HIGHLAND MAGIC

by Alexis Walker

The Prophecy: When the Wolf finds his Magical Mate, the Lion will Conquer.                                                               

Kintail, Scottish Highlands, October 1306

Brenna slouched low behind her steed's head and peered through the trees as the raiding party approached, anxious to exact a blood toll from The MacLeod.  Her men’s horses shifted impatiently among the few dried leaves still left upon the forest floor.  The strong autumn winds portended a blustery winter.  Sitting-up, she turned back to signal to her men the need for quiet.  She lifted her arm high and made a short flick of her wrist.  Though they were scattered among the trees, she knew her men saw the signal, for not only was she “The MacKenzie Giant” and taller than most men, but their slight rustling sounds ceased. 

Across the heather strewn clearing, she counted no more than the usual score of opposing clansmen, but as she focused on the man in the lead, she knew it was him, Rannoch MacLeod, “The Wolf.”  Built like one of the Norse gods of old, his hair appeared a deep gold.  He was clad in braies and a simple tunic, and she took stock of his broad shoulder width and narrow waist.  He was tall, masterful, and held his large tan beast firmly beneath him.  His broadsword lay casually across his lap.  She smiled, for had he a claymore, she would not be able to fight him; she was aware of her own limits.  Her stomach tightened with anticipation.  She sensed the power emanating from her enemy and it called to her.  He was a man she could have respected. 

She turned to Morgan, her trusted second in command. “The Wolf has finally graced us with his presence.”

“Brenna, this man is too much for ye lass.  Look at him!  Ye can’t face him.  He is at least a head taller than meself!"

 “Nay, I will fight him.  You had best keep your eyes on that burly black haired mongrel on The Wolf's right.  I fear you’ll have plenty to keep you occupied.”

“Brenna, look at me.”

She turned her head and raised her brows.

“Ach, it’s as I thought.  Ye have the look of the battle in ye.”

She started to shake her head.

“Nay, don’t deny it.  ‘Tis in yer eyes.  They be an angry deep green, lass.  Just like yer mother’s.”

She snapped her head back toward the clearing. It had only been half a year since her mother was killed on MacLeod land. What would she think to see her only daughter wearing the plaid of the men and leading the clan? 

Morgan let out a low hiss.  “Lass, ye must hold onto yer anger for ye’ll have need of it if ye persist in this folly.”

“That shouldn’t be difficult.  All I need do is think of little Niall or pretty Fenella or --”

“That’s enough, lass.  I ken why we’re here.  The clan needs ye strong.”

She was strong.  She had no choice; she was the Laird until her brother returned. 

“Brenna,” Morgan whispered.  “They be close enough now, lass.  Are ye sure ye want to fight The MacLeod?”

She nodded even as she reached behind her and pushed her long braid of reddish-brown hair deep into her tunic. “Aye.  You keep the one at his side busy.  Today, we stop these raids.”

"Halt!" she yelled in a low pitched voice, still hidden within the protection of the trees.  “You now trespass on the land of Clan MacKenzie!  Turn about or prepare to do battle!”

In the silence that followed, Brenna held her breath.  She had the most unusual desire to see this man leave without a fight.  Ignoring the strange sensation, she steeled herself for action.

His clear, deep tone shot across the clearing, igniting her body's battle defenses.  "Sir, though you continue to hide your face behind the trees, I accept your challenge!  We fight!"

The excitement of the coming battle pulsed through her veins and filled her with energy, but she remained silent and still, waiting.  The Wolf's stallion pranced.  She couldn't see the man’s eyes, so she watched the play of muscles in his thighs, taking her cue from the orders he gave his horse.  She sensed his breaking point.  Tearing her gaze away, she gave the signal and yelled, “Tulach Ard!”

Lifting her broadsword high, she raced forward even as her clan’s battle cry reverberated through the wood.  She made straight for The Wolf, her men spreading out to engage his.  He raised his sword to slice her in two, but she ducked to the side of her horse.  Expecting the resistance of her weapon against his, he lost his balance when he met none.  She watched as he gracefully landed on his feet.  Jumping from her own horse, she couldn’t help taunting him.  “Nice tumble.  Would you care to do it again?”

“Perhaps, but we’ll leave that to my discretion.”

Again the clear, deep voice flew through her soul. He was upon her faster than she expected.  She stepped back to take his first blow. 

As his sword met hers, her arms vibrated with the impact.  He was like no opponent she had ever faced.  She couldn’t last long against his strength.  Resolved to use her somewhat smaller stature for speed, she thrust quickly then followed with three slashes.  She avoided his return lunge by ducking to the side, but he was fast.  She took his next hit squarely on her sword, again causing the vibrations to shoot through her body. 

