in the boy's eyes as his shaking intensified-this was not going to be an easy task.

Without further incident, the servant left with his life-and the King's regal armour-intact. Tired from the successful day and a belly full of wine, Athelstan began to retire for the evening.

*****

"Commander." Firmin awoke from his tormented daze. A dreary-eyed attendant stood at the edge of his bed, "Sir, the Prince demands your presence immediately."

"Thank you. Tell him I will be at his side shortly." The young boy bowed, and retreated to deliver the message as he roused from his bed.

The guards that protected the Prince's tent nodded as Firmin approached, straightening their spears to allow him past.

"Prince Edward, you require my assistance?" He said, as he ducked under the canvas doorway.

The Prince sat, slumped into a large chair that was overflowing with plush cushions. "How do you do it?"

"Do what?" Firmin noticed the pale look on Edward's face, the fear that consumed him on the battlefield had not relented since.

"Sleep after a battle? How do you get the faces of the men you killed out of your mind? The screams of our wounded soldiers, knowing there is nothing you can do to help them?"

Sighing, he sat down beside the petrified Prince. "I don't. Never have, probably never will. I remember the face of every man I have run through with my sword, the fear in their eyes as they feel their life slowly drain away. Honestly, I don't think I've slept right in years."

"Then why do you keep doing it?"

"It is my duty to the crown, to your father, and to our country."

Edward winced as he sat up, holding his ribs as he rose to Firmin's level. "Speak with me honestly. You have known me my entire life, yet you talk to me as though I was my father."

Firimin smiled, the cross look on the Prince's face reminded him of when he looked after Edward as a child. "Each life I have taken has led me farther and farther from my own. I cannot bare to take another, yet I must."

"How come you never told me you were so troubled? You must retire. Haven't you done enough in the service of our country?

"Edward, lad, if it were only so easy. I have strived for this position all of my life, your father did not force me into it. However, now I am here, death would be the only relief from my position as Knight Commander."

"Forget the idiotic traditions, ignore the archaic rules. If I was King..." He said, standing to his feet in front of Firmin.

"Yes, but you are not King. Not yet anyway. Do not let me hear you repeat those words again, or your father will have you strung up and beaten for that sort of talk."

Edward snorted as his brow furrowed scornfully. "Like that man cares what I have to say. I am leaving for home tomorrow, the healer says my ribs are broken after one of those bloody bulls caught me. I do not wish for my father to see me this way. Please, come with me."

Firmin stood, towering over Edward. "I cannot. Tomorrow we will be advancing on Carlyle castle, and then, who knows what your father requires of me." As he turned to leave, Edward tapped him on the shoulder.

"Do not lose yourself, my friend. There is always another way."

"Farewell my Prince, I trust that you will have a safe journey back to Glouchester." He left as he had entered, ducking under the canvas, and out into the cool night.

Chapter 2

A single crow hovered above as the sun closed its eyes on the horrors that the day had brought. It circled the encampment tirelessly as though it was waiting for something. Night had descended, and slowly the torches spread throughout the area began to fade until nothing was left except the murky darkness. Athelstan tossed and turned in his drunken sleep; it seemed that even he wasn't immune to the night terrors brought on by war.

King Edward the Elder sat on the throne. A crack of lightning flashed the room as Athelstan entered, now standing under the golden dragon archway that marked the threshold of the hall. He was a child again, squinting through the pitch-black as he watched the ominous outline of his father stand to his feet.

"You have failed me, my son..." The voice echoed around the empty hall.

"Father, I." The hairs on the back of Athelstan's neck poised with terror as he heard the slithering of a monstrous entity behind him. He looked up. Nothing. Something grabbed at his leg, suddenly binding his entire body. He squirmed in panic as he felt the golden scales wrap further up his torso and over his mouth. The dragon statue? How?

Another bolt of lightning struck the tallest tower above the throne room as his desperate eyes met his father's; begging him for help. The light retreated, leaving a pair of murderous yellow eyes watching over the King.

"Father! Father!" His muffled screams did not reach Edward the Elder's ears. Tears poured down his face as he helplessly watched the eyes approach where he knew his father stood. A roar louder than the most fearsome thunderclap whipped through the darkness, followed by deafening silence.

The serpents grip grew tighter around Athelstan's neck. As his consciousness faded around him, a final jolt of lightning crashed to the ground. For the faintest of moments, he saw the black bear standing over his father's bloodied corpse.

This was not the first time he had dreamt of the death of his father. Each time he struggled in vain. Each time he watched him die. Edward the Elder regarded the Scottish people as equals, allowing them positions of authority in the Kingdom. That changed when he was found dead. Hacked to death by some sort of beast. His most trusted Druid -and advisor to the crown- gone.

"You will pay. Pay for your treason. With blood," murmured Athelstan in his drunken sleep. "I will kill..." His body wrestled in the bed, turning uneasily at his guilt-ridden nightmares. "Kill every last one of you."

*****

The crow had come to rest on the peak of the King's tent for some time now. Intermittent beams of moonlight peeked through the dense cloud cover, reflecting on the crow's glossy ebony feathers. Sensing the time was right, it silently dropped to the ground evading the detection of the two armed guards on either side of the doorway, and slipped through a tiny gap in the canvas.

Once inside, the Phantom Queen, Mór-Rioghain, spread her wings; suddenly a woman's dim shadow could be seen cast on the canvas wall by the candlelight from Athelstan's bedside. Her jet-black cloak was made entirely of tightly woven crows feathers. Dulled from use, it devoured any light that dared cast upon it, gently flowing behind her as she moved. With eyes like teardrops of obsidian, she lustfully watched over him as she observed the golden aura of power radiate from his body. It had been over a hundred years since she had been in the presence of a human King and something was enticing her closer. Closer. Closer still.

She closed her eyes as she slowly inhaled his aura, savouring the intoxicating smell as it emanated through her body and caused her flawless pale skin to prickle with goose-flesh of desire. Mór-Rioghain pondered waking the King and giving in to her yearning. She knew without a doubt that the offspring they would produce would inherit boundless power, but she would not take this man tonight, destiny had other ideas. Standing directly over the King she chanted lowly in her native Gaelic tongue.

"I have come with a vision O' Butcher King. Of your demise, by the hand of my descendants. Beginnings and endings all things must be, the one who will slay you three wolves head is thee." An ominous mist slivered from her slender fingers, shrouding the King who lay sleeping unaware of her presence.

A shrill scream cut through the night. Athelstan rose stiffly, at first dazed, then panicked; he grabbed for the knife that rested under his pillow and crept to his feet, warily making his way to the door.

One step. Two. Then --

His lead foot had stepped in something cold and wet. His brow furrowed as he glanced down and lifted his foot. It was dark, but not dark enough to stop him seeing what it was: blood.

Something was wrong.

"Guards." His words scarcely registered in the frigid air. No response. He stepped forward, peeling back the canvas door to the outside. At his feet the two night watchmen lay with their throats slit; white as winter ice. Casting his gaze upwards, the city of tents that encompassed the King's had been burned to the ground, only his remained. As far as he could see, his soldiers had all met the same fate, lifeless amongst the smouldering remains of the camp.

Why, he thought worryingly. How has this happened? His mind desperately tried to decipher the scene he bore witness to. From the corner of his eye, Athelstan spotted a strange figure on its knees, clutching something.

"You there," he demanded, breaking into a hurried jog towards the person. Getting closer he could tell it was a woman with long straggly grey hair. An old woman?

It can't be? He thought in disbelief as he noticed what she was holding in her hands. It was Athelstan's golden armour, the chest piece was one of a kind, it had to be his.

"Explain to me woman, what happened here?" He once again uttered in a demanding tone. The woman continued to look down, hair covering her face as her crooked hands slowly wiped the blood from his armour. Suddenly she began to cackle, a most fearsome laugh that terrified Athelstan to his core.

Upon lifting her head, the King staggered backwards in shock. The hag peered through a single bloodshot eye, the socket where the other should have been was crawling with maggots, feasting on the rotten flesh. Numerous bulbous warts devoured her face, and the few teeth that remained in her mouth hung in a rancid fashion.

"Have you come to kill me?" He said gripping his sword firmly in both hands. The hag turned silent. She looked in pain as she lifted her arm to point in the direction of the mound he had stood on not hours before. A torn banner stood erect in the ground, the flag gently flapping in the whispering breeze. It was pure red with three white wolves' heads, each with a long blue tongue hanging from open mouths.

"What does this mean?" He said, looking back towards the hag. Without warning she forcefully thrust toward the King with murderous intent, knocking him to the ground. As his head hit the sloppy ground he awoke in his bed, gasping frantically. He gripped his chest in anguish, was it real? He thought to himself. The flapping of a bird's wing could be heard exiting the tent as he sat up to gather his thoughts.

Slipping sideways out of the bed, he placed his feet firmly on the cold wooden boards beneath him and made his way to the exit once again. Athelstan paused upon grasping the cloth doorway, was it all a dream? He anxiously considered again. His heart raced in his chest, thumping against his ribcage like a bull charging at a gate; furiously trying to escape. Peering through the curtain he could see an outline, a dark figure stood there. One he recognised.

"My Liege," said Firmin bowing. "A new dawn is upon us." He shot a bemused look towards the King who was stooped down low, visibly shaken.

