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“I am sure,” Duncan teased from beside him, “that ye would have preferred if ye were in yer bed right now.”

Alisdair took a deep breath, annoyed. “Than see yer ugly face? Naturally.”

“No one would believe it if ye called me ugly,” Duncan chuckled.

“Focus, Duncan.”

“I am focused. I am nae the one looking back, pining for me wife.”

Alisdair glared at him as he spurred his horse on.

“Daenae worry,” Duncan said, dropping the teasing. “We will be back soon.”

Alisdair tightened his grip on the reins. His friend was right; he had to do this.

“Let’s ride,” he barked.

They took the road to the northern borders, led by the scouts who had first spotted the men. Alisdair let every other thought fall away and focused. Sinclair was a sleezy man; honor was a foreign concept to him.

“Eyes and ears open,” he warned his men.

“We need to go through the narrow pass, me Laird,” one of the scouts called.

Alisdair frowned. The narrow pass to the north was indeed the only way to reach the northwest side of his borders. The way over the mountain was treacherous and impossible for horses. They could go south around the mountain, but that would take days.

“I daenae like this,” he said.

“Good,” Duncan spoke up. “It means we are getting closer.”

“The problem is that I am nae sure what I am getting closer to.”

The steep rocks rose slowly on either side, slowly closing in around the path, and Alisdair scanned the dark, dense forest crowning the high ground above them. Every hair on his body rose in warning. Then Treun’s ears flicked back, and he sidestepped, restless. His war horse was not given to nerves; he was too seasoned for that.

“To arms,” he ordered, grabbing the hilt of his sword.

His men barely had time to register his command when the hiss of arrows cut through the silence.

“Archers!” Duncan yelled, spurring his horse forward.

Alisdair nudged Treun out of the pass. They were easy targets there, and they needed to move to a more open area to regroup. Pained shouts rose behind him, indicating some of his men were injured, if not worse.

“To the clearing!” he bellowed.

He knew his land well, and despite not being visible from the pass, there was a shallow clearing up ahead. Anyone after them would have to fight them there.

He rode hard, cursing under his breath as dozens of armed figures broke from the trees and boulders and ran to meet them. He barked at his men to brace themselves. If Sinclair thought that an ambush alone would shake MacLeod warriors, he had another thing coming.

“Battle formation,” Alisdair ordered, and his men obeyed. “Off the horses.”

They reached the clearing, and he looked around. Two of his men were missing, but there was no time to look for them now. He released Treun with the other horses, seeking refuge on instinct.

“Ready! Duncan, to me flank.”

He planted his feet on the ground and drew his blade, his breathing steady. Duncan was already by his side, blade in hand. The two friends looked at each other and nodded.

And then the battle was upon them.

More men emerged from the trees, armed to the teeth, their eyes filled with hatred. No words were exchanged as steel clashed against steel. Half of the men circled him and Duncan.