Excerpt of The Call of the Raven by Amanda Balfour

Scotland, 1600

Two miles out of Oban, the sound of a gunshot shattered
the calm spring day. Followed by another. The acrid odor
of burnt powder filled the air and drifted between the
trees. The clashing of swords reverberated through the
forest.

Morgan MacLeod reined his horse in and raised a hand.

“Did ye hear that?” he asked.

“Aye, sounded like pistol shots,” his brother Liam
replied.

“I thought I heard the sound of swords when we came up,”
Morgan said. “I think the shots came from over there.” He
pointed toward the bend in the road ahead of them. “Let’s
take a look. Ian, stay with the horses.”

As they approached the bend, Morgan heard the fading
cadence of rapidly moving horses. The bend in the road
opened into a wide space, revealing the aftermath of the
melee. He saw three men: two dead and one wounded.

Morgan watched as the injured man struggled to stand.
Morgan thought he must be about his age of four-and-
twenty. The man had shoulder-length, dark-brown hair. He
was above average height and powerfully built, but the
fight had clearly sapped his strength. The only thing
holding him up seemed to be his sword stuck in the
ground. As he and Liam approached, the man little by
little lifted his Claymore. Weak from his wounds and loss
of blood, raising the blade appeared to drain the
remainder of his strength, for he slowly toppled to the
ground.

A raven flew from a bush as Morgan knelt beside the
wounded man. The bird made a croaking sound akin to
corpse, corpse and came to rest on the lower limb of a
rowan tree, where it turned its head from side-to-side,
watching.

Morgan took the wounded man’s limp wrist, sensing a faint
pulse. “Sir, we mean ye no harm. What may we do for ye?”

The man did not speak for a while, his breathing labored.
Morgan noted the sad smile that crossed his face, as if
he were listening to a distant call. He slowly turned his
head toward Morgan and tried to speak.

“Liam!” Morgan called. “Go for the healer and a minister.
Hurry!”

He had to lean down to hear the man’s soft murmurs. He
felt the weak touch of the wounded soldier’s hand against
his arm, motioning him to come closer still.

“Malcolm MacKenzie . . . Raven’s Wood in Urrag Parrish.
I’m done for. All lost. Must tell family . . .”

“Aye, I’ll see to it,” Morgan said. “Save your strength.
My brother has gone for the healer.”

“Too late,” Malcolm gasped. Dark-red blood bubbled at the
corner of his mouth. He grabbed Morgan’s sleeve. “Must
tell my father . . . take my sword, cross . . . and purse
to him. Family needs help . . .” His sad blue eyes sought
a promise from Morgan.

“Aye, I’ll see to your things and your family,” Morgan
assured him.

Malcolm sighed and closed his eyes. The effort to speak
was plainly beyond him. Morgan watched as Malcolm’s face
relaxed and his breathing became halting and shallow. He
did his best to make him comfortable.

“Ian! Bring the horses on ahead into the clearing and
stay with MacKenzie. I want to take a look around,”
Morgan called out.

Broken branches and flattened ground revealed where the
assailants had hidden, waiting to ambush the three
travelers. Strange, the signs at the ambush site
indicated they had waited for some time. The road was
well traveled, which made him think the men had waited
especially for these three companions.

He examined the hoof prints where the ambushers’ horses
had been tied up. One of the horses seemed to have a
tendency to leave a deep imprint with its front left leg
when it started to move. The ambushers headed in the
direction of Urrag Parish. He would watch for their
tracks on his way to Raven’s Wood.

Liam soon arrived with an irate elderly man dressed in
black, who looked like an unmade bed. “I’ve collected the
minister, Reverend Hardison. I cannae find a healer.
Sorry, Morgan.”

The minister dismounted and blew out his cheeks in a
huff, his stern face meeting Morgan’s gaze. “I’m not used
to this kind of treatment, young man,” Hardison said.
“This man here barged into my home and practically threw
me onto this horse. We’ve been flying at breakneck speed
without a word. Sir, I must protest in the strongest
terms at his rude behavior.” He crossed his arms and
glared sternly from one brother to the other.

“I’m sorry, Reverend,” Morgan said. “As you can see, this
is an emergency. Please forgive my brother’s manners. We
came upon these three men. They needed a minister and a
healer, but it’s too late for the healer, I'm afraid.”

“Oh dear. Oh dear me. Who are these men?” Reverend
Hardison demanded.

“We only ken the name of one of them,” Morgan responded.
“He’s barely alive. Malcolm MacKenzie of Raven’s Wood.”

“Och, oh my. I knew his father many years ago. Urrag
Parrish, I think. This is verra sad. Which one is
MacKenzie?”

“He’s over here.” Morgan pointed to the supine figure.
“Please hurry. He doesn’t have much time.”

He watched as the minister knelt beside Malcolm and
anointed him with oil.

Reverend Hardison drew a small book from his pocket,
bowed his head, and prayed. “Into Your hands, oh merciful
Savior, we commend Your servant, Malcolm MacKenzie. We
humbly beseech You, a sheep of Your own fold, a lamb of
Your own flock, a sinner of Your own redeeming. Receive
him into the arms of Your mercy, into the blessed rest of
everlasting peace, and into the glorious company of the
saints in light. Amen.” The minister made the sign of the
cross and slid The Book of Common Prayer into his pocket.