Realising his stature Athelstan stood tall, cleared his throat and announced, "R...Right, ready the men! We are to depart immediately."

"Yes of course, and where exactly would our destination be sire?" Said Firmin still standing just outside the threshold of the King's quarters.

"And so soon after conquering Caer-Luil?" He followed up with a second question, perplexed at the request.

"I need to see a druid," Athelstan replied ignoring Firmin's questions. "As long as no one has been allowed to escape, one should still reside within the castle walls, yes?" He expectantly raised an eyebrow.

"We have had the castle surrounded as you commanded, no one has entered or exited since your glorious victory."

"Good! Then we will head there now." Snapping his jewel-encrusted fingers together, Athelstan withdrew into the confines of his tent. Firmin signalled towards the young servant boy who was slouched over a thick guyline, anchoring the King's overbearing tent to the earth. Standing to attention and pulling out of his sleepy disposition, the boy hurriedly disappeared into Athelstan's quarters, his flowing oversized tunic violently whipping behind him as he moved.

Firmin shook his head in disapproval before making haste himself to rally his fellow soldiers. Very few had served the King as long as he, yet Firmin was left bewildered at Athelstan's intentions. Conquering land was nothing new for a man in his position, he was as familiar with the Crown's protocol as he was with the feeling of running a blade through an enemy. Such protocol dictated that after a battle was won, the castle seat was to be surrounded and subsequently cleared before high nobility entered it.

It was not unusual for a few soldiers to remain in their castles -ever loyal to their clan- and put up significant resistance, even after their Chief was dead and clansman slain. It was common knowledge after all that a Scottish barbarian never surrendered, leaving death or victory as the only two options. Before the introduction of this protocol, many an English noble strode proudly into his castle only to meet his untimely death at the end of a Celtic arrow, horn or fang.

Firmin felt uneasy as he wondered why the King was so desperate to see a druid, after all, it was Athelstan who made the rule in the first place. Could it not wait a few days till we rid the castle of any danger, or even captured the druid? His mind raced with dreadful thoughts. A druid killed Athelstan's father, is it wise for us to charge into the castle? No. I must trust the King's intuition. Druids were valued by the Clan Chiefs for their knowledge above their strength, but their ability to shapeshift into a variety of animals made them unpredictable, especially when threatened.

They were a mysterious race without surnames. They belonged to no clan, yet, a druid could be found in the throne room of every significant Scottish castle. Descending directly from the Celtic deities that first inhabited the Alba shores, little else was known about the Druids. Whatever the case, Firmin knew he would come face to face with one soon enough.

Chapter 3

Athelstan and his men faced very little resistance entering Carlyle Castle. They strode confidently over the small drawbridge that was left unmanned. The Clan Chief of Carlyle ordered any man or woman fit enough to fight to rally to the Clan's aid. There was no one left. A few worn wooden shacks were spread out around the inside of the outer curtain wall, the windows of each like watching eyes over the soldiers.

Firmin felt the sharp shiver of adrenaline spread throughout his body, causing his grip to tighten around the hilt of his sword. Too quiet, he thought to himself as they moved deeper into the castle grounds. He knew the force he led was enough to overpower any remaining resistance, but leading the advancing group left him in a vulnerable position.

They continued past the watchful windows to the second drawbridge, which led way to the inner ward. Three women gathered around a small fire in the shadow of the keep. The two on the left and right sat void of all expression, knowing that the arrival of the royal army meant the ones they loved likely lay dead on the battlefield just outside of the castle. As Firmin got closer he noticed the young woman in the middle had a desperate look about her. She wore a floaty tartan dress, which she had pulled down on one side, an infant made suckling noises as it clung to her breast.

"Excuse me," said Firmin speaking up. "We're looking for a druid, have you seen one?"

As much as they didn't want to reply, the women knew they would soon be conscripted into a life of servitude under a new English master. It would not be wise to rouse their captors.

The young woman removed the infant from her slender breast, grimacing as she did. Firmin caught a flash of her perky nipple as she pulled up her dress and draped the heavy woollen shawl over her shoulders once more. He averted his eyes, but suddenly felt a fire ignite beneath his gambeson. He hopelessly tried to remain composed, after all he was the Knight Commander.

Clearing her throat, the beautiful young woman parted her flaxen blonde hair and met eyes with Firmin. She timidly replied to the Knight, "S...S...Sorry Sir, we haven't. He usually spends most of his time at the top of the Chief's tower. In the library."

Firmin's eyes widened and his heart thumped a little bit harder, however, this was a different jolt of adrenaline than moments ago. It felt warm and inviting, both of which he was unfamiliar with.

"Uhh, thank you Miss," he replied flustered. Before he had time to respond further, he was interrupted by the baby who began to scream inconsolably.

"Shhh Shhh Shhh." The woman bounced the baby on her lap in an attempt to comfort it, but she was unsuccessful. Her jaw whimpered violently as her eyes began to fill with tears. Her head dropped causing her hair to obscure her face, as the baby continued to cry.

"What is the matter my Lady?" Said Firmin in an attempt to comfort her.

"Cannae you see she's in pain?" Snapped the brunette sitting on her left, wrapping an arm around her. "She's been trying to feed the peer thing since its real mother died, nae thanks to you lot!" She scowled at Firmin and continued. "Her breast has no milk, the baby will likely starve in another day or two."

The reality of the situation smacked Firmin like the dull end of a sword. The flutter in his heart turned sour and felt heavy in his chest. "W...What is your name?" He uncharacteristically blurted out.

"Oh uhh..." The young woman's face lit up like the colour of a crimson sunset

"Leave us alone would you!" The brunette interrupted. "We've told you everything we know."

Firmin bowed his head, his facial features scrunching together conveying a sense of displeasure. He headed for the door which led to the Library.

"It's Barabel. My name is Barabel." Her trembling voice barely registered above the whining of the child.

Firmin turned slightly, casting a kind smile in her direction.

When he reached the door of the tower, he leaned in close to one of the Knights stationed beside it, "Keep a close watch, these women mean us no harm, but there is still the possibility of a sudden attack." His tone changed suddenly becoming increasingly sombre. "If we do not return soon, send an entire order of Knights into the tower. Show the Druid no mercy."

Three of the King's guards followed, with Athelstan in tow. A symphony of steel clanged the air as the group charged up the spiral stone steps towards their destination, the King securely in the middle of the formation. Reaching the top of the stairs, Firmin wiped his brow before lifting the latch on the door and promptly entering.

The room was relatively large, with shelves of books clinging to the perimeter of three of the four walls. The fourth wall consisted mostly of large pains of glass, looking out towards the beautiful countryside below. A single well used chair sat snugly in the corner, a pile of books stacked beside it to the height of the armrest.

"The King of England has decided to pay me a visit." A cloaked figure rose from the chair as though expecting company.

Athelstan barged through the guards. "I need to seek your counsel on the contents of a disturbing dream I had last night."

"And what if I refuse to oblige your request?"

"Death," said Athelstan. "I'm curious though, you could have left long ago, yet here you remain?"

"I felt a curious presence last night after the battle. One of significant power. I knew if I waited something would present itself to me, and, here you stand."

"Indeed..." Athelstan went on to explain what had happened the night previously after he had gone to sleep. His terrible dream. The undead hag. The flag on the hillside. I must know what this all means.

"So, that was your dream eh?" The hooded figure turned and purposely reached for a large leather-bound book on the shelf behind him. After perusing the sooty pages, the Druid let out an affirmative grunt and placed it down for Athelstan to see. Images of the skulled crow, the decrepit hag and the horse of battle lay in front of him.

"It seems you have been visited by Mór-Rioghain, O' great King. She has imparted to you a vision. A vision of things that may be."

Athelstan was frozen stiff, waiting for the Druid to continue. His guards stood at the door ill at ease, prepared to defend their King from the danger he stood in front of.

"The Phantom Queen is an ancient Celtic deity that first set foot on these shores a millennia ago. She is a trinity of three forms, all sharing the same consciousness. Badhb the crow is drawn by war, she carries the souls of those who have fallen to the other world." The Druid paused and extended his finger towards the bottom of the page. "The second, Macha, is said to bring speed and endurance to the horses of those who call upon her help."

"You however were visited by Nemain, the hag of fate and prophecy, and by cleaning your armour has brought a dark omen of your impending death." He looked up towards the King with a venomous sneer.

Fear consumed Athelstan's heart, spreading outwards to the far reaches of his body. "And what of the three wolves heads?" He gripped his hand into a tight fist in an attempt to control the violent shaking.

"That would belong to Clan Donnachaidh, used since their victory over the Kerrs at Rannoch Moor nineteen years prior. The heads are of the current Chief's father, William Kerr, and his two most trusted Chieftains. Severed at the neck, and hanging in Dunalistair Castle."

Athelstan knew immediately what needed to be done. A desperate desire to murder ignited once again in the Butcher King. He knew that an army of men alone would not be capable of taking on the Donnachaidhs, but a scheme had already begun to take shape in his mind's eye. Although known for his wickedness above all else, Athelstan's ability to manipulate others was unrivalled in the known world.

Having absorbed all of the information he required, the King wasted no time in commanding his men, "Execute the Druid. He has served his purpose." Without hesitation the soldiers began to encircle the cloaked figure.

