THE sun rose over the sloping Highlands, tainting reddish-gold the swathes of fog that lay in the valleys. The bittersweet smell of salt rolled in on the chill morning breeze, and one could hear faintly amidst the silvery birdsong the distant murmur of the sea. Emerald hills glowed in the warm light, and when the war host crested the rise, the northern horizon twinkled like dazzling gold as the sun glanced off the rippling waves.

Douglas McCurragh inhaled the tangy air, relishing his first sight of the sea. It was odd how peaceful the scene was. For he knew, with a heaviness in his chest, that this tranquillity would soon be shattered with the clash of steel upon steel and the cries of dying men.

It had only been a few hours since their scouts had brought word of Danish warships in sight of this beach. Only a few months since they had known of the threat—of the burnings and the carnage of animals, fields, and human beings that the Danes left in the bloody wake they called victory.

It would be cowardly to stand back and wait until the Danes came to them. Divided, they would fall, clan by clan. Mere pride and self-assurance would do nothing against the Danish numbers. Unified, though, they stood a chance against the raiders from the sea; thus the sending out of the Cran Tara, the king's call to a war hosting, the like of which had not been seen since the days of their forefathers. That was why the Scots were here now, assembled on horse and foot to defend their country, their homes, and their families.

But Douglas had no wife and children of his own. He was only a few moons past sixteen years, scarcely of age to fight in a war, though he had been trained well. As young as he was, he did not feel a special passion for his country as the men beside him did, even if he would one day be king of Scotland when his father went beyond the sunset.

No, he would fight only to protect his sister, whom he loved more than anyone else in the world.

The wind whipped his brown hair into his eyes as the Scots descended the hill. Ahead of him, he could see the company of horsemen trotting ahead of his own band of foot soldiers. He shut his eyes tightly for a moment, not wanting to be distracted from his purpose as they marched. But the remembrance of his sister was more poignant in the early hours of this dawn, which perhaps would be his last.

A bouncing lass with springy red curls and a smattering of freckles across her small face, she was the only one who could always make him smile, no matter how tired he felt after training. Despite her eight short years, she had already attained a realistic view of the world, and her thoughts and comments on the happenings of Scotland often astonished him. He wondered now what she would tell him at this moment...probably to be courageous, and make her and their father proud.

Douglas smiled, and then it faded away as the memory of their parting came unbidden to his mind.

"Keep yerself safe, Fiona, and donnae forget the footwork I taught ye." He grinned, trying to make light of the seriousness of it all. He kissed her on her forehead. "And keep yerself free until I get back. I must make sure tha' yer future husband is acceptable," he added with a wink.

They laughed, the merry sound ringing off the cobblestones of the castle courtyard.

"I donnae think I'll be wed yet, brother," she returned, still giggling. "I'm only eight."

He stuck out his tongue teasingly. "Jist to be sure." Then his face sobered as he turned to their father and stood, head bowed, as King Daibhidh repeated the ancient blessing:

"May the road rise to meet ye and may the wind be always at yer back."

Fiona added, "And may the road bring ye back safely to us; but till then, keep yerself safe, my brother."

He had replied with a laugh—such a stark contrast to his current mirthlessness, "I will, sister, dear."

His breath hitched in his chest and he swallowed hard, looking with wide eyes at the spreading grey sea before them. Even from this distance, he could see the black ships and their black sails, full and flowing in the morning breeze. The sun caught on the gory scarlet embroidery, fearful ravens and dragons and other mythical beasts seeming to fly in the wind toward the Scottish war host. Soon, men with axes and garishly painted shields would disembark from those ships and pour themselves like an ink stain upon the beach, leaving crimson wreckage in their wake. Who knew whether the Scots would prove victorious that day or not? Whether they would keep Scotland safe from this threat of invasion. Whether he would live to see Fiona again.

Douglas glanced up at the sky, an anxious tingling shooting through his fingertips. He had only ever practised with swords against straw-stuffed figures. Would he weaken at the sight of blood? Would he turn coward in the inevitable fight?

These thoughts had tormented his mind since they had first heard of the Danes' arrival in Scotland, since his father had said he could go with the war host. He remembered how he had longed to go, longed to prove his worth as a man, longed to defend his country with the rest, and how Fiona had looked at him with a quizzical expression on her innocent face and asked him why he would want to leave her and die far from home.

