Chapter 41
Elder MacRae
The horn’s cry rolled through the keep—low, long, and terrible in its warning.
Domnhall MacRae rose from his seat by the hearth, the cane already in his grasp.
That sound was no false alarm. It was the voice of war—old and merciless—and he’d hoped never to hear it again since the raid on Strathloch near half a year earlier.
By the time he stepped out of the great hall, Strathloch had erupted into motion.
Men poured from the barracks, buckling leather and mail, blades catching firelight as they went.
But what gave him pause—what struck him square in the chest—was the sight beyond them.
Women.
They had not run to the keep to hide in the cellar, nor barred themselves inside their homes.
They filled the courtyard instead—armed.
Some bore the shortbows Sorcha had seen fitted in the armory months ago; others carried the training staves she had carved for them with her own hands.
No panic. No tears.
Only resolve.
“By the saints,” Domnhall murmured beneath his breath. “She’s forged them well.”
Elder MacFarlane came up beside him, face drawn but eyes fierce.
“Orders, MacRae?”
Domnhall lifted his cane, his voice cutting through the clamor.
“To the walls! Archers aloft! Any with staves—guard the gate! We hold ’til our laird returns!”
The women and men alike surged to obey, and the keep began to find its rhythm—the old rhythm of defense.
Flames bloomed along the ramparts as torches were lit.
Domnhall climbed the outer steps to the wall, his boots sure despite the missing weight of his arm.
From the parapet he could see the dark line of trees beyond the frost-glazed field, movement flickering between the trunks.
The raiders were there—too close.
Figures broke from the cover of the woods, scattering across the open ground, their shadows sliding over the frost.
In the field below, steel already clashed—men locked in combat, cries carrying on the cold air.
Along the slope, more warriors surged from the gates to meet them, their torches flaring as they joined the fight.
The whole of Strathloch had come alive—its people pouring into the night to defend their own.
“Light every sconce!” he commanded. “Give the archers their sight!”
The glow flared outward, catching the glint of steel and the churn of feet in the half-dark.
Somewhere ahead, beyond the reach of the torches, came the distant ring of swords and the shout of men.
From below, a shout rose through the din—raw, desperate.
“Call for the healer! We’ll have need of her—men are down!”
Domnhall’s head snapped toward the sound. The words echoed off the stone, carried by another voice farther down the wall.
“Fetch the healer—make ready the hall!”
He straightened, his tone cutting through the noise.
“Go, lad—see it done yerself! Tell them to prepare the chamber and bring bandages, hot water—whatever they’ll need!”
The young guard nodded once, face pale in the torchlight, and bolted from the parapet, boots striking hard against the stone.
Domnhall gripped the battlement, eyes fixed on the field beyond as the cry for aid spread through Strathloch.
Moments dragged like hours.
Then another voice shouted from the far tower, rough with disbelief.
“They’re breakin’! The dogs are runnin’!”
A ragged cheer went up from the walls. But Domnhall did not share it.
He leaned over the parapet, scanning the field below.
Then came Duncan’s cry, echoing through the night:
“Open the gates! Make way!”
“Open!” Domnhall thundered. “Let them through!”
The great timbers groaned as the bolts were drawn. The gates parted just enough to admit the returning men—blood-spattered, smoke-streaked, carrying one between them.
Even before the light reached his face, Domnhall knew.
“Calum,” he breathed.
He strode forward as the others hurried to meet them.
“Bring him through! Quick now!”
The air beyond the gate reeked of blood and smoke.
Sorcha came beside the men bearing Calum, her hair loose, her face streaked with dirt and crimson.
Her hands—red to the wrists—pressed hard against his chest.
She was shouting even as they moved.
“Mind his chest! Keep pressure! Boil the water—spirits and clean linen, ready before we reach the healer’s chamber!”
The healer and her apprentice ran ahead.
Domnhall and MacFarlane fell in step behind.
“Sorcha!” Domnhall called. “Lass—what’s happened?”
She turned to him, breath visible in the cold.
“It’s my doing,” she said hoarsely. “All of it.”
He frowned. “Speak plain.”
“I thought I’d cut the head from the snake when I struck down Elspeth,” she said, voice fraying at the edges. “I thought the rot ended there.
Then John turned on me, and I believed it finished. I believed I’d done what justice required.
But I was wrong. The poison ran deeper still.”
Her gaze fell to Calum, blood blooming dark across his tunic.
“Liam. His mother. They led raiders to our gates. They were waiting. Watching. I should’ve seen it. I should’ve ended it when I had the chance.”
Domnhall set his hand—his one hand—on her shoulder.
“You did what you thought right, lass. That’s all any can do.”
“It cost him,” she whispered. “My mistake, my belief in fair judgment—it’s his blood that pays for it.”
The men bore Calum toward the healer’s room, Sorcha never leaving his side.
Domnhall followed, the firelight painting the ground in flickers of gold and red.
“He’s strong,” he said quietly. “And stubborn. He’ll fight to come back to ye.”
But Sorcha gave no answer. Her face was pale as ash, her eyes fixed on Calum’s still form.
Inside the healer’s infirmary, the air filled with the rush of water and the clatter of basins.
Voices rose—urgent, fearful, praying.
Domnhall lingered near the doorway, cane planted firm in the earth.
Through the open shutters, he could see the women still guarding the walls, their silhouettes lined against the torchlight—steady, silent, unflinching.
And the old man thought, pride and dread twined tight in his chest:
His son would live.
He was as strong—and as stubborn—as his mother had been before him.
Calum had been steadfast in making right the wrong he’d done to Sorcha, and if it lay within his power to survive, he would.
Domnhall would not allow himself to think any other way.