The road between Strathconnon and Scardroy was well-traveled, and twice Duncan had to duck into the woods or behind a hill as mounted men in Campbell and MacKinnon tartans rode past.  He reached the village late the next day, but skirted it and headed north, checking the damp ground for signs of recent traffic.  He found the scatterings of a trail, notable more because there appeared to be attempts to cover the tracks than because it was well marked. 

He slowed his progress, staying off the trail, but within sight of it, hidden in the trees, although cover was a little sparse.  The hills rose up on either side, and he finally had to abandon the trail entirely, working his way carefully over a rise to reach a spot where he could see down into a small glen where a dozen or so wagons and tents were encamped, their fires carefully banked to keep smoke from staining the horizon. 

It was late afternoon and the sky was its usual gray, the air cold and damp.  Duncan looked longingly at the several cook fires, where pots bubbled, their odors drifting on the wind and setting his ever-eager stomach to rumbling.  He was looking for…ah, there he was.  Angus MacGregor, the peddler he had seen a week or so before. 

Walking directly into the camp without someone to vouch for him would likely only get him a dirk in the ribs, but if Angus was there, he might at least get an opportunity to talk.  He crawled back below the rise on his hands and knees, trying to think of the best words to use. 

The small rustle of foliage behind him was his only warning, and he hadn’t even managed to turn around when a bright, white pain slammed into his head and he felt the ground rush up to meet him. 

The intense ache behind his ear made Duncan squeeze his eyes shut for several painful, throbbing heartbeats.  He reached to touch the source of the agony, but his hands were bound behind him, and all he grasped was a fistful of mud.  He reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting against the light.  Even the dim, cloud-shrouded late afternoon sun made him squint, and an involuntary groan growled in the back of his throat. 

He could hear voices above him, and he blinked several times, trying to focus.  At last his tearing eyes cleared a little, and the high whine in his ears faded. 

“…I canna say if he’s for us or agin’ us, but I am no’ for killin’ a man if we’re not sure.” 

The voice sounded familiar, and with a few more blinks he managed to focus on Angus MacGregor, who was practically standing on top of him, nose to nose with a much smaller, heavily armed man dressed in a loose shirt, breeches and a rough, pieced-together wool-and-pelt cloak. 

“And you’d stake all our lives and the lives of our families on that, would you Angus?” the smaller man responded softly, with a hard, unfriendly smile. The smile was made all the more menacing from the pull of an old scar than ran from his ear to his chin.

“No need,” Duncan managed to say loudly enough so that both men looked down at him.  “If you want to know something, just ask me.” 

“Well, well,” the smaller man squatted, examining Duncan with narrowed eyes.  “You take a blow well.  We were just arguing whether or not you were mostly dead already, or whether we should finish you off and be done with it.” 

Duncan smiled grimly and tried to sit up, then winced at the stabbing pain in the back of his head.  “Tis a peculiar talent I have,” he whispered with a slight gasp.  The man reached under his arm and pulled with surprising strength for his size, and Duncan found himself on his feet, wavering as his vision filled with blank spots. 

“Why were you spying on our camp?” another man demanded, stepping forward.  He was a barrel-chested fellow with far more hair on his chin than his head.  The sound of every word sent a small shard of pain stabbing behind his eyes, and Duncan took several long breaths.  He didn’t dare close his eyes for fear of falling, but he kept having to blink as the world faded in and out of focus. 

“Easy, Dougal,” Angus admonished, taking Duncan’s elbow in a steadying grip.  “The lad can barely stay on his feet.”  He nodded to the smaller man who had helped Duncan up.  “Let Simon handle this.” 

“I’m all right,” Duncan managed.  “He is right to ask.  I would do the same.” 

“Would you?” Simon asked wryly.  “You are hardly in a position to ask anything at the moment.” 

Duncan took another long breath.  The pain seemed to be easing, and the world steadied.  “I came because I wanted to join you, to fight the Campbells.  I’m a MacLeod from Glenfinnan, and have known Neil MacGregor most of my life.” 

“Angus here says you claim to be Duncan MacLeod,” Simon slowly walked around him, eyeing him up and down.  “And we’ve all heard tales.  That you are cursed, a demon, banished by your clan.  And you want me to believe you, to trust you?” he chuckled. 

“Believe what you want,” Duncan felt his chin rise and his face flush as everyone in the camp now seemed to have gathered around.  “Keep me under guard, if you must.  But allow me to prove myself the only way you can be certain, and that is in battle.” 

