Keith's Dilemma
The Weight of Feud
Colin Keith had grown up with the Gunn feud whispered into his bones. Even before he could lift a targe, he had known the names of the Gunn chieftains, the places where blood had soaked into the soil.
The old men told the stories by the fire: of Gunn cattle driven under moonlight, of Keith shepherds speared on their own hillsides, of ambushes in narrow glens where the heather hid blades. Every tale ended the same way: blood for blood.
The feud was more than history. It was a ritual, a grim duty passed from father to son. When Colin's father had fallen at Bruan, split open by a Gunn claymore, the clan had sworn before God and stone that vengeance would not rest.
Keith still remembered the cairn they had raised, stones piled by every hand in the glen, the keening of women echoing over the sea. He had placed his own stone, small in his ten-year-old hand, and whispered, "I will not forget."
Now, decades later, the vow still burned. But it was tangled now with doubt. For Seumas Gunn was no ordinary raider. He fought with the fury of ten men, and he carried his people with him as if they were bound to his heartbeat.
Could the feud be ended by killing one man? Or would slaying Seumas only make his ghost stronger?
Remembered Battles
Keith's mind wandered through the bloody ledger of his youth.
He remembered the Slaughter of Ackergill, when Gunns had stormed the tower, killing Keith retainers in their sleep. He had been fifteen then, too young to fight, but he had ridden to see the aftermath: bodies strewn on the ground, targes splintered, muskets still warm in cold hands.
He remembered the Battle of Tannach, when the clans had clashed in the open, steel flashing under the sun. The cries had rung in his ears for days after—the Gunn war-cry, fierce and raw, meeting the steady roar of Keith voices. He had fought there, his first true fight, his dirk tasting blood for the first time.
And he remembered the silence after, the moor scattered with bodies, ravens circling, the stench of iron thick in the air.
"Never forget," his uncle had told him that day, pressing a bloody hand on his shoulder. "A Keith without vengeance is no Keith at all."
Doubts in the Firelight
Yet sitting now by the low fire in Wick, Keith wondered if vengeance had become a chain.
The world had changed since Culloden. The clans bled white, the tartans banned, the chiefs humbled. The feuds that once gave men purpose now only kept them weak, easier prey for crown and coin.
He spat into the flames, watching them hiss. Perhaps Gunn was right, in his own cursed way. Perhaps the only way forward was to stand with one's people, not tear each other apart for grudges centuries old.
But if Keith let the feud die, would he not betray his father's cairn, his vow, his very blood?
The question gnawed at him like a rat in the dark.
Mistrust of Sinclair Ambition
One thing, however, was clear: the Sinclairs could not be trusted.
Robert was a merchant at heart. His wars were fought with ledgers, his weapons were writs and seals. Useful, aye—but no man ever kept ground with paper when steel pressed against it.
Margaret was worse. She was fire unbound, proud and venomous. He had seen her eyes when she spoke of Agnes Craik—like a hawk stooping on prey. That kind of hatred burned hotter than reason.
Already she had bribed Bain and Rory. Already whispers spread among the men. If her coin reached further, Keith's command would splinter. And no commander could fight a war with splinters in his own hand.
Prophecy in Blood
Keith drew his dirk and studied the blade in the firelight. His thumb brushed the edge until it cut, blood welling bright.
Blood and steel. Always blood and steel.
He thought of Seumas Gunn, the prophecy that clung to him like mist: born under storm, fated to bleed and strike, to bring ruin or salvation. Keith did not believe in old women's tales—but he had seen enough to know some men walked with fate at their heels.
Perhaps Seumas was one of them. Perhaps killing him would not end the feud, but ignite it afresh, a fire to consume them all.
Keith's Resolve
By the time dawn paled the sky, Keith had reached his decision:
He would not be Sinclair's hound.
He would not let Margaret's poison spread unchecked.
And he would not turn his back on his father's cairn, not yet.
If Seumas Gunn was to die, it would be by Keith's hand, in open fight, with no silver-purse tricks or whispers in the dark.
The feud demanded blood, aye—but it demanded honour too.
He rose, buckled on his claymore, and stepped into the cold morning. The sea roared, endless and merciless. Somewhere beyond those cliffs, Gunn sharpened his own blade, preparing for the same fate.
And Keith knew, deep in his bones, that before long, only one of them would walk away.
Skirmish at Loch Wattenan
The Watchful Morning
The loch stretched like a sheet of hammered pewter, reeds whispering along its frozen edges. Craik boats bobbed in the shallows, nets heavy with fish. The air was alive with the smell of wet weed and smoke from the shore fires. Seumas Gunn stood with cloak tight against the chill, watching the young men haul trout glistening silver into wicker baskets.
Agnes's voice carried over the loch: "Steady, Ewan—don't spill them!" Her laughter warmed the morning as surely as the sun, thin though it was. For a heartbeat, Seumas allowed himself to breathe as a man, not a soldier.
But the unease never left him. His eyes flicked to the reed-choked bank opposite. Something moved—too heavy for bird, too sure for deer. He reached for his targe even before the crack of doom.
