Scotland 1437, McLeren land

Fire could be a welcome sight to a man when he'd been riding
a long time and the sun had set, leaving him surrounded by
darkness. But the sight of flames on the horizon could also
be the most horrifying thing any laird ever set his eyes on.

Torin McLeren wanted to close his eyes in the hopes that the
orange flames illuminating the night might not be there when
he opened them again. He could smell the smoke on the night
air now but didn't have the luxury of allowing the horror to
turn his stomach. He was laird, and protecting his holdings
was his duty.

Digging his spurs into his horse, he headed toward the
inferno. Wails began to drown out the hissing flames.
Laments carried on the night wind as wives and mothers
mourned bitterly. The scent of blood rose above the smoke,
the flickering orange light illuminating the fallen bodies
of his clansmen. He stared at the carnage, stunned by the
number of dead and wounded. He might be a Highlander and no
stranger to battle, but this was a village, not a piece of
land disputed and fought over by nobles. This was McLeren
land and had been for more than a century.

A horror straight out of hell surrounded him. Mercy hadn't
been present here-he'd seen less carnage after fighting the
English. The slaughter was almost too much to believe or
accept. His horse balked at his command to ride forward, the
stallion rearing up as the heat from the blaze became hot
against its hide. Torin cursed and slid from the saddle.
Every muscle in his body tightened, rage slowly coming to a
boil inside him. Hands reached out to him, grasping fingers
seeking him as the only hope of righting the wrong that had
been inflicted on them.

His temper burned hotter than the fire consuming the keep in
front of him. They suffered raids from time to time, but
this was something else entirely. It was war. The number of
bodies lying where they had fallen was a wrong that could
not be ignored. Nor should it be. These were his people,
McLerens who trusted in his leadership and his sword arm for
protection.

"Justice..."

One single word but it echoed across the fallen bodies of
men wearing the same plaid he did. Every retainer left to
keep the peace was lying dead, but they had died as
Highlanders. The ground was littered with the unmoving forms
of their attackers. His gaze settled on one body, the still
form leaking dark blood onto his land, the kilt drawing his
interest. Lowering his frame onto one knee, Torin fingered
the colors of his enemy. The fire lit the scarlet and blue
colors of the McBoyd clan. His neighbor and apparently now
his enemy.

McBoyds? It didn't make sense. These were common
people. Good folk who labored hard to feed their families.
Every McLeren retainer stationed there knew and accepted
that they might have to fight for their clan, but that did
not explain the number of slain villagers. There was no
reason for such a slaughter. No excuse he would ever swallow
or accept. McLerens did not fear the night, be they common
born or not. While he was laird, they would not live in fear.

"There will be justice. I swear it." His voice carried
authority, but to those weeping over their lost family, it
also gave comfort. Torin stood still only for a moment, his
retainers backing him up before he turned and remounted his
horse. He felt more at home in the saddle, more confident.
His father had raised him to lead the McLerens in good times
and bad. He would not disappoint him or a single McLeren
watching him now.

"Well now, let us see what the McBoyds have to say for
themselves, lads."

Torin turned his stallion into the night without a care for
the clouds that kept the moonlight from illuminating the
rocky terrain. He was a Highlander, after all. Let the other
things in the dark fear him.