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the same nod. He leaned forward to speak to Rage, his black stallion who was the only other being that shared his thrill for battle. Others went to battle for the sake of duty. He'd do it for fun, as would Rage. The moment he'd seen the horse, he'd felt their connection. “Come now, Rage, it's time to bloody my sword and the ground beneath your feet.” Pulling his sword from his belt and sounding the MacKinnon battle cry. “Audentes fortuna juvat! If you die this day, go with honor.”
    Zarik raised his sword high over his head and gave his horse his head as he led the way into a much overdo battle. The MacLean clan could all be sliced to dust today and Zarik would not give them a second look. Not feel one second of remorse. If the MacLean were on fire, he'd not piss on his head to put it out. To hell with their clan. For years they’d been at odds and with more trouble with England, it was time to lay the MacLean battle to rest once and for all. It would be one less threat for Zarik to keep track of. How do they battle England when they're so busy battle themselves.
    This was not Zarik MacKinnon’s first battle. At ten and nine, he’d led his clan into battle for the last three years. His father, one and forty, rarely took the battlefield anymore. Zarik and the clan didn’t hate him for it though, as sooner rather than later, the clan would be his anyway. This was much needed experience. And something he excelled at. He stopped counting the number of lives he'd taken at his eighteenth birthday.
    Torture was another technique he excelled at. Zarik never showed mercy or remorse. He never felt the pang of conscience that so many of his father's warriors did. His prisoner would do the same to him without blinking an eye if their roles were reversed. They both knew it.
    He'd been tortured as well, but able to escape. So, he was no stranger to it. Or pain. Sometimes pain was good. It also meant that you just might live to see the next battle.
    Zarik picked up his first sword at four, albeit wooden. At ten he had a metal one, at two and ten he had a warrior’s sword. Zarik was a warrior at heart not a chief. His father, Niall MacKinnon, wouldn’t simply agree to him running the guard for one of his brothers. Zarik would give all the protection they’d need. He simply did not want to lead anything other than a battle. Responsibility was something he never backed away from, but being the Chief was more than he wanted. Everything was about the good of the clan and everyone would be in his business. War was far simpler.
    Tor was more suited for the position of Laird than he. If only he and his brother could convince their father. Zarik would hold no ill will in leading his brother's warriors into more battles and victories. He'd even be the first to congratulate his brother on becoming Laird of the clan. Of course, he'd silently laugh because the duty of a proper marriage with heirs would then fall upon his brother's shoulders as well.
    As he was lost in thought, Zarik sliced through opponent after opponent, searching out Lachlann MacLean. If he would take out the MacLean Chief’s son, the day would be over. Battle had become so customary to him, that often he just went through the motions. Most warriors from other clans, or raiders that came through on occasion, were no match for his sword. He scarcely even paid attention anymore. One day, perhaps, he'd meet someone worthy of battling him. Someone that might even bring him an honorable death.
    Zarik and his swords were one from the second he drew them until the moment he placed them back in their sheaths.
    Zarik felt most at peace while swinging them through the air.
    He had long lost sight of Torradan and Drostan, but Odhran, the youngest, fought not far from his side. At five and ten he’d not be left behind. Zarik was proud of the warrior his half-brother was becoming. Soon, Odhran might even be able to take his sword. If he could only get him to concentrate more on