The druid pulled down his hood, revealing the face of an old man. Silvery wired hair protruded from his head and slightly obscured his sunken narrowed eyes.

"How unfortunate," he muttered whilst raising his hands to the sky. In an instant, a crack filled the air as loud as a whip of lightning, paralysing the soldiers.

A monstrous black bear materialised in the spot where the Druid once stood, twice the height of the tallest man in the room. Standing on its hind legs, the bear let out a mighty roar bearing its lacerating claws. Athelstan had made a grave error.

Falling backwards, it seemed the King might meet his end before the Morrigan had suggested. The enraged bear violently charged at Athelstan, swinging its paw of certain death in his direction.

"My King!" A voice rallied from behind.

"AAAAHH!"

Athelstan had already closed his eyes, hearing a loud painful screech that sounded like a blade scraping along steel. The knight that had stepped in the way of the beast's advance was torn in two, his legs still planted where they stood. His torso smashed against the stone wall from the force of the slash, slumping to the ground in an amalgamation of entrails and blood. The death rattle of the soldier echoed in the library, his wide eyes fixated on Athelstan like a brooding tapestry. A small sliver of blood trickled down his chin as his existence was snuffed from the earth. The other world beckoned.

Not a second had passed when an arrow flew over Athelstan's head and planted itself in the bear's chest, causing it to writhe in agony.

"Firmin now!" Screamed Godwin who had just fired the crossbow.

Whilst it was distracted, Firmin attacked the left flank of the bear, thrusting his sword through its thick pileous hide, and into the fleshy organs beneath.

The black bear retaliated, sinking its teeth into Firmin's right shoulder and causing him to recoil backwards in excruciating pain.

Having sustained a serious injury the Druid used this opportunity to transform once more, the enormous bear giving way to an elegant Great Eagle.

Stunned, the remaining two guards watched as the Eagle spread its mighty wings and darted for the window, blowing shards of glass outwards like the ocean spray hitting the rocks in a howling gale.

It had escaped. Only a splatter of blood was left in the wake of its exit.

"Fools! You let it escape," hissed Athelstan from the floor of the library.

Firmin collapsed to the ground, blood oozing from the puncture wounds in his shoulder.

It is over, he thought as he slipped out of consciousness.

Chapter 4

Firmin woke with an excruciating pain in his shoulder. As he opened his eyes, his pupils rapidly alternated between contracting and relaxing as they adjusted to the sharp light coming in through the window. A blurry figure came into focus sitting beside the bed. It was Barabel.

"Sir Knight," she said, startled from his sudden awakening. "I feared the worst fan we heard the uproar in the library."

"What happened?" He asked still in a daze. "The last thing I remember was..." He grasped his shoulder as he recalled the bear sinking its dagger-like teeth into him.

"The King? What of the King?" He shouted finally coming to his senses.

"Dinna worry he didnae have a fleck on him." Barabel put her hands to her face, covering up her mouth. "But when we saw you getting carried out covered in blood, we thought you were dead!"

Firmin spied that his armour and its accompanying garments were strewn over the floor in the corner of the room, saturated in red. He glanced under the covers and noticed he was completely unclothed.

Noticing his embarrassment, she reached out to him, "apologies Sir, we had nae time to waste, I had to close your wounds before you bled to death."

"Please, call me Firmin," he said softly. "And thank you. It seems my life is indebted to you."

A rosy tone started to climb Barabel's face like water rising in a pot as it comes to a boil. She sat up from the small wooden stool she was perched on and moved over to inspect the Knight. Carefully peeling back the cotton sheet covering him, she took a closer look at the wound on his shoulder. Her eyes were drawn downwards to the claw marks embedded in his chest; it had a pink-whiteish hue, which suggested it had been there for quite some time.

"As you can see, this is not my first brush with death my lady." The pair chuckled together as Barabel softly placed her hand on Firmin's muscular chest. It was so natural that he hadn't noticed her hand lingering there. Her touch was so warm, so comforting. For a moment, time seemed to stop as they met each other's gaze. Firmin's eyes glistened in the morning light; for the first time in years a semblance of his soul peered back into Barabel's lustrous sapphire eyes.

Their moment of comfort was short-lived as the brunette from earlier burst into the room, "Barabel, the child." Her puffy eyes and wet cheeks gave away the news before she had announced it. "Baby Mairi has passed on to the other world..." The woman's words trailed off, unable to come to terms with what had just happened. Barabel welled with emotion and burst out of the room.

Such is the way of war. It does not pardon the young or the innocent. It has no partiality for man, beast, or child. It takes, consumes, destroys. It feeds on fear, pride and greed, all things which the hearts of men are susceptible to. There are no true winners, only those who have lost less.

Barabel hurried into the baby's chamber. Numerous women had gathered around the cot, weeping over its corpse. She barged through the onlookers, staring at Mairi, who now looked pale and waxy white. All signs of life had escaped the child as she lay motionless in the cot. "She is at peace now," whispered Barabel, choking on her tears.

"We must arrange a proper burial," said one of the ladies in the small crowd.

"I heard that Lord Stephenson will be arriving at the castle any time now," said another.

*****

Firmin watched the gathering on the hill from his window. A small hole was dug beneath the great Noble Fir that stood proudly in the middle, and the baby -wrapped in swaddling cloth- was placed into it.

With a grunt, he sat upright and started changing into the clothes that were left at the foot of his bed. He staggered to his feet and headed outside towards the site of the funeral. By the time he had reached the foot of the hill, the gathering had disbanded, only a few stragglers were making their way back to Carlsyle Castle.

"Barabel," he said noticing her walking beside another woman. She wrapped the shawl tighter around her head and continued to head for the castle, completely ignoring Firmin.

Perplexed, he continued to the top of the hill, where the baby laid to rest. A small stone had been placed at the foot of the tree with an inscription that read "Fois dhut." Firmin leaned on the towering tree looking out at Parson's thorn, the breath-taking mountain in the distance. He took a deep breath of the sharp evening air, causing pain to shoot from his shoulder into his chest. What am I doing?

A single tear trickled down his leathery skin, dropping onto the disturbed soil beneath him. I have served Athelstan for fifteen years and what do I have to show for it? I have done nothing but kill and tear families apart. Should I not wish to start one of my own? Firmin had strived most of his life to become a Knight Commander, but even after achieving the highest rank of Knight at the age of thirty, he still felt hollow inside. Each atrocity he committed he rationalised as a means to obtaining fulfilment of his ultimate goal. Now he stood above a baby's grave. Empty.

"Commander Firmin!" An out of breath messenger shouted whilst running up the hill towards him. "Lord Stephenson will be arriving soon at the castle. King Athelstan has requested your presence immediately."

Firmin quickly wiped the remnants of the tear from his cheek before turning around. "Thank you lad, I'll be there at once."

With Firmin's reply, the messenger turned tail and hot-footed it down the hill.

As Firmin walked back to the castle he saw the cortege of English civilians, soldiers, and carts pulled by various animals. Some of the smaller carts were pulled by horses, whereas the larger carriages were pulled by captive Scotsman in their beast forms. He spotted the Lord's carriage, pulled by two Carlyle bulls that had been recently captured from the battle. The lash of the whip reverberated around the hillside followed by the bellow of the bulls. Firmin made haste back to his accommodation to change into more formal attire.

*****

Firmin's room was situated on the perimeter of the inner ward wall. Upon exiting he suddenly heard a scream ring out in the distance, coming from the courtyard ahead.

"Stop it. Please!" He heard the voice clearer as he got closer. Turning the corner a woman cried in despair as she clung to one of the bulls pulling the Lord's carriage.

Firmin watched Lord Stephenson as he lifted his duelling cane and cracked it across the woman's back. She screamed in agony as she slumped to the ground, still clinging to the leg of the bull. He continued to relentlessly beat her. The crowd that gathered there winced each time the cane made contact with her.

"Please stop, that is her husband!" shouted Barabel, desperately charging through the crowd and creating some distance between the Lord and the woman.

"Move or you will be moved!" The Lord roared. He lifted his cane once more and brought it down with an almighty force towards Barabel. She stood firm but cowered her face in expectation of the blow.

"CRAAACK."

She pried open one eye finding Firmin jammed betwixt her and the Lord. She looked upwards, seeing the cane caught in Firmin's hand. A steady stream of blood ran down his forearm and trickled off the end of his elbow.

"What is all this?" Said the King, emerging from one of the buildings to the right. "Aldus, Firmin, sort this mess out at once!"

The pair broke off and bowed deeply towards Athelstan.

"I will deal with the trouble maker's my Liege," said Firmin confidently, picking up the woman who had been beaten and escorting Barabel away from the scene. The woman continued to sob loudly as she hung over Firmin's shoulder.

"Know your place Knight," the Lord spat from gritted teeth as Firmin left the courtyard.

*****

The door flung open as he carried the woman to the bed he had slept on the night before, placing her down gently on her stomach.

"Quickly," said Barabel with a concerned look on her face. "We need to see fit like her back is."

Firmin grabbed Barabel's hand and yanked her close to him, "What were you thinking jumping in front of a Lord?" He gripped her wrist tighter as his anger continued to build. "You could have gotten yourself killed!"

"So I guess ye think yer a hero now? What was I supposed to do?" She whispered back to him. "Stand by and watch Seonag die by the Lord's hand? There has been enough death today!" She ripped her hand out of Firmin's and headed to attend to her friend's wounds.

