The Craiks Prepare
The Blessing of Blades
Before dawn the next morning, the camp gathered again. The frost was sharp, silvering the heather, and every breath came out white as smoke. The fighters stood in a line, targes on their arms, dirks in their belts, muskets over shoulders. Seumas moved down the line, Agnes walking beside him.
Old Màiri followed, carrying her bowl of kelp ash and salt. One by one, she smeared the mixture on each blade, murmuring blessings:
"Gun dèan an t-iarann seo do làmh naomh."
(May this iron make your hand holy.)
"Gun tèid do bhuille mar ghaoth na mara."
(May your blow go like the sea wind.)
When she reached Seumas, she paused longer. She touched his claymore with trembling fingers.
"Mac Alasdair, fuil is stàilinn tha fhathast nad chridhe."
(Son of Alasdair, blood and steel still lie in your heart.)
He bowed his head, feeling the weight of his name settle on him again, not as curse but as burden willingly carried.
The Work-Songs
After the blessing, the people returned to the kelp pits. Bundles of seaweed were raked ashore, laid to dry, then stacked for burning. The work was backbreaking, but they did it to song.
A group of women began the waulking rhythm, clapping hands against cloth, voices rising in call-and-response.
"Tha mi sgìth, ach chan eil mi briste."
(I am weary, but I am not broken.)
The men joined in, stamping feet in time. The children echoed the refrains, their high voices cutting clear above the deeper tones.
Seumas listened, his chest aching. At Culloden, songs had been laments. Here, they were defiance. He could feel the rhythm carrying through the people like a heartbeat.
Agnes caught his gaze, mouthing the words with fierce pride. He nodded back. This—this was why they fought.
Charms for Protection
That evening, by the light of the great fire, the women worked charms for their men. They braided red wool into cords, knotted sprigs of rowan, tied bits of kelp fibre into small pouches filled with ash.
One by one, they fastened these to targes and sword-belts, murmuring blessings:
"Cuiridh seo casg air an luaidh."
(This will turn aside the bullet.)
"Cum seo do chridhe cruaidh."
(This will keep your heart hard.)
Ewan, wide-eyed, held still while his mother tied a rowan sprig into his coat. "Will it really stop a musket, Mam?"
She smiled, kissing his forehead. "It will if you believe."
Seumas knelt beside him, voice steady. "The charm gives you courage. And courage is the best armour a man can wear."
The boy straightened, pride shining in his eyes.
Feasting as Defiance
That night's feast was grander than the last. Though the stores were thin, they slaughtered a sheep and roasted it whole, the fat hissing in the flames. Ale was passed in shared horns, and bannocks were baked fresh on iron griddles.
It was not abundance—it was defiance.
The fiddler played reels until his fingers cramped. Couples whirled on the packed earth, stamping until the boards shook. Old tales were told—of Clan Gunn raids in the far north, of Craik ancestors who had fought Norsemen, of saints and spirits who walked the cliffs.
Agnes danced first with the children, laughing, her hair blazing like fire. Then she pulled Seumas into the circle.
He protested, coughing, but she would not let him slip away.
"You are not just a sword," she whispered. "You are a man. Dance."
So he did. Awkward at first, but then the rhythm caught him, and he stamped with the others, laughter bursting from him for the first time in years. The people cheered, clapping the beat, and for a moment the camp was not just preparing for war—it was alive.
Oath Before All
When the music stilled and the fire burned low, Seumas stood. He raised his claymore high, the firelight flashing on steel.
"By this blade, by this blood, I swear—I will not leave you. I will fight until my last breath. Còmhla gu bràth! Together forever."
The Craiks roared back: "Còmhla gu bràth!"
Agnes took his hand, raising it with hers. "And I swear, as Craik and as woman, I will not let him stand alone. We are bound, blood and fire both. Whoever strikes at him strikes at me."
The people cheered louder still. Some wept. All felt the bond tighten.
Seumas looked at her, his heart fierce. This was no longer just survival. It was love, it was kinship, it was destiny.
By the fire's glow, the Craiks had become more than workers, more than a clan. They were an army of the sea and smoke, bound by song, prayer, and oath.
Seumas felt the prophecy of his birth stir again: Fuil is stàilinn. Blood and steel. Yet now there was more—teine is luaithre. Flame and ash.
He knew the storm was coming. And he knew they would not face it as scattered folk, but as one.