Her question had startled him. Why would she ask such a thing? It was never guaranteed that one would die in battle, though it was never said one would survive it, either. But the swiftness with which she had jumped to that conclusion.... Even now, the memory sent a chill racing up his spine, and he shivered.

Glancing at the beach opening before them, he inhaled sharply, determination striving against the fear that those incoming ships bore in on the tide. He had made a promise to his little sister, and he meant to keep it as best he could. Yet, in the battle that was before him, how would it be possible to do so?

Blade against blade, the battle swiftly descended into chaos. Douglas hardly remembered the order in which they had marched towards each other just a short time ago. Everything in him deadened itself to the world, and he was only aware of his beating heart and any nearby threat to his life. He thrust as if into straw and tried to ignore the softness of sword plunging into flesh, the hardness of hitting bone, and the sticky warmth of blood on his hands.

The two armies struggled for dominance on the body-strewn beach as all the while, the sun climbed hot in cloudless skies. A cold sickness twisted in Douglas' belly, and his grip on his sword hilt kept slipping. His arms were tiring—he wondered how much longer he would be able to keep on fighting. Snarling faces pressed close on every side and the din of the battle deafened his ears, ears that longed to hear only the peaceful sound of the sea and birdsong that had rung out over these hills just that morning. 

He let out a choking sob as someone rushed in from behind, ramming their shield into his elbow. His sword flew out of his hands and landed several paces away. His chest tightened in panic, the air too thin to breathe. He would not be able to regain it in time, not before someone saw his helpless state and came to his destruction. He was only a boy; few would hesitate to finish him off. 

Douglas reached for his dirk, the only weapon he had left. He glanced around frantically, his heart hammering in his throat, ready to spring at the first sight of danger.

He did not wait long. 

A mountain of a man with a beard that matched his bloodied blade came at him, harsh laughter echoing in his eyes. 

Douglas' chest tightened in rising panic, nearly suffocating him. He was surrounded on all sides by Danes, any Scots near him dying. He was separated from the host, armed only with a dirk, and facing certain death. But in that moment, instinct kicked in. Years of training came rushing back. The panic ebbed away like the bloodied tide, leaving clear-headed calm in its wake. 

The Dane shouted something in his own tongue—a challenge, perhaps—but Douglas understood none of it. 

A memory came to him in a fleeting instant: his sister waving goodbye from the top of the battlements, held up by her nurse, worry written on her face as the sun shone fiery red on her hair. 

A tear slipped down his face. I am so sorry, Fiona. 

Without waiting for the other to attack, Douglas let out a cry and rushed in, thrusting his dirk into an opening in the man's chainmail, underneath his armpit. 

The Dane let out a howl of pain and instinctively swung his sword, plunging it deep into Douglas' stomach.

It was cold, at first, like winter's breath. Then it flamed. 

The Dane withdrew his sword, moving onward to shed more lives for the red harvest before he bled out himself. 

Douglas sank to the crimson sand, gasping for breath. How it hurt! He had never in his life felt pain like this! Burning and burning, as if someone had lit a fire within him. 

He reached down to where the pain spread out over his abdomen and his fingers met hot, sticky blood.

Sobs wracked his frame, not only from the pain of the wound but because of how much he had failed. Failed his country, failed his father, failed his sister. As a prince, it was his duty to protect the kingdom. As a chieftain's son, it was his duty to defend his land and honour. And as a brother, it was his task to keep his sister safe from harm. 

Douglas closed his eyes, tears streaming down his face, broken moans escaping his lips. The sounds of the battle were fading away. The skirmish must have moved on, or perhaps it only seemed so because he was dying. He knew he was dying. Men did not receive such wounds as this and live. Not even in the legends. 

A sharp tran-tara was heard, a horn's call breaking across the beach filled with dead and living men. But Douglas scarcely gave it thought. It was not meant for him. It did not matter what the signal meant now. 

It was getting harder to breathe. 

Every intake felt like dragging a cart over rough stones, and the burning only grew more intense, drowning out his senses, drowning out his thoughts. 

The end was coming fast.

Douglas McCurragh closed his eyes in agonising pain as the last cold tears spilled down his dirtied cheeks. 

"I am so sorry, Fiona," he whispered. "I am so sorry..."