The Dead Are Counted
By torchlight, the Craiks laid their fallen on the hillside above the loch. Three young men, hardly more than boys, wrapped in woollen cloaks with rowan branches crossed on their chests. The clan keened, voices rising and falling in the night wind, a sound older than the kirk and deeper than words.
Old Màiri stepped forward with a bowl of salt and ash. She scattered it over the bodies, chanting:
"Anns an talamh thig thu, anns an talamh gabh thu fois.
Gun dìon do fhuil ar clann, gun cum do spiorad ar tìr."
(Into the earth you go, into the earth you rest.
May your blood shield our children, may your spirit guard our land.)
Old Màiri raised her staff and began a lament, her cracked voice keening across the water:
"Ochòin, ochòin, a ghillean òg,
Thuit sibh mar dhuilleag san t-sruth,
Ach cumaidh ar clach sibh,
Cumaidh ar cuimhne sibh."
(Alas, alas, young lads,
You fell like leaves in the stream,
But our stones will keep you,
Our memory will keep you.)
Stones were gathered from the shore, each man and woman carrying one.
Each Craik stepped forward to lay a stone, building the cairn. Ewan laid his with shaking hands, tears streaking his face
Ewan knelt weeping by his cousin's body. Seumas crouched beside him, his own wound burning, and set a rough hand on the boy's shoulder.
"He died with a weapon in his hand, Ewan. There is no braver death."
The lad sniffed, wiping his face. "I'll fight in his place."
Seumas nodded grimly. "Aye. That's the way of it."
Healing the Living
After the dead were honoured, the women wove charms for the living. Red wool cords braided with rowan twigs. Shells from the loch painted with salt symbols. Small leather pouches filled with kelp ash and barley meal.
Each warrior received one, fastened to sword-belts, musket straps, targes.
"Seo do neart," (This is your strength) the women said.
"Seo do dhìon." (This is your defence.)
Agnes tied one around Seumas's wrist herself. "For luck," she said softly.
He looked at her, eyes fierce even through pain. "You're my luck, Agnes."
She pressed the cord tighter, her lips set. "Then don't squander it."
Back in the longhouse, the women tended the wounded. The air was thick with the scent of peat smoke and boiling herbs. Birch bark was ground into poultices, and clean kelp ash sprinkled on wounds to draw out rot.
Old Màiri led prayers over the wounded. She burned juniper in a clay bowl, letting the smoke waft over them. She sprinkled holy water mixed with salt, murmuring:
"Thig slàinte mar an èirigh-grèine,
Fàg pian mar sgòth a' seòladh."
(May healing come like the sunrise,
May pain leave like a drifting cloud.)
The wounded groaned and stirred, comforted by the ritual even if the wounds themselves still burned.
Agnes worked tirelessly, moving from man to man, binding cuts, soothing fevers, whispering encouragement. She ground comfrey root with a stone pestle and spread the paste over Seumas's ribs, her touch gentle even as he flinched.
"Hold still," she said firmly. "You've bled enough for one day."
He grimaced, managing a rasp of a laugh. "I've more yet to spill."
Her hand paused. "Don't say that. Not to me."
Their eyes met, and for a heartbeat the war fell away. But the cries of the wounded reminded them of the cost still being paid.
Prayers in the Dark
That night the people gathered around the fires once more. A bard lifted his voice, singing not of joy but of endurance:
"Cha ghlèidh sinn ach an fhearann,
Cha dìon sinn ach ar cridhe,
Is mairidh sinn, ged thuiteas sinn,
Fo bhratach an fhuil."
(We keep only the land,
We guard only our hearts,
And we endure, though we fall,
Under the banner of blood.)
Men and women alike wept, but they sang too, their voices binding them closer. Children clung to their mothers, listening with wide eyes. Even grief became armour.
Seumas sat apart, coughing into his hand, crimson staining his palm. Yet when Agnes pressed his fingers, he closed them around hers, letting her strength flow into him.
Agnes called for silence. One by one, the Craiks stepped forward to speak—not just warriors, but mothers, elders, and even children.
An old shepherd named Domhnall leaned on his stick, his beard white, his eyes watery but sharp. "The family moved here from the Aberdeen area, I herded sheep on these hills when I was a lad. I saw Keith raiders drive them off, I saw friends cut down. I fled then. I'll not flee again. If my bones break on their steel, let them."
