This is the saga of an avenger. A Highlander who witnessed his brother’s brutal murder while his parents were forced to make a deal with the enemy. So, adhering to his oath for revenge, he plots against the murderer’s daughter, seeking her weak spot. But he has no idea he will encounter his own.
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SAGA OF A HIGHLAND AVENGER
PROLOGUE
His brother would win — he had to — yet still, Arran stood on his toes watching; his heart drumming against his chest like a giant fist against a door. Beneath the window where he was hiding, twelve feet below, swords crashed together as soldiers shouted and scattered. Arran's eyes were wetwith fear, but he could not take his gaze away from Bruce. He watched as his sixteen-year-old brother, a boy far too tall for his age –clothed in silvery cloth and abreastplate clasped across his chest,slashed through the MacKenzie soldiers.
Arran's breath caught in his throat as a soldier lunged toward Bruce, his pommel striking the back hisneck. The boy squealed and swiveled around, his elbow catching on the jaw of his assailant. The red-haired soldier staggered for a moment, then regained his stance. He charged at the boyonce more, his long blade swinging. Bruce droppedon his knees, his sword raised above his head. As their bladescollided, the clang of metal thundered against the air. Swiftly, Bruce raised himself into a standing position and, with one slash, he tore into his attacker's chest.
As the red-haired man fell to the ground, blood splattered everywhere. Bruce turned around and moved forward.
"Bruce!" Arran gasped upon spotting another attacker heading toward his brother. He jumped to his feet and ran to the door, just when his mother barred his passage.
"Come here!" She pulled him toward her, then cupped his face. She was dressed in a white linen gown, with silver earrings that dangled to her chin.
"We have tae help them, Ma," Arran whined. He shivered in his mother's embrace. She smelled of fresh flowers and rose water, of comfort and solace, but it did little to ease his worry. He felt the heave of her chest as she sighed. "We must help them! We must do something," repeated Arran.
"Nae we," she replied. "And nae ye either! Yer a mere lad, Arran. Yer too young tae understand these things. Now go tae yer chambers as yer father ordered ye tae do."
He withdrew from his mother, chided and feeling useless. He despised feeling useless. He wanted to burst onto the battlefield and fight beside his brother and father. Instead, he was forced to watch the battle from a high vantage point, downtrodden and unable to help.
He had to do something.
"Yer chambers, Arran," his mother repeated sternly,and it rang strangely. Ma had a soft spot for all three of her sons,and she had never scolded them as hard as Arran had seen other mothers scold their boys. He knew Ma was only trying to play her part by keeping him from harm's way.
"Yes Mother," Arran said as obediently as he could and made for his chambers.
As he squeezed past the guards in the hall, he navigated the passageways and corridors leading to his chambers. He pushed open the door and positioned himself by the nearest window to catch another glimpse of his brother.
He held his breath as he watched him swivel around, dancing away from a gray-haired soldier and stabbing through another. The defeated man toppled forward, blood sputtering from his mouth before he fell back, his head landing hard against Bruce's feet.
"Yeah!" Arran cried with a hop, unable to contain his pride. The men around his brother cheered and growled, and bled as the ground beneath them darkened with sweat and blood.
Suddenly, an elbow in Bruce's rib caused him to lose his footing and he stumbled back. He looked up in surprise as MacKenzie soldiers gathered around him; their brutal intentions evident all over their faces even from Arran’s perch.
Bruce sought an exit, his eyebrows set low in determination. When he found no purchase, he stuck his chest out and raised his sword – ready for anything, ready to defeat them all by himself.
Many feet behind his brother, Pa slashed through enemies of his own. Arran willed his father to look back, he prayed he would come charging to Bruce’s rescue.
Arran’s knuckles were white as he gripped onto the windowsill. He felt hot and pale; choked with helplessness. Bruce was outnumbered. Even worse, Arran was standing and watching from an open window, powerless to intervene.
But then, he remembered his stones and sling, and dashed away to find them. Where had he put them last? Under his pillows, perhaps, or in a drawer. He fumbled around the room. Even if he was not a great shot, a stone or two was bound to hit a few heads and cause enough of a distraction for Bruce to escape. Arran searched around but could not find anything. He buried his face in his hands, concerned that he had left them in Bruce's chambers. He could runout and fetchthem, but would he be able to return in time to save his brother?
Arran returned to the window. He wanted to yell, "I'm coming, Bruce, wait for me! I'll save ye, brother!" Instead, he could only watch as a red-haired man drove a sword straight through his brother’s chest.
Bruce was a sixteen-year-old colossus who fell face down like a mountain. The castle came to a halt as the boy collided with the ground, head first.
For a brief moment, wrenching silence filled the castle: silence in Arran's chambers, silence below, in the once rowdy hell of a kitchen where Cook hummed and her servants bustled about, silence even on the bloodied patch of land where the MacKenzies had orchestrated their battle. Arran sworehe could hear his brother's last breaths against the wind in that cruel and calm silence.
Silence came first, then chaos. A scream pierced through the air, devastated and broken in its pitch. Arran shifted his gaze as his Pa cried out again. He watched his father, the great Laird MacLean, lunge toward his son; slashing through the MacKenzie soldiers in his path until he had Bruce in his arms. He cupped his son’s face, Bruce’s shoulders shaking as he spat up blood and shuddered with his final breaths.
Arran wiped his eyes. He hadn’t realized he had started crying until he saw a similar set of tears stream down Pa's face, running through a layer of dust, sweat and enemy’s blood.
The MacKenzie soldiers watched on, frozen in place as his father held his eldest son. All at once, Laird MacLean lowered his son's lifeless body to the ground.
Arran could not muffle his cries. He screamed and shouted his brother's name; clutching at his chest as Pa placed a hand over Bruce's face, closing his eyelids.