“And how do I know you will not betray us before you ever get that opportunity?” Simon demanded to know, stepping close and looking up into Duncan’s face, his light brown eyes hard and unyielding. 

“If I had wanted to betray you, I would already have done so,” Duncan answered, moving even closer and looking down until their noses were almost touching.  “I passed more than one patrol on the road from Strathconnon, and I could easily have led them here, but I did not.” 

“And what do you get out of this, Duncan MacLeod?” Simon asked softly, not backing down from the close proximity of a bigger man. 

“A little peace of mind,” Duncan almost whispered, closing his eyes for just a moment, as though he could picture it.  “Some reason for my existence.  Whatever happened with my clan, whatever I am, demon or no, there has to be some purpose behind it all.  I have been living alone for three years and I don’t want to do it anymore.  I canna’ help my own clan, but I can fight against the Campbells, and you know the MacLeods and the Campbells have been at odds for as long as anyone can remember.” 

Colin stepped forward, holding Duncan’s battered pack.  “He’s got a MacLeod plaid, Simon.  I don’t know why he would lie about such a thing.  I heard from another peddler that he was beaten and thrown in the river by the people of Strathan last year.  They all thought he was dead, for sure.” 

Simon stepped away and took the pack, digging through its contents and finally pulling out the colorful length of fabric Mog had given him, its vibrant blue and green contrasting sharply with the brilliant red and dark green of the MacGregor plaid he wore defiantly on his soft cap, with its sprig of pine pinned in the brim.  He examined it for a moment, then looked around the solemn faces of the crowd of fifty or more people.  “I don’t trust him,” he said to the crowd, “and I don’t want anyone here to be beguiled by him.” 

“I won’t talk to anyone then,” Duncan offered.  “If I am a demon, isn’t it better to have me fighting for you than against you?” 

Angus stepped forward, towering over Simon, who was clearly their chief, but Angus was much the elder and obviously held the crowd’s respect.  “We canno’ let him go now that he’s found us anyway, Simon, and we need every fighter we can find.  I’ll keep watch on him until he proves himself, and I can promise you he willna’ beguile me.”  Angus’ smile through his beard was tight and hard. 

Simon shared a long look with Angus, then scanned the faces that stood around him.  Finally, he seemed to come to a decision, walked up to Duncan, and yanked him around.   Duncan felt a knife slide through his bonds and suddenly his arms were free.  “Here.” His pack, with the tartan stuffed in the top, was shoved into his arms.  “Put the plaid on.  As long as you’re with us, we’ll all be reminded of who you are.  And what you are,” he added in a threatening tone.  “You want to fight?  Fine.  But until then every move you make will be watched and if I think for one moment that you might bring harm to any of my people, I’ll slit your throat before you even know I had the thought.” 

Duncan’s jaw clenched at the threat and his body tensed in response, but he took a long, calming breath.  Simon had every right to question his motives, to suspect his actions.  He forced himself to nod.  “Understood,” he managed to say between stiff lips.  “What about my weapons?”  Duncan nodded towards his dirk tucked in Simon’s heavy, metal-studded leather baldrick, and Colin was holding his sword. 

“You’ll get those when there is an enemy to use them against, and not before,” Simon said grimly, taking the sword from Colin.  Duncan and Simon stood at hostile attention for another moment before Simon turned on his heel, and walked away towards the largest campfire, trailed by Dougal and several other followers while Duncan’s heart slowly tried to achieve a more normal pace. 

“Don’t mind Simon,” Angus told him.  “He has been hiding from the Earl’s men for the better part of his life, and trusts no one who isn’t a MacGregor.” 

“No, he’s right,” Duncan shook his head.  “He doesna’ know me, and he has to protect his people.”  He looked around, wondering where he might make a place for himself.  Angus shifted his weight uncomfortably as the rest of the crowd slowly drifted away, back to their wagons and small shelters.  “And I know you took a risk when you said you knew me.  I won’t try to take advantage of one evening of road hospitality.” 

The gray-haired man shook himself slightly.  “Nay,” he said softly.  “You may eat at our fire, at least for tonight.  With this many men to hunt and women to cook, there is food to spare.” 

Even though he was uncomfortable with the arrangement, Duncan gave in.  He was too hungry and too anxious to share the comfort of a family, even if only from a distance. 

Duncan didn’t have long to wait for his opportunity to prove himself.  He had spread his bed well inside the circle of tents and wagons, feeling the scrutiny of many eyes as he deliberately put a bit of distance between himself and Angus’ camp, and far from any other campfire.  Sleep was difficult.  He felt exposed and watched, and small sounds of movement, snores, and low voices could be heard throughout the night, and several watchmen patrolled the edges of the gathering. 

