Prologue
Spring, 1358, The MacCullough Keep, Highlands of Scotland
Death could not come fast enough for Black Richard MacCullough.
’Twas difficult to distinguish his blood from the countless others who lay dead or dying on the cold spring grass. Grass he had played in as a child. MacCullough grass that was now painted in blood. The blood of his kin; the blood of his enemies.
It had been a long, hard-fought battle between the MacCulloughs and the Chisholms. A battle that had lasted for three long, bloody days. The MacCulloughs were laying siege to their own keep; a keep that had been stolen from them five years ago by the ruthless Maitland Chisholm. Like the cowards they were, the Chisholms had waited until most of the MacCullough fighting men were off at their southern border fighting against the MacRays before they attacked. Outnumbered four to one, the MacCullough keep fell for the first time in more than ten generations.
Now, Galen MacCullough — Black Richard’s father — and his men were fighting to get their keep and lands back.
The first two days had been spent trying to get beyond the massive, well-fortified walls. Knowing how well-built they were, for Galen MacCullough’s grandfather had built the damn things with his own hands, a decision was made: On this, the third day, Galen, chief and laird to his clan, decided to burn the bastards out.
Thick, black smoke billowed from the roof of the keep. The early spring breeze picked up sparks and carried them from the keep to the granary. Before they knew it, several buildings were aflame. The Chisholms came pouring out of the gate like rats leaving a sinking ship. Apparently, their ill-gotten gains were not worth fighting for.
Then the rains came, drenching man and beast alike.
Through the pounding rain and relentless wind, the proud MacCullough warriors fought. They fought for revenge. They fought for honor. And they fought to regain their home and lands.
Black Richard had watched his father, Galen, die first, cut down by Maitland Chisolm’s own blade. Unable to aid him for he was too busy in a fight for his own life, all that he could do was watch his father fall to his knees. A moment later, Maitland was using his battle axe to sever Galen’s head from his neck. Black Richard fell to his knees, engulfed in grief and despair. Throwing his head back, he let loose with a guttural lamentation that could be heard for miles.
Then, one by one, four of his six brothers fell.
There was naught to be done for any of them now. Picking up his sword, he was possessed with a fervent need to avenge the deaths of his father and brothers.
Black Richard fought ferociously and bravely, until he could no longer lift up his own sword. His last and final act, before being cut nearly in half, was sending Maitland Chisholm to hell. Black Richard had plunged his already bloodied sword deep into Maitland Chisholm’s chest. The pleasure he derived in watching the life fade from Maitland’s eyes was immeasurable.
Now Black Richard lay dying in blood and mud, his face flayed open by Maitland’s blade, his gut sliced open by a nameless Chisholm.
The MacCulloughs had fought bravely, and none who had died or were about to, would die in vain or in shame. He was certain just as many Chisholms - may the greedy bastards all now be burning in hell — had been killed as his own clansmen.
Knowing death was inevitable, Black Richard did not bother with plotting revenge. He would have to leave that up to his two younger brothers, Raibeart and Colyne. Far too young to fight now but, hopefully, with time and guidance by anyone left standing, the two young boys would rise and seek revenge in the name of their father and brothers. There was one Chisholm left to be dealt with; Randall. The son of the Chisholm chief responsible for the hell on earth they had been living all these years. Hopefully, someday, Raibeart and Colyne would kill the bloody bastard
Through the fog of pain, the blood rushing in his ears, the pounding in his skull, he thought he heard the call of victory. Whether it be real or imagined, he neither knew nor cared. All he wished for was the pain to cease and for the sweet release of death. Mayhap someone would take mercy on him and slice his throat to speed up the process of dying.
Which hurt worst, his face — flayed open from the top of his skull to his neck — or the gaping, bleeding wound on his side — he did not know. ’Twas agony either way.
It seemed an eternity passed before silence filled the air. The rain stopped as suddenly as it had begun. A strong breeze blew in, chasing away any remnants of the clouds. Soon, the sun was shining so brightly it pained his eyes to look upon it.
This must be the end, he told himself. Death has finally come for me.
Chapter One
It hadn’t been death that had come for Black Richard. Nay, it had been their healer, Donald MacCullough. The aging, thin, and gray-haired man had been the one who pulled him from the bloody battlefield with his bare hands.
Black Richard was meant to die honorably, just as his father and brothers had. Donald took that away from him. ’Twas an act of treason as far as Black Richard was concerned. An act that could never be forgiven.
Dragged away from the field of battle, the man saw to his wounds as best he could before Black Richard was put into the back of a cart and carried to their encampment, for the keep was still smoldering. Floating in and out of awareness, jostled about like a sack of leeks, the short trip seemed to take an eternity.
For days, Black Richard begged anyone who would listen to let him to die. His younger brothers refused to allow it. The healer refused to listen. “Ye’ll nae be dyin’ on my watch, laird. Ye’ll not be leavin’ me to raise yer heathen brothers.”
His brothers — half-brothers — Raibeart and Colyne, were more than two decades younger than he. Their mother had died during the original attack from the Chisolm’s five years ago. Left alone, raised by a father and brothers intent on revenge, they had not had the best upbringing. Aye, they were heathens and quite often in trouble for one offense or another. Let someone else better than he raise the lads. There were more important things for Black Richard to do, such as dying.
The skin on his face and gut were stitched back together, the bones in his face and wrist were set. When he’d been laying on the battlefield he was certain there was no greater pain or agony. He’d been wrong. The setting of his bones, the stitching together of his tender skin had been far worse.
One day blended into the next until a month had passed in a haze of foggy, bitter, and feverish moments. Moments where he begged for death, for mercy. Death refused him.
More likely than not, God didn’t want him and the devil was too busy dealing with all the Chisholms he’d sent to Him.
The changing of his bandages were God awful. The linens, sticking to his bloody wounds, would make a most disgusting sound when peeled away. Similar to when the hide and fur were skinned from squirrel or rabbit. ’Twas enough to make a grown man want to retch.
Gradually, his wounds and broken bones began to heal. But he was left looking like a monster. While one half of his face looked as it always had, with smooth, flawless skin, the other half was scarred and mangled. Scarred to the point he could not bear to look at his own reflection. From the top of his skull, across his right eye, down his cheek, across his lip, through the center of his neck, to his collarbone on his left side. ’Twas a white, jagged reminder of what had happened that day. A reminder that he hadn’t died as he should have.