Prologue

“ T hey say that legends walk clothed in the flesh of men this far in the North, Highlander.”

The soldier whispered to the huge man lying on the ground next to him. The battalion of soldiers lay hidden below the crest of the hill with only their helmets visible as they looked for the enemies’ approach.

It would have taken someone with eagle eyes to see the men, so well camouflaged as they were in their dark green plaid. They were as silent as the soft breeze blowing gently through the tall grass.

The man the soldier spoke to was formidable in every way. He wore no symbol of loyalty on his clothing and no special plaid displayed his clan. The crest of the silver pin holding the plaid across his shoulder showed the great muzzle of a bear with its fangs exposed in a snarl.

The soldier had no doubt it would be the last thing many of their enemies saw once they joined in battle.

“I am nae legend,” the man with the bear crest growled in a deep voice. “I am more in the way of thinking aboot meself as a nightmare, lad.”

The soldier made the sign of the cross and turned away from the man. They had all noticed him when he joined their march. After presenting the captain with a letter from their laird, commanding the battalion to obey the huge man’s orders once battle commenced, the warrior had said nothing by way of greeting or explanation. All he did was adjust his weapons and stare at the skyline, frowning with concentration.

No one bothered the dark Highlander. Some of the more devout soldiers whispered that the man reeked of magic, and they wanted no part of a victory if it was to be won with dark spells. They had tramped many leagues, to where the sands of Scotland joined the black North Sea, on a mission to find and destroy a brigade of pirates. This land was unfamiliar territory to them with its barren fields and stark gray rocks.

A village had been burnt to the ground with the poor villagers still inside their cottages. No laird would stand back and allow such evil to go unpunished. As far as Laird MacPherson was concerned, if the tall Highlander wanted to go along for the march then he was welcome to swing his sword when the time came.

But after hearing the man’s expertise with war, the laird sent him to join the battalion in the north with instructions to lead them to victory. But the soldiers themselves were not so sure.

“He wears no armor,” the MacPherson clan soldiers whispered amongst themselves. “It is nae natural.”

But for some reason, when they had bivouacked the night before, the camp followers did not feel the same way about the stranger as the soldiers did.

Every army battalion had camp followers, and Laird MacPherson’s was no different. With the wives at home looking after the bairns, it was convenient for some of the soldiers to use the services of camp followers. These accommodating women cooked the meals on the journey and provided other services for a fee.

If a soldier did not have the penny coin to pay one of the camp followers, he could bargain away the loot his clothes and armor would fetch if he were killed in battle. It was not an uncommon sight to see weeping camp followers picking through the bodies of fallen soldiers after their favorite man fell under the sword.

The captain turned a blind eye to this, saying that so long as the women did not show signs of the pox, they were welcome to ply their trade. Several of the bonniest camp followers had gathered around the stranger’s fire that night to coo over his large muscles and compliment his long sword.

“Where are ye from, handsome?” The loveliest woman fluttered her eyelashes at him as she ran a hand over his thick arm. “And are there more braw warriors like ye there?”

The man was friendly enough to the women, but his battle fury was already running too high for him to want to blunt it with lovemaking. “Och, hen. Awa’ wit’ ye. I’ll nae turn me back to the sky until yon pirates are lying dead.” He panted as he growled the words, his eyes fixed on the horizon where he knew the pirates lay.

Some of the ladies noticed the fierce glitter of bloodlust in his black eyes, but they were helpless to move away from him. The stranger had an animal attraction about him, and as feral as the warrior seemed to be there was not one woman seated next to him who did not crave to house-train this exciting creature.

“Ye growl like a great bear, sweetheart,” another woman stroked the man’s leg under his plaid and above his boot, “it will do ye good to satisfy one o’ yer fits of hunger before we catch up to those seafaring rogues on the morrow.”

But the stranger refused every offer of food and drink made to him. The soldiers were amazed to see the camp followers begging the man instead of it being the other way around.

“Are ye nae tempted by the thought? A pair of soft, white thighs spread wide open to receive ye, Warrior?” One of the soldiers called over to the man, but all he got by way of a reply was a growl. The sound reverberated across the camp, making the war hounds howl at the moon.

That display of rigid discipline and dedication to the art of war was enough to make the men whisper of legends. They began to call him the Braw Bear. His hulking shoulders, dark brow bone, and scowling expression reminded them of those great beasts that roamed the forests across the seas.

The battalion was patient, waiting for the pirates to show themselves.

“There,” the man they called Bear pointed along the coast. “Smoke. They are burning another village. We must stop them.”

The captain advised against it. He was feeling aggrieved by the warrior’s blunt manners. He was a clan elder and chief, after all, and should not have to obey this brutish stranger. “We have the advantage based here on the hill. Let them come to us.”

The warrior shot the captain a glowering look of scorn before standing upright. “It is time for us to bring the fear to them.” He began running down the hill toward the smoke. Sighing, because Laird MacPherson had given him orders to heed the stranger at all costs, the captain told his men to follow.

