definitely emanating from in there.
She broke from the road and through
a bank of trees, racing through the dense forest before coming through the
other side and into a clearing. Her heart was pounding wildly from fear as she
yanked the snorting animal to a halt, taking moment to survey the scene.
The fog partially shrouded the armies,
making them appear like ghostly figures. She could see very little except for a
select few men sword fighting. With sweaty palms, she steered the animal along
the edge of the trees, making her way north to where she thought the Scott
skirmish lines might be. If her father were here, she had to find him.
There were a few fighting soldiers
near her; she strained to get a good look at them in the mist and saw that,
indeed, a couple were wearing Scott tartan. She felt bile rising in her throat; Sweet Jesu’ , was it true, then? Was her father a liar? She felt sick,
wishing she could turn the horse and ride as far as it would take her until
they both tumbled into the sea and she was free from her misery. But not before
she told her father what she thought of him. All of his cursed talk of honor.
The horse was snorting and dancing
furiously. Like any good warhorse, he heard the battle and wanted to be in the
middle of it. It wasn’t too much longer before he pitched her off and went
charging headlong into the fog.
Jordan picked herself off the wet
earth and muttered a silent curse at the daft animal. She continued along her
original path, her cloth shoes quickly becoming soaked from the wet grass. She
was so distraught that she did not notice she had lost feeling in her toes.
Suddenly, she caught a glimpse that
sent her head to spinning - McKenna hunting tartan. She was more puzzled than
ever. The McKenna were not allies of the Scott’s. In fact, they were fairly
close to being an enemy. What on earth was going on here? She knew for a fact
that her father would have never sought out the McKenna for their assistance.
Or maybe he did. She didn’t know anything for sure anymore.
The sun filtered through the mist
and revealed the battle as if a curtain had suddenly been lifted. It was much
larger than Jordan had thought and she was frightened anew as she viewed the
unfurling scene.
Clinging to the trees, she picked
her way along the perimeter, trying to recognize any of the Scot soldiers. Her
despondency was growing as she saw that she could recognize no one, yet they
were fighting in her tartan. Her tartan. Who were these men?
Confused, she grasped hold of a Scot
pine as if it could keep her from collapsing to the ground in a heap. Her gaze
was desperate as she watched the battle unfold before her. Far off to her right
she caught sight of one of William’s knights cutting a man in two. From the
sheer size, she guessed him to be Sir Kieran.
Glints from armor reflected in the
rapidly brightening sunlight, catching her attention. She could pick out more
knights now, most on horseback, a couple on foot. She wanted to find at least
one of them, to tell them she had no idea who these soldiers were, but they
were too far away and she knew it would be foolish to leave the safety of the
trees. She had to get a message to William so that he would not think her family
was dishonorable.
And then, suddenly, he was there.
William sat atop his great warhorse,
partially shrouded by the fog, wielding his sword like the archangel Gabriel.
She watched, horrified and fascinated, as he fought effortlessly, dispatching
enemy soldiers like untried boys. It almost appeared as if he were toying with
them, but the force by which men were sent to the ground was evidence of the
pure power from William’s sword.
He was a phantom warrior sent from
the bowels of hell. His battle armor gave him a gargoyle-like appearance
through the haze. Many an enemy would engage him, sparks flying as metal
crashed upon metal with bone-jarring force, yet he would cut down one man
easily and move on to the next.
One opposing
She broke from the road and through
a bank of trees, racing through the dense forest before coming through the
other side and into a clearing. Her heart was pounding wildly from fear as she
yanked the snorting animal to a halt, taking moment to survey the scene.
The fog partially shrouded the armies,
making them appear like ghostly figures. She could see very little except for a
select few men sword fighting. With sweaty palms, she steered the animal along
the edge of the trees, making her way north to where she thought the Scott
skirmish lines might be. If her father were here, she had to find him.
There were a few fighting soldiers
near her; she strained to get a good look at them in the mist and saw that,
indeed, a couple were wearing Scott tartan. She felt bile rising in her throat; Sweet Jesu’ , was it true, then? Was her father a liar? She felt sick,
wishing she could turn the horse and ride as far as it would take her until
they both tumbled into the sea and she was free from her misery. But not before
she told her father what she thought of him. All of his cursed talk of honor.
The horse was snorting and dancing
furiously. Like any good warhorse, he heard the battle and wanted to be in the
middle of it. It wasn’t too much longer before he pitched her off and went
charging headlong into the fog.
Jordan picked herself off the wet
earth and muttered a silent curse at the daft animal. She continued along her
original path, her cloth shoes quickly becoming soaked from the wet grass. She
was so distraught that she did not notice she had lost feeling in her toes.
Suddenly, she caught a glimpse that
sent her head to spinning - McKenna hunting tartan. She was more puzzled than
ever. The McKenna were not allies of the Scott’s. In fact, they were fairly
close to being an enemy. What on earth was going on here? She knew for a fact
that her father would have never sought out the McKenna for their assistance.
Or maybe he did. She didn’t know anything for sure anymore.
The sun filtered through the mist
and revealed the battle as if a curtain had suddenly been lifted. It was much
larger than Jordan had thought and she was frightened anew as she viewed the
unfurling scene.
Clinging to the trees, she picked
her way along the perimeter, trying to recognize any of the Scot soldiers. Her
despondency was growing as she saw that she could recognize no one, yet they
were fighting in her tartan. Her tartan. Who were these men?
Confused, she grasped hold of a Scot
pine as if it could keep her from collapsing to the ground in a heap. Her gaze
was desperate as she watched the battle unfold before her. Far off to her right
she caught sight of one of William’s knights cutting a man in two. From the
sheer size, she guessed him to be Sir Kieran.
Glints from armor reflected in the
rapidly brightening sunlight, catching her attention. She could pick out more
knights now, most on horseback, a couple on foot. She wanted to find at least
one of them, to tell them she had no idea who these soldiers were, but they
were too far away and she knew it would be foolish to leave the safety of the
trees. She had to get a message to William so that he would not think her family
was dishonorable.
And then, suddenly, he was there.
William sat atop his great warhorse,
partially shrouded by the fog, wielding his sword like the archangel Gabriel.
She watched, horrified and fascinated, as he fought effortlessly, dispatching
enemy soldiers like untried boys. It almost appeared as if he were toying with
them, but the force by which men were sent to the ground was evidence of the
pure power from William’s sword.
He was a phantom warrior sent from
the bowels of hell. His battle armor gave him a gargoyle-like appearance
through the haze. Many an enemy would engage him, sparks flying as metal
crashed upon metal with bone-jarring force, yet he would cut down one man
easily and move on to the next.
One opposing
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