An arrow grazed the neck of his horse, which neighed in fear and nearly took off in a swerve. Fillan tightened the reins and shouted a command. He turned his head to the side and saw them posted at the edge of the wood to their right like a long, winding arm. He recognized the colors of the tabards.
“The English are attacking from the east!” he yelled at Sören.
He spurred on his mount to get closer to Ailéas, as if her mere presence at his side had the power to protect them from the new assault of arrows that descended upon them.
“Dunstaffnage Fort isn’t far off!” yelled the Norwegian, at the head of the group of horsemen. “Push your horses hard to get them moving!”
They increased the pace, bellowing, and spurring on their mounts. After one last shower of arrows became lost in the tall grass, they gained enough distance to be out of range.
Fillan cast another glance in the direction of the soldiers who had stopped bending their longbows into arches and were shrinking to the point that they could no longer be seen among the twisted trunks. Suddenly, a cloud of glimmers appeared under the rays of a sun still half-veiled by scattered clouds. It was a horde of horsemen who galloped at full speed in pursuit.
The valley became the terrain of a panting cavalcade, flooded with the thunder of hooves.
Out of the corner of his eye, Fillan saw that his sister had a look of determination, her hair blowing in the wind. She was wholly focused on her horse, glued to his black coat, no trace of fear controlling her emotions.
She knew everything.
It had been two weeks since they reunited and Fillan had explained everything to her. The Brotherhood, the Assassins, the Order, the Templars, the Lann Fala, their fight across the centuries, the link with their clan, the Children of Fal and their role at the heart of it all.
She hadn’t seemed surprised, because what he told her had coincided with what she had felt within her for years. The fleeting, nebulous impression that her destiny had to be played out elsewhere. She had always suspected that Berwick was not that place.
With the approval of Deorsa, the only representative of the Brotherhood since their departure from Lanark, Fillan had entrusted her with the second sword of Fal.
Her hands shook as she took it.
“I often dream of this sword,” she confessed with a stammer.
As she held her clan’s legacy, Deorsa explained that it would also be possible for her to join the Brotherhood, if she so desired. The prospect of uniting in a common cause with her brother had made her happy. And then it was time to embrace hope for a future.
All this had forged a fresh determination deep within her.
“We’re going around the river to the west!” yelled the Norwegian.
Behind them, the soldiers were getting dangerously close, to the point where the breaths of their steeds could be heard. Their animals were fresher, more alert, and much better trained.
“Is it still far away, this accursed castle?” Edan complained. “It won’t be long before they’re poking our asses with their spears!”
“Behind that hill!” Kyle shouted, pointing to a peak. “They won’t dare come too close to the ramparts.”
“Are you sure about that?”
“No, but it’s better that the scouts recognize us, or they’ll gut us like pheasants.”
The bald man spat, dropping a slew of insults.
Each drew their swords as they sped in unison as a united cohort.
Dunstaffnage Fort was the penultimate stage of their journey. It was Clan MacDougall’s fort, the clan to which Fergus belonged. Since they left Lanark, they had traveled at full speed towards the north-west, with a destination of the Highlands. The plan devised by Wallace was simple: he and James would lead the fire of the rebellion to Scone, which they would liberate from the English’s tyranny before attacking several of their strongholds to occupy them. Deorsa, Fillan, and Sören’s group were to rally several clan leaders.
In the south, the meetings had been secret. Many feared the “hammer” of the English, as they nicknamed the wrath of King Edward. Once they had passed the Clyde, on the other hand, they found many more sympathizers. The events at Lanark revived the hope of a free Scotland for some, and they were quick to send reinforcements to Wallace.
“To the left!” Fergus sang out, using his powerful voice.
A grove disappeared to reveal a wide beach, like a cove. A ship with an English flag was anchored not far away, and several men had already disembarked.
“It’s not possible; how many of these idiots are there?” howled Edan. “Sören, are you sure you want to go that way? We’ll end up stuck again!”
Dunstaffnage Fort stood at the tip of a peninsula jutting out into Ardmucknish Bay, off the mouth of Loch Etive. The path they took was the only one that allowed access from the mainland.
“The first archers we met were not an isolated group. We’re already stuck. The English have invaded the region. Dunstaffnage is our best option!”
“Ah, damn it, what if they’ve already taken the fort?”
“Don’t underestimate Clan MacDougall,” Kyle retorted. “They’re tough.”
The bald man was about to spit a flood of insults, but the arrows began to fly again. A battalion of archers, posted above the sandbanks, had seen them coming from afar. The horsemen who were pursuing them slowed to avoid being riddled with arrows, too.
The first arrowshot was too long and flew over the group, which gave them the chance to gallop even harder. They were nearly out of reach when the tip of a new arrow found its target.
The horse whinnied horribly and collapsed, the saddle covered in blood. The fall unseated its rider, who landed heavily in the grass and lay motionless.
“Edan!” cried Moira.
“I’ll take care of it,” shouted Fillan, pulling on his reins.
The druid joined the others, who continued their sprint as the teenager turned around.
The bald man was sat in the grass and shook his head, dumbfounded.
“Ready to go?” called Fillan, approaching quickly.
He couldn’t stop completely; that would sign both their death warrants. Soldiers were already on their way to finish off the mercenary.
“I was born ready… Ah, damn!”
A shaft pierced his thigh.
“Sons of dogs!” he yelled, breaking the arrow. “Band of mangy bastards! I’ll make you eat your c…”
“Edan!” hollered Fillan, now coming up to his level.