Seonag writhed in pain as Barabel undid the lace that held her dress together. Her back was a mess of lacerations, crisscrossing in a muddled pattern over her back. "Grab me the rum," she shouted towards Firmin, pointing in the direction of where his armour lay from the night before. She rolled up a small piece of cloth and stuffed it into Seonag's mouth.

The moment Barabel poured the brown rum onto the wounds, Seonag's back arched and a muffled shriek dissipated into the bed. Her hands curled up the sheet on the mattress but slowly relaxed as the intense pain began to subside. Barabel carefully wrapped a few bandages over the worst of the injuries and ran her fingers through Seonag's hair as she fell asleep on the bed.

Firmin and Barabel sank onto the adjacent bed, peacefully watching Seonag sleep. The quiet was comforting to them both, it was a clear disparity from the conflict at the inner courtyard earlier. They continued to sit in silence till Barabel looked down and saw the hand that had caught the Lord's cane.

"Firmin yer hand?"

"It is nothing my lady," he replied softly, trying not to wake Seonag.

She grasped the remaining scraps of bandage left beside her and reached out for Firmin's hand. Slowly beginning to bind his hand, her eyes wandered upwards, meeting his once more.

Barabel's eyes quickly darted to the ground as she began to speak softly. "Thank you for stepping in to stop Lord Stephenson's cane. I ken I shouldnae have, could have got us both killed..." Her shaky voice trailed off as she fiddled with a small scrap of bandage that was between her hands.

I wonder if she feels it too? Firmin felt the involuntary pull towards Barabel as their bodies grew closer; as natural as a blossoming flower that reaches out into the sky, yearning to be closer to the glowing spring sun. "I... It was the least I could do. Anyway, I've always wanted to put that self-righteous Lord in his place."

His heart melted in his chest as he heard her innocent giggle. "Well lets call it even then eh?" She said gleefully as she stood to her feet with a golden smile. "I'll be back tomorra to check on that wound again. Don't be pickin' any more fights ye hear me?" Her contagious laugh filled the room once more as she left; Firmin immediately felt the void created by her absence. The world seemed monotone again and the beautiful rainbow of her presence had returned to a lifeless grey. Has it always been grey? He wondered as the cold, harsh reality flooded back into his conscience.

Another day passed.

That night, the Knight Commander was summoned by the King to accompany him to Cessford Castle, the seat of Clan Kerr.

Chapter 5

The crunching of steel could be heard echoing through the narrow stone corridor. Four armour-clad knights surrounded the King, with Firmin at the head of the pack. The path leading to the meeting room would have been entirely consumed by the darkness if it wasn't for the scrawny, kilted clansman that held a single torch overhead.

"Nae much farther," the attendant timidly announced, pointing the flame in the direction of a closed door. Firmin was the first to reach it, immediately his eyes were drawn to the forbidding slash mark gouged into the door. He ran his hand over the hardwood frame and metal rivets, it seemed the beast had no preference for wood nor iron, it had torn through them both as a finger through soft butter.

He forcefully pushed the door open. Not another druid? He shuddered as he recalled his last encounter at Carlyle Castle. He felt the pain emanating from his shoulder, Barabel had attended to it, but the agony remained fresh in his mind.

"What are you doing here in Siorrachd Rosbroig?" Snarled a voice from the shadows.

The retinue that had entered were unable to identify the origin of the voice, the only light source still coming from the Scotsman behind them. A mahogany table dominated the landscape of the cramped chamber, finely decorated with two silver trident candlesticks at either side.

"H...h...how dare you bark at his majesty in such a tone," whimpered Godwin, one of the King's guards, back towards the unknown.

A calamitous figure emerged from the darkness and lurched across the table, "Do you forget where you are boy? Cessford Castle belongs to me, and on Kerr land yer in no position to be making demands."

The Knight, offended by these words lunged forward towards the table and grabbed for his sword. Before his hand had even grasped the hilt, four pairs of demonic crimson eyes drew forth from the blackness.

Godwin stammered backwards. "The... The wolves of Rosbroig," he stuttered, slowly retreating behind Firmin to the safety of the King's guard. Having only recently been promoted to Knight Lieutenant, this was the first time Godwin had laid eyes on the ferocious wolves.

Towering over the men the wolves drew suffocatingly close, seething with murderous rage. Bearing their dagger-like fangs, they emitted rasping growls that rumbled the floor underfoot, sending shivers of agony through the Knights.

"Enough." Pushing his way past, the King confidently emerged arrayed in his signature golden armour and draped in bearskin. Thrusting his arm forward he roared an order towards the aggressor, "Kerr, stand your men down, we mean you no harm!"

"Aah Athelstan, sin thu a'choraid! An unexpected visit at this time of the night to be sure." The Clan Chief of Kerr -Micheil- extended his arms, appearing more approachable than he did moments ago. "Settle down lads, there'll be nae feasting on this lot tonight," he said in jest. The Knights looked at each other with uneasy eyes, unable to let their guard down after such a hostile introduction.

The wolves hunched over simultaneously and suddenly began to transform. The deafening cracking of bones filled the room as the wolves contorted and jerked. The Knights stood with wide eyes, unable to look away from the horror that was unfolding in front of them. The colour had drained from Godwin's face entirely as he began to feel his peripheral vision close in around him. The already cramped chamber began to feel a lot more claustrophobic, causing a cold sweat to trickle down the inside of his armour.

"Godwin," said Firmin quietly out of the side of his mouth. "Godwin. Pull yourself together man." He jabbed the petrified Knight with his elbow, breaking Godwin's trance, allowing him to glance downwards away from the wolves. Although unsteady he managed to stay on his feet, collapsing in front of the King would have almost certainly resulted in the young Knight's execution.

Knotted tufts of blackish-grey hair fell to the ground around the wolves as they began to resemble a more familiar shape, that of a human. The man to the right of Kerr arose first, a towering monstrosity of a man known as Sgreuch. A fearsome jawline protruded from his face almost as sharp as the fangs he bore in his beast form. He was unclothed from the waist up, a thick carpet of black hair dominated his burly chest, with tendrils of hair climbing over his shoulders and assimilating with his equally hairy back. His head was a complete juxtaposition of his chest, lacking a single hair, however, it only added to his intimidating presence.

Next was the pair of brothers on Kerr's left, Bòcan and Droch. Smaller in stature than Sgreuch, these men looked less brutish but more agile compared to their fellow Chieftain. Sporting identical straggly beards, it would have been hard to tell them apart if it wasn't for one glaring difference. Droch bore the remnants of a savage wound across the right side of his face. Starting at his forehead, it tore past his eye towards the mangled remains of where his ear used to be. No ordinary man would have been able to survive such a wound, but clearly, these were no ordinary men.

Lastly, Dealtag groaned as he struggled to his feet. He was the oldest of the Chieftains and not a single black hair was present on his body, instead, a sea of grey swelled over his physique. A lifetime of warmongering had taken its toll on Dealtag, evident as he stood hunched over wrapping himself in a black fur cloak.

They took their place behind their Chief. Four pairs of demonic eyes still burned a fiery red in the shadows, all fixated on Athelstan and his Knights.

"My four most revered Chieftains," Kerr proudly exclaimed. "Sgreuch, Dealtag, Bòcan and Droch."

"A pleasure to meet such monstrous men." Athelstan was sincere with his reply. "The atrocities you have committed between you are quite magnificent, I only wish I possessed soldiers capable of such feats in the Royal army." Kerr's Chieftains were not easily impressed, and it seemed the King's attempt at flattery had failed as they continued to glare intently across the room towards the Knights.

Athelstan continued, "I have heard of your recent reaving South of the River Esk." He paused to deliberately lick his lips as if recalling tasting something sweet. "Killing without regard, plundering and pillaging wherever you see fit."

"So then, you are here to punish my Chieftains?" Kerr interjected with a snide grin on his face, glancing back slightly to meet the fanged smirk of his warriors.

"Those Lairds your men stole from are dead now, by the hands of my men. What you have taken matters not." Athelstan's words wiped any remnants of a smile from Kerr's haggard face.

"What are ye saying then, Athelstan?" The Chief stood up to attention.

"I thought you would have kept a closer eye on a clan you shared such a bitter rivalry with Kerr. I hope you have not become incompetent with age." The air became stiff with Athelstan's remark.

"Caer-Luil and the lands surrounding it have been wiped of the Carlyle stain. My royal army fought valiantly against them only three days ago. The head of their beastly chief now on the end of my Commander's spike."

"Aha, the Great Bull is dead!" Exclaimed Kerr. "I wish ye had taken it with ye, would have made a cracking headpiece in the great hall!" He looked above the King momentarily as though he was imagining it, then immediately locked eyes with Athelstan once more.

"Am no complaining, the Bulls of Caer-Luil have made widows of many of our Clan's women, but wiping them out entirely?"

Walking up to the table, Athelstan slammed his fist down in front of Kerr. "Scotland has been left unruled for too long. This land is the most fertile in Europe, yet you squalor amongst yourselves, fighting each other for scraps." The conviction emanated from his tone. "Under my rule, this nation will thrive."

"I'm guessing Carlyle didnae share in your vision then, your majesty?" Kerr said bowing slightly in an insulting manner.

