Summer of Ashes

Chapter 10 | The Eve of Battle

The crisp, biting air of the early morning cut through Ewan's cloak as he rode at the head of the joined forces of Clan MacKinney, Clan MacLeod, and Clan MacDonald. Their banners flew high in the wind, the sound of their hooves and marching feet echoing over the rolling hills. The sky was a pale gray, heavy with the promise of battle. Ahead of them, over the horizon, lay Clan Ross's territory—a land that had long been marked by bloodshed and strife. Now, it was where their fates would be decided.

Ewan's jaw tightened as he surveyed the ranks marching behind him. He had gathered them—three clans, once divided, now united against a common enemy. It had not been easy, and doubt still lingered among some of the men, but the strength of their unity gave him hope. If they could stand together, they might be able to put an end to Clan Ross's treachery once and for all. Beside him, Allistair rode in silence, his gaze fixed ahead.

Ewan glanced to his other side, where Jaime, his loyal comrade, rode with his hand resting on the hilt of his sword. Jaime had fought alongside him in countless battles, and his presence brought Ewan a sense of calm. Jaime was a steady hand, a man who had seen war and understood its brutal necessity.

"Looks like a fine day for a fight," Jaime remarked dryly, his eyes scanning the distant hills where they would soon face Clan Ross.

Ewan gave a grim nod. "Aye, if the weather holds, we'll be setting camp tonight, and tomorrow... we'll see if Ross is as ready for us as he claims."

"Ross is never ready for anything but his own greed," Allistair muttered, his voice low. "He'll fight dirty, we ken that well enough."

"That's why we're here," Ewan said, his voice calm but firm. "To make sure it ends here."

As the day wore on, the forces finally reached a stretch of land just shy of the Ross stronghold. Ewan raised his hand, signaling for the troops to halt. The men behind him came to a stop, setting down their packs and beginning the task of setting up camp. Fires were lit, tents were raised, and the sound of swords being sharpened filled the air. The atmosphere was heavy with anticipation, every man aware of the blood that would be spilled come the dawn.

Ewan dismounted, handing his reins to a nearby soldier before walking toward the edge of the camp. From here, he could see the distant outline of the Ross lands, dark and forbidding against the horizon. His mind raced with thoughts of strategy—how they would position their forces, where the weakest points of Ross's defenses would be.

Allistair joined him after a moment, his arms crossed over his chest. "What's the plan for tomorrow, then?"

"We'll divide the forces into three groups," Ewan said, his tone thoughtful. "Clan MacKinney will take the left flank, Clan MacLeod the right. The MacDonalds will be with me in the center. We'll push Ross from all sides, and when he tries to retreat, we'll be ready to cut him off."

Allistair nodded, his expression grim. "It'll be a bloody day."

"It always is," Ewan replied, his voice heavy with the weight of experience. "But if we strike hard and fast, we can end it before it drags on."

Jaime joined them, his usual lighthearted demeanor tempered by the seriousness of the moment. "Ye think Ross will be expecting us?"

Ewan shook his head. "He'll know we're coming, but he won't expect us to unite like this. He's used to exploiting the divisions between the clans. This time, we'll show him we're stronger together."

A silence fell between them, the gravity of what lay ahead settling in. They all knew what was at stake—not just for themselves, but for their clans, their families, and the future of the Highlands.

That night, as the fires crackled and the men huddled in their tents, Ewan walked the camp alone. The weight of command bore down on him, the responsibility for every man here pressing against his chest. He thought of Aili, of the promise he had made. Tomorrow would decide whether that promise could be kept.

He found Jaime sitting by one of the smaller fires, sharpening his blade. The firelight flickered over his face, casting shadows that made his expression unreadable. Ewan sat beside him, the warmth of the flames a welcome contrast to the cold that seeped into his bones.

"Ye're quiet tonight," Jaime remarked without looking up from his sword.

"Aye," Ewan replied. "Tomorrow's battle weighs heavy."

"It always does," Jaime said. "But ye've got the men behind ye. They'll follow ye to the end."

Ewan glanced over at Jaime, his friend's quiet confidence steadying him. "And what about ye? Will ye follow me to the end?"

Jaime smirked, finally meeting Ewan's eyes. "To the very end, my friend. Ye ken that well enough."

The two sat in comfortable silence for a while, the crackle of the fire the only sound between them. Tomorrow, the fields would be soaked with blood, and men would fall. But tonight, there was still a quiet peace, a moment to gather strength before the storm.

As Ewan rose to leave, Jaime called after him, "Ye'll lead us well tomorrow, Ewan. Don't doubt it."

Ewan paused, offering his friend a nod of gratitude before turning toward his tent. The weight of the coming battle still pressed heavily on him, but with comrades like Jaime, and with the clans united, he felt a flicker of hope.