So when a voice shouted an alarm, he had rolled out of his pallet and was on his feet before the echo died.  He felt naked without a weapon, even more so in just his plaid, baldrick, and a shirt he had gotten from Angus in trade for one of his pelts.  In seconds, everyone was up, and Simon emerged from underneath one of the larger wagons, pulling on his baldrick and running his fingers through shoulder length brown hair. 

“What is it?” he snapped as a lad, barely old enough to shave, rode a pony in at a gallop, throwing up mud as he jerked his mount to a halt.  The boy slid off, his legs giving way a little as he fought for balance. 

“A patrol,” he gasped out.  “In Scardroy.  I was at the inn and I overheard one of them say they’re going to do a full search in this direction at first light.  He was bragging that he’d broken Father Andrew’s fingers one by one, then burned his flesh with a hot poker until he finally told him where we were.” 

“How many men?” Simon asked calmly, though his face had gone pale at the news.  Someone handed the boy a water skin and he took a long swallow, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand before he spoke. 

“Hard to tell,” he answered, still breathing hard.  “There were about a dozen horses in the stable, though, and it sounded like he expected more men to come in during the night.” 

“All right,” Simon raised his voice so everyone could hear.  “We’re breaking camp.  Fast as you can.  You’ll head west, then south.  Scatter after you reach the river, and regroup at the West Monar site in a week.  I need a dozen men to stay with me to cover the rear, so we can make sure everyone gets cleanly away.” 

Duncan stepped forward.  “I’ll stay,” he volunteered.  Simon ignored his offer and looked past him at the other men, silently counting as various families discussed which among them should stay and which should go.  Angus and Colin were arguing, but Angus prevailed, sending the younger man off to guard and care for his wife and children.  In a few moments, a core of men were standing in the center of camp and other figures were quickly and quietly gathering their belongings and hitching the horses to wagons. 

“I’ve got enough men, MacLeod.  You go with Colin and his family,” Simon finally decided. 

“No!” Duncan insisted.  “If you want me to prove myself, then give me the chance to do so.” 

“I am chieftain here, damn you!” Simon MacGregor snapped.  “And I don’t want to feel like I have to watch my back as well as my enemy.” 

“Then put me in front, or at your side.  Use me somehow, but don’t send me away with the women and children!  Besides, if you don’t trust me, isn’t it better to keep me close at hand?” 

Simon started to snap back at him, but stopped himself, cocking his head to the side for a moment as though listening for something, and the group became quiet.  “Angus,” Simon called, a sudden light of eagerness in his eyes.  “Find the wagon with the lightest load, and spread its contents to the other wagons.  Then move it to the largest campfire,” he instructed.  “Hugh,” he called to the lad who had delivered the news to the camp.  “Unsaddle your horse and leave it here, then head on out with your family.  No, I don’t want to hear it.”  He waved off the boy’s protest and turned to Duncan with a grim smile.  “We’ll see what you’re made of, Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” 

Duncan sat on a log, stirring porridge over a fire in an otherwise empty campsite.  Hugh’s exhausted mare was tied on a long lead to the empty wagon, contentedly searching for grass in the undergrowth.  The air was heavy with early morning mist, and he had no cloak to keep the damp away, but he had long since learned to ignore the chill.  He felt a small tremor in the earth, and made it a point not to move or even look up until several mounted men broke into the glen.  In seconds, the camp was surrounded by about twenty riders.  He stood to greet his visitors, his only weapon the dirk he held in his hand. 

One of the riders urged his horse forward and looked around the well-trampled glen before his eyes finally settled on Duncan, and one corner of his mouth curled slightly.  “A MacLeod, eh?  And what are you doing here?  Living off the scraps the MacGregor dogs leave behind?” 

“No,” Duncan met the man’s eyes.  “But they left their privy in yon ditch just for any Campbells that might be attracted by the smell.” 

The man dismounted, his familiar blue-black plaid swinging easily on narrow hips.  He was a lean, hard man, about the same height as Duncan, his dark auburn hair pulled neatly back and tied elaborately with a complex knot of braided leather.  He studied Duncan imperiously over a nose that had been badly broken at some point, healing unevenly and lending a hawk-like quality to his face.  With sudden, blinding speed he backhanded Duncan, almost spinning him to the ground.  Duncan staggered, then lunged with his knife, but by then a half-dozen men had dismounted and he was grabbed and pulled away before he could reach their leader. 

Duncan could feel blood trickle down his chin from where his lip had been split. 

