The Edge of Night
The fog was unnatural that night. It rolled off the sea in thick sheets, folding into the gullies and ravines until even the heather seemed to shiver. It muffled the world, smothering sound. The Craiks' watchfires burned low, their light reduced to pale, shifting globes that seemed to float in the mist like trapped souls.
Agnes walked the ridge as she always did before sleep, dagger in hand. It was habit as much as duty; her people slept sounder knowing her eyes roved the shadows. She listened, forcing herself to distinguish every sound: the hiss of brine on the pans, the sigh of the loch, the click of kelp cracking in embers.
Then she froze.
There. A scrape, faint but real. Not driftwood shifting, not a bird. Stone against stone, where no stone should move.
Her pulse hammered. She bent low, scanning the cliff. The fog was too thick to see, but her body knew what her eyes could not.
"Seumas," she whispered, though he was already approaching, claymore naked in his hands. His breath rattled, but his gaze was sharp. He, too, had heard it.
The scrape came again, louder this time.
Agnes's skin prickled. "They're in the cliffs."
Geordie's fingers bled from scrabbling at the wet stone. The dirk Bain had shoved into his hand felt heavier than iron, slippery in his sweat.
He peered through the crack. There she was. The woman they called Agnes Craik. She did not look like a witch. Her hair burned against the fog like a beacon, her stance proud, dagger drawn. She was taller than he expected, her face hard but not cruel.
His stomach twisted. He couldn't. He thought of his sister—wee Jeanie, who still asked him to sing her to sleep. She had Agnes's same fiery hair.
Bain's hand clamped his shoulder. "Go, boy. You cut her or I cut you."
Geordie swallowed. "I can't—"
Bain shoved him so hard he cracked his head against the rock. "Then don't come back."
The boy edged forward, dirk trembling. His boot slipped, stone scraped. Loud.
Agnes's head snapped up. Their eyes met through the slit. For one breath, he saw her soul in her gaze—and she saw his fear.
Her body moved before her mind did. She whipped her targe up and slammed it against the slit. The iron boss struck Geordie's hand with a sickening crunch. The dirk clattered into darkness.
Geordie cried out, pain strangling his voice. Bain yanked him back, cursing.
Agnes spun, shouting with the full strength of her lungs:
"Dùisg! Dùisg! Eirichibh! Wake! Up!"
The longhouse burst alive. Men stumbled from pallets, women pulled children close, slings grabbed, muskets primed. The air filled with the shuffle of targes and the rasp of steel.
Seumas staggered to her side, coughing blood but gripping his claymore. "Where?"
"Cliff," she spat. "They're rats in the stone."
His jaw hardened. "Then we smoke them."
Bain shoved Geordie back, dirk pressed to his throat. "Squeal again and you're gull-meat."
The boy whimpered, clutching his broken hand.
Ivor Glass-eye hissed, "They ken we're here."
"They think we're vermin," Bain growled. "So we'll bite." He leaned to the slit. Through it, he saw Seumas Gunn—hair tangled, face hollow, claymore steady. Bain's grin widened.
"A ghost, aye. But I'll send him back to the grave."
He motioned with two fingers. "Round the ledge. When the witch bends to him, cut her throat."
The first Keith raiders crested the cliff like spiders, targes strapped, dirks out. The Craiks met them with fury. Stones flew, slings cracking like whips, skulls breaking under the rain of rock. Muskets fired point-blank, smoke choking the fog.
Seumas waded into them, claymore sweeping wide. He cut a man in two strokes, parried another's thrust, drove his blade into a third's belly. Each swing jolted his chest, each breath tore him raw, but he did not falter.
Agnes fought like flame, dagger flashing, targe smashing against jaws and ribs. Her braid had come loose, her hair a banner in the smoke.
"Craik! Craik!" their people roared, voices echoing into the mist.
Geordie's Choice
Bain shoved him forward again. "Now, boy. Cut her."