A young mother, Màiri Beag, stood with her infant swaddled at her breast. "My bairn will not starve because Sinclairs cut our nets. If I must wield a cleaver to keep him fed, I'll wield it." She raised the kitchen blade she had brought to the fire, its edge gleaming.
Even little Niall, no more than twelve, stood with a sling at his belt. His voice cracked, but his words rang clear: "I can throw stones as well as any. I'll fight beside my father. I'll fight beside all of you."
Tears shone in Agnes's eyes. She turned to Seumas. "Do you hear them? They are ready. They are yours."
Seumas coughed, crimson staining his lips, but his voice carried: "No—they are ours. Craik and Gunn, kelp and steel, together."
The people roared, stamping feet, shaking targes and dirks in the firelight.
Agnes raised his hand with hers, and the people thundered: "Còmhla gu bràth!"
Together forever.
Wick: Fractures in the Alliance
In Wick, the mood was darker. The King's Arms stank of ale and sweat, the floor sticky with spilled drink. Keith's men muttered in corners, angry at the retreat. Some cursed Sinclair coin, others muttered that Gunn was unkillable.
Ale flowed, but their laughter was hollow. Bain bragged of his kills, but his words rang false. Rory sat pale, hands trembling on his cup.
"Why do we bleed for Sinclair silver?" one man muttered. "Gunn fights like a chief. He defends his folk. What do the Sinclairs defend but coin?"
Another spat into the fire. "Aye. They sit in the warm while we freeze and bleed."
Bain snarled, knife flashing. "Mind your tongue. The lady pays well."
But the others were not cowed. "And when her silver's gone? When Keith's pride is all that's left? Will it feed our bellies? Keep our wives from hunger?"
The room rumbled with discontent. Keith's discipline was fraying, Margaret's silver twisting loyalties. Mutiny whispered in the dark.
Upstairs, Robert argued with Margaret.
"Every skirmish costs us more than it costs them," he snapped, slamming his ledger shut. "Powder spent, men lost, coin bleeding away. We must cut their trade veins—ferries, fish, salt. Starve them slow."
Margaret's eyes burned. "Slow? While Gunn struts like a king beside that kelp-wife? While every skirmish turns him into a legend? No, Father. You strangle them while I cut their heart. I want her blood."
Robert's hand twitched. "Your obsession will ruin us."
"Your cowardice already has," she hissed.
The door slammed open. Colin Keith strode in, mud on his boots, face like thunder. "Enough!" he roared. "You bicker while Gunn rallies half of Caithness with his defiance. You think he can be broken with ledgers or jealousies? Only steel will settle this."
Margaret sneered. "Then do it. Kill him."
Keith's eyes bored into hers. "I will. But when I do, it will be in the open, before his people, with my blade. Not by your purse, not by your whispers. And if you meddle again, Margaret Sinclair, I'll see you silenced before Gunn ever will."
Keith leaned forward, eyes cold. "Satisfy your pride, woman, and lose the war. Gunn won't die to whispers. He'll die to steel. But if you keep poisoning my men with your coin, they'll break before he does."
The silence that followed was heavier than steel.
The Beacons of Defiance
Back at Loch Wattenan, the Craiks lit beacon fires along the shore, their flames leaping into the night. Smoke coiled into the sky, a challenge for all to see.
Children sang war-songs, their voices fierce. Old men sharpened dirks, targes, and claymores. Women ground meal, salted fish, and set buckets of stones by every doorway.
Seumas stood before the largest fire, his claymore planted in the ground. The flames lit his scarred face, his eyes fierce though his breath came ragged.
"Let them see," he rasped. "Let them all see. We are not broken. We are waiting."
Agnes took his hand, raising it high. "And when they come, we will meet them. Còmhla gu bràth!"
The cry roared back from every throat: "Còmhla gu bràth!"
The tide was rising—of fire, of blood, of fate.
Thus the Craiks turned grief into fire, fire into resolve.
So the tide rose—of blood, of vengeance, of fate.
In Wick, distrust and pride cracked the alliance. In Craik lands, even children swore to fight.
In Wick, pride and mistrust gnawed at the alliance. In Craik lands, grief became fire, and fire became resolve.
The storm had not yet broken, but its roar was in the air, in the earth, in the sea. And when it came, it would sweep away all who were not anchored in blood and steel.