"He didn't, and now he and his men will fertilise the land my people will farm," he said ruthlessly. "You, however, are a far more reasonable man Kerr. Which is why I have come with a proposal."

Athelstan knew his fate may be decided by how Kerr responded to his proposition. His mind flashed back to the terrifying truth he had learned at Carlyle Castle.

Chapter 6

Five men stood at either end of the cramped room. Two torches had now been lit by the attendant, but the contours of the room still cast lurking shadows, hiding from the light. Standing in front of their men, the King of England and the Chief of Clan Kerr stood locked in conversation.

"Now what I am proposing is an alliance between the Crown and Clan Kerr."

"Is that so?" Said Kerr rhetorically. "And what would be the purpose of such an alliance?"

"As you know Clan Donnachaidh has continued to renounce my authority as King of our great country, yet has grown fat from the riches of our land." At the sheer mention of Donnachaidh, Athelstan could see the staunch hatred rise on the faces of Kerr and his Chieftains.

He continued, "It is time for a change. We have no place for such barbarous peoples in this country."

"You're afraid of the lynx folk aren't ya?" Said Kerr, pushing the table away from himself. "Petrified that if they have their fill with Scotland they'll move south, and sink their fangs in that pretty neck of yours." He smirked once more, believing he had revealed Athelstan's desperate intentions.

Kerr was not far wrong. Although the King knew that the Donnachaidhs had no desire to conquer Scotland, the prophecy he had received rang clear in his mind. He could not ignore it. The Donnachaidhs had to be exterminated. Athelstan knew Micheil sought revenge for his father's death on the sprawling moors of Rannoch.

"Once we have united this country, I will appoint you Warden of the North. With the Kerrs as the most powerful clan of them all. All of Scotland will answer to you, Kerr!"

The room was left silent. Those in the chamber froze like statues in a living museum, where no one dared move until the Clan Chief gave his response.

Kerr mulled it over for some time, the stifling silence dominated the atmosphere.

"I suppose you'll have us go to war with the Donnachaidhs then?" He already had a good idea of where the conversation was heading.

"Impossible," Kerr continued. His shadow moved ominously around the walls behind him as he began to move closer to Athelstan.

"My father's army was decimated last time we clashed with the Donnachaidhs at Rannoch Moor. We have spent the last two decades rebuilding the mess he left behind due to his pride. I will not let history repeat itself fighting another man's war." Kerr turned to face his Chieftains, solemnly folding his arms.

"We do not intend to go to war with the Donnachaidhs," Athelstan announced with vigour. "We will annihilate them!"

Speaking up for the first time the Chieftain Droch stepped forwards and snarled back at the King. "How do ye plan on pulling that one off eh? If they dinnae see you coming from a mile away, they'll pick up that putrid smell of yours." He was right, inheriting the power of the lynx, allowed the Donnachaidhs to have an unrivalled sense of sight and smell. Getting close without alerting them would be impossible.

"You're forgetting that sceptre Duncan carries with him," Sgreuch added. The sceptre he was referring to encapsulated a pure crystal stone that the Donnachaidhs named the " Clach-na-Bratach." The magic endowed stone was discovered by Duncan's Great Grandfather and had been treasured by each Donnachaidh Chief since. The wielder was granted advanced healing power that could alleviate all but the most severe injury or ailment. However, the Clan Chiefs exalted the stone's ability of foresight the most, clouding over when enemies were near.

"You think I would have travelled here in person without giving this due diligence?" The King spouted as though offended.

"One of Donnachaidhs servants has been feeding us information about the internal affairs of the clan for years. One week ago we heard the news of the birth of Duncan's first son, Fionnlagh."

Kerr's eyes lit up as he realised, "Duncan will be throwing a celebration fit for the arrival of a Clan heir," his grin broke through the matted dark hair that overpowered his face. If one thing could be counted on, it was the Donnachaidh Chiefs affinity for alcohol and good conversation; both of which were plentiful at a party.

Athelstan knew he had Kerr right where he wanted him.

"Correct, and with the aid of Clan Kerr we will put an end to the Donnachaidhs."

"We would tear the living flesh from Duncan and his clansmen." A plume of rage erupted in the Chief. "We will wipe his lineage from the pages of history!" His men began to stir behind him, thirsty for blood.

"So you are accepting my proposal, Kerr?"

"Hmm... My Clan would require fair compensation for oor involvement in your affairs Athelstan," said Kerr immediately switching his mind from vengeance to business. "Ten chests of gold and all of the Donnachaidhs land." He knew this was a preposterous offer. It was more than double the fortune held in Cessford Castle, and the Donnachaidhs land was the most fertile (and profitable) in the country.

"My land Kerr, mine!" Athelstan momentarily broke character but quickly regained control. "As Warden of the North that land would be yours to manage, for your clansmen and women to prosper from its riches. I only ask for your fealty to the Crown, and fair compensation for its generosity at the end of each harvest."

"And what of the gold?" said Kerr eagerly.

"It will arrive with our return to Cessford," said Athelstan without a moment's hesitation. "Three weeks. Have your men ready."

The King extended his hand which was met by Kerr's in a firm exchange. The deal was done, Clan Kerr was set to avenge their forebears in a matter of weeks.

*****

Kerr was left with a lingering sense of suspicion from the unexpected assembly that had just taken place.

"Lads, leave me to my thoughts." His words were accompanied with a gesturing motion.

"Aye Chief," said Droch. His Chieftains were pleased to be dismissed, after all, wolves had to satiate their hunger for flesh. Twilight presented the perfect opportunity to hunt in the Bowmont woods north of the castle. With eyesight that nearly rivalled the Donnachaidhs, the Kerr wolves could detect their unfortunate victims in the inky curtain of the night with terrifying accuracy. Without showing partiality for man or beast, they would relentlessly stalk their prey until they tasted the thick metallic crimson that signified a life at its end.

The Kerrs posed such a threat for travellers that special houses called spittals were erected all over Scotland's southern and central belts. These houses were made entirely of solid brick, with no windows and internal locking. Often found along the highways linking Siorrachd Rosbroig with Dùn Èideann and Glaschu. For a time, merchants refused to venture further south than Dùn Èideann, enraging many of the Northern Clan's Chiefs who relied on the business of the Douglas, Dunbar, and Gordon Clan.

Kerr would not join his men this night. It seemed too good to be true, what has Athelstan to gain from this arrangement? The thought ran over and over in his mind.

Whatever the case, he had three weeks to prepare his army to take on Clan Donnachaidh.

Chapter 7

As a new day dawned, five riders could be seen by the night watchmen as they crossed the outer drawbridge at Carlyle Castle. Four Knight's clad in silver steel plate, and another outfitted from his sabaton to his sallet in golden armour. Athelstan and his retinue had returned from their successful journey to Siorrachd Rosbroig, home of Clan Kerr. Fanfare echoed from the outer ward tower and into the dying darkness; alerting those inside to the Kings return and disturbing the sleep of the ominous crows that perched like gargoyles on the battlement above.

Firmin lifted his weary head, observing the murder of crows that had taken flight. His horse cantered towards the lowered drawbridge, as illuminated shadows gathered on the other side. It was the Lord and his entourage; surely displeased by the sudden awakening at such a despicable hour.

Aldus Stephenson knelt on one knee to honour the arrival of the King as he dismounted his horse. The Lord's eyes looked heavy with sleep and his robes disheveled as he spoke at the feet of his ruler. "My King, I hope your journey to Cessford has proved fruitful," he said, holding a clasped hand to his chest.

"Indeed Aldus. Ready the entourage, I will be departing for Gloucester Palace immediately." Athelstan gestured to the Lord to stand up. "I will return in two weeks with reinforcements. Have half of your men ready for war. We will be marching to Kinloch."

"Yes my Liege," said Aldus bowing his head slightly.

The King looked over his shoulder to his guards, "Firmin, stay here at Carlyle and ensure the preparations are in order for my return."

Aldus shot Firmin an unwelcome look as they left to fulfil Athelstan's requests.

Firmin had only one thing on his mind since he had left Carlyle Castle. He wearily trod towards his bed-chamber; his armour hadn't been removed in over a day, weighing heavily on his injured shoulder. Usually, this would have been at the forefront of his mind, but the warmth of Barabel's presence still consumed his thoughts.

His room was empty when he arrived, say, for the two small beds in each of the corners, the dresser, and the stool Barabel had used to sit on previously. He removed each piece of armour laboriously, thumping it down on one of the beds. I'll have to get that fixed, he thought to himself, looking at the vicious holes in the pauldron where the bear had taken hold. I wish I had taken a squire with me. If they weren't all so bloody hopeless. He flopped down on the bed, asleep, before his head had hit the pillow.

*****

"Huh?" Firmin shot into motion as a loud noise snatched him from his slumber. The veil of dreams was suddenly lifted, leaving a hazy grog that hung heavily over his head and stung his eyes. He heard knocking on the outside of his door.

Without waiting for a reply, the door opened slightly. "It's just me," whispered a familiar, gentle voice.

As though the harbinger of spring herself, the pleasant scent of rose petals filled Firmin's lungs and washed away his overbearing fatigue. The crisp morning breeze danced through Barabel's golden hair and flowing white uniform as she timidly entered the room.