Geordie shook his head violently. "She looked at me. She saw me."
"Then she'll see you die." Bain raised his dirk.
Before the blade fell, Ivor shouted, "The Gunn's cutting them like wheat! They'll reach us!"
Bain snarled, yanking Geordie by the collar. "Then you'll serve as bait."
Bain leapt from the cleft like a striking hawk, dirk flashing. Seumas turned just in time. Claymore met steel with a ringing clash, sparks flying.
"Ghost," Bain spat. "Let's see if you bleed."
"I've bled enough," Seumas rasped, coughing, "for ten men. Yours will do."
They circled. Bain darted in and out, dirk stabbing for heart, throat, gut. Seumas parried, shoved, his claymore heavy but sure. Every blow rattled his ribs, but his eyes burned.
Agnes killed another raider at Seumas's flank, then looked back just as Bain's dirk slipped past the claymore, angling for Seumas's chest.
"Seumas!" she screamed.
It was Sorcha's stone that saved him.
The girl had climbed the ridge unnoticed, sling wound tight. She loosed. The stone cracked against Bain's temple with a dull, brutal thock. His grin froze.
Seumas's claymore swung. It tore Bain nearly in two. Blood sprayed hot across the fog. He fell with a laugh choked into silence, his eyes wide in shock.
The Keith raiders broke. They scrambled back down the cliff, screams fading into mist. The Craiks pressed after them with stones and musket-fire until the night went quiet again.
Only Geordie remained, sobbing on his knees.
Agnes strode to him, dagger raised. He cowered, hands up, tears streaking. "I didn't! I couldn't!"
Seumas's hand caught her arm. "He's a pawn. Not a blade."
She stared at him, chest heaving. Then she grabbed the boy's chin, forcing him to look at her. Her voice was steel.
"Tell Margaret Sinclair: if she sends knives in the night, I'll answer in daylight. I'll burn Wick to the ground."
Geordie nodded, shaking. He bolted into the fog.
The ridge reeked of blood and smoke. The Craiks stood, breathing hard, some wounded, some weeping, all alive.
Sorcha's hands trembled as she cleaned her sling. Ewan pulled her close. "Well struck, lass. Your Da smiles tonight."
Màiri Mhòr lifted her staff, murmuring prayers for the dead Keiths as much as the living Craiks. "Blood feeds the land. May it feed our roots, not our graves."
Seumas coughed, blood staining his lips, knees buckling. Agnes caught him, pressing her forehead to his. "You can't keep bleeding for everyone."
His eyes burned. "I will, until she's ash."
She kissed him hard, her lips tasting of smoke and salt. "Not without me."
Far to the south, in her chamber above Wick, Margaret Sinclair lit a candle. Its flame guttered in the draft, but she smiled at its defiance.
"They'll think themselves safe," she whispered. "But I've only begun."
Robert, outside her door, heard her laughter. It chilled him more than the fog.
Bain lay broken on the ridge, his blood steaming in the mist. A boy ran south with a warning in his heart. The Craiks stood together, bound tighter by blood and stone. And Margaret Sinclair's fury burned brighter than any candle, feeding a storm that shadows alone could no longer hold.
Na Falaich (The Shadows)
Geordie stumbled into Wick at dawn, his clothes torn, his face pale, his hands bloodied from stone and rope. The fishermen unloading their catch stopped to stare; the boy's eyes were wide with terror, his lips cracked, muttering half-words as he lurched down the cobbles.
"They're comin'," he gasped. "The Gunn's no ghost. Bain's gone—split like a salmon—"
By the time he reached the square, a crowd had gathered. Margaret Sinclair appeared on the balcony above, cloak wrapped around her shoulders, hair gleaming copper in the morning sun.
"What is this?" she demanded.
The boy collapsed to his knees. "I tried—he made me—Bain's dead. The woman—she spared me." He shuddered. "She told me to tell you: send knives in the dark again, and she'll burn Wick in daylight."