“Where did they go?” the hawk-faced man asked, his cold gray eyes studying Duncan as though he were a particularly distasteful smear of dung he had accidentally gotten onto his best boots. 

“To visit your sister?” Duncan smiled at him, licking the blood from his lips.  “I hear she’s been giving it away for free since she was thirteen.” 

This time, the man used his fist, first on Duncan’s face, then on his ribs.  He could hear them crack on the blow that finally drove him to his knees, and when someone kicked him hard enough to make him retch, it made the pain even worse.  Campbell leaned down grabbed a handful of Duncan’s hair and yanked his face out of the mud.  “I don’t have all day, MacLeod.  You know you’ll tell me eventually.”  A searing wave of heat near his face made him instinctively pull back from the flaming stick of kindling Campbell had pulled from the fire. 

“But I have all the time in the world,” Duncan managed to get out between clenched teeth. 

“No,” his tormentor whispered.  “You don’t.”  He jammed the burning brand into Duncan’s palm while his men held him down. 

Duncan screamed in pain, and then it seemed like everyone else was screaming at the same moment.  But he was only really aware that suddenly his captors had let him loose and shouts and wild cries were all around him.  All he could do was curl around his hand, panting, willing the pain in his stomach and ribs and hand to go away, vaguely sickened by the lingering smell of his own burning flesh. 

Disturbingly true to form, in only a moment or two the ripped, bloody, charred skin of his hand began to heal, the agony faded, and he was able to stagger to his feet.  The ambush had been set and triggered, although he had expected Simon to wait much longer to attack, at least until all the riders had dismounted to watch whatever tortures they planned to use on their captive.  The sudden appearance of the dozen men hidden in the underbrush had given the MacGregors a momentary advantage over the Campbells’ larger numbers, but now their ranks appeared about even, and the battle had broken down into individual skirmishes. 

Duncan was weaponless, still breathless, bruised and aching.  He had fulfilled his promised role of sacrificial bait, but he could not stand by now and do nothing while others fought.  He spotted a prone man in a dark Campbell tartan and rolled the body over, pulling the man’s sword from a limp, lifeless hand.  He charged into the nearest cluster of combatants, yelling like a banshee, pulling as many opponents away from the MacGregor clansmen as he could, and for the next several minutes time seemed to stop and the unrelenting confusion and despair of the past three years was forgotten.  Duncan MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod had a purpose and a goal, people who needed him, and he felt like he could do no wrong.  He slashed and stabbed, used his fists, his feet, his head, his elbows, anything he could to take on as many as possible. 

Then it was over, and the MacGregor men were left standing, gasping for air, clutching wounds, some of them sinking to their knees, retching into the blood-stained mud.  There were bodies of Campbells scattered throughout the glen, including their hawk-faced leader, whose colorless eyes now stared sightlessly at the sky.  Duncan looked around to make sure there were no enemies left, oddly disappointed it was over so soon.  He had lost track of how many he had killed. 

Simon made the rounds of each of his men, assessing their wounds and instructing those still standing to tend to them.  He sought out Duncan at last, and their eyes met.  Simon’s face was gray underneath a messy cut over his eye that still oozed blood down his temple, but his gaze was steady.  “You fought well, MacLeod," he said with a grim smile, then shook his head a little.  "But I’m sorry we waited so long,” he added, and Duncan frowned in puzzlement. 

“But I thought you were going to wait until they had dropped their guard.  A little more time and…” 

“I couldn’t let them cripple you, not like they did Father Andrew,” Simon looked offended, and reached for Duncan’s right hand, which still gripped a sword.  He stared for a minute, then pulled the blade out of Duncan’s grasp and opened his palm, staring at the unmarked flesh.  His eyes slowly traveled up to meet Duncan’s once more. 

“The stories are true,” Duncan said softly.  “I am not like other men.  But that is all the more reason I can be of use to you.” 

Simon let him go and backed away a step.  “What are you?” he demanded.  The rest of the men had quieted, watching the exchange, many of them crossing themselves fearfully. 

Duncan slowly went to one knee.  “Whatever I am, Simon MacGregor, my sword arm…my life…is at your service,” Duncan insisted, steadfastly holding the young chieftain’s eyes.  “Whatever gift this is, is it not better to use it to your benefit and the benefit of your people?” 

Simon just stared at him for a moment, blinking slowly.  “May God forgive me,” he whispered, then he grasped Duncan’s forearm and helped the larger man to his feet.  “But if you are a demon, we could use more like you in our cause.”  The smile that finally crossed Simon’s face was tight and tense, and the forearm clasp was brief, but left no doubt that he had made his choice, for good or ill. 