I must be dreaming? Am I being visited by an angel?

"Good morning Firmin," Barabel said with an infectious smile, tying her hair back behind her head. "I hope ye slept... oh." She caught a glimpse of Firmin's exhausted features. "Well eh, how to put this politely. Ye look like shite!"

He grunted as a smile broke through his usual scorn. "Good morning to you too my Lady! But yes, I returned with the King in the early hours of this morning."

"For the love of Aengus, I never realised!" Her face flared to a tone of crimson embarrassment. "I'll leave ye in peace. Please, call for me when ye have rested." She quickly turned for the door, but didn't get far.

"Wait." Firmin held an outstretched hand in her direction. "Didn't you say yesterday you needed to see me?"

"Yes I uhh, I came to change the dressings on yer shoulder and to make sure it's healing up alright."

He shifted off the end of the bed as he looked towards Barabel. "Don't worry. Please, take a look."

Barabel looked down at her shuffling feet as she crossed the room to where Firmin perched. She stood over him, carefully peeling back the layers of cloth wrapped around his shoulder. "The honey yer men gave me has helped a lot. Looks like you'll make it out in one piece after all hehe!" Firmin grimaced as she placed new bandages over the open sores.

"I eh, I best be off then," said Barabel, twirling the ends of her hair.

Come on man. Say something!

"Barabel. I..."

"I really enjoyed yapping together last night." She blurted out.

The warmth in his chest swelled upwards, causing an uncontainable smile to consume the entirety of his face. "Barabel. I have fought fearsome men, and even more ferocoius monsters. But when you are close to me, my heart beats harder than ever before."

"Do I scare ye?" She said with a bewildered look on her face.

"No, no! The exact opposite." Words had suddenly become difficult to pronounce. Sentences impossible to formulate. I am a Knight for goodness sake. Say it. "I have never met someone so kind and beautiful as you. Your hair flows like golden honey, and your smile melts the hearts of all who see it." Firmin was completely flushed, but continued. "You stepped in to save your friend, even though you knew it could likely get you killed. And, despite being your enemy, you saved my life, and continue to look after me still."

Barabel stiffly lowered herself onto the bed beside Firmin; both sitting as straight as newly crafted swords in their scabbards. After a moment of silence, she reached for Firmin's hand, delicately placing her slender fingers between his. She nestled her head into his shoulder, squeezing his hand tightly. Firmin placed a gentle hand on her head, running his fingers through her golden hair.

She didn't say anything. She didn't need to. Yes. This is what happiness feels like.

*****

Each day, Firmin treasured the short time he got to spend with Barabel in privacy. Readying the army took up most of his time. Relentless, tedious work. Inspecting armour, inspecting weapons, performing combat drills, and, worst of all, spouting the King's rhetoric. But each night, he slept well, knowing that his wound would need dressing in the morning.

It had been a week since the King had left for Gloucester Palace. Firmin was in the courtyard as usual, supervising the afternoon sparring. Barabel walked through the courtyard, carrying a basket full of clothes. Spotting Firmin, her joy overflowed, manifesting in a tender smile and a "Good afternoon Firmin!"

Lord Stephenson's Knights shot looks of disbelief towards one another. "What? You will speak when you are spoken to, cretin!" Spouted the furious Lieutenant. He grabbed Barabel by the hand, whipping her off her feet. "You will be punished for talking to the Commander like this." Firmin sprung to action, snatching Barabel's hand from the Lieutenant.

"Enough. She is the maid that has been tending my wounds. This is my responsibility to deal with," said Firmin, stretching the full might of his authority. The Knight spat at Barabel's feet in disgust.

Whispers echoed in the courtyard, as Firmin stormed off with Barabel in tow.

Once out of sight, Barabel ripped her hand out of Firmin's grip. He pinned her up against the wall, watching her chest rise and fall rapidly. Without saying a word, he embraced her, squeezing her tightly; gradually feeling her irregular breathing slow.

"I can't stay here another minute! I can't do it," she said, choking back a storm of tears.

"I know, but we must be careful. You know it is written in law that we could both be killed if they discover our feelings for each other..."

Barabel nodded, hair covering her sodden face. "It was a mistake... I'm sorry."

"Do not apologise Barabel, you have done nothing wrong." He brushed her hair behind her ear and delicately lifted her chin till their eyes met.

"I truly want to spend every moment with you Barabel, but we must keep this a secret. We must."

"Will ye find a way to get us out of this place?" She said, frantically wiping the tears from her wide eyes.

"I will. I promise."

*****

Another morning. Another knock on the door. Firmin's head raised with joyful expectation.

"I have been asked to bring ye some food," said a voice that was different than the one he had hoped for.

"Come in!" He said, deflatated.

Seonag entered, carrying a wooden tray with a bowl of soup, some bread, and a small jug of mead. She placed it at the end of the bed, bowing as she turned to leave.

Just as she was about to leave, Firmin saw the fresh scars poke through her dress.

"How are your injuries doing my Lady?"

She froze on the spot upon hearing Firmin's question; her hand began to shake as it gripped the door handle. "The Lord's men they, they took Barabel. I haven't seen her since yesterday." Her head sank in anguish as she faintly whispered, "It's all my fault."

Firmin moved to comfort Seonag, wrapping one of his arms around her shoulders. His other hand involuntarily clenched with rage as he choked back his hatred for the newly appointed Lord of Carlyle.

"It will be okay, it will be okay," he repeated over and over, as though trying to convince himself also.

After the events of the previous week, it was very unlikely that he was in good standing with Aldus. All he could do now was pray to God for her safety.

"How is your husband?" Asked Firmin, trying to distract Seonag from the situation. "I heard Barabel mention it in the courtyard."

"When Seumas never returned and you lot rode into the castle, I feared the worst." Seonag sniffed and wiped her face with the corner of her sleeve. "But seeing that silly old bull again, well I just couldnae help myself." She pointed her eyes to the side whilst lifting her shoulder.

"Glad tae see you're not all bad folk though," she said, resting a hand on his forearm. "I'm nae daft, I ken what that meant when you stepped in to stop the Lord hitting Barabel. Just like I did for my Seumas."

"Look after Barabel for me would you?" Said Firmin softly. "When the King returns I must follow him into battle again. Whether we win or lose I doubt I will see the inside of these walls again."

Seonag squeezed Firmin's arm slightly and nodded reassuringly. As she left the words "I promise," silently escaped her lips.

I have made Barabel a promise I cannot keep...

*****

A week passed in an instant. Firmin tried to busy himself readying the Knights and the soldiers for the upcoming attack. However, he yearned for Barabel's presence, wondering if he would ever see her again. Vigilant eyes watched his every move inside the walls of the castle. The Lord had every right to be suspicious of Firmin; no Knight, not even the Knight Commander, should stand in the way of a Lord's justice.

The sound of fanfare rang over the hills and echoed around the walls of the castle. Athelstan had returned with a force four thousand strong. Another one thousand of Stephenson's men readied themselves as they awaited the King's command, already battle-hardened from their victory over Clan Carlyle.

A day's ride north, the Wolves of Kerr had also completed their preparations. The Clan Chief grew impatient as he awaited Athelstan's arrival. He eagerly anticipated the coming of his gold, but most of all, Kerr longed for the opportunity to avenge his father. The wolves of Rosbroig had been starved of flesh for a week--they may have been sustained by bread and potatoes--but the Chieftains and their soldiers' insurmountable craving could only be satisfied by one thing: fresh blood. A great feast awaited them at Dunalistair Castle.

Firmin left Carlyle Castle with the King and five thousand men at their command. A murderous fire still burned within Athelstan; it was time for him to prevent the fulfilment of his prophecy.

Chapter 8

The sun's last light was dancing along the shores of Loch Rannoch, causing each gentle ripple to shimmer a beautiful mandarin tone. Reflected in the water was a castle standing proud on the hill above. Dunalistair Castle emanated grandeur, with delicate cornice tastefully placed around each of its numerous windows and doors. The peaks and towers that sprouted from the castle bore a striking resemblance to the shadows cast by the mountains on the horizon, as the evening sun withdrew behind them.

A thick forest engulfed the castle on all sides except that of which faced the illuminated loch. It was July in Scotland, but the air felt sharp on the skin and the grass grew heavy with the evening dew. From the balcony on the tallest tower in the centre of Dunalistair stood the Legendary Chief of Clan Donnachaidh, Duncan of the great Lynx folk.

His luminescent glare pierced the horizon as he surveyed his land deep in thought. He looked beyond Kinloch-the village of his clansmen-all the way to the bridge of Gaur, which led way to Rannoch Moor. Duncan had charged his men into battle countless times over the uneven cobbles of the bridge; bitter thoughts of past conflicts flooded into his mind as he gazed upon it.

The trees stood completely motionless, like soldiers in formation at the dawn of battle, paralysed with fear. Between them snaked a narrow cobbled path from the village, all the way up to the castle gate. Duncan's eyes averted from the sunset as he noticed the kindled flickering of torchlight dance up the path which led to his castle. His acute sense of hearing caused his ears to twitch in the direction of the village below as he heard the whisper of conversation follow the flames.