Martial Lore on the Heather
The next morning, Seumas gathered the fighting men and women on a stretch of frozen heather above the shore. The wind bit sharp, carrying spray from the sea, but the ground was firm enough to drill. He stood before them with his claymore in hand, the great blade catching the sun's weak light.
"This sword," he said, voice carrying across the hill, "is not just steel. It is history. It is the weight of our fathers and the blood of our kin. To carry a claymore is to carry all who came before."
He lifted it high, then swung in a wide arc, the air whistling. "It is heavy, aye. But learn its weight, and it becomes part of you. Let your shoulder guide, not just your arm. Strike from the hip. And remember—one blow can end a fight, if placed true."
He showed them the mìrean, the breaking stroke, slashing downward to split shield or skull. Then the treasadh, the thrust, long and straight, driving deep into the ribs. He moved slowly, then faster, until the watchers gasped at the fluidity of a man scarred and coughing, yet still lethal.
"Now—your turn."
They raised their claymores—some real, some practice poles—and followed his lead. Seumas corrected stances, adjusted grips, barked encouragement. Sweat steamed despite the cold.
The Dance of Targe and Dirk
Next he took up his targe, the round shield of oak and leather, studded with iron. He strapped it to his forearm, drew his dirk, and faced Ewan.
"Strike at me," he ordered.
Ewan hesitated, then lunged with a practice pike. Seumas caught it on the targe, twisting his body so the point slid harmlessly aside. In the same motion, he stabbed upward with the dirk, stopping an inch from the boy's chest.
"See? The targe is not just defence—it is a weapon. Use the boss to strike, the rim to catch. The dirk follows where the shield leads. Together they are as one."
He struck again, this time slamming the targe into Ewan's shoulder, making him stumble. Then he caught him with the flat of the dirk, grinning.
"You'll bruise before you bleed. Better here than on the field."
The others laughed, easing the boy's pride. They began to practice, targes thumping, dirks flashing, the air filled with shouts and the clatter of wood and iron.
Agnes stepped in, targe on her arm, dirk in hand. She sparred with Tam, her movements quick, precise, relentless. She feinted left, caught his strike on the rim, and drove her dirk against his chest with enough force to make him grunt.
The people cheered.
Seumas's eyes lingered on her, fierce pride welling in him. She was no mere chieftain's daughter—she was warrior, equal, flame and steel both.
Pistols and Muskets
Afterward, they drilled with firearms. Seumas held up one of his matched Thomas Murdoch pistols.
"This pistol is a Highlander's friend," he said. "Close, fast, deadly. But remember—one shot, then it is but a club."
He showed how to aim, how to keep powder dry under cloak, how to fire and immediately draw the second pistol. The crack of the shot echoed across the moor, smoke curling white against the dark sea.
"Do not waste it," he warned. "Every ball is blood. Make it count."
Then came the muskets. He lined them shoulder to shoulder, showing the rhythm of volley fire.
"Load—ram—prime—fire!"
The shots rang out together, a thunderous crack that sent gulls wheeling. The smell of powder hung thick, acrid. He made them repeat until the motions were smooth, until even the youngest could load without fumbling.
"Discipline," he said. "That is what breaks men, not numbers."
Gaelic Battle-Cries
At the end, he gathered them all and spoke of cries.
"In battle, your voice is as much a weapon as your steel. A cry can freeze an enemy's heart before your blade touches him. The Gunns had theirs, the Craiks theirs. Today we make one together."
He raised his claymore and shouted with all the breath in his lungs:
"Airson na beò!" (For the living!)
The cry echoed off the cliffs. The Craiks roared it back, louder, again and again, until it seemed the sea itself answered.
Then Agnes raised her targe high and cried:
"Còmhla gu bràth!" (Together forever!)
The people stamped and shouted it until the ground shook.
Seumas felt the sound in his bones, in his scars, in his blood. It was prophecy fulfilled—not just blood and steel, but voices rising as one.
Daily Life and Survival
Preparing for war did not mean abandoning the work that kept bellies full. Even as targes thumped and muskets cracked, the kelp-pans still smoked, the nets still needed mending, the sheep still had to be driven to shelter.
The Craik women rose before dawn, shawls tight around their shoulders, and walked the shore with baskets strapped to their backs. They collected driftwood and dried weed, their fingers red from the cold, singing softly to keep rhythm.
Agnes often joined them when she could. She believed the women's work was as much part of survival as any musket. "Salt feeds us," she told Seumas, "and kelp buys us powder. Without these, your blades are only iron toys."
