Free Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham Page B

spinning as he did so, just in time to defend himself against two oncoming soldiers.
    “Ciaran!” Andrew screamed, feeling heat roar into his cheeks. “For you!”
    The soldiers were well trained and healthy, but they were no match for a grief-stricken Highlander, no matter how exhausted he might be. When the men lay dead, Andrew strained his eyes through the fog and smoke, seeking Dougal. He saw instead the colour of the battle had changed. Barely defined shapes of men and boys from Andrew’s childhood struggled, ran, and fell, their tartans falling under the sea of red coats and flashing silver.
    The English kept coming in a relentless red tide. Andrew’s strength waned and he thought of Ciaran.
    “I will see ye soon.”
    He struck at swords, swerved around fists and feet, barely able to yank his exhausted legs from the muck. The dull ache of hopelessness seemed almost welcome. He was going to die here on this field. Today. He wanted to collapse to his knees, to beg for a quick and merciful death, but that would have taken more courage than he had.
    Then he felt her, a presence that came from nowhere: a surge of warmth that stirred hope in his heart. He couldn’t see her, but that wasn’t strange. Often she came to him on the breeze. In a thought. A melody in the air. Now she entered his blood, flooding thelabouring chambers of his heart. It could only be her. Nothing else could ignite his soul in that way. He felt her impulse and his body followed, spinning and deflecting sword strikes that should have killed him. She turned and he went with her, flowing with impossible energy. Even after her impetus faded, the power she gave him remained. Now he fought for her.
    A young English soldier raced up the field, aiming his musket at Andrew as he ran. Andrew dodged the bullet and crashed chest to chest against the soldier, sinking all twelve inches of his dirk into the bright red coat. In one final, shocked effort, the redcoat lashed out, slamming the butt of his musket hard into the Scot’s forehead. With that one motion, the worlds of both Andrew and the soldier suddenly went black.

Chapter 8

From Darkness into Shadows
    Andrew lay unconscious but not alone. He felt a sense of comfort and encouragement, two emotions that held no place on this field of death. He wasn’t surprised when the soft lines of the girl’s face materialised. She had been with him through his life, and he had known she would be there when he died. So this was the end. He was glad she was the last thing he would see. He wondered if he would see her in heaven.
    She smiled with such sadness. She held out her translucent hands, motioning for him to follow her, and though his body begged to remain where it was, his mind obeyed her as it always had, pulling him up to the surface.
    He opened his eyes to the gray sky and felt her silky fingertips slip from his hand. The mist had stopped, and smoke from the battle had begun to clear. Raindrops shimmered in the grass, cobwebs glistened.
    It wasn’t the end, and he wasn’t dead.
    He needed to see the field, see how things lay, find life beyond the dead. Where was Dougal? Could he be nearby? Could he be alive? Andrew knew where Ciaran lay, or at least where he had last seen him. He knew his father was dead.
    English soldiers wandered through the bodies, jabbing with bayonets, hunting for survivors. Their voices travelled across the field to each other, but Andrew didn’t think any of them were close to where he lay. They would come for him, though. If he stayed here, he would certainly die. But his torn and weary body anchored him to the earth. He lay with his kilt draped over his thighs, crusted with filth. He closed his eyes again, wanting to be anywhere but here. Whatever light could filter through the dwindling smoke felt warm through his closed eyelids. His stomach rumbled, and he found it slightly amusing it could demand attention at a time like this.
    He opened his eyes slowly. They burned. Shock