With the suddenness and timing of a message from God, the rain returned. It bashed the ground, drummed on roofs, and cut through the thin vestiges of warmth Benedict’s damp coat had given him. The noise was atrocious. Thunder boomed across the loch, echoed in the hills, and rumbled on itself as it traversed the valley. Lightning struck out from behind the mountaintop of Blà Bheinn, casting a net of power and anger across the black sky.
The MacDonalds rode the thunder through the village, struck down a farmer, sent his wife into a ditch, and descended into a frenzy of wanton destruction.
Villagers came out in force, armed with pitchforks and axes to protect their families. Fishermen holding aloft wicked-looking gaffes and poles came up from the waterfront.
MacNab spoke to MacGregor in Scots, hot urgent words, and the older man peeled away from the group and headed into the maze of fields and bog behind the village. Yet the groom remained beside Benedict, holding tight on the reins of his nervous horse, wrapping the cracked leather around his fingers, alternating a steely glare from the MacDonalds to the cottages, and putting himself and his steed between villagers and his master. Benedict ignored him. What he wanted was at Dún Ringall. He urged the MacDonalds onward, cutting through the angry villagers like a spear, into the dark of the night and the pelting rain, to the promontory that held the remains of a once mighty stronghold, and a once powerful family.
Dún Ringall had guarded its secrets in solid silence for millennia. Now it was a ruin, but there were still secrets to protect. The last croft-house before the ruin stood like an ageing sentry. An old woman appeared in the doorway. Another pulled at her arm and dragged her from the oncoming men.
Benedict urged his horse forward. Legend passed down through his family spoke of this house and the witch within. The woman who’d cast a spell upon his ancestor and sent him wandering aimlessly through the Cuillins toward Cailleadch’s Mountain, where he’d passed into mist and never been seen again.
‘Witch,’ he said. He vibrated with energy and dug his heels into the horse’s flank. It jumped forward. ‘Witch!’ he yelled, voice hoarse, forgetting for a time that this woman could not be the same who’d cursed his long dead forebear.
All around them the sounds of battle, men yelling, women screeching. The brothers were somewhere in the din. Benedict didn’t know where or if they even still lived. He didn’t care.
The women ran.
And then a shadow passed between Benedict and his prey. MacNab realised at the last what his master intended to do; sacred duties and connections replaced inner conflict. As Benedict tensed, ready to give chase to the women, MacNab drew his horse between them and jumped from the saddle, tackling Benedict to the ground.
The fight was messy, each man hampered with sodden clothes and slippery ground, each desperate to succeed. Benedict was startled by the attack, but not surprised. He’d seen the confusion and anger on his groom’s face grow throughout the afternoon.
First blood went to MacNab: a gash on Benedict’s cheek he barely felt.
‘Traitor!’ he growled, and thrust out with the short dagger he kept sheathed on his belt.
MacNab grabbed his wrist and forced the blade away. He brought his fist up. Benedict turned his head, crouched, and let the devastating punch slide off his head. He darted in quickly and cleanly, catching MacNab off-balance, pulled his dagger free, and plunged it between the man’s ribs.
Last blood went to Lord Benedict.
Benedict fuelled the desire for revenge with the lust for the hidden treasures his ancestors had long desired. His distant grandfather hadn’t been the first of the Benedict line to lose their life on this desolate stretch of coast. He too had followed old stories of an ancestor who had disappeared on this very spot. Murdered and cast into the sea. Benedict men had left life behind in this place for centuries—not anymore.
Benedict forced his way into the croft, tearing a heavy curtain from the doorway and kicking over a stool. The hearth fire guttered out. Wind swirled around the room, causing an arc of brilliant golden candlelight to flash and then die in its wake. Curtains in windows flapped. Another door, large enough only for a small child or an adult on their hands and knees, stood open in the far corner. Benedict, struck with cold clarity, understood; the women at the front door had diverted attention from someone sneaking out the back.
MacNab’s was a delaying tactic. It had cost him his life, but it had worked.
Benedict threw down shelves and tables; canisters of flour and acrid smelling powders coated the floor. He ripped at curtains and quilted bedding. The kitchen fire flared as shreds of straw landed within its hearth.
He howled at the ceiling and the wind receded for that moment as if in retreat. He strode out into the night. Figures were hiding in the bushes. Others were striding down from the village. Time was escaping him. He rounded the croft, searching for the trail down to the beach and stopped, frozen as a figure drifted along the broken ramparts of the fort.
‘You’re a fool. Like your fathers before you.’ The voice was soft. It trickled like a tumbling brook in his head. ‘You don’t even know what you’re looking for.’
The figure stretched upward into the night, absorbed some of the crackling energy, and sent a cobweb of light to the ground. ‘You must seek knowledge, not violence. Only then will you know what you’ve lost.’
Benedict’s mouth was dry, his tongue glued in place behind grimacing teeth. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, barely perceived what was happening.
‘Go away, fool. Do not return until you find wisdom, until you’ve learned what is at stake.’ A round carved stone appeared in Benedict’s hand. ‘Take this. One day you’ll have need of gifts. Let this be the first.’
The figure shifted from male to female, armoured to begowned to naked, long armed and legged to short and stumpy, beautiful and ethereal to bedraggled and so ugly Benedict shook in his boots with fear.
Then it floated over the loch and sank into the water, a sheen of light haze beneath the surface before fading into inky black.
Full use of arms and legs, mouth, and brain came back in a rush and he turned to see angry villagers, led by MacGregor hefting a claymore over his head as he roared toward him.
Benedict pocketed the gift and ran.
MacNab’s corpse lay where he left it.