Tom was back again at Glen Morich Manor, the ancient family seat of the once feared Clan Macpherson. Tom had always known about his family’s shameful part in the Macphersons downfall – blood lines tied him directly to the man who triggered their gory demise.
All this fool had to do was let them know when the MacDonalds breached the horizon. Give a signal. A sign. Instead as he slumped into a drunken stupor the Macphersons were ransacked; the family all killed, their mutilated bodies then paraded through the village.
Walking into the main hall again there came the usual slow creep of guilt. He knew he was being watched. The eyes on the painting. The face on the plaque above the fire. Even the bronze bust of Lord Macpherson seemed to be turned towards him with a look of icy cold contempt.
The only exit was flanked by a pair of Macpherson battle suits. The suit on the left suddenly stepped in front of Tom. He froze. Slowly a sword rose. The blade glinting. Higher and higher. Then it fell.
Tom woke with a start. The nightmare over for now. However, he knew the manor would be awaiting his return soon.