“You can’t avoid me forever, lad,” he taunted. 

That he read her strategy so easily didn't mean she would change it.  “Mayhap I can, especially when you hide in your castle, too busy to join your men on their slaughtering raids.”

“I would hardly consider this a slaughter.”

Skillfully, she avoided his next attempt to wound her.  On impulse she turned away from him, lightly grazing his forearm with the tip of her broadsword. 

He smirked.  “Well done, lad.”

She cocked her head, but was ready when he went on a quick offensive.  Meeting his sword only when necessary, she deftly avoided being wounded, but she was losing ground.  Her men’s shouts and the clang of swords as they battled their enemies fed her determination. Chancing a glance at The Wolf’s face, she recognized the smug smile of one who was toying with his adversary.  Anger built in her at the thought that he took their battle lightly.

Taking the opportunity of an opening in his defenses, she attacked.  To her relief, the jarring she felt upon hitting his sword was far less painful than his meeting hers.  In control now, she used the skill she had honed over years of practice and took the offensive.  More confident, she taunted him in return.

“The MacKenzies have done nothing to deserve your raids, MacLeod.  But you deserve more than we can give in one battle.  Be assured it will be our most.”

“One raid,” he said, side stepping a direct hit with ease.  “The MacKenzies have had precious few raids launched against them because of some silly superstitions about your women's faerie magic.  As a lad you should be thankful I dare risk the wrath of your women.  It gives you the chance to practice your swordsmanship.”

 Practice?  This was no practice.  She wanted to see him in pain.  She wanted him to feel the pain of those his men had hurt and killed.  Her anger fed her muscles as she struck at her enemy.  She wanted --

Her foot gave out beneath her as she stepped into a divot in the ground.  Falling forward, her sword outstretched, she reflexively held tight to her weapon only to feel it slice through flesh, generating a powerful image in her mind of muscle parting and blood flowing.

As she looked up from her prone position, The Wolf hit the ground.  Blood oozed down his thigh.  She raised herself to stand, but her latent healing instincts surged forth and took her breath away.  Immediately, her anger vanished.  Gone was her need to hurt him.  In stunned dread she watched him lift himself to stand.   With a determined effort he came at her to begin the attack anew, this time in earnest. 

His guttural laugh coincided with the sound of his sword hitting hers.  “Why so pale, lad?  Have you not seen blood before?  You should get used to the sight because you can expect to see it again soon . . . on you.”

Her throat constricted and for the first time in battle, her confidence fled. 

His, however, was obviously still intact. “What?  No response?  Perhaps you need to return to the nursery until you’re man enough to face the realities of playing with a sword.”

Had she been a lad, The Macleod’s mockery would have pushed her into a foolish attack.  But she wasn't a lad and she was torn between an illogical need to see to the man's wound and the knowledge that she had the right to kill him.  She simply couldn’t ignore the strong instinct to preserve his life.  It was a feeling she had never before experienced in battle, but her mother had taught her well to listen to her special sense.

Her quandary left her with defensive moves only and without her anger, her strength drained.  She barely avoided a thrust and the flat of his blade smacked her ribs.  Unable to keep her footing, she let herself hit the ground, roll backwards, then come to her feet again ready for the next attack.  The move gave her an idea on how to end their battle quickly.  The MacLeod’s leg needed to be tended to.

She was thankful he was surprised by her maneuver.  He did not move forward at once.  She had just enough time to grip her sword with both hands before he renewed his attack.

“I see you have a few tumbles of your own, lad.  But they won’t help.”

He pushed her up a knoll toward the outer edge of the clearing, determination in his dark brown eyes. 

Looking away from those depthless orbs, she concentrated on his sword.  Quickly, she feinted left, letting her sword arm be knocked aside.  Diving forward into a roll, she hit him square on the shins with her body.  Her momentum combined with the slope gave her the power she needed.  His legs gave way.

Not taking the time to see if he got up again, she ran to her horse.  Mounting, she waved her arm for a retreat.  Turning her horse, she rode by The MacLeod who lay upon the ground as if lounging at a picnic.  "Sir, do not attempt more raids on these lands, or you will not live to tell of them."  She hoped he would believe her.

Looking across the glen for Morgan, a cold chill went up her spine.  From the corner of her eye she caught the broadsword rising and leaned her horse away, but not quite in time to avoid the side swipe of The MacLeod’s weapon.  The sting of the sword as it cut cleanly across her ankle surprised her.  She had never been wounded before.  Damn!  But the man had reach! 

Her mount reared, ready to trample the man beneath him, but the sword rose again, this time in defense, and she jerked the reins to save them both.  Giving her horse a good kick, she raced off toward Kendrick, her men fleeing before her.