Highland-warriors Direct

"For them, it is," Alistair replied, his voice a low rumble. "They fight for a king. We fight for the memory of our fathers."

"They think the glen is a trap," Alistair’s younger brother, Elidih, whispered, his hand white-knuckled on the hilt of his claymore. highland-warriors

The "Highland Charge" was a blur of steel and thunder. Alistair dropped his plaid, moving with a terrifying speed that bypassed the long, clumsy bayonets of the soldiers. He met the first line with his targe, the iron-studded oak catching a blade before his own broadsword found its mark. "For them, it is," Alistair replied, his voice a low rumble

The battle was short and chaotic, fought in the swirling gray fog where the locals were ghosts and the invaders were blind. When the sun finally broke through the clouds, the lowland retreat was a frantic scramble back toward the safety of the plains. The "Highland Charge" was a blur of steel and thunder

The Lowlanders charged, their boots sinking into the deceptive bog. Then, the MacLeods moved. They didn't march; they surged like a landslide. Alistair led the charge, his kilt snapping in the wind as he cleared the distance with the practiced ease of a man who had run these crags since childhood.

Alistair stood atop a jagged outcrop, wiping his blade on a tuft of grass. He looked out over the glen, silent once more. They hadn't won the war—not yet—but as long as the mist rolled through the heather and the pipes sang in the dark, the Highlands would never be truly conquered.