The crowd stirred, crossing themselves, muttering "witch" and "curse."
Margaret's face went white, then red. Her voice cut the air. "Lies! The Gunn bewitched him. The Craik woman hexed his tongue. Bain was a drunk, and he failed me, but we are not broken!"
But even as she spoke, she saw the doubt in their eyes.
Behind her, Robert Sinclair sagged against the doorframe. His heart clenched. The message is delivered, he thought. And we are finished.
Inside the hall, she slapped Geordie so hard he sprawled against the wall. "Coward! You could have cut her throat!"
The boy sobbed. "She looked at me—she saw—"
"Silence!" Margaret hissed. She seized his chin, nails digging. "If you speak of sparing again, I'll cut your tongue."
Keith stood nearby, arms folded, disgust plain. "The boy's no soldier, Margaret. Bain was your man. He failed. He paid."
Margaret whirled on him, eyes blazing. "Do not speak of failure to me! I'll not rest until that bitch bleeds."
Keith's face darkened. "Watch your tongue. You forget yourself."
"I forget nothing," she spat. "I remember every face that mocks me, every whisper that calls her flame and me shadow. I will not be shadow."
Robert stepped forward, voice breaking. "Margaret, for pity's sake, stop. The people fear you more than they fear her. You'll turn them against us."
Her laughter rang sharp. "Let them fear. Fear is rule. Love is weakness. She rules with love, and I will burn her with fear."
Robert whispered to Keith as she stormed out, "She'll ruin us all."
Keith growled, "Aye. But she may ruin the Craiks first."
Mourning at Loch Wattenan
At Loch Wattenan, the air was heavy with smoke and sorrow. Bain's men lay dead at the foot of the cairn, their bodies dragged from the ridge. Agnes gave the order: no dishonour, no mutilation. They were laid with the same rites as her own dead.
"We bury them too," she said firmly. "The land takes all blood. It will not choose sides."
Some of the men muttered, but Seumas backed her, his voice hoarse but hard. "Aye. We bury them. Else we are no better than Keith."
So the cairn grew again, stones stacked higher, each with a whispered prayer. Màiri Mhòr sang the lament, her voice cracked but steady:
"O cha tèid sinn sìos gun ghràdh,
Cha tèid sinn sìos gun fhuil.
Bheir sinn an talamh mar phàigheadh,
Bheir sinn ar cuimhne gu bràth."
(We will not go down without love,
We will not go down without blood.
We give the earth its payment,
We give our memory forever.)
Sorcha placed a stone with trembling hands, whispering for her Da. Ewan stood beside her, face set like iron. "They'll not take another," he vowed.
That night, after the burial, Seumas sat by the loch, his breath ragged. Agnes came to him, laying a plaid around his shoulders.
"You bleed too much," she whispered.
He coughed, spat blood into the grass. "Better me than them."
She turned his face to hers. "No. Not better you. Not ever you. I need you alive."
He caught her hand, pressed it to his lips. "Then I'll live. If only to spite her."
Her smile trembled. "Good. Because I've no wish to mourn you while my hair's still red."
They laughed softly, their foreheads resting together. For a moment, the war seemed far.
Geordie was gone by morning. Some said he fled south, others that Margaret had him drowned in the harbour. No one asked too loudly.
Robert sat in his chamber, staring at the letter he had written to Agnes but never sent. His hand shook. He whispered, "God forgive me. I may have to save her to damn my own blood."
Margaret, meanwhile, sharpened a new plan. The knife had failed. So she turned to poison.
The night raid had failed, Bain lay broken, and Wick simmered with fear. But Margaret Sinclair's fury only deepened. Where blades could not cut, she would use subtler weapons.
At Loch Wattenan, the Craiks bound tighter, mourning together, vowing together. Seumas and Agnes stood shoulder to shoulder, love and steel, their oath as strong as the cairn.
The storm had passed its first shadow. Now it darkened further, into poison and betrayal.