The late-morning light illuminates the valley, highlighting the broad, grass-filled clearing and the hardwood forest forming its southern and eastern borders. Dew still clings to the blades of grass, unmoving even in the early-autumn breeze, and columns of thick black smoke can be seen in the distant blue sky. Most of the land is devoid of animal life, save the carrion birds that are circling in the air with anticipation.

Gathered in the fading shade of the eastern tree line is a band of ragged people, loosely formed up for battle. The vast majority of the men are wearing peasant’s clothing and kilts with the same tartan, armed with sharpened farming instruments and the occasional family sword, and a low murmur of unease and fear fills the air around them. A lone priest in dirty robes tries to allay the dark mood of the group, passing on religious wisdom and blessings with a direct and sarcastic tone. Also scattered throughout the crowd are a few men in beaten leather armor and woolen leggings, trying to organize and direct the group while gesturing with long swords. And in the middle of the group, astride one of the few horses, is a large, armored man that’s seemingly out of place. Worn chain mail covers most of his body, augmented by a dented breastplate, pauldrons, greaves, and gauntlets, all polished to a near-reflective quality. A large battle-axe hangs from a loop on the front of the saddle, shining in the sun like the man’s armor. His brown eyes gaze across the clearing, knowing that certain doom is coming for them.

“Aldwin?” One of the few leather-clad men has approached the rider, giving him a grim look that’s pocked by the tiny reflection of light from the polished armor of the rider, “’Tis not much more we can do. They don’t have their archers, but those king’s men will make mince meat out o’ these Scots. You sure we can’t just…” Aldwin’s glare, carved from stone, answers the leather-clad man’s question before it’s finished. “Alright, I’ll just have that crazy Emmanuel finish the Last Rights,” the man says quietly, sulking back into the group.

Tucking his brown mop firmly back into his chain mail coif, Aldwin switches his view back to the peasant clansmen around him. The men, old enough to be on their deathbeds and young enough to still be boys, nervously await their fate, knowing the roving English soldiers will come whether they stand to fight or not. The odor of their sweat mixes with the smell of oiled weapons and the scent of his horse, Lyle, in Aldwin’s nostrils, all of it underscored by the fear of what will come. He turns to his gauntlet, pulling out a folded piece of common linen, and looks at the cloth closely. The smell of roses still permeates the linen square, summoning up the sharpest deepest pair of blue eyes he’s ever seen in his mind. He never thought he’d be in a place like this, he never thought he’d raise his hand in anger against his own kinsmen, but the smallest things remind of why he’s here and why he’s doing what he’s doing… charging into certain death just to snatch the barest advantage for those who couldn’t help themselves, someone who needed him…

The thunderous sound of the trained soldiers, outnumbering the clansmen five to one, leaving the road and entering the clearing dispel Aldwin’s thoughts. The professional soldiers quickly and easily form up and a wall of old kite shields and newer, squarer shields lines the front of the unit. James, Paul, and the other leather-clad men start shouting orders, organizing the commoners and trying to shout the fear out of them. Aldwin catches Emmanuel’s eye, who gives the rider a wild look as he pulls out a heavy mace from his robes and turns to face the enemy. Lyle paws at the ground, eager for the coming melee, and Aldwin rubs the horse’s withers, letting the animal know the time would come soon. He thumbs the battle-axe up in its loop and pulls it free. The haft of the weapon slides down his palm, stopping when it’s properly positioned in his right hand. The fear around him starts to subside, turning into outrage at the outsiders invading this land.

Aldwin tucks the linen square into the bottom of his coif with his left hand, hoping its rose scent will overpower the coming smell of dirt and blood, before gripping the reins. He doesn’t know why she gave it to him… she probably doesn’t even know why she did either… but it might give his mind a refuge from what’s to come. Looking to either side, he raises his battle-axe high into the air and bellows at the top of his lungs, “Fortis et fidus!” The clansmen repeat the war cry with a shout as Aldwin swings his battle-axe forward, all fear pushed aside in favor of duty and loyalty. Lyle launches forward as the peasants bolt across the cleaning, rushing into the abyss.