Duncan helped the able-bodied men bury the dead and tend the wounded.  They also buried anything that had a clear Campbell identification on it, and covered the disturbed soil with brush.  It would be best if it was assumed the party had passed this way on patrol and left for more promising territory.  No one would go looking for them for a few days, at least, and by then the wagons would have reached safety, and this small party of men would have disappeared into the mist.  They also now had sufficient horses to mount the whole group, and Duncan unexpectedly found himself on the Campbell leader’s big bay stallion, and the new owner of a fur-draped cloak. 

The other men had backed off as he approached the fine animal and no one challenged his right to claim it -- just as they had backed off each time he had tried to join any small group that had gathered to talk, or share a skin of water, or simply rest for a moment.  It quickly became obvious that Simon might have accepted his services as a warrior in their cause, but the others were leery of having anything to do with him.  Duncan tried not to let his feelings show on his face.  He just held his chin high and busied himself by working harder, refusing to take a break, digging the shallow graves until his palms bled. 

They rode out at last, and when it became clear that Duncan was being given a wide berth, Simon sought him out, deliberately taking his place at Duncan's side.  They rode in silence for awhile, until Duncan asked Simon what his plans were. 

“There’s an abandoned manor house west and south of here at West Monar where the others will meet up, but I think it best that we circle around to the east and south of there, and scout for anyone taking too close an interest in the spot.  It may be weeks or months before we rejoin them, you know, and we’ll be riding hard, hiding from the Earl's men.  Meals will be scarce and comfort even more so.”  Simon looked over at him, understanding in his eyes.  “You owe us naught, MacLeod, and I canno’ make the men unafraid of you.  I would understand if…” 

“I gave you my pledge, and I meant it,” Duncan interrupted.  “It matters not that they fear me.” 

“That can be no kind of a life,” Simon protested. 

Duncan’s mouth twisted in a bitter smile. “Let it go, Simon.  At least what I do here has meaning.” 

Simon raised a dubious eyebrow at him, but then one of his men called to him, riding up with a question and giving Duncan a dark look, so Duncan fell back.  It would not do to have Simon’s judgment or leadership questioned because of his developing friendship with a demon.  But Simon called him back, and Duncan turned. 

“Here!” the chieftain called, and tossed Duncan his own claymore.  Simon nodded approvingly when Duncan reflexively caught it by the hilt.  Then the young chieftain wheeled his horse around to join his men. 

Simon had not exaggerated the hardship the MacGregor men endured.  They were constantly on the move, rarely staying more than one night at a single campsite, moving south, then east.  The Earl of Argyle’s men, the MacKinnon Clan, the Colquhouns and all their septs were on the lookout for the band of outlaw MacGregors.  The group grew gradually as more men joined them, and their sense of commitment and kinship was strong.  While there were plenty of squabbles and fights and petty arguments among them, each knew the others would defend them all with his life. 

Through it all, Duncan stayed an outcast, sometimes openly spat at and cursed by the other men, especially when they struggled with hurts and soreness and wounds from their small skirmishes, and he always came away unscathed despite the unbridled ferocity of his fighting style.  He refused to let them know how much it bothered him. Instead, he let his hair go wild, and left his beard untrimmed.  If he was truly something less than human, it seemed natural for him to look the part, and he liked the look of terror in his opponent’s eyes as a wild beast cut a wide swath through their ranks. 

The only ones who were civil to him were Simon, who was respected by his men, and Angus, who was clearly the men’s favorite.  Angus laughed easily and often, and at night would pass around his jug of whiskey and tell wild tales of MacGregor heroes.  Sometimes at night one of the men would pull out a pipe and another a drum, and the men would drink and sing and dance until the moon had set.  Duncan usually stood watch on those evenings, patrolling the edge of the camp. 

One such night he found Simon sitting on a fallen log, looking up into a star-studded sky on a rare cloudless evening.  He wasn’t wearing a cloak, and his shirt shone in the moonlight like a beacon.  “You should be with the others,” Duncan observed.  “They love it when you relax with them and share their stories.” 

Simon looked up at him, then let his gaze take in the vast night sky.  “I’ve known most of them since I was a boy,” he said softly, his thin lips curving into a sad smile as he absently drew a thumb along the long line of the scar that mapped one side of his face.  “And I’ve heard their stories many times before.” 

“Yes, but to have such a family,” Duncan said wistfully, and settled onto the log beside him, watching their breaths fog and disappear into the chill, clear night air.  “Tis a great gift and a great comfort, especially knowing they trust you so, and will follow you even to their deaths.” 

