Excerpt of Seize the Dawn by Shannon Drake

Falkirk, Scotland

July 22, 1298

There could be a strange beauty to war. The sight of the arrows was awesome.

They appeared suddenly in the radiant blue summer sky...

And they were spellbinding, an arcing rain, flying high into the sky, cresting, then falling with a strange grace back to the ground.

Then the hurling, whistling whir of them suddenly took precedence. Along with the sounds that followed...

Brendan could hear screams, for those Scotsmen who had taunted the expert bowmen of the English army with their backsides discovered too late that grace and beauty were as deadly as stupidity. Arrows connected with flesh, spewing blood, breaking bone. Men shouted, staggered, fell, some wounded, some killed. Horses neighed shrilly, animals died, and knights, not hit themselves, cursed as their mounts stumbled and fell, many wheezing out a death rattle. Foot soldiers scattered; cavalry began to break; commanders shouted.

"Hold, you fools ! And cover your backsides l" John Graham, Brendan's kinsman, shouted from atop his tall black steed. They'd had a certain advantage. William Wallace, their leader, knew how to choose his ground for a fight. Though Edward had great numbers of foot soldiers and cavalry--perhaps twelve thousand of the latter and twenty-five hundred of the first--William had chosen to wage war from the flank of the Callander Wood. From there, a fiercely flowing burn, or stream, met with another from Glen Village, and because of this, the terrain the English must traverse was little but mire, soggy wet ground, a morass to wear down horses and men.

But today, the English had come on. Mired, they had rallied.

And it was the Scots now breaking.

"Hold!" John shouted again.

Brendan saw him shake his head with disbelief, wondering what fool confidence had suggested such a show of idiocy.

Indeed! What man had not seen the arrows? They had thought to defy the deadly barrage of the English--and so life was wasted. The major assault had not even begun.

Along with the screams and shouts, he could hear the jingle of horses' harnesses, the trappings of some of the richer men's mounts. His own great dappled stallion, Achilles, stamped the ground with nervous impatience as a cloud of moist air streamed from his nostrils. More arrows were flying. Men were falling, dying. Edward of England was no fool, and surely no coward, and any of them who had taken him as such were doomed. The English king had ruthlessly destroyed the Welsh--and from them, he had gained his talented longbowmen. He had brought soldiers talented with the crossbow as well: Flemish, Germans, mercenaries--even some of the French he was so constantly fighting.

Even Scotsmen rode with him. Scotsmen who feared that Wallace, their protector, their guardian, could not hold against the forces of the Plantagenet king of England, self-proclaimed Hammer of the Scots. Scotsmen who were perhaps now changing sides.

"Sweet Jesu, help me!"

English riders were following their bowmen. Scottish knights were breaking. Hand to hand battle came closer and closer. The Scots were experts with their schiltrons-- barriers created by men arranged with rows of pikes-- weapons that held well against the English knights.

But even they were failing now. Brendan quickly dismounted, hurrying to the rugged old warrior with the arrow protruding from his thigh. He couldn't wrench out the arrow; the man would bleed to death there on the field.

"Break it!" the man commanded.

"MacCaffery, I can't--"

"You will, boy, you will." Beady blue eyes surveyed him from beneath a fine bush of snow-white brows and hair, so completely entangled, it was impossible to say where the one began, and the other gave off.

"MacCaffery--"

"Haven't you strength, boy?"

MacCaffery was taunting him on purpose. Aye, and the taunting worked. He snapped the arrow, gritted his teeth-- and removed the shaft, immediately using his linen shirt to put pressure against the wound.

"Fool!" he accused his elder.

"Aye," MacCaffery said softly. The old man hadn't flinched, hadn't let out so much as a whimper. "A free fool. And I'll die that way, boy."

Die that way...

Did the old man feel it, too? A strange sense, not so much of fear, but of unease and trepidation. They should not have fought that day/Many of the commanders had said it. They should not have fought. They should have continued their northern flight. They had left the land desolate, stripped; if they had just kept ahead of the English army, they could have starved it out!

Yet almost a year ago now, at Stirring Bridge, the forces of Scotland, forces truly of Scotland--rich men, poor men, diggers of soil, purveyors of gold--had faced the might of the English, and there, they had triumphed. And since that precious time, Scotland had been free. The great baron of the north, Andrew de Moray, had died soon after the battle, mortally wounded in the fighting. But until the very last minute, the great survivor of the struggle, Sir William Wallace, had kept his name alive in official correspondence. Wallace had reigned as the guardian of the realm. He had gained so much power that he had pushed the tide of bloodshed into England, ravaged York, and given something incredibly valuable to his followers as well: pride.

Pride.

Pride had now turned to foolishness.

"Take heed!" Old MacCaffery warned.

Brendan turned, just in time. An armored knight, wearing the colors of the House of York, was bearing down upon him. Brendan wielded his weapon with a desperate power, aiming deliberately for the throat. His opponent went still, hovered in time and space, clutched his neck. Red seeped through his fingers, and he fell into the mire. But another knight was coming on, riding hard despite the mire, and Brendan braced to meet him.

He had first learned the hatred of the enemy at Hawk's Cairn where he'd fought with no talent and no experience, and had survived because he'd been left for dead. That now seemed a lifetime ago. He'd learned. Time had given him strength and judgment--and a well-trained sword arm. He'd learned victory…

And suddenly, he knew.

Here, he was about to learn defeat.

But he would never accept it. Just as old MacCaffery, who had risen to his feet despite his wound, and, though the blood drained from him, fought on. Raising his great sword, letting it fall, raising it...

Again and again.

And the mire beneath their feet turned red.

Brendan heard a shout and turned. His kinsman was down. John Graham was unhorsed, on the ground. His men flocked around him, tried to wrest him from the onslaught of men now decimating the Scots, riding them down.

"Go to him, lad! I'll cover your back!" MacCaffery shouted. Aye, he was a fierce old man, and half dead or nay, there was no man better to cover him. So Brendan ran, and fell to his knees where they were rifting John, and he saw the wound at his kinsman's throat, and heard the rattle of death in his lungs.

"John, for the love of God." He reached for him, would have carded him, hut John placed a bloody hand on his chest. "Brendan, run, run with these fellows! They've just gotten Wallace out. Go after him--"

"I'll not leave you!" he insisted. “I’ll take you from the mire to the wood--"