"There is only one way that this ends." bellowed a burly man on the other side of the field. He was large and angry, but clearly not a soldier. He appeared to be their leader, but perhaps that was only because he was the largest and the angriest.
'Army' seemed a rather generous description of the band of men and women in front of MacLeod. A half-dozen pitchforks raised in the air, and half as many tartans. This wasn't an army, this was every able-bodied human being in the entire village. Standing together to defend their homes, their cows, and their cheese. How adorable.
MacLeod thought sweet words would most likely be wasted on such a group of hard-line believers. "I disagree, General Cheesebeard. There are precisely two ways that this ends. I'm afraid neither are what you would prefer."
His jabs only made the large man grow larger and redder. "This ends with your head on a spike, as a sign to anyone else who would demand tribute. No king has ever come to Owenfield. We do not bow."
MacLeod smiled. "Well that rules out the easiest option, then. Very well, I shall see you tomorrow." He stirred his horse, turned around and began to trot off towards the forest.
He could feel the confusion and perhaps even disappointment on the voice of the burly man. "Where do you think you're going?"
Continuing his trot, MacLeod called back "Well I can't very well kill you all by myself, can I?"
That was all the fat man needed. "Oh no you don't." Then, to the crowd behind him, "As one, we charge!"
They cried in unison, "As one!" and MacLeod heard a rush of feet behind him.
He kept his horse's pace. The peasants were a long way off, and the forest was at least half that distance.
He pulled an apple out of his saddlebag, and bit down into the sweet-tartness.
He swung his horse around, and found the large leader with his eyes. MacLeod must have been projecting calmness even better than he thought he was, because the leader's eyes were filled with fear. That was all MacLeod was waiting for.
He pulled a whistle out of his jerkin pocket, and blew a long, loud note into the forest.
The peasants stopped dead in their tracks. But it wouldn't have mattered.
As one, the regal raiding party rode out of the forest, and felled their swords to the peasants necks. It was over almost as soon as it began.
MacLeod rode past the field of bodies, up to the large leader who's prejudice had dared defied him. He was still breathing, and his eyes were as open as the gash on his torso, both of which seemed fixed on MacLeod.
MacLeod met the man's gaze. "I told you there was another way. While it was my men who killed them, their blood is on your hands just the same."
The man did not have the strength to answer, but he did have the strength to spit. MacLeod cleaned the spittle and blood off of his shoe.
MacLeod kept his gaze for a moment, then called over to one of his lieutenants. "Sir Duffield, do we have any spikes handy?"
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