Simon looked down, studying his hard, callused hands now clasped between his knees.  “Tis no comfort, Duncan, to know men will follow you to their deaths.  I’ve seen too many die, made too many mistakes.  I wish…” His voice trailed off and he didn’t finish the thought. 

Duncan studied the man beside him.  They were not so different in age, yet Simon seemed much older, wiser.  “What do you wish?” he urged. 

“I wish we could all just find a nice, small croft somewhere, settle down with a pretty lass and raise some bairns, no matter that they weren’t called MacGregor.” 

“Aye, but you’d have to set aside your name, your clan, let your family’s history and heritage disappear forever, and all this,” he gestured to the fighting men still drinking and singing below and behind them, “would have been for naught.” 

Simon laughed silently, shaking his head.  “Duncan, don’t you know we canno’ win this fight?  There will always be more Campbells, or men just like them, and there will always be a King who wants to make an example of rebels.” 

“But you canno’ let them take away all that you are, your entire history, without a fight!  You’re a Highlander, and the Campbells are but the sassenach King’s toadies.”  Duncan was appalled at the thought. 

Simon looked at Duncan for a moment, then nodded sadly.  “Aye, I know.  And this is what we do, eh?”  He pushed himself to his feet with a tired sigh.  “I suppose I’d better join the men, then.”  Simon paused, as though reluctant to return, and studied Duncan a moment.  “And you, Duncan?  What do you wish?” 

Duncan looked away, scanning the dark horizon, not wanting Simon to see his face just then.  “I wish you a good night’s sleep, Simon.” 

He felt Simon’s hand on his shoulder briefly, before he heard the man’s footsteps retreat, then he heard Angus call out to their leader, making a bawdy joke about what he had been doing so long away from the fire.  The men’s laughter drifted on the wind as Duncan once again made the rounds of the perimeter of the camp. 

It was over a week later that they were almost cornered by a patrol near the old MacGregor ancestral lands, in a glen near Crianlarich along the river that emptied into Loch Lomond, and they were forced south, leading their pursuers further away from West Monar.  They now numbered almost half a hundred, making their movements more difficult to conceal.  Duncan spent much of his time hunting for food for the group by himself.  Their ostracism was easier to bear if he kept himself occupied and out of sight. 

He had brought down a good-sized hind, and was bringing it back to camp when he realized from a distance that something was wrong.  The fires had been doused and the men were moving quickly, gathering their belongings and finding their mounts.  He rode in and dismounted, pulling the animal from his horse’s withers, but then letting it drop to the ground.  He made his way towards Simon, who was standing amidst his captains. 

Simon’s eyes flicked to him, and he nodded his head, indicating that Duncan should move closer.  The other men reluctantly made way for him.  “They are coming from two directions,” Simon was saying.  “The MacKinnons are gathering to the west of us, and the Colquhouns from the northeast.  The Earl of Argyle has camped his men to the north, and they’ve got lookouts all along the river, so we canno’ cross to the east. What they are trying to do is clear – drive us straight towards Glen Fruin, with no northern retreat.” 

“Well, we all know what happened the last time the MacGregors fought at Glen Fruin!” one man snarled.  “We slaughtered the lot of them, and we’ll do it again.” 

“Nay, Dougal,” Simon hissed.  “They outnumber us more than two to one.” 

“And every one of us is worth any three of them,” someone else said.  “I say if they want a battle at Glen Fruin, then they shall get one!”  The men murmured in agreement, nodding and shifting their weight, as though ready to do battle at that very moment. 

“And I say it would be suicide,” Simon announced.  “We should disband, scatter, and regroup in the hills west of Inverness.” 

“We’re tired of running, Simon,” Angus MacGregor stated firmly.  He stood with his arms crossed, big and strong as an old oak.  His iron gray hair was tied back in a messy tail, his ancient baldrick scarred and battered, his plaid tattered and stained, but his expression was resolute. 

“Damn you, Angus!” Simon hissed.  “Would you have us all die, leaving our families unprotected?” 

“Our families are unprotected,” Dougal chimed in again.  “My wife and son have been without husband and father these past five years.  It is time to make a stand!” 

“What stand?” Simon demanded.  “What purpose would it serve to get us all killed?” 

“It would serve history,” Angus said quietly.  “We have let them harry us for as long as I can remember.  I’m getting old, Simon, and I’m nay willing to go back w’ my tail between my legs and give up my name, only to serve the Campbells as some tenant sheepherder, watching my grandchildren grow up without pride or clan.  I’d rather they remember the MacGregors as men who fought and died for their freedom in the same place where we won our greatest victory.”  He looked around over the crowd.  “Are ye with me, men?” 