The Ambush Springs
The musket shot split the air. One of the lads screamed, spinning, blood spurting from his shoulder before he fell thrashing into the icy water.
"Ambush!" Seumas bellowed, voice like thunder.
The reeds exploded with movement. Keith's men surged forward, cloaks dark against frost, steel flashing. Smoke rolled from the first ragged volley. Balls hissed across the loch, skipping like stones, splintering planks, cutting through nets.
Bain grinned wolfishly, dirk clenched in his teeth as he reloaded. MacRae, scarred throat bared, drove men forward with bayonet flashing. Rory's hands shook as he fired wildly, his ball splashing far wide, but his face was pale with terror, not malice.
Chaos on the Water
Boats pitched as Craiks scrambled. Some dragged the wounded ashore, others snatched up muskets. Women on the bank raised dirks and targes, Agnes among them, her eyes blazing.
"Hold the shore!" she cried. "For Craik! For Loch Wattenan!"
Seumas vaulted into a boat, pistols drawn. The first barked, and a raider toppled into the loch with a scream, blood billowing red in the grey water. The second cracked an instant later, shattering a man's shoulder and spinning him backward.
Seumas dropped the pistols on their straps, raised his claymore, and met the rush.
A pike thrust for his belly—he caught it on his targe, shoved hard, and slashed down. The blade tore through wood and bone alike, sending the man shrieking into the loch.
Agnes the Flame
On the bank, Agnes fought like fire incarnate. A raider lunged, and she swung a shovel from the pans with both hands, its iron edge crunching across his temple. He fell boneless to the mud. She drew her short sword and drove it clean into another's ribs, twisting free with savage grace.
The women rallied behind her, dirks flashing. One rammed her targe into a raider's jaw, teeth snapping. Another slashed with a kitchen cleaver, shrieking defiance. The air filled with Gaelic cries:
"Airson Craik!" (For Craik!)
"Airson Loch Wattenan!"
The Duel with MacRae
Boats crashed together mid-loch, grappling, targes thudding, dirks stabbing.
MacRae came at Seumas with a snarl, bayonet thrusting. "Culloden should've buried you, Gunn!"
Their clash was savage. Bayonet rang on targe, claymore hissed through smoke. Seumas slashed deep into MacRae's side, blood spilling hot, but the man fought like a wounded boar, stabbing again and again, his eyes blazing hatred.
Seumas twisted, dirk flashing in his left hand. He drove it into MacRae's arm, blood spurting. MacRae roared, stumbling back into the loch, but even as he fell, his bayonet raked across Seumas's ribs.
Seumas Wounded
The steel tore flesh. Pain exploded white-hot. Seumas staggered, blood soaking his tunic. His claymore nearly slipped from his grasp.
Agnes saw him falter. With a cry, she stormed into the shallows, targe smashing into a raider's face, bone cracking. She lunged, her short sword flashing, cutting the man's throat in a spray of red.
She caught Seumas before he fell, her arm around his waist. "Seumas! Stay with me!"
His breath rattled, blood on his lips. "It's nothing," he rasped. "Fight on."
Her jaw set, eyes blazing. "Then we fight together."
Turning the Tide
The Craiks saw their chief wounded and their fury doubled. Ewan reloaded, hands steady now, and fired—his ball tore through a raider's chest, dropping him screaming into the water. "For Gunn!" he shouted, voice breaking.
The volley line on the bank fired together, musket balls ripping into approaching boats. One shattered, men spilling into the freezing loch, dragged under by heavy gear. Women hurled stones from slings, striking skulls with dull cracks. Children, too, flung rocks, their cries high and fierce.
"Drive them back!" Agnes roared, blood streaking her cheek.
The Craiks surged. Oars became clubs, targes bashed jaws, dirks stabbed ribs. The air stank of smoke, powder, and blood.
Retreat of the Wolves
Keith's horn sounded then—three sharp blasts. His men hesitated, Bain cursing, Rory weeping, MacRae hauled half-dead into a boat. The retreat call was clear.
"Back!" Bain snarled, dragging Rory with him. "Back, damn you!"
The raiders pulled away, leaving the loch littered with wreckage and blood, bodies bobbing in crimson-stained water.
Aftermath
The Craiks' cheer rose ragged, victorious but grim. They had held Loch Wattenan, but the cost was high—three dead, many wounded, and Seumas himself bleeding.
Agnes laid him on the bank, tearing cloth to bind his side. Her hands were steady though her face was pale. She whispered Gaelic prayers as she worked:
"Cum e beò, a Dhia. Na toir e bhuam fhathast."
(Keep him alive, O God. Do not take him from me yet.)
Seumas gripped her wrist, his voice a hoarse whisper. "You saved me."
Her eyes burned. "And you will save us all. You're not done yet."
The people gathered round, weary but unbroken, their targes dented, blades bloodied. They had fought for their loch, their nets, their lives—and they had won.
But Agnes looked at the crimson water rippling under the pale sky and knew: this was only the first wave. The tide of blood was still rising.