Page 52 of The Speed of Lightning
“You believe every man here would obey any order with equal skill?”
Again the chorus: “Aye.”
Calum circled a timid lad marked belly to chin in blue triskelion. “Master MacFadyen asked earlier—what is the purpose of this paint?”
Across the field, Da’s brow arched. Grufa bristled, chin high, chest out.
Balder’s face mirrored his father’s. “Have you forgotten so much, Calum MacLean? We paint ourselves because we are Picts, the last of them.”
Calum nudged a stone with his boot. “Not your forebears, Balder MacSorley. You are descended from the Norse invaders of Somerled.”
Predictably, MacLeans jeered. “The MacSorleys are Norse pretenders! We are the Picts’ descendants!”
MacSorleys barked back. “You adopted our longhouses, our customs. We conquered you!”
“Our Chief is MacLean!”
“And half Norse by his mother’s line!”
The argument swelled. Calum walked back through the shouting men to Murdoch, who looked grim. “Call them to attention.”
Murdoch’s whistle cut the noise like an arrow.
Calum raised his hands and called for silence. “Prove this training useless, and you’ll be excused. I will give you one task. Fail, and you’ll learn otherwise. From here forward, the last words from your mouths will be ‘aye or no, Cù Cogaidh.’ Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
He pointed to Murdoch. “Men sixteen to thirty, lines before Master MacFadyen. Thirty to fifty, with me. Fifty and older, before Cù Ceartas. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“Excellent. When you line up, your sword will be belted to the right, shield on your back, heels together, left hand on the shoulder of the man in front of you. Do you understand?”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“You have two minutes. Move!”
Da and Murdoch echoed, “Move, move!”
The men scattered across the practice yard. Some rushed, others dragged their feet. At one hundred twenty seconds, stragglers still fumbled with belts and shields. Heels crooked, lines uneven, arms misplaced.
Calum inspected the rows. Even the best, before his father, looked like individuals, not a unit.
“Arms down!” The men dropped their arms. “You failed. Too slow. One in five moved with purpose. Front rest, move!”
Murdoch barked his lads into position. Calum shoved down stragglers by the shoulder. “Faster. Straight lines, heads up.”
Men trembled in the press-up hold.
“This is front rest. When I say it, you move—together, with purpose. Do you understand?”
The answer came in ragged waves. “Aye, Cù Cogaidh.”
“Louder.”
“Aye, Cù Cogaidh!”
“Press-ups. Begin.”