"Aye it is time," he muttered under his breath. Standing tall, Duncan pursed his lips and drained the last of the Whiskey in his chalice. Several drops of the amber liquid began to race down his ashen ruff, which sprawled from his face down to the bottom of his neck. His imposing figure cast a menacing shadow on the wall behind him as the sun began to disappear behind the horizon. Duncan turned and retreated indoors. One of his nineteen servants stood at the threshold of the door, ready to accept his empty chalice.

Descending a narrow staircase he made his way through the decorative hallways towards his bed-chamber. A Donnachaidh clan tartan carpet wondered the hallway floor, guiding the merry Chief and bringing warmth to the castle. As he strolled, his kilt swayed rhythmically with the power of his stride, the vibrant red of the Donnachaidh tartan matched his cheeks which were flared from the whiskey he had consumed.

Upon returning to his chamber, Duncan found his wife staring into a large decorative mirror in front of her. Noticing him enter, Cayla turned her head slightly. She cast a flirtatious smile in his direction as the maid continued to fasten her dress. Although a Chief of one of the three greatest clans in Scotland, Duncan's heart grew soft every time he laid eyes on Cayla. Her features were typical of the Scotious folk from Harris, yet none could rival her beauty. Long auburn hair flowed in perfect unison from her head to her waist, following the contours of her slender body. No one would have guessed that such a figure had given birth for the first time one month ago.

"Leave us," Duncan boomed to the maid, subsequently taking place behind his wife. He fumbled with the delicate lace as he tried to secure the last remaining loops.

"Ach, am no use at this Cay," he spoke softly in his wife's ear. She giggled with the innocence of a child as she watched him struggle in the mirror. Duncan's hands were built for war, enormous thick spades that resembled the paws of the great Lynx he could transform into. Such intricate work was best left to the maids, but the fanged grin reflected in the mirror revealed his good humour this evening.

"And... Done. Now far is my wee lad?" He said proudly admiring his handy work.

"He's in his cot in the Nursery." Cayla motioned with her eyes as she began to tie a royal purple ribbon in her flowing hair. Compared to Duncan, her graceful fingers made light work of the task. The bow perfectly complemented her silk dress which hugged her bust and waist, splaying out at her hips and falling elegantly to the floor.

Her eyes narrowed fondly as she watched her husband pick up their new-born baby Fionnghal. Even though he was only a month old, Finn already began to resemble his father. Patchy tufts of golden hair grew from his tiny head, browning at the tips. His ears came to a definitive point-also like Duncan-which was a defining feature of Donnachaidh Clansmen. Not forgetting his overall chubby appearance, baby Finn was already a heart-breaker like his Father before him.

"Ye better get wee Finn ready for the celebration," said Cayla with a smile. She went over to the dresser and picked up a small piece of clothing. "I even had the maid make him a kilt to match his daddy." She held up the tartan cloth which was no longer than two hand widths long.

Duncan walked up to Cayla, pulling her into his embrace and squeezing baby Finn tightly between them. He tenderly kissed her forehead before he announced, "Let's enjoy ourselves tonight aye?"

"Aye," she replied.

"I saw the torches rise from Kinloch, they'll no be lang before they're here." Duncan led his family out towards the great hall on the ground floor of Dunalistair Castle.

*****

In the underbelly of the castle, two shadowy characters sulked around in the darkness. Not a single ray of light could be found in the cellar, yet both men could see each other clearly.

Having eyesight of the Lynx proved invaluable in conducting shady business in private. "Did ye bring what I asked ye?" Said Blair one of Duncan's servants, distinctly spotting the small bag in the cloaked figure's hand.

"Yesss it is here," hissed the mysterious voice. "And my payment?"

"Athelstan has promised payment on his arrival at the castle, be patient and you shall receive your gold serpent."

The man snapped his fingers causing him to disappear in an instant. The cloak that shrouded his identity ominously floated to the floor. Suddenly an adder the length of a man slid from underneath the pale garment. The deathly black painted along the length of the snake provided further camouflage as it slithered into the depths of the cellar.

Blair grunted affirmatively as he picked up the bag left in the remains of his conspirator. He undid the cloth tie that held the bag shut revealing a pure white crystalline powder. Walking over to the casks, he uncorked a few, pouring a small amount of the powder into each. Carefully disguising his sabotage, the servant meticulously replaced the cork stoppers, subsequently returning upstairs to help with the preparations.

Chapter 9

The celebration had well and truly begun. A rabble of Donnachaidh Clansmen and women filled the great hall. Upon arriving, each couple walked up to the head table to pay their respects to the Clan's new heir.

Each family presented a small gift they had made for the child. Baltair the blacksmith had fashioned a small Sgian Dubh, the serrated iron blade was fused to a leather-wrapped hilt which had a small red gemstone implanted in it. Eoghan's wife, Curstag, had knitted the baby a set of warm clothing from the wool of their sheep to help him sleep soundly through the frigid Scottish nights. An assortment of fine delicacies had been baked for the young heir by Mary the baker, however, Duncan would likely have devoured those before the night was through. A wooden lynx, wolf and bear had been meticulously carved by Horas the carpenter as child's toys. These were all gifts of thankful people, great time and effort had been spent preparing these for the celebration. It was clear that the Clansfolk loved their Chief and he his people.

The great hall had been intentionally designed to convey the power of the Donnachaidh Clan to those who entered it. Perched on soaring pillars stood the menacing stone statues of past Clan Chiefs in their beast form, eyes fixed on the room below them. Intricate tapestries retelling past victories hung from the lofty ceiling, intertwining with wall mounted weapons that held significance in the wars detailed in the woven art. Above Duncan's table in the centre of the room rested three wolves' heads belonging to the father of the current Chief of Clan Kerr and his two Chieftains. The heads were severed and framed in the great hall as a stark reminder of the Donnachaidh's victory over the wolves 19 years ago.

Already, laughter and conversation filled the air as the servants began to carry out the feast for the evening and roll out the wooden barrels of specially imported wine. Duncan sat proudly at the head of the table with Cayla and two of his Chieftains to his right. His son Finn was sleeping in a woven rattan basket alongside an empty seat on the left. One of the servants (Blair) placed a heaping plate of honey roasted hog down in front of Duncan, his favourite. The plate exploded with colour, filled with an array of seasonal vegetables, haggis, and the sticky glazed pork. The Chief held out his chalice, Blair hesitated slightly before filling it to the brim with the full-bodied crimson wine.

"Slainte mhath!" said Duncan sipping a small amount of the wine.

"Good health my Chief, may yer lum aye reek!" Blair responded before moving on to serve the other guests.

A voice bellowed out from the back of the hall, "Duncan! My good friend!" A colossal man emerged from the crowd and strode towards the head table with open arms. The patterned dark green, navy blue, red, and yellow of his kilt gave him away to those who did not know him personally. He was a Macleod of Harris. It was obvious to see who he was related to, the flash of auburn hair that dominated his head was a giveaway of the Scotious folk.

"Tormod, it has been too long!" Said Cayla standing up and running around the table. She hopped gleefully into his embrace, "I'm overjoyed to see you alive and well brother!"

His bold eyebrows softened as she nestled into his arms, "aye it has been a while Cay, we have so much to catch up on!"

Duncan leaned on his sceptre and pulled himself up to greet his esteemed guest. The Clach-na-Bratach gleamed on the top of the staff, as pure as Highland water. Tormod exchanged a firm handshake with Duncan and filled the empty seat to the Chief's left.

Duncan repeatedly struck his knife against the lip of his chalice, causing the conversation to fade to silence. The guests took their seats in anticipation of Duncan's speech.

"Welcome to everyone here tonight. My family, my people, to celebrate the birth of our son Fionnlagh!" The crowd cheered ecstatically raising their glasses high.

"Firstly though I would like tae introduce my guest for this evening and brother tae my beautiful wife, Tormod!" He said triumphantly. "The Donnachaidhs and Macleods have fought side-by-side for many generations, and nineteen years ago, Tormod marched his men south to help us successfully repel the scourge of Clan Kerr." Duncan looked to his left, raising his cup, "We are forever indebted to the Macleods, may our Clan's prosper together under the God's protection. Slainte mhath!"

The room quietened once more as the guests drained their cups, repeating Duncan's chant. A feverish pain suddenly swelled over Duncan's body. Sweat began to form on his brow as his vision clouded over and his senses dulled. Surely nae the Whiskey? He thought to himself reaching for his sceptre. He fell in and out of consciousness as he reached for his staff, managing to grab it before he passed out entirely. The instant he put his hands on the orb, he felt the pain dissipate and the hazy veil lift from his senses. A familiar, putrid smell hit the back of his nose. Wolves... impossible.

"Duncan. Duncan. Are ye alright?" Said Tormod shaking the Chief out of his trance. "Your men, what has happened?"

Duncan looked up to see half of his men face down on their tables or slumped in their chairs. In a panic he darted a glance at Cayla, she was in shock but okay, his son, still sleeping soundly in the basket. Then to the Clach-na-Bratach. The pure crystal had clouded over a deathly grey like an ominous storm cloud moments from unleashing it's wrath.

"We are under attack. We are under atta..." Suddenly a knife was stabbed into Duncan's neck from behind. The assailant immediately turned to flee but was stopped dead by Tormod's sword which burst through the traitor's chest. Tormod ripped the sword out between the man's shoulder blades, kicking him over to reveal his identity, it was Blair.