The men looked at each other, some with uncertainty, but others with fire in their eyes, their chins held high.  “Aye!” stated Dougal firmly.  “We’re with ye.”  He drew his claymore, holding it over his head.  “S’ Rioghal Mo Dhream, eh, lads?  Who is the bloody Earl of Argyle to tell us different?” 

“No!” Simon pulled down Dougal’s arm and yanked him around.  “We should not throw away good men’s lives for the sake of pride!” 

“And do you have none?” Dougal demanded.  “Pride is all we have anymore.  They’ve taken our land, our name, our history.  We have followed you for years, Simon MacGregor.  No one questions your courage, and you know I’d give my life for you and yours, but we’ve nay had one real battle in all that time.  One chance to show what we’re worth.  I say now is the time, and Glen Fruin is the place, where we slaughtered our enemies once before.”  A chorus of ‘ayes’ echoed through the crowd, which had enlarged to include most of the camp. 

“They’ll be waiting for us, damn it!” Simon answered.  “We cannot win this battle.” 

“As Dougal said,” Angus responded, “Any MacGregor is worth any two Campells or MacKinnons, and any three sassenachs.  I’m ready to fight them, whether you lead us or no’.  The question is whether you are with us, Simon MacGregor.” 

“Damn you, Angus!” Simon said again in a choked voice and turned away, standing with his back to them for a long minute, his fists jammed hard on his hips.  The group was silent and tense, awaiting his answer.  When he turned back at last, he looked slowly over the crowd, taking the time to meet each man’s eyes.  Oddly, he ended his gaze at Duncan, and the two men shared a long look.  Finally, he broke the stare and took a deep breath.  “Aye,” he said quietly.  “I’m with you, as I have always been.” 

At that, Dougal raised his claymore high once again.  “S’ Rioghal Mo Dhream!” he called, and Duncan could hear the slide of many swords slipping from their scabbards, as the crowd took up the chant. 

“S’ Rioghal Mo Dhream!”  They shouted together in a deep-throated roar, and then shouted it again, and again, until the rhythm broke and they began laughing, slapping each other’s backs and joking about how many enemies they would kill.  Duncan was eerily reminded of his father’s stirring words just before the battle at Glen Garvin, and a cold shudder walked across his shoulders. 

Simon watched the celebration in silence and Duncan moved closer. 

“Is there no way to win?” Duncan asked him quietly, but Simon shook his head, his lips pressed tightly together. 

“You should leave us now,” Simon told him, catching his forearm and squeezing it to emphasize his point. 

Duncan frowned.  “Nay.  I pledged you my life as well as my sword arm.” 

“I release you from your pledge, MacLeod.  You should not be a part of this insanity.  I’ll not have more needless deaths on my conscience.” 

“My death is unlikely,” Duncan squeezed Simon’s shoulder. “And is not one that should trouble you or anyone else, Simon MacGregor.”  He didn’t want to hear the man’s token protest, so he turned and headed back to his horse.  Even if they were all to die in battle before long, they would still need to eat, and he had a hind to butcher before they broke camp. 

The days passed in a blur of exhaustion.  No matter which way they headed, except south, small groups of Colquhouns or Campbells or MacKinnons would be there to turn them back, and Duncan realized Simon had been right.  They were being artfully herded through the narrow neck of land between Loch Lomond and Loch Long.  They ate cold rations, their food quickly running low, and their horses tiring.  They almost managed to catch a contingent of about ten Colquhoun riders and engage them, but the raiding party slipped away, and their western flank was immediately harried by a band of yelling MacKinnons.  The body of MacGregors had to turn to protect their stragglers and while they did, the Colquhouns slipped away. 

But Duncan charged after them alone, in a mood to fight and unwilling to relinquish the chase.  He caught two slower riders from behind and dragged them down off their mounts, managing to gut one and seriously wound another before their companions turned to assist.  He got away, but not without sustaining another blood-soaked tear in his shirt he would not be able to explain.  He headed back towards the MacGregors, but had to duck around a group of a half dozen blue-and-black kilted riders, and it was almost dawn before he found them again, deep in the forest south of the village of Craggan, where Simon had told him there was a crofter who was sympathetic to their cause – a former MacGregor whose father had changed their family name to Orr. 

His exhausted horse stumbled into the small, crowded clearing.  Sleeping men were scattered everywhere, and he had to step over snoring bodies to reach the stone and thatch hut.   The door was wide open and the entry was blocked by Angus’ large frame, but the older man turned aside when Duncan tapped him on the shoulder. 

