THEY WERE GOING TO BURY THE MACHUGH’S BROTHER IN the center of the battlefield, and to amuse themselves, they decided to bury him alive.

The field chosen for his execution was called Finney’s Flat, hallowed ground for the MacKennas. The clan was now calling the valley Glen MacKenna, for so many of their own fine soldiers had been slaughtered there. When the last battle had ended, the ground was stained black with MacKenna blood.

Laird Colm MacHugh had been responsible for the carnage. The mighty chieftain and his fierce warriors had poured down the mountain like a cauldron of oil boiling over, their scalding fury destroying everything in their path. Their gleaming swords raised, their united battle cry vibrated the jagged rocks. To the MacKenna soldiers waiting below to do battle, it had been a terrifying sight.

MacHugh was the most spine-chilling sight of all. Until that day some of the MacKenna soldiers had refused to believe the laird actually existed, for the tales of his ruthlessness in battle and his feats of Herculean strength couldn’t possibly be accurate…unless, as some of the whispered rumors alleged, the MacHugh was in fact more beast than man.

Some who had gotten a glimpse of him swore he was half lion, half man: his chiseled face, his golden hair similar in color to a lion’s mane, and his ferocity in battle like that of an animal. Invisible one second, he pounced the next, methodically ripping his prey apart limb by limb.

Or so it was told.

The more enlightened warriors scoffed at such a fanciful notion. The MacHugh was but a shadow with supernatural power, they argued. He disappeared at will, but when his shadow approached, a poor soul could ward off death only by dropping to his knees and praying for mercy. The MacHugh was invincible, impossible to grasp or capture. The only warning that he was about to strike was the music that came before. Shadow music. His battle cry blended in perfect harmony with the whistle of his blade as his sword sliced through the air. When a soldier heard that sound, he was already dead.

Laird Owen MacKenna knew all too well that Colm MacHugh was flesh and bone. Twice in the past year MacKenna had stood in the same great hall with him and twenty other lairds. They had gathered for meetings at the request of Scotland’s king. The mighty MacHugh hadn’t directly spoken to him either time, but MacKenna felt the sting of his words just the same. When matters affecting their adjoining lands were brought forth, the king and the other lairds turned to MacHugh for direction, as though his land and his strength held more importance than MacKenna’s. And always in contention was Finney’s Flat. The valley ran adjacent to both the MacHugh and the MacKenna holdings. The land was fertile with nary a rock in sight, perfect for their sheep to graze and perhaps a bit of barley planting, but neither clan could claim it. It belonged to John, king of England, granted to him years earlier by the king of Scotland as a conciliatory gesture. Each time MacKenna tried to take a piece of the land for himself, MacHugh saw to it that he was pushed back.

Oh, MacKenna despised this man. With every breath he took, his hatred grew until it threatened to consume him. Not one day passed without at least one dark thought about the laird, and what was most galling for Owen was the knowledge that MacHugh wasted not one minute thinking about any of the MacKennas. They weren’t even important enough to hate.

Owen recognized this sin of jealousy. Envy was eating him alive, and he felt powerless to do anything about it. He dreamed of destroying MacHugh, and though he wouldn’t dare admit his sin to his confessor, he would gladly sell his soul to the devil to get what he wanted.

His list of wants was long. He wanted MacHugh’s power. He wanted his allies: the Buchanans, the Maitlands, and the Sinclairs. He wanted his strength and his discipline. He wanted the fear the laird instilled in his enemies; he wanted the loyalty he commanded from his friends. He wanted his lands and everything else MacHugh controlled. Most of all, Owen craved revenge.

Today was the day he would finally rid himself of his jealousy. Today was the day he would get justice.

And what a glorious day it was for an execution…or many executions if all went well and a large number of MacHughs were killed. Pity he couldn’t watch, but he had to separate himself from the executioners so that when he was accused of the crime, he could protest his innocence and have holy witnesses at Arbane Abbey to vouch for his presence.

Owen had carefully thought out the plan and had handpicked the soldier who would oversee the burial.

“Timing,” he had explained, “is most important. You must wait until you see Laird MacHugh up on the ridge overlooking the flat before you bury his brother. He’ll know who it is, but he won’t be able to stop it. Have no worries. His arrows cannot travel such a distance, and his steed cannot fly. By the time he reaches his fallen brother’s side, it will be too late, and you and your good men, will have gone into hiding.

“A contingent of soldiers will be waiting to the west behind the line of trees. As soon as MacHugh gets close enough, they’ll circle and attack.”

He rubbed his hands with malicious glee as he added, “If all goes well, Laird Colm MacHugh and his brother Liam will both be in the ground before nightfall.”

The soldier Owen had placed in charge of the burial was a thick-shouldered, thick-headed man named Gordon. Owen had made him repeat his orders to make certain he fully appreciated the importance of timing the burial just right.

The warriors had little trouble capturing Liam MacHugh. They ambushed him just as he passed through a thick grove of trees. They beat him severely and removed his boots, tied a thick rope around his ankles, and dragged him behind his horse to the deep narrow hole they’d dug in preparation.

While they nervously waited for MacHugh to reach the ridge and also waited for Liam to regain consciousness so he would know what was going to happen, six of the seven soldiers got into a discussion regarding the burial.

The discussion turned into an argument. Three soldiers wanted MacHugh’s brother buried headfirst with only his feet above the ground. When his toes stopped wiggling, they would know for a certainty that he was dead. Three other soldiers were in favor of dropping him into the hole feetfirst. They wanted to hear him scream and beg for mercy until the last shovel of dirt was thrown across the top of his head.

“He might not wake up,” a soldier argued. “I’m in favor of stuffing his head in first.”

“He didn’t even give up a whimper while we were beating him. Why do you think he’d start in screaming now?” another asked.

“Look at the mist coming on. It’s already covering the ground and creeping up my boots. You won’t be able to see his head anyway if this muck gets any thicker.”

“Pull that hood off and toss some water on his face and he’ll wake up,” yet another suggested.

“He’s going in headfirst.”

“Feetfirst,” a soldier shouted, shoving one of the men who had disagreed with him.

Gordon knew the argument would soon turn physical. He kept his eye on the top of the ridge and announced that he would be the deciding vote.

Liam MacHugh would go to his grave feetfirst.