Cayla screamed wildly as Duncan sank to the floor. Blood spilt violently from the wound which painted his shirt and jacket the colour of his kilt. In a blind panic, she searched for her husband's sceptre, finding it under the table. She smashed it off the ground, freeing the orb contained within it.

"My love," she said trying to steady her tremor and stem her tears. Cayla thrust the crystal ball into his clammy hands, folding his unresponsive fingers tightly over it. "You'll be alright Duncan, come on, get up!"

A deafening howl suddenly filled the great hall. "Where is the Lynx Chief?" the voice shrilled. An army of cloaked figures draped in menacing black wolfskin appeared in the massive doorway. The leader of the pack cast aside his cloak, it was Sgreuch. "Where is he? Where is Duncan?" He barked ruthlessly.

The Kerr Chieftain barely finished his sentence when an explosion of golden light burst from the head table, sending debris flying in every direction. The remaining Donnachaidh clansmen and woman hit the deck instantly. The force ripped the clothes clean off the Kerr men that stood in the wake of the blast. Sgreuch braced himself holding his hands in a cross formation in front of his face. He looked behind to his men, three had already been impaled to the wooden door by the decorative weaponry that once hung from the walls of the great hall. Through squinted eyes, Sgreuch could see a monstrous shadow materialising from the ground up in the piercing light. A final burst boomed from the centre of the room, knocking all but the Kerr Chieftain to the ground. The light faded, revealing the Great Lynx standing in its place. Although the size of a Campbell bear, it leapt over the table as gracefully as a Macleod deer. The crunching of stone rattled the ears of the wolves as it landed.

Duncan lifted his head and discharged an almighty roar. "Who dares challenge the might of Clan Donnachaidh!" At the bellowing sound of his call, the clansmen awoke from their blackout, prepared to die for their Clan. Those who had swords drew them, whilst others hunched over to transform. Suddenly a legion of luminescent eyes lit up the smoke that shrouded the hall.

A maniacal grin grew on Sgreuch's face, lurching over he smashed his fist into the cobbled floor. A sinister black presence spewed from his body as a claw grew where his hand once was. The black hair that sprouted from it grew rapidly up his arm and devoured his body. He howled as the cracking and wrenching began, in an instant his humanity had disappeared, leaving only the menacing wolf in its place. An army of red eyes stared back through the smog towards the Lynx.

The fight for Dunalastair Castle had begun.

Chapter 10

Through the smoke, Kerrs and Donnachaidhs crashed together like waves of a violent storm. The sound of fang, claw, and steel consumed the great hall.

Duncan boomed through the racket, "Tormod! Get Cay and Finn to safety, now!"

"Aye Duncan, I'll guard them with my life!" He shouted back to the Lynx. A swirl of sharp wind surrounded Tormod as he cried out with a banshee-like wail. He maintained eye contact with Duncan as he transformed, the auburn hair disseminating from his head and dominating his body. His eyes burst with power as the stag arose, two fierce antlers pierced his skull weaving and twisting intricately into the air.

Tormod spotted a blood-soaked wolf dash from the fog, bearing its fangs towards the Great Lynx, "Duncan, in front of ye! " He barked to warn the Chief of the incoming attacker. Duncan dodged to the left, then used his momentum to slash his bladed paw at the wolf. It howled as his claw tore down its torso, decorating the floor of the hall with its innards.

He quickly surveyed the room and spotted a wolf mounted on top of one of his clansmen. The wolf gnashed its fangs, trying to dislodge the sword Baltair had stuck between its teeth. Baltair strained and struggled as he wrestled the beast, barely able to see from the thick drool lashing from its open maw. Duncan immediately pounced on the wolf, pulverizing its neck with his powerful jaws. It did not even have time to whimper before its life was destroyed and cast aside by the Chief.

"Sound the horn Baltair," growled Duncan, now standing where the wolf was. Baltair nodded and scurried between the Chief's legs off into the throng.

Behind him, Cayla snatched her child from the basket and leapt onto the Mighty Stag, holding on tightly to the thick coat behind its neck. Grunting affirmatively, Tormod charged towards the horde with his head down. Nothing could stand in his way as he bulldozed through the Kerr wolves at an almighty pace, heading straight for the large wooden doors which led to the outside.

Sgreuch was busy fighting two smaller lynx and an armed Clansman but sensed the stag before it was too late, throwing one of his comrades in the way of Tormod's charge. The wolf was harpooned by the giant antlers and carried off howling through the enormous doors in a blaze of auburn.

Knowing he would be unable to pursue the stag he grumbled at Bocan and Droch, "After him, he has the Chief's wee one. Kill it. Kill them all!"

The two brothers turned, each with a dismembered limb of a Donnachaidh hanging in their frothing mouths. They dropped the arm and leg of the slaughtered Clansman and bolted in pursuit of their target. Fueled with the raging euphoria of the hunt, only imminent death awaited the prey of the brothers.

*****

A horn bellowed from the depths of the Castle and into the bitter night. Firmin and his men looked up into the shaking canopy above them as disturbed crows cawed and took flight. The Englishmen littered the base of the forest surrounding Dunalastair Castle, waiting for the signal to move. Firmin stood closest to the Castle gate with the advance party, clinching the trunk of a pine tree nervously. It had been ten minutes already and nothing could be heard apart from the distant ping of steel.

Athelstan stood at the bottom of the hill close to the village of Kinloch, surrounded by his usual retinue of steel soldiers. He humphed in a dissatisfied manner, why have the Kerrs not given the signal yet? He pondered whilst looking up at Dunalastair. He too heard the bellow from the castle, but that was nowhere close to the howl of a wolf. He did not dawn his signature attire this night, he was smarter than that; wearing golden armour during an ambush was a sure way to be targeted by a lone archer hiding in the dense thicket of the forest.

His plain armour shone as pale as the face of a corpse in the ambient moonlight that broke through the tree cover, providing sufficient camouflage for the King. A wind flew past Athelstan like a dashing horse, whipping up the loose foliage at his feet. He turned and squinted in the darkness, finding a two-man gap in his rearguard. Another violent gale suddenly blew past, he looked ahead this time and one of the front men had also disappeared. Realizing what was happening he drew his sword and shouted out into the forest.

"Men, draw your swords, we are under attack!"

A lynx sprung hissing from the shadows at Athelstan, he instinctively side-stepped and swung his enormous sword, removing both forelegs of the cat. He met gaze with the beast, savouring the fear in its eyes before piercing the Donnachaidh clansmen through the skull. He twisted the blade before ripping it out of the Lynx's cranium, cleaning the length of his sword on the fur coat of the sullied beast. The horn had sounded the Donnachaidh reinforcements, this was bad news for the King's army. Fighting in the dark against an enemy force equipped with the unrivalled nocturnal vision put them at a considerable disadvantage.

"Advance to the castle," he shouted to Godwin and the remaining guards, realizing the diminishing odds of victory in the forest. Chaos had enveloped the Rannoch woods, creating an entanglement of man and beast. The screams of war ricochet around the trees, drowning out any possibility of holding a conversation. The English army could not hear the King's commands and without direction, would likely fight where they stood. Athelstan grabbed hold of Godwin and screamed in his ear, "get me up that hill to the Commander. That is an order!" He pointed furiously up the hill in case his Knight had not caught the message. It was a long way up the winding path to the castle, Godwin froze temporarily as he considered the gravity of the situation. The Knight Guards moved into a spearhead formation around the King as they fought their way up the hill towards Firmin and the advance party.

The path was only the width of three men shoulder to shoulder, but it provided enough space for two of the rear guards to fire off arrows at some slower-moving targets. Some of the Donnachaidh clansmen preferred to fight in their human forms but proved easy to be taken out by an accurate archer. The Lynx, however, were completely unpredictable. Darting nimbly through the trees, only their luminescent eyes gave them away as they pounced at the Knight's throats. Athelstan knew he had marched 5000 men to Rannoch woods, outnumbering his foe, but these were Donnachaidh woods.

The guerrilla tactics of the Clansmen had sent chaos through the English ranks and spread their numbers thin throughout the sprawling wood. Athelstan continued to move hurriedly up the hill, his chest burned an icy fire from the frozen air and his legs grew heavy from the steel plates bound to them. He could hear the bloodied screams of his soldiers accompanied by the roars of the Lynx, however, he did not waver. Men are replaceable, he thought as he painfully forced the dense air into his lungs. I must survive and re-write my destiny.

Over Godwin's broad shoulder, Athelstan could suddenly see a dark mass of men rumble down the path towards them.

Godwin stood at the head of the formation, painted in both his blood and that of his enemies. His throat had been mauled by the claw of one of the Lynx, however, mustering the last of his strength, was able to give out an almighty shout, "identify yourselves!"

"Godwin?" Replied the familiar voice uneasily. The tall shadow drew close enough to be identified as the Knight Commander, Firmin. "What the hell happened down there?" He continued.

Just as Godwin had drawn another breath to reply, Athelstan barged past and addressed Firmin. "We need to regain control immediately," he spat. "We need to get Kerr and his men into that Forrest. Only the wolves have a chance at a fair fight down there."

"Yes my Liege," said Firmin obediently. "Then first we must get to the Castle and find the wolves."

Athelstan nodded affirmatively and began to march towards the castle. "And if we find that bastard Donnachaidh, I want his head."