There was no science to the way the warrior charged into the village with his weapons brandished. He simply sprinted to where the spirals of smoke could be seen curling into the air and did not stop until he saw pirates.

Most of the brigands had their backs facing outwards as they concentrated on setting the thatch alight. No lookouts had been posted; they did not worry about a counterattack. The first sound that alerted them to the warrior’s presence was the sound of wood splintering. The man called Bear smashed his axe to break the barricaded doors. Coughing villagers staggered out into the road, but the pirates could do nothing to stop them—Laird MacPherson’s soldiers were already rushing into the village with their spears brandished.

While the warrior smashed the doors, the soldiers and pirates clashed. This was not to the Bear’s liking. Grabbing a young squire, he pushed his axe into the lad’s hands. “Smash doon the doors and dinnae stop until every cottage is open.”

After checking once to make sure the lad was doing what he said, the warrior joined the fray with relish. It was like he was possessed by some great force of nature. Most of the soldiers stood down and watched as the stranger used his two swords as if they weighed no more than ivory toothpicks.

The pirates were fighting back to back, moving towards the shore where their four longboats lay on the beach and the carrack ship was anchored in the bay. One by one, the man was thinning them out, the same way a kitchen maid might weed the herb garden. Some of the soldiers even sat down and watched. It was clear that the warrior had no need of assistance.

No matter how much the pirates tried to hide behind the shields and lunge at the man with their spears, it had no effect on him. His broadsword split their shields like apple seeds and he ducked any spear thrust directed at him.

By this time, some of the bolder camp followers had caught up with the battalion and were watching the killing spree. Some of the soldiers looked over at the women. “Begone, wenches! None of us are dead this time. Ye will have to wait for unluckier days. The loot from the brigands belongs to us by law!”

But from the way the women licked their lips as they watched the warrior fighting, it was clear that they had other things on their minds besides looting the corpses.

“Och, he’s a braw beast,” one of the women marveled, “and I’ll wager me best gewgaw that he will lie on me bolster this night.”

A few of the women began to bicker amongst themselves over who would have this honor. They hoped that whoever might sleep with the man would have a bairn with him. The laird would pay well for the chance to foster the braw beast’s wean. The child would likely grow up as large as a cottage if it were a boy.

They were so busy discussing this prospect that no one noticed the warrior chase the pirates to the beach. There were only five men left now, and they knew there was no escape. They planned on selling their lives dearly. It was time to stop backing away and face the man—and their doom.

“Let us go,” the leader tried to reason with the tall warrior with the black eyes, “Let us go, Berserker, and we will give you half the loot we have on board the carrack.”

“Nay, ye scoundrels,” the man was not even out of breath, “ye murdered innocents. I cannae let ye live. Throw doon yer weapons and I will give ye a clean death.”

“Belike the monster will gnaw our heads off at the neck,” one of the brigands said. “Let’s rush him all at once. He cannot possibly withstand all five of us.”

They attacked him like a howling pack of dogs, their cutlasses raised to strike. All except for one brigand. He waited for a beat until the warrior began slicing up his shipmates, and then he grabbed a spear and thrust it deep into the middle of the mayhem.

The spear skewered one of the brigands right through the torso, but the head managed to bury itself deep in the warrior’s belly.

The berserker did not flinch when he saw the spearhead protruding from his gut. Calmly withdrawing the shaft, he dropped the body with the spear and then flexed his sword in a large circle.

“I don’t believe it!” The pirate backed away, his hands held out in front of him as if he were warding off a ghost. “You should be dead. That spear went down as deep as your spine. It would have skewered a wild stallion.”

Flexing his sword around once more, the warrior grinned. “Believe it, lad. For the few moments ye have left to live, ye better believe it. And I am nae stallion. I am the Bear.”

Only when the pirate’s head hit the sand with a soft thump did the berserker warrior stagger and clutch his belly. Looking down at the wound, he frowned. Ignoring the village behind him, he walked to one of the longboats and clambered in after pushing it out onto the water until the waves began to lift the prow. Holding the oars, he began to row after casting off his heavy weaponry. The length and breadth of his arms were so big that he had no trouble setting the oars in the locks next to a seat made for four men to row on.

Casting one eye up at the sky, he noticed a thunderstorm gathering on the northwestern horizon. All this made him do was row faster. His enormous shoulders and back muscles flexed and strained as he worked the oars. The blood oozed out of his wound in a lazy, sluggish way and did not seem to affect his strength at all.

A bolt of lightning streaked across the sky as the rain began to fall. A large wave lifted the boat away from the shore, sending the vessel plummeting north.

Only when the shore was a distant golden line far away did the warrior stop rowing and drop the oars in the hull. His body swayed as he sat rigidly on the bench. And then he fell face forward with a mighty crash.