“Well, we wondered where you’d gotten off to,” he said with a tired smile.  “I suppose you took care of a few Colquhouns for us, eh?” 

Duncan just returned his strained smile and ducked into the room.  Simon had spread his painted sheepskin maps on a table, and barely acknowledged Duncan’s presence.  “We’ll split the men, sending a third around this western valley towards Gare Loch.  They will hold position at the southern end of this hill,” he gestured in an arc, and instructed the captains on when the various flanks he had set up were to move in, anticipating that the MacKinnons would close with them at the northern end of Glen Fruin.  Duncan said nothing, knowing they were probably too few in number to reasonably split up into smaller groups, but figuring Simon was trying to give at least some of them an opportunity to escape the slaughter if they weren’t all caught in a single cluster on the battlefield. 

Later, he walked with the MacGregor chieftain to the nearest rise to watch the sun come up. 

“Will you remember us, Duncan MacLeod?” Simon asked softly after several moments of silence.  The sun’s rays had just broken the horizon, splintering the sky into rays of peach and gold and blue.  “That’s what they want, you know.  To die with honor. To be remembered with pride.” 

“I will remember,” Duncan said, and then the two men were quiet, each with his own thoughts as they watched the sun rise over the long, narrow valley known as Glen Fruin. 

It was a slaughter, indeed.  Colquhouns attacked from the south, then fell back, drawing them in, then MacKinnons fell on them from the west and the Campbells blocked the northern retreat.  Duncan stayed at Simon’s side until the chieftain was pulled from his horse, then Duncan dismounted, fighting back to back with him.  When Simon was wounded in the thigh and stumbled, Duncan held him on one side and Angus on the other.  They would have taken their leader from the field, except there was no place to retreat, and Simon, gray with exhaustion and pain, shook off their help. 

Another wave of attack broke over them from the east this time, and Duncan went down, a sword piercing him deep in the belly in a breathtaking blossom of agony.  He woke amid the groans of the dying and a pool of his own blood, and looked around.  There were only a few left standing, Angus among them, straddled over Simon’s body, swirling his huge claymore in a circle, a look of almost fierce joy on his bloodied face.  Dougal was with him, but wounded, his left arm hanging uselessly. 

Duncan charged in with a yell, drawing their attackers off, but only for a moment, when he heard riders pounding close behind him and he was flung to the ground again.  He heard a scream of agony, and a choked cry from Angus of “S’ Rioghal Mo Dhream!” He tried to rise to his feet, but a blow on forehead dazed him, then a sword pierced him, back to front.  He felt blood rise in his throat and pour over his lips, and as hard as he tried, his legs refused to hold him up. 

It was too quiet.  All Duncan could hear was his own harsh breathing and a few distant groans.  All he could see was blood, and mud, and death, and mist, the heat still rising from open wounds and severed limbs. 

Then a horrifying silent scream sounded in his head and he clapped his hands to his ears. Not again! This time he didn’t even want to look. 

“Get up,” a ringing voice ordered. 

Duncan snatched up his sword, ready to fight once more, but his legs refused to cooperate and he realized they were weak with a kind of pure terror that no army of warriors could inspire. 

“Get up!” the voice said again. 

Duncan squinted against the bright light of the setting sun, where a strange figure was outlined in the mist. 

“You’ve better things to do than lie there on your ass,” the man said. 

“Who are you?”  Duncan asked, not certain if he really wanted to know. 

“Someone who knows more about you than you know about yourself.” 

“Are you a demon?” 

The man made an odd sound Duncan could only assume was a laugh.  “I’ve been called that,” the stranger admitted, coming closer, stepping carefully through the mud and over bodies.  “And worse.”  The vague shadow resolved itself into a lean man wearing the finest clothing Duncan had ever seen, white silk hose, elaborately embroidered pantaloons in a style that would have made Duncan laugh if blood and fear weren’t still choking his throat.  A short, beautifully stitched cape was draped over one shoulder, and the whole outrageous outfit was topped by a matching cap whose feathers drifted gaily in the slight breeze.  “I’m Connor MacLeod of the Clan MacLeod.” 

“Connor MacLeod!” Duncan barely managed to gasp, and he came as close to fainting dead away as he ever had in his life. 

The bizarrely dressed man stepped close, inspecting Duncan with a dubious smile and frighteningly intense blue eyes. “And like you, my friend, I have a hard time dying,” and he reached out to help Duncan to his feet. 
 
 

Comments to:   MacGeorge