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training with him than chasing after girls. Of the brothers, girls loved Odhran every bit as much as he loved them. His distraction by them, could cost him much more than just his life.
    “Zarik, ‘tis done. The MacLean son has fled.” Drostan shook his head in disgust. “’Tis a sad day when a man will run. I’d happily meet my death before putting on a skirt and running from battle. May as well have cut his bullocks off. He needs to be inside sewing with the women of his clan, for he is no a warrior. Mayhap we have a pretty silk dress he could make use of.”
                  “Mayhap we could get Da to send him a skirt.” Odhran spoke as he cleaned the blood from his sword with his kilt.
    Zarik shook his head. He knew Lachlann MacLean was a coward. The worst of it was his father actually had honor. He wondered if Gregor knew the coward his son was. Zarik could not place the faults of the son onto the father, though. Not this time, anyway. He doubted he'd been taught the way his current path took him. Gregor would not have allowed it.
    Though they were enemies, Gregor MacLean fought with honor and was no coward. The clan may very well fall on their own once Gregor allowed Lachlann to become chief. Perhaps if the MacLean heir would stop hiding, Zarik could end this and simply take over the MacLean clan. “Aye, it seems we’re done here then. Mayhap another day. Let those who remain from their clan be free to go back. We'll no be stabbing them in the back today.” He listened as Torradan made a call to gather everyone together. “What happened to your arm, Torradan?” Zarik asked as he approached.
    “’Tis but a scratch.” Shrugging, Torradan walked past Zarik to cuff Odhran on the back of the head. “It seems Zarik was able to keep your arse alive this time. Not even a scratch.” Though Tor had no use for battle, he still fought well, just not well enough for Zarik to hand over their warriors to him when he became Laird. Perhaps Odhran would be the one to fill his shoes.
    Odhran knew how his brother liked to taunt him and simply shook his head. In many ways, he was more mature than Torradan, despite his younger age. He knew that on this day, he'd done more than hold his own.
    “Ye'll need scars to empress the lassies, boy.” Drostan smiled to the younger MacKinnon. “If ye keep not getting sliced, ye'll never have them to show off or tell stories about.” Looking back to Zarik, he continued. “Let’s gather the injured and go home. I sure could use a drink.” He seemed to enjoy his cups more and more these days, never saying why.
    “A drink? Or some time with yer wife?” Zarik teased his friend.
    “Ye, bastard, yer just jealous. When ye find yer own, ye'll understand. Things are no so simple anymore. I cannae wait to see ye led around by yer wee bullocks.” Drostan was one that never sugar coated anything when it came to Zarik. It's likely why he'd been one of his best friends for years. They'd both felt the effects of his marriage.
    “Wee bullocks?” Zarik looked down at his kilt. “There's no a thing wee about mine. Perhaps yer speaking of yer own.”
    “Shut up. No one wants to see yer bullocks. Neither of yers.” Odhran rolled his eyes at the two of them. “Let's just go. I stink and have blood all over me.”
    On the way back to the keep the chatter continued. It was as if they were returning from a hunting trip rather than a battle in which many lives had been lost. Luckily, the losses were on the MacLean side. While injuries had happened, no MacKinnon lives had been lost this day.
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                  Once back at the keep, Zarik filled in his father. After hearing Niall's rants and raves about the cowardice of the MacLean eldest son, he finally asked about injuries to the MacKinnon warriors.
                  “Da, we need to raid the MacLean's.” Zarik slammed his fist onto the table. “It makes no sense to allow them to stalk us as if we are