Because of Edan’s injury, Fillan was forced to slow his ride to help his comrade climb onto the mount. Fillan grabbed his arm and, at the same time, an Englishman equipped with a pike rushed towards them. His intention was clear: kill the horse to prevent them from running away. Fillan saw the metal point approaching and felt his heart racing.
Then the assailant’s head flew through the air, spreading a net of sticky blood.
Ailéas had joined them at full speed, ignoring the danger, and swung her sword of Fal through the air.
“Bunch of sickos!” Edan bellowed. “We can say for sure that you’ve got some pair of balls! Let’s split up, there’s more coming!”
They rode away, only avoiding the arrows falling from the skies by chance.
The English ended their pursuit as they approached Dunstaffnage. The building seemed like it was hewn from a single block of stone, imposing, impregnable. Its walls rose high and its surroundings bustled with activity. The clan warriors were preparing for war.
The group dismounted, and Sören and Deorsa approached one of the Highlanders to exchange a few words.
“How do you feel?” asked Sören to the bald man as he headed back towards them.
“Like a boar that they’ve tried to gut.”
“Well, that allegory works out nicely for you,” Kyle laughed. “You already have the looks and temperament of a boar, even when you’re not injured.”
“Dirty little pest… Ah, be careful!” he grumbled at Moira, who was already tending to his injury.
He noticed the disgusted look Ailéas gave his bloody wound.
“Do you want to give me a little kiss better?” he asked with a mischievous look.
For an answer, she gave him a kick to the groin.
“Oh, fuck!” he yelped.
“Stop fidgeting,” the druid ordered.
“But she made me a eunuch!”
“At the very least.”
Ailéas had quickly adapted to Sören’s group. She got along well with Kyle, chatted all day long with Moira, enjoyed Fergus’ compositions—which flattered the ego of the troubadour—and had won Sören’s respect in the first week by slaughtering an Englishman who had followed them. But above all, she never hesitated to put Edan in his place with a cackle.
Before anyone else, Fillan spotted a colossal man headed towards them. He was even more impressive than Sören or Wallace, and sported a black beard that he had taken care to braid.
“Sören, can you tell me why you’ve brought the English to my doorstep?” thundered the mountain of muscle.
Fillan had never had the opportunity to see Sören’s face burst into such a smile. Yet that is what happened.
“I’m here to make fun of you! Hail to you, old horn!”
The mercenary laughed, and they patted each other on the shoulder.
“To those who don’t know him, Fillan and Ailéas in particular, this is Alexander MacDougall, chief of this rock.”
“Watch what you’re calling a rock, you northern pest!”
He glanced at them all, one after the other, then stared for a long time at Kyle with a penetrating look.
“Come a little closer, you.”
Kyle hesitated, narrowing her eyes, then moved closer to embrace the man in a firm hug, which despite everything seemed full of warmth.
Fillan opened his eyes wide in shock, and Deorsa couldn’t help but notice.
“Well, well,” said the spy, approaching. “I was wondering whether she’d told you where she came from.”
He couldn’t help being smug, which infuriated Fillan.
“Kyle is the daughter of Alexander MacDougall. Only child and true heir.”
Fillan felt like the ground was giving way under his feet.
“Don’t faint—that would look bad. MacDougall always wanted a son, which is why Kyle was given a boy’s name.”
“What happened?”
He was angry with himself for playing the spy’s game, but his curiosity was too strong.
“The clan chief may have raised his daughter like a man, but the time soon came when he had to follow societal pressures and marry her off. You know Kyle’s character—which is not so removed from that of her father, by the way. For a young girl who had been brought up in combat and with the ambition to lead men, to be reduced to a mere wife was unthinkable.”
“She ran away,” Fillan guessed.
“Always hold on to your intelligence, Fillan. It’s an advantage in our environment. You’re right. As the wedding approached, our dear warrior turned on her heels and ran. For an entire year, her clan heard no news from her. She joined Sören, and I understand it was Fergus, or maybe Craig, from the same clan, who finally convinced her to write to her father.”
“How did he react?”
“When she ran away, very badly. It was an affront to the rival clan he wished to form an alliance with through the marriage. It was an affront to his authority, too. But I believe that today he is no longer disappointed. He knows his daughter well, and that she would have killed her husband within the year, which is also not very good for an alliance between clans.”
Fillan finally understood what Moira had implied months earlier. Kyle, daughter of the Highlands, sole heiress of one of the most powerful clans in the north, was truly not just anyone.
“What’s going on, Alexander?” asked Sören, with his thumb raised above his shoulder, pointing to where he’d come from.
“The English showed up about an hour ago. They don’t do discretion, so I guess it’s my stronghold they’re interested in. You didn’t choose the best time to visit me; war is upon us.”
“We actually came to talk with you about revolt and seek your help…”
“You’ll be able to do that eventually. I’m surprised to see them this far north. They’re up to something, that’s for sure. In any case, you are welcome. Don’t delay coming in to find shelter.”
He left them there before approaching to his men to organize their defenses.
“Sören, this is a disaster,” Deorsa said, panicked.
“I bet that for you, a crumb of bread in your bed would be a disaster.”
“I am completely serious. The presence of the English around here is no coincidence.”
“What do you mean?”
The spy inched closer, speaking lower but still loud enough for Fillan to hear.
“There’s only one reason why they’d come so far up into the north when they have no supply point, no support.”
“Spill it, Deorsa. May I remind you that an army is about to break in.”
“The Templars must have discovered where the Stone of Fal was conveyed.”
“Fucking spy!” launched Sören.
Just as they all realized the seriousness of the situation, a war horn sounded nearby.
The English had had time to regroup and were marching on the fort.