Children, too, had their tasks. They gathered heather for bedding, fetched water from the burn, tended the chickens and goats. Seumas watched them sometimes, his chest tightening. He remembered being a boy himself, before Culloden, when work had been hard but safe, the future still unwritten.
Teaching the Children
Agnes insisted that even the children learn something of defence. Not claymores or muskets, but stones, slings, and knives.
One frosty afternoon, she gathered them by the burn and showed them how to sling a stone. "Not to kill," she said, smiling at their wide eyes, "but to scare, to distract, to give your fathers and brothers a heartbeat more to strike true."
The boys and girls tried, some fumbling, some too eager, stones flying wide into the heather. Seumas stepped in, showing them how to hold the sling steady, how to use their whole body, not just the arm. Soon, the stones were cracking against driftwood targets with sharp thwacks.
The children laughed, cheering each hit. But Seumas's heart was heavy. No child should have to learn such things. Yet here they were, making war games of necessity.
Agnes seemed to read his thoughts. "Better they learn now than freeze in fear when steel comes close," she said firmly.
He nodded. She was right. And he loved her all the more for the steel in her heart.
Preserving Food for War
In the sheds, the older women worked at preserving food. Fish were gutted and packed in layers of salt, the sharp tang filling the air. Mutton was smoked over peat fires until it turned black and hard. Barley was ground into coarse meal and stored in sacks, to be baked into bannocks in the lean days ahead.
Seumas watched one woman rub salt into a cut of fish with hands rough and cracked. She looked up at him, eyes bright. "We do our part, Gunn," she said. "Your claymore is not sharper than our knives when it comes to keeping life in the bairns."
He bowed his head. "Aye, mistress. And your work gives us the strength to swing that claymore."
Highland Battle Lore
When the drills resumed, Seumas taught them tactics he had learned in war. He showed how to use the land: to fight uphill where possible, to retreat not in panic but in turns, one rank covering the other.
"Never break," he told them. "Once you break, you are cattle for the slaughter. Stand shoulder to shoulder, and even the king's men cannot crack you."
He explained the rhythm of Highland charges—the first volley of muskets at close range, then a rush with claymore and targe, pistols fired just before impact, dirks used when the press became too close for blades.
He demonstrated how to hook a bayonet with the rim of a targe, twist it aside, and thrust upward with the dirk. How to fire one pistol, then drop it on its strap and fire the second, charging before the smoke cleared.
The people watched with wide eyes, and when they copied him, their movements grew sharper, deadlier. They were no longer kelp-burners and salt-workers alone. They were becoming fighters.
Songs of Courage
At night, after the drills and work, they gathered around the fire once more. But instead of laments, they sang songs of courage—marching songs, working songs, songs to stir the blood.
A favorite was the Òran na Gaisgeach—the Song of the Warrior. The refrain rang out, strong and steady:
"Na biodh eagal ort, a ghaisgich,
'S tu fhèin an lann, 's tu fhèin an cridhe."
(Fear not, O warrior,
You are the blade, you are the heart.)
The children sang it loudest, their voices piercing the night. Seumas felt tears sting his eyes. He thought of Culloden again, but this time, the song did not break him. It built him.
The Night of Quiet
When the drills ended and the people dispersed, Seumas and Agnes walked the shore together. The moonlight silvered the waves, and the air smelled of salt and smoke.
"You've given them more than skill," Agnes said softly. "You've given them courage."
Seumas coughed, wiping blood from his lips. "And you've given me more than courage. You've given me reason."
She touched his face, tracing the scars with gentle fingers. "Then we will not fail. Not while we stand together."
"You've changed them," Agnes said softly. "They were workers, and now they are warriors."
He shook his head. "No. They were always warriors. They only needed reminding."
She smiled, leaning against him. "And you? What did you need reminding of?"
He looked at her, his eyes soft. "That I was still a man, not just a blade. You reminded me."
They kissed there on the dark shore, the sea roaring witness, the kelp fires glowing behind them.
For a moment, there was no war, no prophecy, no vengeance—only the heartbeat of two souls bound as one.
Thus the Craiks prepared—not only with blades and powder, but with song, prayer, laughter, and love. They were no longer just workers of kelp and salt. They were warriors, ready to stand against steel and silver alike.
And Seumas Gunn, scarred and coughing, felt more alive than he had since the day Culloden drowned his kin in blood.
Seumas felt the prophecy heavy on him—fuil is stàilinn—blood and steel. But for the first time, he thought perhaps prophecy was not doom, but destiny.