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“I’ll see ye on the battlefield, Your Grace.”

They nodded to each other, and Owen rode back to his men. He halted and faced his troops. Some of them were on horses, too, but most of them were on foot.

“’Tis time,” he said, trying to keep his voice as low as he could. “We go. Those of ye on horses, leave them here. We go up on foot.”

They dismounted and tied the horses’ reins to the bushes and trees. The Bruce’s troops moved forward, and Owen, his father, Craig, Ian, Domhnall, and the rest of the Highlanders took the barely visible, circuitous route up the slope.

Owen crouched as he went. Small rubble and shingles crumbled from under his feet. Bushes and undergrowth were more and more rare the higher they went. He could see the Bruce and his troops down below as they moved. He could also see that the road in front of the Bruce was blocked by at least five hundred men.

Five hundred English men. He saw the red flags with golden lions. Oh, he hoped de Bourgh was somewhere down there. He hoped this would be the day the man would pay for what he’d done to Amber. He wished he could be the sword that would pierce his heart.

If the Bruce came any closer, the men hiding above would send arrows and boulders. Why was Douglas not taking action?

Then arrows flew from somewhere high in front of them, and pained cries and yelps came from the bushes. When the last arrows from Black Douglas landed and the warlike cry of his men came from above, Owen knew they were charging the MacDougalls.

It was time. His time to shine. His time to show to everyone he wasn’t just a jester and a rebel. He wasn’t just a sword. He was a leader. He deserved to be taken seriously. He could be the leader his clan needed him to be.

“Cruachan!” Owen straightened to his full height and pumped the fist with his sword in the air.

“Cruachan!” Cambel men echoed.

Somewhere behind them, other clans called their war cries, and they all mixed together in one Highland roar as they surged forward.

The time had come for the MacDougalls to pay. He’d fight for Amber. For Marjorie. For Ian.

He’d fight like the leader he should have always been.

There they were, the MacDougalls, at least a thousand of them. They were disoriented and already dealing with Douglas’s force that had crashed into them from above.

A man ran at Owen, and he swung his claymore and it clashed with the man’s ax. More men collided, and the ring of metal against metal pierced the air. Shouts and cries of pain came from below. Owen’s opponent deflected his sword and slammed a shield in his face. Owen ducked, but the shield caught him and cut the skin on his cheekbone. He slashed his sword across the man’s head, and the enemy fell, blood spraying everywhere.

Owen moved to another man, then another, fighting his way through the forces. Battle rage roared in his blood, hot and burning.

Two men came at Owen from either side. One swung an ax, the other a sword. Owen deflected the sword with a grunt and barely ducked the ax as it swooshed by his head. The swordsman raised his sword to slash Owen’s side, but before he could lower his blade, a spear cut through his chest. He froze and fell, lifeless. A few feet away, Angus Mackenzie stood and nodded to Owen.

The man with the ax stared at the corpse for a moment, his eyes wide. Raghnall Mackenzie appeared behind the man and tapped him on the shoulder. The man turned, and Raghnall punched him in the face, sending his head jerking backward.

He roared and launched at Raghnall, hammering at him with the ax as though he were a log. Raghnall deflected the ax, but the man turned his weapon slightly and hooked Raghnall’s claymore between the ax’s crescent blade and handle. He jerked Raghnall’s claymore from his hands and lifted the ax for a lethal blow. Owen surged forward and thrust his claymore into the man’s side. He grunted and fell, clenching the gaping wound.

Owen leaned down, picked up Raghnall’s sword, and threw it to him.

Raghnall caught it and grinned. “My thanks.”

More enemies came at them, and the battle continued. At some point, Owen was aware that Ian, Craig, and his father all fought by his side, too. He didn’t know how much time passed, it all flashed in a blur of metal, blood, and distorted faces.

The fighting slowly came down the mountainside as the MacDougalls were losing, caught in the Bruce’s vise from two sides. And then there he was. With dark, cold eyes, and wearing English armor.

De Bourgh.

A low growl escaped Owen’s throat. Oh, the man was his.

Owen half slid and half walked down the slope, his lungs burning, his muscles ringing with exhaustion.

It didn’t matter. The man would pay for everything he’d done to Amber. Not to mention what he’d no doubt done to Muireach.

De Bourgh had just pierced the neck of one of the Bruce’s knights when he saw Owen coming towards him. When Owen reached even ground, the man’s eyes widened in recognition. He wore good, expensive armor. Owen had but his leine croich—a long, quilted coat—chain mail coif, and his helmet. But de Bourgh wouldn’t leave this battlefield alive.

They came at each other, each with a roar and their swords clashing. De Bourgh was smaller, but quicker than Owen. He struck at Owen from above and the side. Owen deflected his blade, but the impact resonated in his bone marrow. Another blow came from the other side, and Owen barely had time to meet the blade.