“You'll be Ill Will Armstrong, then?” The tall man said, and when he looked at me I knew that this was Alastair Mor: Big Alistair.
It was not his size, although he was easily six inches taller than six feet, or the breadth of his shoulders, although that was impressive enough. It was not his clothing, for he wore an identical linen shirt, or leine, to that the others sported, and nothing much else. It was purely the force that emanated from his eyes. I, who had fought beside Earl Douglas and conducted Hotspur to his surrender, had never seen a man so inherently powerful as Alastair Mor.
“I am Ill Will Armstrong,” I claimed, “and this is…”
“Bantreach uistean,” he said, “who you met outside Dunkeld and who decided to come with you.” He laughed at the expression on my face. “Don't look so
