Discord Among Wolves
The fire burned low in the hollow between two ridges, its glow half-hidden by stones piled to shield it from the wind. Keith's men huddled close, cloaks pulled tight, muskets stacked nearby. The night was raw, the kind that gnawed the marrow, and the fire's warmth seemed too little for the quarrel brewing among them.
Donald MacRae sat nearest the flames, sharpening his bayonet with slow, deliberate strokes. Each scrape of the whetstone was a statement, the rhythm steady as a heartbeat. His scarred throat caught the firelight, a twisted reminder of battles survived. He spat into the dirt, then spoke low.
"This work stinks of cursed coin," he growled. "Sinclair silver tastes foul in the hand. Every raid bleeds us, and still the Craiks stand. I've fought Frenchmen with less bite than that Gunn."
Across the fire, Callum Bain flicked his knife, catching it by the hilt each time. He was younger, pale-eyed, restless. "Aye, Gunn's a hard man," he said, smirking. "But every man bleeds. We'll cut him soon enough, and I'll take his red-haired wench for myself."
MacRae's head snapped up, eyes like coals. "Mind your tongue. She fights fiercer than you ever will. And Gunn'll gut you for even speaking it."
Laughter broke out among a few of the younger lads, eager for plunder. One spat into the fire. "I say let Sinclair pay, and let Keith talk. We came for silver and spoils, not to sit cold in the heather while kelp-wives mock us from their pits."
An older veteran, Davie Kerr—broad, bearded, missing three fingers on his left hand—leaned forward, voice gravel. "Mock, is it? That woman put a ball through Kerr the marksman's shoulder at fifty paces in smoke and fire. You call that luck? I call it craft. Best not to sneer at an enemy that can shoot straighter than you."
The fire popped, sparks leaping. The tension thickened.
MacRae growled, "This isn't war, it's a feud stretched thin by Sinclair's pride. Gunn's a fighter born, and the Craiks fight with their backs to the sea. Every blow we strike only hardens them. And now the woman's bound to him, handfasted before all. She's their banner now. Kill her wrong, and we'll fight ghosts till the end of days."
Bain sneered. "You're old, Donald. You've seen too much and fear the shadows. A blade in the ribs kills ghosts same as men."
"Try it, then," MacRae snapped, rising half to his feet, bayonet in hand.
The circle stirred, some grinning, others uneasy. Blades half-drawn, men shifting as if ready to watch blood spill among their own.
A voice cut through like steel on stone.
"Enough."
Colin Keith stepped into the firelight, cloak flapping, face set like granite. His eyes swept the circle, pinning each man in place.
"You think Gunn is a man to mock? He's fought more battles than you've seen winters. He's killed more men than you've broken bread with. And Craik—aye, she's a woman, but a woman who fights like a chief. You'll not speak of her as spoil, not while you wear my colours."
Bain swallowed, eyes dropping, knife sheathed.
Keith moved to the fire, letting its glow strike his scarred cheek. "You argue over coin and courage, but mark this: Sinclair pays, but it's my ground. My command. You fight when I say, you bleed where I point. And if any of you think to take Sinclair's silver and call yourselves free men—" he paused, eyes narrowing, "—then you'll meet my claymore before you meet Gunn's."
The silence after his words was heavy, broken only by the wind.
MacRae lowered his bayonet, nodding once. Bain muttered, "Aye, captain," though bitterness lingered.
Keith let the silence stretch, then spoke again, quieter, but sharper. "We'll fight them soon, but not like fools in the dark. Gunn's no petty thief to be cut in alleys. He'll fall before his people, with fire at his back and blood at his feet. Only then will his name break."
The men shifted, uneasy but listening.
Keith looked at the flames, then at the faces around him. "Rest now. Tomorrow we march closer. Soon the tide will turn, and streams of blood will run down these cliffs."
He turned and walked into the shadows, cloak vanishing into the dark. The men sat silent, fire popping, each man hearing his words like the toll of iron on stone.
Keith did not go far from the fire after he left his men. He found a place on the ridge where the heather bent low under the wind and the sea's roar rose to meet him. The firelight below flickered faint, showing the men huddled together, quiet now, but restless. He knew the sound of men who grumbled against their leaders. He'd heard it before at Sheriffmuir, at Falkirk, and in half a dozen nameless raids since. It was the sound of wolves beginning to question the alpha.
He crouched in the dark, cloak drawn about him, and let the gale sting his face. His thoughts were not kind ones.
Keith's Reflection
The Gunn name. It was a word he'd grown up spitting, taught that they were thieves, cattle-lifters, and murderers. His father had died in a feud with the Gunns, cut down on a rocky slope not ten miles from Bruan. As a boy, Colin had sworn on his father's targe that he would see the Gunn line ended.
And yet…
This Seumas Gunn was not the raider his father had told tales of. He was something harder, something forged in fire. He'd survived Culloden, made fortunes in the south, come back north with scars and fire in his eyes. He'd stood against fire and steel at the saltpans and held.
Keith spat into the grass, the taste bitter. He hated the man, but he respected him. And that was dangerous.
The Sinclairs? They were different. Robert saw the world as numbers on a page. Useful, yes. Men like Robert paid for the steel that kept other men fed. But he was no fighter. And Margaret—Keith's lip curled. She had fire enough, aye, but it burned without aim, all spite and pride. Fire without wood, fire without purpose. It consumed more than it gave.
He thought of her words at the table: "I want her dead by my hand." Foolishness. To make it personal was to make it weak.
Keith shook his head. He would take their coin, aye. He would bleed Gunn if he could. But he would not spend his men cheaply, not for a woman's vanity.
Voices rose again from the fire below. Keith listened.
Bain's sharp tones carried: "If Sinclair pays, why do we wait? Let us strike tonight, end it quick, take what's ours."
MacRae's growl followed: "Because Gunn's not some farmer with a rusted blade. You'd be dead before your knife cleared your belt."
Davie Kerr's deeper rumble: "And what of the Craik woman? She fights with her folk like a chief. Kill her wrong and the whole of Caithness will remember her name longer than yours."
A younger voice—one of the farm lads Robert had pressed into service with promises of coin—snorted. "She's just a woman. A woman can't lead."
A silence answered him, sharp as a blade drawn. Then MacRae spat into the fire. "You'll learn otherwise when her shovel cracks your skull."
The laughter that followed was uneasy, not mocking. The men were afraid, though they would never admit it.
Keith stood at last, straightening, cloak whipping in the wind. He looked out across the black sea, white spray flashing in the moonlight. Somewhere beyond those cliffs the Craiks were gathered around their own fire, singing their songs, binding their hands in vows older than law. He had heard whispers that Gunn and the Craik woman were handfasted now.
Good, he thought grimly. That would make them fight harder. And when they bled, they would bleed more richly for it.
He turned and strode back down toward the fire. The men fell silent as he approached, eyes flicking to the claymore at his side.
"You grumble like bairns," he said flatly. "But mark me—when we fight, we fight on my word. Not Sinclair's. Not your bellies'. Mine. Until then you'll hold your tongues, sharpen your steel, and be ready. The day is coming soon enough, and it'll bring more blood than any of you can stomach."
He let the silence hang, then added, lower, deadlier: "And if I hear talk of desertion, I'll cut the man myself and leave him for the gulls."
The fire crackled, the sea roared, and no man spoke.
Keith settled onto a rock, drew his dirk, and began to whet it slow and steady. Each scrape of steel on stone was a warning in the dark.